Work Text:
The used book shop hadn't been there before. Anthony would have noticed. He generally passed along this street walking to work.
He couldn't recall what had been there before. Nothing important, he supposed. The shop was right next door to an X-Rated Book shop that probably sold much fewer books than videos or accessories, and was a queer place to locate an antiquarian book spot, if that was what it was.
The odd thing was that the place looked like it had been forever. Dirt-spotted windows, a few dusty leather-bound books placed on display as if the owner had deliberately positioned them to keep the titles and spine hard to read. Faded opening hours, hand-written and eligible. Anthony couldn't explain the temptation to mount the stairs and push the door open. It was as if the universe was whispering to him, You've done well. You'll be all right. Something good is waiting.
It was locked. The Open sign mocked him. He went home to his sitcoms and gardening shows and houseplants and empty, gleaming flat. The shop was probably just a money-laundering front.
He couldn't understand why it tugged at him every time he passed. Maybe he should take up reading. He could do with a new hobby. Or friends. He knew he had been ill a long time, a couple of years back. His mind was fuzzy on the details and his memory was patchy in general, but surely he had friends before he became ill. Or maybe not. Someone who worked long hours providing "thought partnership" and "championing company culture" at a television production company probably made more money than friends. Still...
...surely there had been one friend. There was a hazy friend-shaped hole in his memory. Sometimes he took out two glasses when preparing to get drunk to Cheers, and half-heard sardonic remarks on the quality of his entertainment. But if there was a friend, where were they?
Anthony started testing the door on his way to work and his way back to his--home? The Mayfair flat, in any case. His hours were erratic, and even if the business wasn't legitimate, it would have to open at some point.
He supposed it was a hobby of a kind. He found himself remembering legends of travelling bookshops that appeared in blank walls when someone was really in need, to sell them the one thing they wanted, and then disappeared again. He couldn't shake the feeling that what he really needed was in the shop. But what did he need? He was wealthy, sucessful, moderately good looking and extremely well dressed.
Anthony worked late on Friday night. Pathetic, he knew, but what else did he have to do? And... well, one of the production company girls had been lying about her hours. He considered turning it over and reporting her, and then he remembered her eyes had been red. It wouldn't hurt to buy her a drink and see what was wrong. And oh, fuck, her mother was sick, and she had been skipping work, and would lose her job, and somehow, resenting it bitterly, A. J. Crowley found himself sorting her out. After all, he hated it when people were frustrated and angry and sad at work, it caused all kinds of little ripples spreading out. Better to stop the trouble at its source.
The girl had been embarassingly grateful, and he had been relieved when the whole thing was over, but there was a tiny twinge of sastisfaction, as well.
Well done, said the voice in his head. It's hard being human, isn't it, even without being messed about? Much better to help.
It was passed 10 pm when, as usual, Anthony checked on his shop—his shop, ridiculous, when he had never been inside*—noticed the sign had been turned to Closed. Odd. Anthony mounted the stairs again, pressed his hand against the wood, and it swung open. He grinned to himself. Just like the old bastard.
Which bastard?
"Hullo?" he called into the shop.
"My word," said a rich, fruity voice. "It's you at last."
The proprieter was a heavy-set man in a cosy beige cardigan that had clearly been washed to the crucial point between maximum softeness and actually falling apart. He gave a general air of benign campness, but his blue eyes were piercing under his ridiculous half-moon spectacles. Of course, Anthony thought, of course.
"I'm afraid I'm not much of a reader," he said apologetically, trying to cover for his strange rush of familiarity.
"I know. I have some other things corner set aside just for you," said the owner, which didn't feel as odd as it probably should. "It seems to me," the man continued, still fixing him with that almost frighteningly intense attention, "that you are looking for something to stir old memories"
"That would be hard. I used too much coke in the eighties."
The man gave him a look of such mindled irritation and compassion that Anthony had the strangest urge to fling his arms around his waist, bury his head against his broad shoulder, and sob. Instead the man just said, "This way, dear boy." Despite the irritation, there was something unfathomably kind in his voice. Almost tender.
They stopped in front of a shelf. Anthony blinked at it. No books, but a bewildering assortment of junk. Wine bottles. An expensive matte-black pen. He touched a map of the M-15. "Devilish motorway."
"Positively demonic," the man said gently.
There was an apple on the shelf. An apple. Why was there an apple on a bookshelf in a book shop? A Radio Times, with some television programmes circled, mostly gameshows. Concert programmes. A cassette tape labelled Rites of Spring. Rather old looking car keys. A tire iron. Why a tire iron?
Anthony picked it up weighed it in his hands. He flet a flood of—was it desperation? No. It was the certainty of despair, but with it, something warm and solid. Almost relief, but beneath it... "This one. This reminds me of something." He hesitated, and then in a rush, found it." It reminded him of the book shop owner.
The proprieter extended a hand. "Nice knowing you," he said, with sad and tender eyes.
"Here's to next time," Anthony said, and took his hand.
Aziraphale's hand. The memories came rushing back as plump fingers closed around his. The tire iron clattered to the ground as Aziraphale pulled him closed and kissed him as if he was starving for him.
"Gosh," Crowley said, as their lips parted. "I don't remember any kissing."
"Do you mind?" Aziraphale blushed. "I'm afraid it was somewhat forward. It's just I have been waiting for you so long, and the relief..."
"I don't mind at all, angel," Crowley said fervently. "Could've kissed me any time over the last few thousand years, you know. Wouldn't have minded."
"You would have made fun of me for decades."
"Um. Yeah. Maybe. But I would have kissed back, too." Crowley was pretty sure he was blushing as well. "Why didn't you come find me?"
"I have no idea where you live, my dear." It was so ridiculous that Crowley laughed, but of course it was true. His flat was just a place to keep his plants and sleep. It wouldn't have occurred to him to invite Aziraphale there. "I asked Adam, and he said he was afraid someone had decided you deserved to think you were human and see how much you liked it, as you liked humans so much." There was pain in Aziraphale's voice, under the careful modulated inflections. "So I waited."
"How did you know I would find you?"
"I'm an angel. I have faith."
"In me?"
"I suppose so, although I wouldn't have put it that way. In effability, I suppose. And in your fellow demons not being very good at their job, of course. Can't change our fundamental natures from the outside, only make us think we have."
"I might’ve come in sooner if you opened the shop occasionally.”
Aziraphale looked put out. “I’m certain I put the sign to Open.”
“Door was locked.”
“Never stopped you before.”
"Never thought I didn't have powers before."
Aziraphale blushed. Satan, he was adorable. And there was only really one thing to do, and that was to kiss him.
Like he loved him.