Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

At the cost of sounding a little too dramatic, Aziraphale thought, finding his favourite stool blessedly free at the Dirty Donkey was the first good thing to happen to him that night.

He didn’t know what it said about him, this whole relying on unoccupied furniture to lift his spirits business, but needs must in such dark times, and after the unmitigated disaster that his umpteenth first date had been, he couldn’t really afford to be picky.

Nina, who was tending the bar, raised her head from the glasses she was wiping to shoot Aziraphale a puzzled look as he hurried to claim what he’d grown to think of as his rightful spot at the far end of the bar. 

“What, back so soon?” 

“God willing,” Aziraphale huffed out, wasting no time to perch himself on the stool. He immediately proceeded to make himself comfortable, or at least more comfortable than he’d been all night, sparing only a brief, distracted glance at the gentleman sitting on his left, who was sullenly nursing a whiskey hunched over his phone and browsing… a stationery website?

Admittedly odd, but not the point. 

So Aziraphale glanced a way and wiggled a little on the stool as he took a deep centering breath and willed his tense muscles to relax.

Yes, coming here for a drink instead of going back home to mope around his flat and maybe offer himself to Agatha’s silent judgement had been the right choice. In fact, he was happy to confirm that he was already feeling much better. Maybe he could pretend the hours that had passed since this afternoon, when he’d popped into the Dirty Donkey for some liquid courage in anticipation of tonight’s date, didn’t exist at all, that he’d been here all along, enjoying the sparse Wednesday crowd and the cosy atmosphere of the pub.

Nina snorted before setting the last of the clean glasses on the shelf behind her and flinging the tea towel on her shoulder. “That bad, uh?” she asked, walking up to him.

The answer must have been plain on Aziraphale’s face because she didn’t wait for him to reply before pouring him a large sherry.

“Dare I say much worse?”

“What did this one do? Asked you to split the check?”

“Very funny, my dear,” Aziraphale chided with a withering look. That had happened exactly one time, on a second date he’d agreed to just to see where things would go, and with a check amounting to less than ten pounds, so… “No, but he touted himself as a rather successful ‘influencer’,” which was strike one, “and the first thing he said to me was that he understood why I didn’t put my height in my bio. That if he were as short as me, he wouldn’t have either.”

Nina frowned. “Was he very tall?”

“He was shorter than me!” Aziraphale cried out in dismay, the outrage that had been simmering inside of him for the better part of an hour now sparking back to life. He pouted and angrily sipped his sherry while pretending Nina wasn’t trying her best not to burst out laughing.

“Was he really?”

“Yes, but he made very clear that it didn’t count, not in his case.”

“No?”

“No, you see, he apparently qualifies as a ‘short king’, whatever that means. He even had it printed on his t-shirt, just in case it dared slip my mind,” he added, not bothering to conceal his disdain.

“While you would be a…”

“How would I know? A vertically challenged viscount?” At present, he identified as a man who had had quite enough of this dating balderdash. “Call me old fashioned, but a person’s height should be the least interesting thing about them.”

“You are old fashioned.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Oh, dear. What gave it away?”

Nina laughed and leaned on the bar with her elbows, darting a quick glance around the pub to make sure her attention wasn’t required elsewhere before turning back to Aziraphale. “Listen, I know you hate disappointing Maggie, but please don’t let her push you into using those ridiculous dating apps. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

Aziraphale’s expression fell. “But she spent so long writing my bio.” Different bios for different apps, actually. She had even sent him a spreadsheet that he had opened and then immediately closed to spare himself the unnecessary headache. Modern dating was already a tragedy in itself without throwing spreadsheets into the mix.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s your life, not hers, and you know she tends to get carried away, just as I know that you stopped coming to ours because you’re afraid of her meddling,” Nina insisted. “Being single isn’t bloody a crime, you know?”

“I should hope so,” Aziraphale grumbled, glossing over the rest. If that were the case, he’d have spent the better part of his life in jail, instead of that one, very brief stint in a holding cell in Paris due to a rather annoying misunderstanding.

And, who knows, maybe between the lack of entertaining pastimes, the abysmal cuisine and the forced proximity with other men, prison would prove useful and finally take a sledgehammer to his wildly unrealistic (or so he’d been told) expectations. Maybe that was exactly the sort of place where he could meet interesting people, like a serial killer with an iron-tight moral code and a passion for classical music, or a charming con-artist with a heart of gold and questionable morals that could rescue him from dying alone.

To be fair, Aziraphale wasn’t all that sure that he didn’t want to die alone. For one, there were much worse things than that, like dying (and living, for that matter) with people he didn’t like. People whom he barely tolerated and that barely tolerated him in return. He knew what that felt like – annoyance mixed with the nagging impression of never being good enough – and he wasn’t keen to relive it, thank you very much. 

Although he was starting to suspect there was an argument to be made about having protected his peace a little too well and now finding himself leading a rather solitary existence. Maybe he could get over himself and accept Nina and Maggie’s occasional invitations to dinner, or finally give Muriel a call just to see what she were up to, or buy Agatha the cat bed he’d been thinking about for months instead of letting her nap on his encyclopaedias because she wasn’t his cat…

But otherwise, no, dying alone wasn’t the end of the world. 

Well, technically it was, but only because of the dying.

Come to think of it, fantasising about meeting men in jail could definitely qualify as scraping the bottom of the proverbial barrel, and Aziraphale could do without making this evening even more pathetic than it already was.

“You should take a break,” Nina continued, topping up his glass. “How many dates did you go on?”

“I wouldn’t know.” He didn’t lose count so much as tried very hard to forget. “Seven? Nine?” More like eleven. There was a slight chance he might have tackled this whole dating thing a little too head on.

“In how many months?”

“Two… and a half.” Aziraphale sighed, suddenly very tired. There was only so much dating one could stomach without letting it get to oneself. He must have been very bored to give Maggie free rein over his non-existent love life like that. “Do you think this makes me officially undateable?” he asked, glancing up at Nina.

If he was being completely honest, there was a part of him that reveled in the prospect, that longed for it, even. Because it would give him permission to stop trying: he’d given it his best, his all really, and it hadn’t worked, which meant that he wasn’t the problem here. The world was.

So what if he didn’t want to settle? What if he had standards? What if he valued himself enough to say no to something that would only make him mildly uncomfortable and vaguely relieved to be able to announce to the world that he, too, had finally found someone? Was he really supposed to spend his life with people he didn’t care for?

Aziraphale had  fought for it, this love he had for himself, it hadn’t always been second nature like it was now, and he wasn’t going to give it up anytime soon.

No, whoever hoped to be with him had to prove to be better than Aziraphale’s current life partner – himself. And it certainly wasn’t his fault that he found himself to be much better company than most people he met. He was fussy, yes, but also self-sufficient and he was proud of it.

“Nah,” said Nina, bringing Aziraphale back to earth. “Possibly just in possession of a masochist streak a mile long.”

A giggling group of women drew her attention across the bar before Aziraphale could issue a properly chastising retort (him? A masochist? Please. Vague discomfort was all he could tolerate).

Nina straightened and started to walk away, levelling him with a stern look as she went. “Stop saying yes to Maggie and delete those blasted apps. What you need is a break.”

Aziraphale heaved out a little resigned sigh and let his shoulders drop. “What I need is a miracle.”

“What you need,” said a velvet-smooth voice next to him, “is a professional.”

Aziraphale did a double take, then gingerly turned to the man sitting on his left. Lost in his well deserved woe-is-me moment, Aziraphale had rather forgotten about him, but now that he could see his face, he had a hard time believing the stranger had gone unnoticed. 

Aziraphale blinked and took him in, trying to reconcile his surprise with the opposite (and rather nonsensical) impression that the stranger couldn’t possibly have been anywhere else but here, sitting next to him.

A smile fought its way on Aziraphale’s lips and a shiver inexplicably rippled through him as soon as he met the man’s eyes. The first thought that crossed his mind was that they were the same amber colour as the whiskey the stranger was nursing; the only two spots of warmth and softness in an otherwise angular face. Sharp cheekbones, pointy chin, aquiline nose, thin lips.

“E-excuse me?” Aziraphale heard himself say, unable to stop himself from giving the man another once-over. 

He was in all black – from the tight jeans keeping his legs hostage to the shirt and waistcoat chinching his waist, from his ridiculously flashy belt buckle (good Lord, was that a snake?) to the jacket that seemed to have been sewn directly onto his lithe body. Lying around his neck was the thinnest and less practical scarf Aziraphale had ever seen, this one in… silver?

The only pop of colour, aside from his eyes, came from his vibrant red hair, cut short on the sides and carefully tousled on top. With hair like that, Aziraphale thought, it came as no surprise that the man didn’t need anything more than black to draw the eye.

And quite effectively at that, as Aziraphale’s gaze perfectly demonstrated.

Oh, fuck.

Struck by the realisation that he’d been staring, Aziraphale floundered to regain his composure and quickly lowered his eyes, his silly smile dimming the moment he felt it there, still plastered on his lips.

Only then did he notice the black card the man had slid across the counter towards him, the tip of his pointer finger still tapping on it, as though trying to redirect Aziraphale’s attention there. 

Flustered by the stranger’s physical appearance and his own mystifying reaction to it, Aziraphale barely allowed himself the time to glance at the little black rectangle, which featured purplish flames in the shape of a heart and a text that he didn’t bother to read properly. (He would later wonder why jumping to wildly inappropriate conclusions had seemed like a much better option at the time.)

“Are you propositioning me?” Aziraphale squeaked, somewhere between appalled and – unfathomably as it may have been – pleased. As he looked up at the man, it suddenly occurred to him that the stranger was charming enough to sell sex for a living and that the true purpose of that ridiculous scarf-thingy could be to pull him in and–

Oh, dear.

Scrambling to erase the preposterous image from his head, Aziraphale met the stranger’s eyes for a second, then looked down again, cheeks burning. “There’s no doubt you’re very– Because you are– But I– Don’t get me wrong– You see, I never– And I hardly think I can start–” Quite unable to sort through his blurry intentions, Aziraphale clamped his mouth shut and shifted his befuddled gaze back on the stranger. “C-can I?”

The man rearranged his long limbs on the stool and twisted his whole body towards Aziraphale, a slow, lazy grin already spreading on his lips. “Ah, not that sort of professional, I’m afraid.”

Aziraphale felt himself blush to the tip of his hair. Did he just– Had he– Oh, my.

He opened and closed his mouth a truly ridiculous amount of times, trying to come up with something that could properly convey how sorry he was for making the wrong assumption without letting the stranger think there was anything shameful about being that sort of professional. Because there wasn’t. At all.

Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said of Aziraphale’s social skills. That’s exactly what you got when you isolated yourself from the world and spent most of your days talking to an unsociable cat, Aziraphale supposed.

“Well, I– I assure you that– What I meant to say was–” he stammered out as the man chuckled next to him, the impish grin never wavering from his face.

If nothing else, Aziraphale thought with no small amount of relief, he seemed to have taken it in stride.

The realisation calmed him enough to glance back at the card. “Made in Hell,” he read out loud. “That sounds rather ominous.” 

“I’m a matchmaker,” the stranger explained. “And a bloody good one to boot.” He smiled again, looking silly and dangerous, as well as graceful and clumsy at the same time, a mix Aziraphale didn’t know what to make of. (And he’d been wrong before: the man’s eyes were not the only trace of softness in his face, after all; not with the crinkles at their corners and the curve of his smile now giving him an almost boyish air.)

Then the man extended his hand in a move so smooth it must have been rehearsed multiple times. “Anthony J. Crowley. But you can call me Crowley.”

Aziraphale looked at the stranger’s proffered hand for a second before wrapping it in his own and shaking it, immediately surprised by how soft his long, lithe fingers were and by how stupid and inappropriate this particular thought was. What on earth was happening to him? 

Even more shocking, his stiff muscles seemed to relax at the touch.

“Aziraphale Fell,” he heard himself say, a bit too breathlessly for his taste. Oh, but he was making such a fool of himself! And he could hardly convince his eyes to stop ogling the man and– “When you say matchmaker, you mean like… Cupid?”

Crowley’s expression morphed from seductive to delighted in the blink of an eye. They held each other’s gaze for a second too long, then something crackled in the air, a spark of something, and Crowley burst out laughing. And not a polite chuckle either. No, this was a full on cackle.

Had his brain not been busy wondering why the heavens they were still holding hands, Aziraphale would have been offended. As it was, he could only muster a vaguely chastising look in the man’s general direction (that absolutely didn’t land on the curled corners of his lips, as that would have been rather ludicrous. Not to mention inappropriate).

“Sorry,” Crowley drawled when his laughter finally subsided. “I hope you know how ridiculous that sounds coming from you.”

“From me?” Oh well, from bad to worse.

“Yeah.” Aziraphale could almost feel the man’s amber eyes curiously roaming around his face. “With your curly little… and your neat tartan bow-tie… a proper little angel…”

When Crowley finally let him go, it was to make a ridiculous gesture with both hands as he… wiggled on the stool. Aziraphale couldn’t suppress the snort that came out of him – simply because the man was being rather rude, of course. Nothing to do with how irritating it was to be deprived of his soft, grounding touch for something so stupid as a poor angel impression, or whatever that was supposed to be.

So he clicked his tongue and straightened his waistcoat with a firm tug. “Contrary to popular belief, Cupid was not an angel,” he pointed out with a sniff, before fixing his bow-tie too. “And at least I don’t play fast and loose with what falls under the definition of neckwear.”

“Wasn’t he?” With a smile still dancing on his lips, Crowley leaned forward in a somewhat predatory fashion (provided the predator in question wasn’t equipped with a spine) and let the tassels of his blasted scarf-thingy graze the surface of the counter in a way that sent a shiver down Aziraphale’s sternum. 

“No,” Aziraphale explained petulantly, voice suddenly pitched higher. Was he really being haunted by that not-a-scarf? “He was a god. The god of desire, to be precise.” 

(And yes, fine. Perhaps, as far as conversation topics went, he should have stuck with the neckwear debate, instead of going straight for desire of all things!)

“Oh? Is that the first thing that comes to mind when you look at me, then?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened in alarm. “No, you’re– I would never–” He desperately glanced back at the card resting on the counter between them for help. “Y-you’re quite clearly a demon.” The agency’s name made perfect sense, now that he thought about it.

“Tempting is what I do best, yes.”

“That explains the trousers,” whispered Aziraphale under his breath, his shaky attention idly wandering to said… contraptions.

“Come again?”

Aziraphale forced himself to drag his eyes back up. Really, hadn’t he had enough embarrassment for a single evening? “Nothing,” he was quick to say, feigning nonchalance. “So are– are there many people looking for a match made in hell?”

Crowley leaned back on his stool. “‘Course, oodles of ‘em. Heaven’s boring, everybody knows that.”

“The word you’re looking for is ‘peaceful’.”

Crowley seemed to think about it for a second. “Nah, ‘s definitely ‘boring’. Heaven doesn’t sell, Aziraphale, ‘s just a poor marketing strategy.”

Hearing his name from Crowley’s lips made Aziraphale’s heart go into overdrive, which probably explained why, in a bid to appear completely normal and at ease, his next words were, “Is it like a sex thing, then?” 

The card’s aesthetic, with the black and the flames, definitely gave him a certain idea, which Crowley didn’t seem to share. In fact, he looked almost offended by the implication.

“What? No! It’s a dating thing.” He wagged a finger in the air between them, pulling a ridiculous face that was all but seductive and didn’t make Aziraphale smile at all despite his current predicament. “Nothing more hellish than dating, I think you’ll agree.”

Well, he had a point there. Aziraphale couldn’t deny it, especially not tonight, so he went for reproaching instead. “Were you eavesdropping? That’s not very nice.”

“Never said I was nice,” Crowley said with a shrug. “Nice is overrated.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, and I wasn’t, by the way. Eavesdropping, that is. I just happened to be within earshot when you were talking about your, er… ‘short king’, was it?”

Irritation shot through Aziraphale like electricity. “He’s many things, I suspect, but mine isn’t one of them, and thank God for that.”

Crowley’s smile became even wider. He looked for all the world like a shark tasting blood. “It’s a wonder why you’re still single.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “Are you teasing me?”

“What if I were?”

“I would ask you who gave you the audacity.”

“That would be me.”

“Self-made man, are you?”

“Very interested in all self-related things, me.” He crossed his legs with exaggerated nonchalance. “I have a feeling that might be something we have in common.”

“We just met.”

“Call it intuition.”

Having been on the receiving end of many insults disguised as teasing remarks in his life, Aziraphale scanned the man’s face for that telltale hint of cruelty, the incontrovertible proof that he wasn’t supposed to be in on the joke, just the butt of it.

But to no avail. On the contrary, there was something almost kind and comforting in the sharp curve of Crowley’s smile, which was… erm, probably just an impression.

Aziraphale cleared his throat and glanced away. “I am admittedly no expert, but that seems like a terrible way to attract new customers,” he lied. For some reason, this was doing wonders for him, whatever wonders meant in this particular context. Or maybe he was coming down with something and that’s why he suddenly felt all sweaty and jittery.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“Naturally.” Intuition or not, he didn’t even know the man and he certainly wasn’t going to succumb to a common cold of all things.

“And there’s plenty of fish in the sea.”

“That’s how the saying goes, yes.” Who knows, maybe Aziraphale was more of a mountain man after all.

“The bad news is, the sea isn’t what it used to be,” Crowley continued. There was a subtle shift in both his tone and posture, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but think he was back to reciting a rehearsed speech. “Lots of trash, for one.”

“Oh, your matchmaking pitch has an eco-conscious spin to it? How marvelous. Very up with the times.”

Crowley ignored him, but something – a challenge? – sparked to life in his eyes at Aziraphale’s quip, the left corner of his lips curling up even more. “Plenty of trash that may look like fish at first sight. And fish irreparably ruined by the trash.”

“Microplastics,” Aziraphale said sagely. “I’ve heard of it. Dreadful thing.”

“And don’t even get me started on climate change.”

“Sooner or later, the sea will boil.”

“You get it. Everything’s turning into bouillab– bouil– bouillab–”

“Bouillab–”

“Fish stew, under our very eyes,” was what Crowley settled on once and for all.

“I don’t mind a good fish stew every once in a while,” Aziraphale mused.

“Anyway, that’s not my point.”

“It wasn’t?”

“No. The bad news is, the sea sucks.”

“Again, you’re not doing a very good job at convincing me to hire your services.”

“But the good news is,” Crowley went on, apparently unbothered by Aziraphale’s nattering, “I’m a bloody good fisherman.”

“Excuse my bluntness, but you hardly look like a fisherman.” Unless fishing was the true purpose of that skinny neck-thingy.

“That’s what we call a metaphor.” Crowley leaned his left elbow on the bar and flashed him a satisfied smirk that had Aziraphale staring like a loon for a beat too long. In fact, there had been too much of that in the past… er, fifteen minutes?

His mouth had gone dry and there was a concerning prickle in his hands, to say nothing of the nonsensical fluttering going on in his stomach.

Heavens, weren’t these the signs of an impending stroke?

As he tried to remember what that one disturbing poster at the doctor said, Aziraphale grabbed his sherry like a lifeline and took a dainty sip to recentre himself, racing thoughts causing a terrible kerfuffle in his mind.

He was talking to a stranger, he reminded himself. The stranger was a matchmaker, which meant that whatever Aziraphale thought he was reading on the man’s face was just a sales pitch, window dressing, nothing more.

Crowley was trying to impress him, that was rather obvious, but for a very specific business reason.

Disappointing as it may have been, that particular thought lowered the stakes and loosened something in Aziraphale, and when he spoke again, his voice sounded firmer, more calm. It didn’t mean he couldn’t have some fun of his own, though, did it? It wasn’t exactly an unoccupied stool, but the man’s smile was still quite nice to look at, and after the evening he’d had Aziraphale wasn’t going to deprive himself of any small blessings he stumbled upon.

“Alright. Suppose I would like to hire you, then, how would it work? I tell you what I like and you go around looking for matches?”

“In a way, yes. Now, I know you’re a skeptic–”

“That’s a word for it, yes. Miracles can’t be manufactured.”

“‘M pretty sure all miracles are manufactured.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “You must be fun at parties.”

“I would be if I attended any parties.”

“You don’t?” What a shame, he looked so stylish.

“Only for work. Lots of weddings, for one.”

“Perfect place to score more clients, I wager. Do you talk about the fish and the sea with all of them?”

“Eh, make fun of me all you want, I’m used to it. Most people don’t believe it – or better yet, they don’t want to believe it – but dating is a science. Pure mathematics, really.”

Oh, the mention of math had always been a surefire way to put Aziraphale off for good. “That does sound rather hellish.”

“Lucky for you, you don’t have to concern your pretty little head with mind-numbingly boring calculations, because that’s what I’m here for. Here’s the only number you need to know: one hundred percent.”

“Okay?” Had Crowley just called him ‘pretty’?

“That’s my success rate.”

“Impressive.” Unless, of course, Crowley was tricking him. As a principle, Aziraphale actively tried to stop any math knowledge from ever taking root in his mind (there were so many more interesting topics he could use that space for, for example: had Crowley just called him ‘pretty’?), but some things he knew despite himself, such as the fact that a percentage didn’t really mean anything without a big enough sample. “And how many clients do you have, exactly?”

“Dozens at a time. I’ve been doing this for fifteen years,” Crowley stated proudly. “I’m loath to use marriage as a measure of success, but I’ve been solely responsible for at least twenty-three marriages in my career.”

“Oh, dear.” Aziraphale barely stopped himself from asking how many of those had ended in divorce. He couldn’t fathom math being the glue to any successful marriage.

“As I said, dating is a science. You just have to mix the right ingredients to trigger the right reaction. Job, education, assets, personality, height, weight, hobbies and–”

“What about love?”

Crowley shrugged as if that particular thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. “What about it?”

“Love isn’t a science.” Although there was something to be said about chemistry. “And you certainly cannot reduce it to an equation. Love is…” 

It occurred to Aziraphale just then that he didn’t know what love actually was. He knew the general definition of it, of course. He knew that’s what he’d once felt for his family and what he now felt for his books, his music, his delicacies, his flat, himself and even Agatha, though she would roll her eyes at him if he told her. It was the thing that made his chest flutter when he saw a beautiful sunset or a pretty flower or breathtaking art. It was that blurry-edged thing he had plenty of and didn’t know what to do with. 

“Well,” he said eventually, more somber now. “It’s ineffable.”

Crowley didn’t seem impressed. “Love has got nothing to do with any of this. If you ask me, things have started to go downhill when we collectively tried to forget what marriage actually is at its core.”

“An outdated institution that also happens to grant you rights in front of the law?” Aziraphale offered.

“Nah. Every good marriage is above all a good business deal, always has been. That’s how it all started.”

Well, that was even worse. “How depressing.”

“But accurate,” Crowley insisted, all business-like now. “You just have to shift your focus, invest, and the love will come. In time.”

“That sounds like something our great-grandmothers said to convince themselves they weren’t sad about being married off to total strangers.”

“So? There’s a reason people always bang on about old ladies and their infinite wisdom.” Crowley shrugged again and took a sip of his whiskey. “In more modern terms, fake it till you make it.”

“If you say so.” This conversation had turned too bitter and cynical for Aziraphale’s taste. Sure, he’d be the first to admit that he was a bit jaded, but math and business deals? Honestly! “Listen, even if I did share such a bleak outlook on love–”

“Told ya, love isn’t the point, merely a happy incident.”

“As I was saying – please, don’t interrupt me – even if I shared such a depressing outlook on love I wouldn’t waste my money on this…” He gestured his hands in Crowley’s direction. “Jiggery-pokery.”

The man almost fell from his stool. “Excuse me?” Crowley snapped, visibly torn between outrage and sheer delight. “What did you just call it?”

“Jiggery-pokery.”

“Tell me you didn’t just insult my life’s work.” Granted, he didn’t look that insulted, more like vaguely outraged and a whole lot intrigued, if Aziraphale had to make a polite guess.

“Well, I’m sorry, but I stand by what I said. Besides, I’m way too fussy to pay for such a service. Especially if you have an hourly rate. This could take a very long time, and results aren’t guaranteed at all.”

Crowley’s left eyebrow slowly crept up his forehead, and even this felt carefully rehearsed. “Did you hear the part about my one hundred percent success rate?”

“That may very well be true, but–”

“I bet I can find you someone that won’t think your height is the most interesting thing about you.”

“I certainly hope so.” Oh dear, why was he blushing again? “That’s the least someone can expect from a partner.”

Crowley looked as far from surrendering as one could possibly be. “Let’s hear it, then. What do you like? What’s your type?”

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose and surreptitiously glanced away, cheeks suddenly prickling with warmth and a strange foreboding feeling swirling in his belly. Was this a good moment to tell Crowley he’d been fantasising about serial killers not even fifteen minutes ago?

As it was, the only thing he could manage was a rather uninspired, “I don’t have a type”.

“Nah, everyone has a type,” Crowley insisted.

Aziraphale turned to glare at him. “Well, I don’t. Male-presenting, and that’s about it.”

“That’s something.”

“That’s basically nothing.”

“What else?” Crowley pressed on, producing a little black notebook from the inside pocket of his blazer. He removed the elastic band keeping it closed and leafed through it, careful not to displace the multicoloured adhesive tabs on every other page, until he landed on the first blank one. “Ah, forgot I needed to buy a new one. Only three pages left.” He snapped his fingers to catch Nina’s attention. “Oi, Bean Reaper, do you have some paper I could borrow?”

Aziraphale scrunched up his face in confusion as he met Nina’s gaze. “I used to work at a coffee shop with a weird name,” she explained briefly, before shifting a suspicious look on Crowley.

They stared down at each other for what Aziraphale thought was quite a long time, then she sighed and finally presented Crowley with a paper placemat only to be asked for two more. 

“You’re not going to try and clog the loo again, are you?” she warned him. “That plumber you liked doesn’t live around here anymore.”

Crowley blushed and squawked, the businessman façade collapsing for a second. “Can you not embarrass me in front of a potential client?”

Nina turned to Aziraphale, who was witnessing their exchange with a dazed expression on his face. “I can kick him out, if you want. God knows he’s already put enough ridiculous notions in Maggie’s head.”

“No, you can’t,” Crowley interjected. “This is a public establishment, and Maggie can recognise a genius when she sees one.”

“Yeah, that’s why I had her schedule an appointment with an optician.”

“I really don’t know what you did to deserve her.”

“Oh, on this we agree,” Nina relented with a small smile before turning back to Aziraphale. “Are you sure you don’t want me to kick him out?”

“Oh, no. It’s quite alright.” He couldn’t remember the last time something so entertaining had happened to him.

Nina shifted her gaze between them before sighing and giving Crowley the additional placemats he’d requested. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I always know what I’m doing.”

“Debatable.”

“Shut it,” Crowley huffed as he once again twisted his body to face Aziraphale. “Where were we?”

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale asked.

“I’m writing down your likes and dislikes,” Crowley explained, as if that made perfect sense.

Aziraphale scoffed. “You hardly need that much paper.”

Crowley took out a ridiculously stylish pen from somewhere on himself – it was sleek and matte black and it looked like it could exceed the speed limit – and flashed him a dazzling grin. “Oh, angel. Something tells me I’ll need all the paper I can get.”

❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

If someone were to ask Aziraphale what possessed him to leave the counter and follow a stranger to the nearest booth so he could spill his guts about his (many) likes and (even more) dislikes, he would have chalked it all up to politeness. He was, after all, a perfectly well-mannered man. Old fashioned, Nina had called him, and she was right.

But in his heart of hearts, Aziraphale knew that it had only taken Crowley one word to convince him. And yes, well, maybe it couldn’t be called convincing per se. Convincing required some measure of rationale, of persuasion, and Aziraphale knew that when Crowley had inexplicably uttered that word – angel, of course – logical thought had immediately flown out the window, running as far from Whickber Street as it possibly could.

So two hours, three notebook pages and six placemats later, Aziraphale sat back in the booth they had claimed for themselves in a secluded corner of the Dirty Donkey and drank the last of his sherry (the third of the evening).

“And that’s the gist of it,” he declared solemnly.

Crowley raised his head with a manic glint in his eyes. Not only had he taken off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, his hair had also lost its artfully tousled look from the sheer amount of times he’d brushed his hands through it. He looked undone, which Aziraphale found rather distracting, especially with all the sherry he’d drunk.

“The gist of it?” Crowley dropped the pen as if it were on fire and flexed his hand, which had cramped more than once throughout the proceedings. Aghast, he surveyed the scribbled notes scattered all over the table, looking like someone who had just come out of an industrial washing machine spinning out of control. “The gist of it,” he mumbled to himself in disbelief.

(Crowley really had no right to look that shocked, Aziraphale thought, especially not after casually revealing that the fancy pen had a name. Bentley. Like a car or something, Aziraphale hadn’t been paying attention.)

For his part, Aziraphale felt lighter. Unburdened. He’d never been to therapy but he supposed that’s what it must have felt like. Like confessing yourself, but without the moral judgement. Now, he was perfectly aware that there had been some judging on Crowley’s part, but he’d seemed more amused and curious than prone to blame.

“If I had to sum it up–” began Aziraphale after a second, only to be quite rudely interrupted.

“Something you couldn’t have done four placemats ago?” whispered Crowley through his teeth, still flexing his sore hand.

Ridiculous as it was, especially two hours into this whole… thing, Aziraphale felt a stab of self-consciousness and ducked his head, pretending to be very interested in the heart someone had clumsily engraved on the surface of the table. “You’ll think it stupid.”

Crowley shrugged and slouched against the back of the padded bench. “Believe me, I’ve heard it all. Most of it in the past two hours. So out with it.”

“Well…”

“Come on, angel.”

There it was again. The magic word. If Crowley was indeed a fisherman, that word was the miraculous hook capable of fishing answers right out of Aziraphale’s mouth whether he wanted to or not.

“I would like to be romanced,” he blurted out, horrified by the unspeakable truth now lingering over their table like a bad smell.

Crowley furrowed his brows. “Romanced?”

“Yes. Chocolates, flowers, champagne… theatre dates and candlelit dinners at the Ritz. Picnics in the park and walks on the beach. That sort of thing.”

“Oh, I see.”

“You do?” If love had no part in Crowley’s matchmaking efforts, Aziraphale could only wonder what he made of romance.

But Crowley seemed unfazed. “Yes. Can work with that. Lots of romantics out there. That’s just another type of currency nowadays.”

Aziraphale blinked and the cosy atmosphere of their booth melted into thin air as he remembered why they were here in the first place. Crowley was trying to sell him his services, certainly not making conversation for conversation’s sake, no matter how many times he’d laughed or how many follow-up questions he’d asked or the fact that the spark of interest in his eyes had never dimmed, not even once.

It was… well, not fake perhaps, but most definitely a performance.

The reminder brought a sudden rush of warmth to Aziraphale’s face. Oh, but he was being exceptionally silly, wasn’t he? He’d gone on one catastrophically bad date and had latched onto the first person he’d stumbled upon to… what? Comfort himself? And while, yes, Crowley had proved an impeccable listener, that’s what one had to be if one wanted to gain a new customer. It had nothing to do with Aziraphale himself.

Oh, how embarrassing.

“As I was saying,” Aziraphale continued, “I’m hardly going to entertain the idea of–”

Crowley cut him off immediately. “I’ll do it for free.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Yeah, we can make an arrangement,” he confirmed with a shrug. “If you agree to it, ‘s going to be a whole PR thing for me. That’s how you’re going to repay me.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“How long have you been single?”

“Firstly, you don’t ask someone how long they have been single. That’s just rude. Secondly–”

“Angel…”

Good Lord Almighty, make him stop.

“Thirteen years.” Passing dalliances notwithstanding, of course. Though it had been a few years since those as well…

“Alright, so that’s how we’re going to spin it: you’re the least dateable bachelor in London, and I’m the genius matchmaker who’s going to find you a husband. We both win.”

“A w-what?”

Crowley went on undeterred, “I’ve got plenty of journalist friends, some of them former clients of mine. I’ll give ‘em a call, they’ll write it up, people will lap it up, my business will soar, and you… you’re going to be fighting with your future husband about peonies or lilies for your centrepieces in no time.” He took a hearty sip of his pint. “Even though we all know the only acceptable answer to that question.”

“Definitely peonies.”

Crowley looked horrified and slightly offended. “Lilies, you mean.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Sorry to say, but I’m afraid that puts your marriage expertise into question. I’m not sure I–”

“I said I’d do it for free,” Crowley interrupted… again. “What do you have to lose?”

“Well, where do I begin? Time? Energy? Dignity?”

Crowley waved him off. “Pfft. Dignity’s overrated anyway.”

“It is not.” Dignity was everything. “Listen, I really don’t think you can find me someone through mathematics of all things. I have standards, you know, and you can’t fit them all into an equation.”

“Oh, believe me, I noticed. My hand too, by the way. I have half a mind to make a stop at A&E on my way home to make sure it’s not about to fall off.” Aziraphale’s glare had no effect on him. “Besides, I have standards too. Didn’t I tell you I’ve got a one hundred percent success rate?”

“So you keep saying.”

He must have been very proud of it, that much was obvious. And if he hadn’t lied to Aziraphale the entire evening, he must also have been very confident in his skills. Why risk that one hundred percent success rate by tackling Aziraphale’s case, otherwise? And if this was a scam, why do it for free? Some part of Aziraphale had been waiting for Crowley to whip out a contract and ask him to sign something, but he hadn’t. And loath as he was to admit it, he was really starting to believe the man was being truthful. About everything.

“What if you can’t?” he asked. “What will it be of your PR thing then?”

Crowley didn’t seem worried. “We’ll forget all about it and go our separate ways.”

How disappointing, Aziraphale thought to himself before pushing the consideration aside and quickly making up his mind. “I’ll do it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, on one condition.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“If you fail, you’ll have to say that your success rate stops at ninety-nine percent.” And then, since he felt generous, “Point ninety-nine, if you insist.”

Crowley’s frown suddenly turned into a mischievous grin that made Aziraphale’s heart resume its inexplicable fluttering. “Oh, you’re a bit of a bastard, aren’t you?”

“That’s my offer,” he insisted, rejoicing in how firm his voice sounded despite the nonsense going on inside him. “Take it or leave it.”

Crowley crossed his arms on his chest and stared at him for a long while, his jaw working up and down. There was a sharp intake of breath, then he slumped forward on the table. “Deal. You’ll be like the last surviving germ in those cleaners commercials on tv.”

Aziraphale felt himself smile. “How absolutely charming.”

“That’s me. Shake on it?”

“Well, I don’t see why not.”

❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

From Crowley’s Computer

❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

Chapter Text

“What do you mean ‘for free’?”

“What do you think it means, Anathema?” Call him a genius, a trailblazer, an enlightened man, but it seemed pretty self-explanatory to him.

“Don’t full-name me like that. It makes me feel dumb, and you know it.”

“That’s what you get for asking dumb questions.”

And, again, not to brag or anything, but having lived with himself for forty-six years, Crowley knew a thing or two about sheer dumbassery. So aware he was of this particular trait of his winning personality, that he went above and beyond to avoid Anathema’s gaze during the entire exchange, eyes fixed on the laptop where he was reviewing the notes he’d taken at the Dirty Donkey, now handily digitized by Eric, his recently-hired assistant.

Never one to accept a question for an answer (how dare she, honestly), as well as in possession of a winning personality herself, Anathema stalked to his desk in a swish of long skirts and closed the lid of his laptop without so much as a by-your-leave. Which left Crowley to angrily raise his eyes to hers and sit back in his– well, throne, there was no other word for it, and hope that a stupid piece of furniture would infuse him with some much needed gravitas. 

(He’d never admit it, but he hated being the boss and Anathema could sense it, the witch.)

Her dark piercing gaze nailed him to the spot as it always did. “You never work for free.”

“That’s not true,” he lied.

“It’s so true it’s one of our golden rules.” She pointed to the huge poster hanging on the wall behind the desk. And wasn’t that absolutely grand? Being called out by your own décor like that.

Crowley didn’t need to turn and look at it to know what it proudly stated in bold, flaming letters over a black background matching the company’s overall look:

1. No arseholes
2. No freebies 
3. No pestering the boss

While there was a copy of it in the main office space of Made in Hell, as a permanent reminder to all his loyal, albeit slightly irritating employees, Crowley had decided to put one here too to avoid the risk of them conveniently forgetting them the moment they stepped over the threshold of his personal office.

“There’s a reason I put them behind me,” Crowley countered with a shark-like grin. They were not for him to see, simple as that. “And you’re infringing on rule number three.”

“Oh, stop it. We’re basically partners at this point.”

Crowley’s eyebrows launched themselves to outer space. “Are not!” 

“And the point still stands. No freebies,” Anathema pressed on. “So why do you want to help this guy for free all of a sudden?”

“I’m sorry, did you happen to forget how you met your darling fiancé?” he said with a sneer.

Anathema huffed and rolled her eyes, her staunch confidence finally faltering. “That doesn’t count.”

“What about Mary and her wife, then? Or Tracy and that greasy sergeant of hers?” Truth was, Crowley had put his matchmaking skills at his staff’s disposal, free of charge, plenty of times, and the fact that they were all married, almost-married or otherwise happily partnered-up – all because of him and his impeccable scientific prowess, mind – was proof enough of that.

Anathema seemed anything but impressed. “That’s different. You don’t know this guy.”

“So what?”

“So you’ve taken an interest, and you usually don’t. Not anymore.”

“Of course I’ve taken an interest, the man is absolutely bloody bonkers! If I find him a match I’ll have the royal family banging on my door and begging me to sort out their family tree for the next three generations, minimum.”

Okay, fine, this may have been a bit of an over-exaggeration, but it was also ultimately true: Aziraphale F was his (fluffy) white whale. If Crowley could find him a suitable match, it would make him unstoppable, the best matchmaker in the country – hell, maybe even the northern hemisphere! (Naturally, he could never publicly claim the title as his own without the Indian aunties’ army clamouring for his blood, but he could do so in the relative safety of his own head, which was victory enough in itself. That was where his biggest enemy was, after all.)

“Didn’t realise you wanted to work with the royal family,” Anathema muttered.

“‘Course I don’t. Bloody wankers, the lot of ‘em. They can keep inbreeding for all I care. Does wonders for their jawline.”

“But–”

“It will be great publicity,” Crowley cut her off, hoping – no, needing – to nip this thing in the bud. “News articles, tv appearances, podcasts – this guy’s going to be my cash cow.” The prospect sent a delicious thrill down his spine.

Anathema crossed her arms over her chest and shot him a look. “If you can find him a match, that is,” she reminded him drily.

Crowley pulled a face and stuck out his tongue at her for good measure, like the very mature forty-six year old businessman he was. “I know what I’m doing. I’ve been at it for fifteen years. Have I ever failed?”

“Yes, actually.”

Crowley sprung to his feet, such was the undiluted outrage coursing through him at the baseless accusation. “Watch your mouth, Device.”

Anathema gave no sign of cowering under Crowley’s glower, which was as annoying as it was ordinary, proudly holding his gaze instead. “There is one person you still haven’t found a match for.”

Crowley’s indignation took a little detour into panic territory before bouncing back to a healthy sort of rage. “I. Do. Not. Count.”

They’d been over this so many times it was a miracle Anathema hadn’t been fired repeatedly. Well, to be fair, she had been, only it never stuck. 

Irritating and defiant as she was, Anathema was also infuriatingly good at her job, courtesy of her objectively scary powers of intuition, which gave Crowley’s carefully calculated assessments a run for their money. To the point that he couldn’t drop her, not if he didn’t want to steer Made in Hell all by himself, something he’d recently found out he couldn’t do if he wanted to preserve his sanity. His unhealthy love for stationery could only go so far…

So, having established that firing her out loud was a waste of breath, he did so only in his head, just to delude himself he had any control over the situation, and quickly jumped to what usually came next. Namely, illustrating his argument in the most annoying way possible.

“Do heart surgeons operate on themselves?” he asked for the millionth time, much to Anathema’s chagrin. “Do cops arrest themselves?”

“They should.” Ah, yes. Almost forgot she was against authority in all shapes and forms – at least it wasn’t personal, right?

Crowley wisely decided to ignore her. “Do painters paint themselves?”

“They do. All the time.”

“Do pilots pilot themselves?”

“What does that even mean? You can’t pilot a pilot!”

Some of them you could ride though, Crowley knew from experience. “Do milkmen milk themselves, then?”

“That’s called self-care, Crowley. Something you know nothing about.”

Tell it to the furious wank I had yesterday as soon as I got home from the pub. And with a practically sprained wrist from too much writing no less. You know what that is? Dedication, he thought belligerently, but didn’t say, because the last thing he needed right now was to tell Anathema how excited he was to tackle Aziraphale F’s case that he’d had a stiffy all the way home.

Fucking hell, though, even his name would prove a challenge! This man was his Kobayashi Maru, except Crowley would find a way to crack the test.

“Can you not call wanking self-care?” was what he said instead. “That’s demeaning.”

“If you look up the definition of ‘demeaning’, I’m pretty sure you’ll find a picture of this conversation.”

So what if his argument was more mudding the waters and less well-thought bullet points? It wasn’t his fault he could do his job for everyone but himself. Hell, the whole reason he’d gone into this particular field was how comically bad his love life was. How bad it had always been. 

Twenty-something Crowley had been so eager to find himself a proper match that he’d attacked the bloody thing like a complicated math equation to be solved. He’d studied the world around him, the people, the successful and unsuccessful relationships he came in contact with, social media, dating apps, movies, books, songs – no stone had been left unturned in his quest to crack the bloody code. He’d even taken a couple of psychology classes just to make sure he had all the right variables.

And then he’d devised a system, changed himself accordingly and found himself all the matches he could ever want.

It had been too good to be true, naturally, and not long after his big eureka moment Crowley had realised that there was a pretty big fault in his plan: you can’t find yourself a real match if you’re pretending to be someone you’re not, and despite all his posturing and all the painstaking care he put in his appearance, the more he grew up the more Crowley realised he wasn’t really interested in acting in his personal life. In fact, there was nothing more soul-crushing than pretending to be someone you’re not just to win someone else’s affection, something he’d learned the hard way. Repeatedly.

In short, he’d found a way not to be alone, yes, but at the cost of feeling excruciatingly lonely all the time, even when in company.

So he’d moped around a bit (fine, a lot) used his newfound knowledge to partner up his friends in exchange for free drinks or pot, and then his friends had talked to their friends and before he knew it, Crowley had built himself a successful career.

And here he was now. Older, perfectly happy to live his best life on his own, enjoying the blessed peace he’d built for himself, and indulging in random shags here and there to blow off some steam while he made a living manufacturing happily ever afters for everyone else in exchange for a pretty penny.

Someone would have called it pathetic or depressing, but not him. Not Anthony J. Crowley. He loved living his life completely unbothered, he loved doing his own thing and not having to account for it to anyone. He loved being his own person through and through.

So, no, he didn’t mind it at all. It made him feel… well, powerful, in a way. In fact, he reveled in the idea of being the man behind the curtain, of knowing what made everyone else tick. He enjoyed being the one who knew how stars were made when everyone else simply marveled at their brilliance. He knew the science behind the magic. Not just that, he could manipulate the science and make the magic happen, and wasn’t that bloody impressive?

Life had given him lemons and he’d been shrewd enough to turn it into a lemonade empire. That’s what great minds did.

Did he hate knowing that he couldn’t do for himself what he so easily did for others? Yes, of course. But more as a matter of principle than anything else.

He. Was. Fine.

“Well,” Crowley said, shaking himself from his nonsensical musings. “I don’t have to look it up because, unlike you, I already know what that means. I knew Americans weren’t the brightest, but yikes.”

Anathema heaved out a sigh – not just any sigh, but the sigh that signalled her surrender. Honestly, Crowley’s favourite music genre right next to alternative rock.

“Alright, boss. Have it your way, but if you want to talk about it–”

“Thanks, I won’t.” He’d rather date and get to third base with king Charles instead. “Now, if it’s quite alright with you, we should get back to work. I want all hands on deck with this guy.”

Anathema pursed her lips but ultimately stopped fighting him by picking up her tablet. “Should I send his details to the main room?”

“Please do. Let’s see what we’re working with.” He unhooked his sunglasses from the open collar of his shirt and slid them on his nose before rounding his desk, sauntering to the door and throwing it open with dramatic flair. 

(He loved this part.)

“Team!” he yelled, strutting between the desks dotting the open floor office on his way to the big screen, where the Made in Hell flaming-heart logo quickly disappeared to make space for an interactive board containing Aziraphale F’s details, including the picture Crowley had insisted on taking of him before they left the Dirty Donkey. “We’ve got ourselves a new client.”

Tracy stood from her desk accompanied by the ever-present clinking of her stacked necklaces, and came closer to inspect the picture, gold-rimmed pince-nez daintily placed on the bridge of her nose. “Oh, he’s a cutie, isn’t he?”

Crowley grunted. “Nyeah, he’s passable.”

Tracy twirled around, curly orange bob bouncing with the movement. “Passable?”

“He’s forty-eight years old. A bookseller, owns his own shop in Soho. Not filthy rich, I wager, but coming from old money nonetheless.”

“Did he tell you that?” asked Mary from her station. “I do find it extremely uncouth. Talking about money, I mean. Many people consider it a red flag, did you know that? Take Hannah M for example, she filled the form just yesterday and–”

“No,” Crowley stopped her before she could spiral into one of her many tangents, “gathered that all by myself like the big boy I am.”

“How can you tell?”

“He’s so rich he dresses for himself. Bet none of the clothes he had on him have a tag that hasn’t been hand-stiched on ‘em some fifty years ago.”

Anathema clicked her tongue in that insufferable way of hers. “Do you bet or do you know?”

Crowley flashed her a warning glare. “Careful, Device.” He had no idea what she was insinuating here, but it couldn’t be anything good, and he didn’t like to be made a fool in front of the others.

“Is he gay?” Eric asked from where he was trying to work the coffee machine.

That earned him Crowley’s level five death stare, the one you could feel even through his shades. “Please, remind me why I shouldn’t fire you.”

The answer was so obvious, Eric might as well have asked if Aziraphale was human.

The boy paled. “T-that’s a legitimate question,” he valiantly spluttered, even though everyone was staring at him in varying degrees of sympathy. “And– and you should never take anyone’s sexuality for granted! Remember that woman we all swore was a lesbian and then turned out to be straighter than a ruler?” He gasped for air and swayed on the spot. “It’s 2025, guys, keep up,” he added, going for self-confident only to land on slightly-nauseous at best.

Crowley sneered as he sucked on his teeth. “Fine, I’ll allow it,” he said, causing Eric to slump against the counter in relief. Hell’s sake, the poor sod kept fainting all over the place.

Shaking his head and making a mental note to baby-proof the entire office, Crowley turned back to the screen. “Prefers male-presenting people. Has an English degree from Oxford. Likes dusty old things and stereotypically romantic nonsense. Has been single for thirteen years and is secretly a bastard.”

“I’m not so sure about ‘secretly’, dearie,” Tracy chimed in. “That’s the longest list of dislikes I’ve ever seen.”

“Well,” Theresa offered, finally deigning to join the conversation, “they’re not completely unreasonable. I also don’t like when people want to know how magic tricks work. That rather defeats the purpose of magic tricks, don’t you think?”

Mary agreed with her and everyone else jumped in soon after, which was fine with Crowley, because it meant no one was going to ask him why on earth he’d interviewed the man so thoroughly they ended up talking about the ethics of magic, something Aziraphale F had been surprisingly passionate about.

And there lay the problem with the man – one of many.

Crowley had been furiously taking notes for the better part of an hour when he’d had the first of several epiphanies about Aziraphale F: the man was as passionate as they come, not just about prestidigitation, but a staggering amount of things, both good and bad. No matter the topic, no matter if he was bemoaning the tragic state of the publishing industry or raving about his favourite classical composers, Aziraphale F put his everything into it, without a care for how ridiculous he sounded.

Because he was. Utterly ridiculous, that is. But he also owned it, so much so that one of the first things he’d said to Crowley after they’d relocated to their booth was that he wouldn’t change himself for any prospect. 

Sure, it could have been just another way to make Crowley’s challenge even more insurmountable (in fact, he’d been just about to ask Aziraphale F if he was up for shortening his name to try and make it sound less stuffy and intimidating), but Crowley didn’t think that was the case.

‘I’m not talking about the change that comes naturally when people spend time with each other’, Aziraphale F had said, because he was a fussy old bastard who was also self-aware enough to know the difference between hacking pieces of yourself with a pickaxe to fit someone else’s idea of you and letting the waves of familiarity slowly smooth down your sharp angles.

Aziraphale F wasn’t delusional and he wasn’t unrealistic, he was just… well, himself. (Suffice it to say, the question about shortening his name had never been uttered out loud. Not just that, Crowley was ashamed he even thought about asking it.)

Crowley’s stomach did something weird right then and he grimaced, disgusted by his own thoughts. What the fuck was wrong with him, huh? This was a client he was thinking about. Pro bono, but still.

“Ana will forward his profile to all of you,” Crowley said, interrupting the excited chit-chat all around him. “Comb through your client lists and send all potential matches to me. I’ll take care of it.”

Anathema turned to him with a dumbfounded expression. “You’re taking the lead on this? Since when?”

“Since right about now, Device.” He was the boss, for fuck’s sake, and last time he checked he could give tasks to all his employees, including himself.

“Ana’s right, dearie,” Tracy insisted. “It’s been some time since you last dirtied your hands in the field.”

Crowley squawked in response. “‘M not gonna dirty a single finger.” (Wrong expression.)

“Come on, Anthony, you know what I–”

“Don’t call me Anthony. And I’ve got too much riding on this one.” (Wow, would you look at that: another wrong expression.)

Tracy shot him a look that Crowley carefully ignored. “If you say so.”

“I want your best work on this. Don’t let me down.”

❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

Crowley was happy to report that he wasn’t let down (his employees knew what was best for them, after all), and that it didn’t take long at all to find the first potential match for Aziraphale F. In less than twenty-four hours, he’d sifted through the profiles he’d received from his team, discarded some, threw in others, and prepared a spreadsheet listing all eligible candidates, complete with their weaknesses and strengths.

Perfectionist that he was, Crowley had even spent two sleepless nights making a chart and arranging all nine candidates from most to least likely to succeed. 

Now, a less experienced matchmaker would have probably gone straight for the man he’d placed in the lead; Crowley, on the other hand, had learned that he was plagued by the annoying habit of letting his hubris get the better of him whenever the stakes were particularly high. So he’d wrestled his confidence into something more similar to cautious optimism than arrogance, and contacted Massimo D, who was ranked fifth on his list.

Here’s another thing Crowley knew without the shadow of a doubt: Aziraphale F wasn’t going to make it easy for him. No, if Crowley wanted to win the bet and give a nice boost to Made in Hell’s monthly stats, he had to study the man in action, see how he behaved around a potential match, pinpoint the exact reasons he found it so hard to find a partner, and confirm that he wasn’t trying to sabotage Crowley’s efforts for the sole purpose of bringing down his success rate (they didn’t know each other that well – not yet, at least – but Crowley had a feeling he shouldn’t have put it past Aziraphale F to choose bastardry over the promise of married bliss).

Which was why, after he’d put the two in contact to have them arrange their first meeting (a walk in the park to feed the ducks seemed like a reasonable compromise between informal and romantic, Crowley had suggested to Massimo D over the phone), and having his trusted official photographer, Newt, take a few pictures of Aziraphale F for the articles they’d no doubt publish about his epic feat, Crowley was now standing by the lake in St. James’ park with a pair of binoculars pressed to his face.

Across the body of water reflecting the offending blue of the sky was Aziraphale F. He was sitting on a bench, all prim and proper, reading a book while he waited for Massimo D to show up, as though he didn’t care if he never did. 

It was a balmy September morning, the breeze gently rustling through the trees, drawing ripples on the surface of the lake and carding its invisible fingers through fluffy white-blond curls, which was just one of many perfectly normal thoughts to have, in case you were wondering.

Here was a more troubling one, though: seven more minutes and Massimo D – an Italian Michelin starred chef – would officially be late, a possibility that wasn’t stressing Crowley in the slightest. It wasn’t like Aziraphale F had listed tardiness as one of his cardinal sins or anything.

“You know,” Anathema began somewhere next to him, annoyingly reminding Crowley of her pointless presence, “I don’t even think that’s legal.”

Crowley watched as Aziraphale F turned another page of his book. He zoomed in on the title, and yep – Jane Austen… figures. He briefly wondered if Aziraphale F thought of this outing as him promenading in the park with a gentleman suitor, and ultimately decided that it sounded ridiculous enough to be accurate.

“You’re right,” he mumbled distractedly.

“Wow. Are you drunk?” 

“Nah. No one should go outside looking that fluffy.” 

He was ninety-nine percent sure the man was a natural blonde too, which somehow increased the offending factor of the fluffiness. Likely went to a barber every fifteen days, like clockwork, and the barber in question was probably one second away from acquiring fossil status. Even his cologne – Aziraphale F’s, not the barber’s – had smelled like something that came out of a vintage perfume bottle, the ones with the ridiculous little pumps you saw in the movies. Or maybe that’s something only women used… either way, Crowley had a feeling Aziraphale F – who was still reading his book without a care in the world – wouldn’t have let gendered accessories come between him and his impossibly high standards.

The thought made Crowley chuckle to himself as he zoomed in on the man’s tartan bow-tie and the little roll of flesh folded right above it. How absolutely ridiculous, he thought with something akin to unfettered glee.

So absorbed he was in this very professional endeavour, that it took him a while to sense the unsettling silence coming from Anathema’s general direction. In any other circumstance he would have called it a blessing, but in this case… eh, not so much.

Trying to ignore the weird sensation already swirling in his stomach, Crowley lowered the binoculars and turned to find Anathema staring a hole into his skull. He frowned and took a step to the side to put some distance between them.

“Wot?” he all but barked out with all the authority he could muster (which is to say, not very much).

She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “You’re being weird.”

“Am not.”

“Yes, you are.” Before he could do anything to stop her, Anathema took the binoculars away from him. “Who is this man? Is he blackmailing you?” She immediately trained her attention on Aziraphale F, still blessedly unaware of the tragedy being consumed on this side of the lake.

“‘Course not, he’d never blackmail anyone.” He’s an angel, he thought stubbornly. More precisely, something between a cherub and a stuffy old English professor who wore jackets with elbow patches.

“There’s something fishy about him.”

Crowley snorted. “I told you, he’s my white whale.”

“Thought he was your cash cow.”

“Can be both, can’t he?” Aziraphale F was such an interesting person he could probably be an entire zoo if he wanted to (but this Crowley wisely kept to himself – even he could admit that it sounded weird). He couldn’t for the life of him understand why Anathema didn’t see the man for the juicy opportunity he was.

“He’s sort of cute, I’ll give him that.”

Crowley let out a noncommittal hum and gnashed his teeth together in an attempt to feign nonchalance, giving it all up as a bad job the second he heard Anathema gasp. 

“What?” he snapped in alarm. “What’s happening?” He squinted towards the bench across the lake and saw a figure approaching. It was a dark-haired man in grey slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, from what Crowley (and his poor eyesight) could tell from here.

“Massimo’s here,” Anathema announced. “Oh, Aziraphale looks delighted. Do you think it’s the forearms? I think it’s the forearms.”

Crowley’s head spun, momentarily taken hostage by the improbable yet very specific image of ‘delighted forearms dusted with white downy hair’ before his brain cells did what they were supposed to and reminded him the forearms in question were probably Massimo’s. “Ngk. Does he? How delighted exactly? Let me see, Device!”

Anathema sidestepped him and tightened her grasp on the binoculars. “Oooh, Massimo’s brought frozen peas to feed the ducks. Did you tell him to?”

Crowley scoffed and thanked whatever deity was watching that Anathema was too focused on the date taking place on the other side of the lake to see him blush like a bloody apple ripening on its branch. “‘Course not,” he lied through his teeth.

But since happiness had never been in the cards for him, Anathema chose that particular moment to lower the binoculars and turn to him with another one of her piercing stares. “You’re lying,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, well, the reason I have such a successful business is that I leave nothing to chance.” Someone – not him, of course – would have called it obsession. Someone – again, not him – would have called it being married to one’s job.

“If you’re about to say that the devil is in the details…” she threatened him, dark eyes flashing in warning.

“Are you trying to insult the company tagline?” What would it take for him to put his hands back on those binoculars? Could he pretend he’d just spotted Newt strolling around the park hand in hand with another woman? 

No, unfortunately Crowley wasn’t that much of an arsehole, an awful side-effect of all the therapy he’d gone through.

There was nothing else for it: he’d have to attack when she least expected it, like a coiled snake ready to strike.

“I’m trying – and succeeding, in case you haven’t noticed – to insult your lying skills.” She wriggled away before Crowley could even think about taking the binoculars back, and then kept skirting the edge of the lake to keep him at arm’s length. “You shouldn’t tamper with the dates.”

“I didn’t tamper with anything,” he insisted, picking up speed as he tried to keep up with her. “I just gave Massimo D a little headstart.”

“You’re supposed to let the matches interact with each other organically.”

Crowley pretended to retch. “Gross. They’re not bloody chickens.” Fuck’s sake, was she skipping? Why was she skipping? Witch trials made so much sense right now… “Where the hell are you going?”

“I’m getting away from you, much like the point of this little experiment,” she shot back.

“This is not a little experiment, this is my life’s work!” Crowley burst out, already breathless from the exertion. “Finding a husband to that fusspot over there will be my crowning achievement! And if I have to give a little suggestion to Massimo D to make it happen, then so be it!” 

He came to a sudden stop, panting and feeling very, very silly. Boy, was he out of shape…

Thankfully, Anathema took pity on him and stopped running too, gingerly retracing her steps back to him. “Do you really think they could work?”

“Of course I bloody think they could work, or I wouldn’t have set them up together.” Some things even Anthony J. Crowley took seriously.

“Care to walk me through your thought process?”

Crowley snarled to himself, and even though his chest was still heaving with shallow breaths, he decided to indulge her (and his professional vanity).

“On paper, they’re perfect for each other.” Now, his gut had had something to say on the matter, and that’s why Massimo D had placed no higher than fifth despite the hard data suggesting a better ranking. “They come from different upbringings but similar tax brackets,” he continued. “Massimo’s a Michelin starred chef, Aziraphale loves good food. Massimo’s Italian, Aziraphale literally went on a Grand Tour the moment he graduated high school, like an 18th century pillock.” 

Give him a mother-in-law living in Rome or Florence or Naples, and an excuse to travel to Italy at least once a year and he’ll make me a bloody statue, Crowley thought with the uttermost confidence.

But Anathema, damn her and her flowy skirts, wasn’t going into raptures at the brilliant, foolproof machine that was his brain. “Okay?” was the only thing to come out of her mouth.

Crowley paused for breath, then resumed his little lecture. “Massimo said he appreciates art in all its forms and what he’s looking for in a partner is timeless elegance.” Which was, admittedly, a weird thing to say about something other than a wristwatch, but needs must. “Here comes Aziraphale, who visits art galleries for a lark and looks like he drives a time machine to work. Do I need to continue?”

Anathema was chewing on the inside of her cheek with a thoughtful expression on her face, gaze trained on something further down the lake. “Truly a match made in hell.”

“Exactly.”

“So why do you think Massimo is leaving?” 

Crowley gaped at her then snapped his head towards the bench where Aziraphale and Massimo’s date had been underway not even five minutes ago. Anathema’s impromptu run had brought them much closer than they were before, which rendered the binoculars quite useless.

With his own two eyes, Crowley saw Massimo and his stupid forearms walk the path that led to the nearest gate while Aziraphale had taken out his book once more.

The realisation elicited many feelings all at once: triumph, because he’d been right to think that Aziraphale would prove himself a challenge; annoyance, because the man was clearly trying to make it exceptionally hard for Crowley to do his job; frustration, because while Massimo wasn’t among his top candidates, he was definitely a decent contender. Or had been.

“Oh, he’s way out of order,” Crowley muttered through gritted teeth before making up his mind. He made sure his sunglasses were still on his face as he marched towards the bench, all the while ignoring Anathema’s calls behind him.

Without so much as a greeting, Crowley flung himself right next to Aziraphale and slouched against the backrest in the most insufferable way he could. The good news was he couldn’t hear Anathema from here. The bad, that up close the way Aziraphale’s trousers clinged to his thick thighs was very distracting.

Startled, Aziraphale raised his head only to relax (and blush? Was he blushing?) when recognition flooded his eyes (Crowley had put them down as blue in his physical appearance profile, but today they seemed more green than anything). 

“Oh, it’s you.” Aziraphale, who had somehow managed to sound both irritated and pleasantly surprised, pursed his lips and proceeded to look him up and down in that focused yet seemingly distracted way of his. “I didn’t realise you were still here. I thought you’d left with that very anxious photographer of yours.”

Crowley cut right to the chase (they’d have to talk shit about Newt another day). “What happened?” he asked instead. “What was wrong with him?”

Aziraphale sighed and slowly closed his battered but clearly well-loved copy of Pride and Prejudice. “He ate the frozen peas.”

Crowley scrunched up his nose, biting down on the urge to scream. “He wot?” Could it have killed Anathema to tell him? (He took a mental note to never relinquish control of the binoculars again.)

“Oh, yes. He said he didn’t have time for breakfast, and even had me try one myself.”

“So what, you sent him away because he eats frozen peas?” Fine, it was sort of weird, especially coming from someone with a couple of Michelin stars under his apron, but considering the dating scene and what they had to work with, it wasn’t that big of a deal either.

“No, to be honest with you, I found that quite endearing.” 

Crowley couldn’t suppress the irritated grunt that clawed its way out of his mouth without his permission. “What then?”

Aziraphale gave him a little smile whose only saving grace was distracting Crowley from his plush thighs. “It was going rather swimmingly until I had the brilliant idea of asking him how he came to live here in London. He proceeded to tell me about his early life in Italy, and I mentioned that I have a lot of respect for immigrants and the resourcefulness it takes to find a home far away from home.”

“And?”

“And then he quite firmly stated that he didn’t appreciate being called an immigrant. That he’s Italian, and not, say, Pakistani, or Nigerian, or Indian.” His eyebrows knit in distaste and a little pout took over his lips. “Not his words, though. He saw fit to use three slurs, one after the other.”

Crowley was, simply put, horrified. He had half a mind to ask for a shovel and start digging right here. “Great pustulent mangled bollocks to that arsehole!” he blurted out. That was literally rule number one, for Someone’s sake! No arseholes.

“Rather,” Aziraphale agreed without losing his composure. “Which, as you can imagine, put me off quite a bit,” he went on with a little sniff. “I may be old fashioned, but I am no stick-in-the-mud, and I really do not care for racism.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I thanked him for his time and the frozen peas, then told him that it wasn’t going to work. We shook hands, he left, and now I’m back to reading about the only prejudiced individuals I can stand. Fictional soon-to-be-redeemed ones,” he concluded somewhat haughtily.

“Nghhh, Jesus fuck. I didn’t know he was a racist piece of shit, angel. You have to believe me.” Aziraphale flushed and looked away, mumbling something Crowley couldn’t quite decipher, not as desperate to justify himself as he was. He was already mentally composing the scathing email he’d send Massimo D to drop him as a client effective immediately. “He said he wasn’t interested in politics. Same as you.”

Crowley had personally gone through Massimo D’s socials to flag out any unsavory behaviour (he would have done the same with Aziraphale F, had the man had any socials to speak of). Now, it was true that they were all official pages linked to his restaurant in Covent Garden, but still, he hadn’t encountered anything that could be considered even remotely concerning.

“I may not be interested in the buffoonery that is modern politics,” Aziraphale said, “but I do keep up with the world and I make a point to make my voice heard when it matters. Mr Massimo struck me as the sort of person that doesn’t advertise his political beliefs for very different reasons.”

Crowley wished he could say he didn’t know the sort, but he’d be lying. His grandparents were exactly like that. “He advertised them to you.”

“Yes, he probably thought himself in friendly territory, as it were. Not the first time this has happened to me. People frequently get the wrong impression. They mistake my being old-fashioned with being… well, backwards.”

“Fuck. I really am sorry.” And embarrassed too. So much for being a matchmaker extraordinaire! Indian aunties all over the world were laughing at him right now, and with good reason too.

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale insisted with a shrug that was more of a shimmy. “I’ll be fine. Naturally, the same can’t be said about that success rate you care so much about.” There was a teasing smile curling up the corner of his lips. 

Oh, the bastard. 

“Hold on to your horses,” Crowley groused in response. “This was just the first attempt.”

“And a valiant one at that. Lasted all of… what? Thirteen minutes, give or take?”

Crowley willed away the flush in his cheeks. “I’m just getting warmed up.”
See? A beacon of honesty, him.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that, a professional like you?” The twinkle in Aziraphale’s eye was making things worse. “I read your reviews, you know. Someone called you a miracle worker.”

“Nghhhh, yeah,” Crowley sputtered as he casually rested an elbow on the back of the bench in the hopes of coming off as completely relaxed and in full control of himself. “Told you they can be manufactured, didn’t I?”

Aziraphale hummed next to him, eyes fixed on Crowley with that same quiet intensity that twisted his chest and made him want to squirm like an eel in soapy, electrified water. 

“How does one end up being a matchmaker, anyway?”

Crowley shrugged. “Lots of free time. Boredom. Nosiness too. As well as the staunch belief that I’d be better at other people’s love lives than they are.”

“Ah. I do know what you mean.”

“You do?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale smiled almost sadly to himself before glancing at the ducks happily gliding and squawking on the lake. “Then again, other people’s love lives always seem so much more straightforward than our own.”

“Myeah, I guess.” Crowley stared at his profile for a long second, trying to identify the weird sensation that was back to ravaging his insides for no reason at all. (He was pretty sure his pancreas was itching like crazy, for one. Better book a complete check-up as soon as possible, he decided.) “Who was the last guy?”

“Who?”

“The one you were with thirteen years ago.”

“Oh, Oscar. We met at Oxford, got together during our last year there.”

“That’s a long time to be with someone.” Without making it official, was what Crowley didn’t say.

“It is. I rather think we had grown used to one another in the end.”

“Habit doing the thing it does best, uh?”

“I do think it was more than that. Young love at the beginning, of course. Then it turned into fondness and a sort of easy camaraderie.” Aziraphale pursed his lips in thought before he continued, “It felt easier, navigating the world as gay men when we had each other’s back. That safety… well, as prisons go, it was rather nice.”

The tangled knot in Crowley’s chest began to loosen, leaving behind an unsettling feeling of deep sympathy for the man sitting next to him. “Who broke it off?” he couldn’t stop himself from asking.

“It just happened. You know those couples that get engaged on a random Thursday morning just because the topic has come up?”

“Yeah.” That was one of Crowley’s favourite romantic clichés, not that he had any intention of telling Aziraphale. Or anyone else for that matter. He valued his reputation too much.

“That’s how it happened with Oscar and I. Only we didn’t get engaged, of course, we broke up.”

“Were you sad?”

Aziraphale seemed to think it over. “Yes, but I was excited too. I still am, despite everything.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. I’m not very comfortable with change, that’s true enough, but the idea that the world might still have some surprises in store for me… that’s rather exciting, don’t you think?”

You’re exciting, Crowley thought shamelessly, before he caught himself and mentally slapped some sense into his mouldy rotten peanut of a brain. An exciting business opportunity. There. Fixed it for you, you arsehole.

“How about you?”

“What about me?”

“Did you manage to grow the perfect life partner for yourself in your mad scientist lab? One checklist at a time?”

“Myeah, very funny. But no. Can’t grow people in labs. Not yet at least.” Plus, he was pretty sure that, given enough time, he’d find a way to fuck that up too.

“Perish the thought.”

“Even if I were interested – which I’m not, by the way – I can’t exactly use my talents on myself, you know.”

“No?”

“Nah. It’s unethical. Against the matchmaker code of conduct.”

“Is it?”

“Sure. We take an oath and everything,” he lied, not bothering to make it sound believable.

Aziraphale smiled. “You’re your own blind spot, aren’t you? Everybody has one.”

“Yeah, but that’s by design.” More or less. “Besides, I’ve moved on.”

“To where?”

“To this peaceful fragile existence I’ve carved out for myself.” It may have been cold and uneventful, but at least he wasn’t panicking all the bloody time or turning himself into a metaphorical pretzel to please some random person he hooked up with.

Aziraphale pursed his lips in thought. “But do you think there’s such a thing as too peaceful?”

“Nah. Peace and no love is better than no peace and no love.” Crowley sighed, suddenly uncomfortable with the topic. He retraced their conversation until he found something a little less compromising. “One blind spot, uh? So you do know I will crack this for you.”

“No, I’m just being polite.” And there it was again, that haughty look that made Crowley itch to wipe it off his face. “I’ll have you know, I don’t need to trick you into a false sense of security to win this bet. I don’t play dirty, it’s beneath me.”

“I think you could surprise me.”

Aziraphale’s smile became even broader. “Why, thank you.”

“Aren’t you two cosy?”

Anathema’s voice shattered their little bubble, making Crowley startle and Aziraphale politely turn his head towards her. 

She, on the other hand, didn’t miss a beat. 

“Hello, I’m Anathema Device, I work with Crowley.”

“For Crowley,” he corrected through the silent screams now filling his brain.

“With.”

“For,” he didn’t relent, glaring daggers at her. 

“Still hasn’t learned his prepositions, our Anthony.”

Anathema, of course, was too busy shaking Aziraphale’s hand to notice the disapproval oozing out of Crowley, and the look of sheer interest on her face as she took in the man? It chilled Crowley to his core. Which is why he jumped to his feet and grabbed her by the elbow.

“We have to go.”

“But I just got here,” Anathema protested.

“We can’t annoy our clients, Device, that’s not what they pay us for.”

“I’m not paying,” Aziraphale reminded him at the same time Anathema said, “You’re doing this for free.” Then they exchanged a glance – traitors, both of ‘em – and smiled at each other.

“Myeah, I think I’ve seen enough,” Crowley pressed on before turning to Aziraphale. “I’ll be in touch, angel.”

Anathema made a ridiculous oooh sound that earned her another mental firing – the fourth of the week, and it was only Tuesday! “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Aziraphale.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, dear girl.”

Crowley literally shivered at the manic look that sparkled to life in Anathema’s eyes in response to that. “Okay, yep, let’s go. Bye Aziraphale.”

“Goodbye Crowley. Anathema. Mind how you go.”

Crowley dragged his very badly-behaved, unbearably-giggly employee (he stressed the word in his head for good measure) away as fast as he could, heart merrily screaming bloody murder in his chest. Lots of screaming going around inside him – yep, that check-up was probably in order.

Ten steps into their emergency escape, though, and he had the awful idea to turn back towards the bench, just to make sure Aziraphale F (definitely not angel, he reminded himself) wasn’t calling the police on them or anything. 

Much to his surprise, Aziraphale was looking back at him too, a soft smile lighting up his face as well as the tiny, dormant flame in the dustiest corner of Crowley’s chest.

❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

From Crowley’s Computer

❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

Chapter Text

Aziraphale had been collecting many things on purpose – rare misprinted bibles, silver snuffboxes, exquisite handmade bow-ties – and even more against his will, such as dust bunnies, invites to the Shopkeepers and Street Traders Association’s meetings and bad dates.

In the course of his life, he’d been on so many bad dates that every passably decent one the universe (or, in this specific instance, a very fetching red-headed matchmaker) saw fit to bestow upon him was cause for celebration. 

And this particular outing with a rather charming forty-five year old architect named Daniel (Aziraphale refused to call anyone by their name and the first letter of their surname like Crowley did – their sixth form days were far behind them, thank the heavens) was turning out to be quite decent indeed.

This was the happy result of a number of equally happy occurrences.

First and foremost, Daniel had proposed a setting for their date that was unusual as well as pleasantly surprising: an auction of antique books, watches, jewelry and furnishings currently taking place in Mayfair, where the man hoped to acquire a credenza for his daughter.

True enough, an auction wasn’t exactly conducive to sparkling conversation, especially when one’s sitting in the front row, but Aziraphale had to admit that having something to focus on beside his date rather took the edge off this dreary having-to-make-a-good-first-impression business. Moreover, holding a paddle relieved him of the age-old problem of what to do with his hands to keep them from fidgeting too much.

Secondly, Daniel was quite easy on the eyes. Slightly shorter than Aziraphale and smartly-dressed, he had short salt and pepper hair, a very nifty beard to match and a warm smile. Everything in his appearance screamed competence and self-assuredness, which Aziraphale had always found quite attractive (provided it steered clear of arrogance).

Last but not least, every time there was a lull in the auction and the conversation, Aziraphale could handily entertain himself by looking for a flash of red hair peeking through the throng of bidders, around the double doors granting access to the spacious auction room, and, in one memorable occasion, even behind the curtains covering the tall windows gracing the eastern wall.

It was like a real life version of those Where’s Wally books Aziraphale had once ordered for the abysmally under-stocked children section of his bookshop, which had then spiraled into an accidental game of ‘Wherever did I put those blasted Where’s Wally books, forget my head next’ when Aziraphale had realised he’d misplaced them and, for all intents and purposes, lost them.

Naturally, they weren’t lost, exactly. Sooner or later they would turn up, just like it always happened when Aziraphale lost something to the treacherous nooks and crannies of his beloved shop. Most importantly, when that time finally came, Aziraphale would be utterly delighted by the unexpected find.

Despite some obvious differences – such as the black suit in lieu of a stripy shirt, sunglasses rather than regular prescription glasses, and gravity-defying red hair instead of a silly hat – this flesh-and-bone version of Wally was eerily similar to its bidimensional counterpart. Aziraphale couldn’t say if finding Wally would ever cause him the same elation he felt whenever he caught a glimpse of Crowley, and not just because he’d never once managed to spot dear old Wally (he wasn’t saying he made a conscious effort to lose those irritating books, but he was also not saying it, if you catch his drift).

Crowley hadn’t stopped to say hello or offer him any sort of explanation for his presence. If Aziraphale had to guess, he was there to keep an eye on him and make sure he would play fair – which was insulting in itself, as Aziraphale didn’t know how else to play. And yet, he couldn’t find it in himself to be angry with the man, not when spotting him restlessly roaming around the place was enough to put him in such a good mood. God knows Crowley was as sexy and stylish as he was ridiculous, and the idea of having someone watching over him was quite nice, for once.

All in all, it had been a perfectly pleasant afternoon, and if everything went according to plan, Aziraphale would be home for supper with the promise of a second date, another first edition of Jane Eyre to add to his ever-growing collection, and the utter certainty that, were those Where’s Wally books to turn up again, he’d be much better trained to tackle the challenge.

“Here comes the credenza,” Daniel announced with an excited thrill that caused him to sit up straighter in his chair and Aziraphale to redirect his focus from where he thought he’d just seen Crowley hiding behind a potted plant.

“Oh, but that’s marvellous, Daniel,” Aziraphale gushed, admiring the beautiful piece currently being presented on the little stage. Hadn’t it been extremely rude, he would have tried to acquire it himself.

“Next up we have an exquisite antique drawing room credenza,” the auctioneer was saying in a dull monotone. “An English, ebonised walnut and glass display cabinet, dating to the early Victorian period, circa 1850. Displays a desirable aged patina and in good order. Bids start at one-thousand pounds.”

Daniel immediately raised his paddle. 

“One-thousand to the gentleman in the first row,” the auctioneer pointed to Daniel, before moving on to the next bidder. “One-thousand-two-hundred for the lady in green.”

The battle for the credenza quickly gained momentum, much to Aziraphale’s delight. He liked how unbothered and collected Daniel seemed every time he was outbidded. It was one of those traits that Maggie insisted on calling ‘green flags’.

“Your daughter must have really set her heart on it,” Aziraphale said cheerfully. “It’s always nice to see young people taking an interest in antiques.” He didn’t know how young she was exactly, but he was picturing a very refined twenty-something year old woman with her father’s eyes.

Daniel raised his paddle (two-thousand and four-hundred pounds) as he let out a surprised chuckle. “She’s eight, actually. This is more for me than her.”

Aziraphale blinked in confusion, but his smile didn’t falter. It just turned slightly more polite and less delighted around the edges. “Eight?” What did an eight year old girl want with a Victorian credenza?

Having no trouble noticing Aziraphale’s perplexity, Daniel took out his phone with his free hand. “I’m renovating her bedroom in my country house,” he explained, never forgetting to raise his paddle at the appropriate times. “I’m going to paint it pink and white, make it look like a vintage merry-go-round. I had an artist friend of mine hand-carve the toy horses. Here’s the design.” His smile sparkled with pride. “What do you think?”

And wasn’t that an interesting question? What was Aziraphale thinking?

Truth be told, if his mental spluttering was anything to go by, Aziraphale wasn’t capable of anything resembling logical thought at the moment. His mind had just turned into a dreadful, bone-chilling kaleidoscope of pink and white panels dotted with golden horses, a pastel-coloured hell clearly built by evil marshmallows.

He pursed his lips, trying not to let his disdain show too spectacularly, then glanced at the beautiful ebonised walnut credenza on the stage, then back at the very professional, very appalling design on Daniel’s phone, then up again to meet the man’s gaze, just to confirm that he was being serious. 

But he couldn’t, could he? Why would he buy a Victorian credenza just to deface it so thoroughly?

Oh, dear. 

Aziraphale took a deep, calming breath. There must have been an adequate explanation. Daniel was just being funny, wasn’t he? Yes, yes. Of course he was.

So Aziraphale tightened his grip around the handle of his own paddle – just as a precaution, you see – and forced a rather unconvincing smile upon his face. 

“What are you really going to do with it?” he asked, which seemed to amuse Daniel even more.

The man nodded to his phone and kept smiling his now dangerously toothpaste-commercial-smile. “I’m going to restore it.”

Something snapped deep inside Aziraphale, his polite façade morphing into an expression of sheer outrage. “Surely not!” he cried out, paddle flying over his head.

“Three-thousand and one hundred pounds to the gentleman with the bow-tie,” announced the bored voice of the auctioneer.

Daniel’s mirth quickly turned into shock. “Aziraphale?”

“Leave your sinful plans behind, and no one’s pride will get hurt,” Aziraphale warned with all the solemnity he could muster.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing? I am rescuing that poor credenza!”

“No, you’re not!”

“Watch me!”

Back on his podium, the auctioneer rolled his eyes. “We kindly ask our bidders to behave appropriately unless they want to be escorted off the premises by security, thank you.”

Aziraphale blushed, but didn’t let the embarrassment of being called out deter him from his goal, and by God, he wasn’t one to back down once he’d set his mind to something.

Twenty minutes later – to no one’s surprise except maybe a very indignant Daniel’s – Aziraphale found himself without a date and six-thousands pounds poorer, but with the satisfaction of a job well done buoying him up. Why, he could swear he’d grown a couple of inches taller when the auctioneer had flatly announced, “Sold to the gentleman with the bow-tie.”

Things further improved when a certain black serpent of a man slithered on the empty seat to Aziraphale’s left.

“Well, that went down like a lead balloon,” Crowley said drily, an accusing glare most certainly crackling behind the dark shades covering his eyes.

Aziraphale, who wasn’t at all disappointed by the sunglasses, rolled back his shoulders and lifted his chin in a huff. “Before you say anything: I was on my best behaviour, and I was really starting to like the fellow, but…” 

He let his voice trail off and gingerly stole a glance in Crowley’s direction. Justified as he may have been, Aziraphale knew this particular disaster was mainly on him (and Daniel’s criminal plans for unsuspecting Victorian furniture, of course). 

“But?” Crowley pressed on, crossing his legs in what Aziraphale deemed a very distracting fashion.

While the auctioneer kept droning on and on about an Edwardian grandfather clock and shooting irritated glances their way, Aziraphale cleared his throat and tried to wrestle his wandering focus back into submission. “Well, it has recently come to my attention that buying antique furniture for the purpose of painting it pink might be a deal breaker for me,” he explained in a whisper.

Crowley clicked his tongue, which was also very distracting as far as Aziraphale was concerned. “And when you say ‘might’...”

“I mean that it definitely is.”

“Figured.” He sighed, then pulled out a cream leather bound notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket along with the elaborate pen he’d used at the Dirty Donkey – Bentley, its name was. Crowley thumbed through the first few pages, all tightly scribbled and covered in tabs in different shades of pastel blue, then proceeded to jot something down.

Predictably, Aziraphale was too curious to keep his question to himself. “What are you doing?”

“Updating your list of non-negotiables.”

Try as he might to ignore it, unease crept up Aziraphale’s spine. “It’s the principle of the thing,” he insisted, because he truly felt he’d followed the only reasonable course of action, given the circumstances. “Were they all out of black notebooks?”

Crowley gasped in mock-shock, twisting his upper body in a way that couldn’t be comfortable so that he could face towards Aziraphale, all the while ignoring the auctioneer still glowering in their direction. “I would say I didn’t realise you were a man of these many principles, but… well, that’d be a lie,” he said, though he sounded more amused than terribly inconvenienced. “And no. This is just for you, so cream it is.”

Aziraphale felt warm all of a sudden. “I have my very own notebook?”

Crowley mumbled something through his teeth. “It’s a complicated case, innit? Need all the help I can get and the colour-coordinated stationery to match. In my experience, there’s nothing the right kind of stationery can’t improve. If you have to do something, then do it with style, ‘s what I always say.”

“Ah, words of wisdom,” Aziraphale teased him, because Crowley made quite the sight, sitting there, all tangled limbs and disgruntled expression. He definitely didn’t look like someone who colour-coordinated tabs and notebooks based on his clients’ attire, that was for sure.

“Notorious wise man, me.”

“Wherever did you find that dreadful individual?” 

“Who, Dan?” Crowley chuckled. “He’s the architect that designed the Made in Hell’s HQs, and he isn’t dreadful.”

Had he not already formed a very specific opinion of Crowley and his taste, Aziraphale would have shuddered at the mere idea of what those offices might look like.

“Well, his plans for that poor credenza definitely were,” was what he settled on and also all it took for his outrage to resume its angry fizzing in his veins. “In fact, I think the definition of ‘barbaric’ ought to be updated.”

“Barbaric, was it?”

“Naturally! Why spend thousands of pounds on antique furniture just to deface it? That’s what Ikea furniture is for!” he cried out, so distressed by the thought he didn’t even register the auctioneer’s threatening to call security on him… again. “Oh, better not dwell on it, it’s too awful.”

Crowley shot him a look so intense Aziraphale felt it down to his toes. (Upon further consideration, the sunglasses weren’t such a bad idea.)

“Is that really what set you off?” Crowley asked him, eyebrows still furrowed in suspicion.

“Yes!” 

“But you liked him well enough up until that point,” he confirmed.

“Yes, we were getting on like a house on fire. Before, that is.” Aziraphale was powerless to stop the sigh that escaped his lips as he relived the fraught moments when he’d thought that poor credenza was doomed. “My goodness, I can’t even tell you how strong the urge to punch the man and wrestle the paddle out of his hands was.”

Crowley snorted, his stern demeanour crumbling to pieces to make space for a sly grin instead. “Shall I compliment you on your restraint, then?”

“I would hardly say restraint is what I showed,” Aziraphale said, a bit coyly now. He was secretly convinced he should win a prize for it.

Crowley pouted. “Aw, don’t be too hard on yourself.”

“Are you teasing me?” Aziraphale asked, though he had a feeling he already knew the answer, and Crowley’s kind, mischievous smile confirmed it.

“Me? I would never.” It wasn’t like he’d felt comfortable enough to tease Aziraphale barely two minutes into their acquaintance.

Far from displeasing, the thought brought a smile to Aziraphale’s lips. “Oh, hush,” he chided half-heartedly as the auctioneer announced the sale of the Edwardian grandfather clock to a man in a tweed jacket, then proceeded to present the Jane Eyre first edition Aziraphale had set his eye on.

Instead of saying his goodbyes and leaving Aziraphale to his devices, Crowley remained by his side, quite sinfully splayed on the chair next to him, till the end of the auction, and was still with him when the auction house staff directed Aziraphale to the back of the building, where he could sign the proper paperwork and make the necessary arrangements for the items he’d purchased.

Crowley shot a critical look at the credenza, now all wrapped up, one hand stuck in the tiny front pocket of his impossibly tight trousers, the other placed on his hip. “Are you having it delivered?”

“I’d rather bring it home now. It’s such a short distance, it seems silly to wait.” Besides, he wouldn’t put it past Daniel to sneak in here in the dead of night to carry out his evil plans. So distressing the idea was that Aziraphale turned to look at Crowley for the sole purpose of giving his brain a moment’s reprieve from the sheer horror. Which proved quite effective, as Aziraphale suddenly wondered whether the auction house staff thought he and Crowley were together and then found himself hoping they did.

Luckily, Crowley was too busy staring at the credenza to notice this very innocent spot of pointless daydreaming. “How are you going to bring it home?” he asked.

Aziraphale, who wasn’t thinking about the credenza at all, blushed and quickly averted his gaze. His poor mind was having quite a day and the rush of adrenaline from saving the credenza wasn’t helping at all. “I’m going to call a taxi.”

Crowley muttered something to himself and waved him off. “No need. ‘M gonna bring the car around.”

“What car?”

“My car,” he explained as if it was obvious, already walking backwards down the hallway. “I live just around the corner. Ask ‘em to bring it on the pavement outside, I’ll be back.”

And that’s how Aziraphale inexplicably found himself on the passenger seat of a beautiful vintage car heading to the bookshop, while Crowley tinkered with the radio, which seemed to be stuck on an all-Queen radio station. Hadn’t the man been uttering very colourful half-bitten curses, Aziraphale would have found the whole display quite, er, alluring. 

But alas, he had standards and a totally minor addiction to white lies.

“She really is a beauty,” Aziraphale said, stroking the dashboard with a reverent hand. “What is she? A Rolls-Royce?”

Crowley snorted so hard the car almost swerved into the other lane and gave Aziraphale a heart attack. “She’s a Bentley,” Crowley corrected him with no small amount of indignation. “Watch your words.”

Holding onto the handle for dear life, Aziraphale fixed him with a wide-eyed stare. “Since we’re at it, would you mind watching the road?”

“I am watching the road.”

“No, you’re watching me.” It wasn’t unpleasant, but also not something Aziraphale wanted to risk his life for… possibly.

“And the road,” Crowley said smugly. “I’m an excellent driver.”

“That’s a word for it.” Other valid options were: reckless, insane and out of his bloody mind, but Aziraphale had implicitly promised to watch his words, so he didn’t share them. Because, as it had already been established, he was a polite, magnanimous person, and also a little bit of a liar. 

Unfortunately, the more time Aziraphale spent with Crowley, the more challenging lying to himself became as well as explaining what on earth he was doing and why. Aziraphale had no firsthand experience with matchmakers, but he did have a feeling that enjoying spending his time with one more than with the prospects said matchmaker found for him was not the point of hiring a matchmaker in the first place (free of charge and with a touch of free therapy on the side).

Something occurred to him right then. “Wait, is your pen named after your car?”

Rather than answering his question, Crowley turned up the radio, though the light blush dusting his cheeks already spoke volumes.

Once the bookshop came into view, suggesting Aziraphale was going to get off this car still alive after all, he forced himself to breathe in, working up the nerve to thank Crowley for his time and say goodbye to the man between one aborted reckless-driving-induced-scream and the next.

This proved harder than he thought it would be, and not just because of the so-called excellent driving. No, every time Aziraphale made up his mind and opened his mouth to say something, Crowley almost seemed to sense it and beat him to it, ultimately delaying the moment they would have to part ways, much to Aziraphale’s inexplicable relief. 

That’s what happened when they finally, blessedly stopped in front of the bookshop, with Crowley insisting on helping Aziraphale unload the credenza from the backseat of the Bentley, then on hauling it up the front stoop of the shop, and finally on dragging the lovely thing where Aziraphale wanted. And since he still hadn’t decided on the perfect place for it, he gave the poor man four or five contradicting instructions (slanderers will say it was payback for the driving and they would absolutely be right) before finally settling on a much more sensible, “Just leave it over there for now.”

It was only natural, then, that Aziraphale asked Crowley to stay for tea, since the poor thing was sweating and panting and mumbling profanities like anything. Common courtesy practically left Aziraphale no choice, you see.

Crowley muttered something about Anathema waiting for him back at the office so they could go over Aziraphale’s remaining potential matches, but in the end he flicked off his sunglasses (at long last!) and started wandering around the shop with the unhurriedness of someone who had nowhere else to be and a slouch that would have made a physiotherapist weep.

“Nice little set up you have here,” Crowley said after a very chaotic perusal of the premises. (Angel, Aziraphale mentally added, because the sentence seemed somewhat incomplete without it.) “And your bitchy cat really adds to the charm.”

Aziraphale stopped his pottering in the little kitchenette in the backroom to stare at him. “I don’t have a cat, and even if I did she wouldn’t be bitchy.” She would be graceful, distinguished and majestic, definitely not bitchy.

Crowley tipped his head to the side, a curious expression slowly taking over his face. “She is white and fluffy, just like you,” he said, ignoring Aziraphale’s outraged spluttering, “and she’s sleeping on a pile of dusty old books. Well, cracked an eye open to glare at me and everything. Don’t worry, I bowed before her and she magnanimously decided not to rearrange my features.”

“That would be Agatha, and she’s not my cat. She’s her own cat.”

“Did she name herself, then? Came with a little calling card?”

“I hardly think cats subscribe to the concept of first names and calling cards.”

“Really? The more you learn,” Crowley said, inspecting the shelf closest to him. “Me and cats don’t really get along. Animals in general, really. I think they sense my demonic energy. Except for snakes – I do get along with snakes.”

“Is this your way of telling me you have a pet snake?”

“Not as such, but I did recruit them to scare off my neighbour when I was a kid,” Crowley explained with a shrug before fixing him with another dazzling smile. “Why, do you have a cat?”

Aziraphale huffed and tried really hard not to use the kettle as a weapon. “As I told you, I do not have a cat. Agatha just happens to wander in here every once in a while.” Almost every day, actually. “She keeps the mice in check and I let her sleep on my old Britannicas.” She was also his main confidante, but Crowley didn’t need to know that, he was already too good at noticing things on his own.

“Isn’t that a water bowl? And dry food, right next to it.”

“Even factories have a canteen.”

“Oh, she’s staff then. Unless what you meant is that the water bowl is yours.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. Usually, when he got on all fours, it was for a different kind of activity, one that definitely did not involve cats.

“You’re being rather infuriating.”

“Aw, thank you.”

“Will you sit down?” he said, gesturing to the sofa in the hopes that would stop Crowley from snooping around and spotting other compromising details.

“Why are you so embarrassed by the idea of having a cat?”

“I’m not embarrassed, it’s just not… well, it’s not an accurate representation of what is going on between me and Agatha. She’s free to come and go as she pleases. One day she might decide she doesn’t like this place anymore and I would be fine with that. No hard feelings.” They were both adult, erm… beings, after all.

“She looked quite cosy to me.” Crowley closed the book he was pretending to skim and glanced up with a frown. “Wait, is that why you called her Agatha? Because of Agatha Christie disappearing after fighting with her husband?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale lied, mustering all his indifference to stop himself from being impressed by Crowley catching the reference. “She just looks like an Agatha.”

“Right. Would pay good money to know what’s her name for you, then.”

“You can try cutting her a check, she’s a very shrewd business-cat.”

“Maybe that’s why you’re her human, then.”

Aziraphale huffed. “I’m nobody’s human.”

“You know, you being an alien would explain a lot of things.”

“How desperate do you have to be to resort to science-fiction to explain why you can’t seem to deliver on your professional promises?”

Crowley smiled and put the book back in the wrong spot in a move that felt very pointed and not at all casual. Aziraphale shot him a chastising look, though he did admire the sheer pettiness of the gesture.

“This place feels like a rescue center for endangered antique furniture,” Crowley continued. “And books. And all sorts of bits and bobs.”

“Well, thank you. I do my best.”

“Your new credenza will feel right at home. Won’t warm your bed, of course, but–”

“I have a bedwarmer for that, I’m not a heathen,” Aziraphale informed him with a huff. “Would you have stood by while someone bid on a vintage car like yours just to paint it yellow?”

Crowley looked disgusted and mildly terrified by the suggestion. “No one would dare.”

“I’m pretty sure there’s a Daniel P out there who would, in fact, dare.” 

There was a slight chance that specific Daniel P was closer than Crowley realised, considering Aziraphale’s current musings about how prettier Crowley’s Bentley would be in yellow. Though he didn’t say this out loud, as it rather defeated the purpose of his argument. 

“Would you invite him to your bed?” And, with that final nail in Daniel P’s metaphorical coffin, Aziraphale busied himself by pouring their tea. “Sugar? Milk? Honey?”

Crowley snarled something that someone blessed with a more well-trained ear might have interpreted as a coherent answer to one or even both questions (for his part, Aziraphale decided to take it as a simple nah), then proceeded to slump on the settee just in time to receive the cup from Aziraphale’s hands.

“People can do whatever they like with the things they buy,” Crowley argued, but Aziraphale could tell that his heart wasn’t really in it. (He just knew the image of the yellow car had struck a nerve.)

“So you see why I had to buy the credenza,” Aziraphale concluded as he made himself comfortable in his favourite armchair. That also happened to be the reason he tried not to sell any of his books if he could help it.

“But–”

“As a matter of fact, I’d rather sleep with it than with Daniel P.”

Crowley engaged in a strenuous battle against the smile that was visibly threatening to bloom on his lips. “I shiver thinking about what he’d do to all the stuff you have in here.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “You’re welcome to keep such ghastly fantasies to yourself, you demon.”

Crowley laughed out loud at that – a joyous, unrestrained thing that made the lines at the corner of his eyes crinkle in the most delectable of ways – and Aziraphale reveled in the surge of pride that warmed him from the inside out at the idea that he’d finally managed to crack the man’s surly, sardonic exterior.

As it was, he had to make a conscious effort not to giggle and kick his feet.

“Have you ever thought of accessing another world through one of your many wardrobes?” asked Crowley, after he’d very obnoxiously slurped half his tea in a single sip. “Maybe you could find someone you could put up with.”

Aziraphale tutted. “Don’t be silly.” He directed the warning at himself too, because the fact that Crowley had decided to phrase it like that – as if implying that Aziraphale would have had no trouble finding someone who could put up with him – made his insides tingle as they probably shouldn’t have. “I’m never going back inside a closet.”

Crowley tipped his head to the side in a gesture that already felt familiar, his warm whiskey-coloured eyes now bare and trained on Aziraphale. He looked relaxed, the tension slowly seeping out of his body bringing out how tired he seemed to be. “Have you ever been, then?”

“It was rather transparent, as far as closets go, but yes.” Aziraphale took a sip of his tea and chuckled to himself. “Much to my family’s disapproval, might I add. They would have liked something much sturdier and more opaque than glass. Balsa wood or plasterboard, at the very least.”

“So they didn’t approve of you and Oscar.”

“Not at all. They didn’t say it out loud, of course. Much like Massimo D, they learned to keep their least palatable opinions to themselves.”

“You don’t have to say their names like that,” Crowley chided, although he seemed more pleased than irritated. “I know you think it’s stupid.”

“Whatever gave you that impression?”

“The little shimmy you do every time you refer to one of ‘em that way?”

“I do not shimmy.”

“Yes, you do. All the time.”

Oh, how indignified. “This is only the third time we’ve seen each other. You’re the scientist here, you should know that’s too small a sample to be statistically relevant.”

Crowley, for his part, didn’t seem particularly concerned by the risks threatening his professional reputation. “Feels more like a century, to be honest.”

What a wild thing to say, Aziraphale thought. He probably shouldn’t take it as a compliment, right? No, it was a dig at him. Must have been. “Is there something in particular you’re doing on my settee, then?” he asked, forcing himself to choose the second interpretation. “Besides drinking tea, that is.” No one was strong-arming the man into staying.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“No?”

“I am studying you. Like Steve Irwin with crocodiles.”

Aziraphale slowly arched an eyebrow. “You don’t say.”

“Or Jane Goodall with gorillas. Have to observe you in your natural habitat to understand the inner workings of your perverted mind.”

“Perverted?”

“You sleep with credenzas, Aziraphale. That definitely counts as a perversion of some kind.”

“And you’d be the expert because…”

“I’ve been matching people for the past fifteen years. I’ve seen it all, I told you. Credenza-kink doesn’t even make the top ten of the most disturbing things I’ve come across.”

“Why are you single, then?” Aziraphale asked, point-blank.

“Because I’m over it. Been there, done that, didn’t work out for me, and that’s it.” Crowley shrugged, a wry smile curling his lips. “Maybe I’ll try one of your wardrobes, see where that leads me.”

“You don’t like to talk about it.”

“Oh? What gave it away?” he shot back, teeth bared in a sneer and a sudden edge to his voice.

“You’re not the only observant person in the room.”

“Nyeah. Takes a right expert to spot the full-body shiver that goes through me every time someone asks.”

Aziraphale immediately ducked his head at that, flushing in shame. “I’m sorry.” He shouldn’t have pushed; the last thing he wanted was to make Crowley uncomfortable.

“Pfft. Don’t be, I don’t care anymore, I told you. And, as much as it pains me to say, that’s a valid question. If I pay someone to do my taxes and I find out they can’t do their own, well… let’s just say, I’d have questions. Oodles of ‘em.”

“You do ask a lot of questions,” Aziraphale mused, remembering their evening at the Dirty Donkey with something quite close to fondness. Then he surrendered to the sudden urge to add, “I don’t mind.”

“Most people do.”

I’m not most people, Aziraphale thought, and wasn’t that absolutely silly? “Well…” He cleared his throat. “Are you inferring anything else about me based on my, as you so eloquently put, natural habitat?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s hear it, then.”

“Eh, you won’t like it.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, if you don’t mind.”

Crowley shrugged, then said without preamble, “What you need is not a romantic partner.”

Aziraphale blinked and inexplicably blushed. “What?”

“You need someone to like you and stick around for who you are.”

“Doesn’t everybody?”

“Yeah, ‘m just not sure a romantic arrangement is what you’re actually looking for.” He leaned forward to place his cup on the coffee table, then slumped back on the settee to take out his notebook. “You said that you want to be romanced, yet all your non-negotiables are not inherently romantic.” He leafed through the first few pages, where he’d evidently transcribed the notes he’d taken that night at the Dirty Donkey. “You want someone who can hold a conversation. Someone you can call when something happens, whether it be good or bad or anywhere in between. Someone you could rely on, that could lend a helping hand when needed. Someone you could share your joys and troubles with. Someone to have dinner and take walks through the park and blah blah blah.”

Crowley paused for breath, but didn’t raise his eyes from the notebook. Even more damning, Aziraphale thought, he touched his face as if wanting to push his sunglasses up his nose, only to realise he’d taken them off. “And when you spoke about Oscar, you said you missed the easy camaraderie between the two of you. The fact that you were doing life together.”

“What are you saying?”

“Maybe you don’t need a husband. Maybe what you need is… well, a friend.”

Aziraphale’s heart did a little somersault in his chest as he stared at the man. 

Then, after the longest of seconds, he chuckled and tried to forcibly loosen the knot in his stomach and dispel the tense smile he could feel lingering on his lips. “That was a valiant attempt,” he said. “But I’m not going to let you off the hook. If you want to forfeit the bet you’ll have to do it all on your own.”

Crowley smiled back, somewhat awkwardly too. “I was just trying to see how serious you really are about this stuff.”

“Do I look like I’m not taking it seriously?”

“Nah, not really.”

“Good, because I’m not. Not taking it seriously, I mean.” In fact, he was willing to work with Crowley as long as necessary. “Besides, I never said I needed a husband. That’s a conclusion you jumped to all on your own.”

Crowley looked down and pretended to review his notes. “Eh, that might be true. A little spot of professional bias.”

Yes, Aziraphale thought, that was probably it. “Do you do non-romantic matches then?”

“In my personal time. Sometimes I’ll put two clients in contact with each other if I feel they might hit it off as friends.”

“For free?”

“‘M not gonna charge people for forwarding them a bloody phone number. ‘M not a monster.”

“No, you’re not.” Aziraphale was starting to think he wasn’t even a demon. Not a very good one, at any rate. 

“‘S just…” Crowley opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“Yes?”

“There’s a common mistake people make. One that makes it almost impossible to find a suitable match.”

“Oh?”

“They think they’re going to find a person that will magically be all the people they need in their life, all rolled into one for their convenience. A cure-all of sorts.”

“And you think that’s a mistake?”

“Nyeah. Those people don’t exist, Aziraphale, not outside books and movies anyway. Not a single real-life person will ever measure up to them, and it would be unfair to expect them to. ‘S like setting them up to fail. You can’t be surprised when they do.”

Aziraphale tried to ignore the uneasiness he could feel swirling in his chest and succumbed to the urge of redirecting the focus away from him. “Are you guilty of making the same mistake, then?”

“Nah. ‘M making loads of others, though, that’s my problem. ‘S like I’m hoarding them at this point. Well, I was. As I said, I’m happily single.” Crowley pointed a finger at him. “And don’t you dare change the subject.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” Aziraphale lied.

“Liar.”

Well, would it have killed him to play along for politeness’ sake?

“It’s just…” Aziraphale let out a frustrated huff and shook his head. “Very well, alright. If you really want to know, maybe it is like you said. I would like someone I could do life with. Or maybe more than one person, I don’t know. I’ll admit I never thought I could… look for something that isn’t romantic.” That’s what one gets when one reads too many romances, he supposed. Besides, that’s what Oscar was to him, and Aziraphale had never known any other sort of partnership.

“‘S not your fault. Society makes it easy enough to forget. Shouldn’t complain, since it’s what pays the bills, but…” Crowley made a little aborted gesture with his hand. “Anyway, my professional opinion is that it’s family you want, in the broadest sense of the word. Just widen your horizons, it might take some of the pressure off this dating business.”

Aziraphale stilled and blinked, then couldn’t help the surprised gasp that escaped his lips the second he realised how true that rang to him. “Yes, exactly.” Maybe there was a reason he’d gone on so many bad dates, maybe he was going about this thing in the wrong way. “Do you know a matchmaker who specialises in that sort of thing?”

“No, and I wouldn’t help the competition even if I did. I don’t do referrals… or charity.”

“Yet you took me on for free.”

Crowley squirmed on the settee and groaned out his displeasure. “Yeah, well, that’s different and if you bring it up one more time I’m going to start billing you. Bloody obsessed is what you are, and Anathema as well.”

Aziraphale could feel himself smiling. “She seems to be finding it quite unusual.”

“I’ll show her unusual.” Crowley scoffed and shrugged dramatically. “Whatever, I’m not trying to discourage you or prepare you for disappointment. I’m just saying, if you want this thing to work, you must try and shift your perspective. You’re not looking for your all-in-one here.”

Was that what Aziraphale was looking for? Was that why none of the dates he’d gone on had ever led to anything more? Even Oscar he hadn’t dated, strictly speaking. Things between them had just… well, happened, and then escalated, and then they were living together. Aziraphale was so used to frame their relationship in a strictly-romantic way he’d never stopped to consider anything different, or at least a little more nuanced.

The only thing Aziraphale knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, was that he wanted to feel something. Recognition. Hope. Excitement. Comfort. To meet someone new and think, ‘Yes, there you are’.

“You did say love had nothing to do with this,” Aziraphale heard himself say from very far away. He wasn’t disappointed so much as tired, and maybe even the slightest bit relieved because it meant there wasn’t necessarily something wrong with him, only with his expectations and his methods for fulfilling them. “I don’t know why I’m so surprised.”

Crowley made a weird scoff-like noise. “People think of love as this pre-packaged thing that’s just lying around, waiting to be found and collected. But it doesn’t work like that. Love is made, I think, or built, or whatever– the point is you don’t just stumble upon it like that. That’s bullshit.”

Aziraphale glanced up at him with a flutter in his chest. He couldn’t really begin to explain what was happening inside of him, but it couldn’t be good. Or rather, it felt so good – hopeful, even – it probably was the complete opposite. 

“Actual words of wisdom,” he managed to say, warmth prickling his cheeks. “I’m honestly impressed.”

Crowley, who wasn’t looking at him, shrugged as though it was no big deal. “Well, don’t hesitate to ask me if you have any other questions on love.”

Angel, Aziraphale added stubbornly.

They drank their tea in silence after that, broken only by the muffled sounds of the passing cars outside the shop windows, Aziraphale’s grandfather clock chiming in the background and the occasional clinking of cups on saucers.

It felt nice, though. Companionable.

“There is one romantic thing I miss,” Aziraphale said after a while.

“Yeah?” Crowley asked, more relaxed now, a goofy, infectious grin slowly taking over his tired face. “What is it? Dancing in the moonlight?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Love-making, actually. The sort of transcending, unadulterated filth that can only come out of tenderness and affection,” he said, staring at the ceiling as he tried to put his thoughts in order. “That definitely counts as romantic, doesn’t it?”

The words had barely come out of his mouth that a harsh intake of breath drew his eyes back to Crowley, who was choking on his tea and, possibly, air.

“Nggggk.”

“Oh, dear.” Aziraphale jumped to his feet, got rid of his cup and immediately rushed to Crowley’s aid. “Are you alright?” He made to pat the man on the back, but Crowley slithered away before Aziraphale’s hand could touch him, which wasn’t disappointing or anything of the sort, naturally.

“Y-yeah, yeah. It j-just… went down the wrong p-pipe,” Crowley wheezed out between the coughs rattling his thin chest. “I h-have to go.” He hastily discarded his cup of tea to put on his sunglasses and retrieve his belongings. “Lots of w-work to do. These m-matches aren’t going to make themselves.”

Aziraphale stepped back to give him some space, hands fidgeting. “Oh.”

“A-also must check on Anathema,” Crowley kept blabbering on his way to the front door. “Make sure she’s not leading a mutiny against me.”

“Of course. Er, thank you for driving me home. And for the credenza.”

“S-sure. Don’t mention it. I’ll call you with the next match.”

And there must have been something really wrong with Aziraphale, because the next thing to come out of his mouth was, “Feel free to stop by in person, if you prefer.”

“Yeah, yeah. Might do that, make sure you’re not, you know, sabotaging me.”

“Precisely.”

“Yeah, er, bye.”

And with that, the bell over the front door chimed and Aziraphale was alone again.

He tried to give a name to the feeling churning in his chest, but couldn’t settle on anything convincing. Then he looked back and saw that, for once, there were two empty cups of tea on the coffee table instead of one, and he decided that whatever he was feeling, it wasn’t sadness.

He smiled to himself at the realisation and turned to his right when he saw a white blur out of the corner of his eye.

Agatha was now sitting on the corner of his desk, long fluffy tail elegantly wrapped over her paws, her blue eyes staring at him in a silent question.

“Well, I don’t know what came over him, but if you wanted him to say a little longer you could have come out and asked him yourself,” Aziraphale chided, squirming a little under her relentless scrutiny. He often swore to himself that he would get used to it sooner rather than later, but he still hadn’t quite figured out how. “Did he really bow to you?”

The cat stared at him unmoving.

“I think he did, he’s all angles but he seems rather bendy. Like a folding rule.”

Agatha’s left ear twitched.

“A stylish one.”

She gave him an enigmatic slow blink.

“Don’t be silly, I didn’t say I wanted him to stay a little longer,” he clarified. “Though it would have been nice, I guess. It doesn’t often happen that I don’t feel relief whenever someone leaves the bookshop.”

Aziraphale moved closer and leaned against the desk, letting Agatha come to him.

“And before you ask, yes, I know what I’m doing.”

She stretched, completely unhurried, and went to great lengths to make their increasing proximity seem casual rather than intentional, diverting the attention from her performance with another sharp, cutting glance.

“I never said I liked him,” Aziraphale protested.

Agatha didn’t look impressed. 

“Very well. You drive a hard bargain, as usual.”

He sighed, wishing – and not for the first time – that he could train her and weaponize her lethal stare to convince even the most stubborn of customers to leave empty-handed.

“I may like him a bit,” he confessed out loud, “but this doesn’t change anything. Have you heard him? He’s off limits. Happily single. He’s just helping himself by helping me. A business arrangement of sorts. It is very sensible when you think about it.”

Agatha butted her head against Aziraphale’s forearm and he immediately took it as permission to pet her.

“Come to think of it, that’s exactly what you and I have, my darling.” Agatha purred at the attention and Aziraphale smiled. “I know I can’t keep you or him – no, I’m not saying that I would like to keep you or him – but I think I am allowed to enjoy you both as long as I can. Hypothetically speaking.” And in the meantime, perhaps he could take Crowley’s advice and widen his horizons a bit. “What do you think?”

Agatha came even closer, meowing until Aziraphale scooped her up in his arms.

“Fine, I’ll think about buying you the vintage bed I saw the other day, see if you like it better than my Britannicas.” He could always gift it to someone else if she ever decided to leave. “But if I buy it and you ignore it, I’ll be very cross with you, young lady.”

Agatha curled against his chest, anything but worried by Aziraphale’s empty threats.

“Well, you’re lucky I’m very good at forgiveness.”

As for honesty and restraint, he would have to work on them another day.

❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

From Crowley’s Computer

❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥