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The first time was unexpected, the second quite curious and the third was most definitely a clue.
Aziraphale jumps slightly when the door of the shop bursts open and Crowley bounds inside. As is usually the case lately, he seems to arrive as if he’s ten minutes late having rushed in from the far reaches of the universe.
“Angel, where are you?” he exclaims, looking round before noticing Aziraphale sitting at his desk and walks over to toss a small box at him. “Here. Fat rascals.”
“I beg your pardon!”
Aziraphale fumbles to catch the box, watching as the demon drops into a chair.
“Uh, they’re a cake thingy,” Crowley mumbles, shifting uncomfortably before continuing. “For tea, I believe.”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
A small gold sticker on the bakery box catches Aziriphale’s eye.
All Cakes Great and Small
Serving Yorkshire’s Finest Baked Goods since 1937
Darrowby, United Kingdom
“Fancy a drink at the pub,” Crowley asks, jumping up from the chair with a burst of pent up energy.
“It’s nine in the morning,” Aziraphale replies drolly, leaning back to study the demon as he paces around, picking up a few books that he will never read.
“Really? Seems later, but then I’ve driven all night.”
“From Yorkshire?”
“Uh, right.” Crowley spins around, searching for the decanter that is normally somewhere nearby.
“Oh no you don’t,” Aziraphale says, rising to intercept the bottle of scotch. “We’re going for breakfast and then you can come back here and rest or-“
“Shake a wing feather, Angel, or they’ll be out of crepes at The Ritz.”
He goes as quickly as he came, leaving the angel to sigh and roll his eyes, not missing the way he was interrupted before he could suggest Crowley stay for a while.
It’s not the first time. There have been others since the houseplants showed up in the Bentley's back seat and Aziraphale was finally able to discover Crowley’s new living arrangement. Is that when the demon’s restlessness started? He supposes it has always been there in one form or fashion, but this is definitely something new.
There is another sigh at so many unanswered questions as he turns the shop’s sign to closed and slips into the car just as it roars off.
“Are you going to tell me what is in Yorkshire,” Aziraphale asks a bit later, when the crepes have been devoured and the champagne flutes refilled one last time.
“The dales apparently.”
“Really, you are most exasperating.”
“Just went for a drive, Angel.” Crowley mutters, his eyes hidden from view behind his sunglasses. “The light in London is far too bright as you know.”
“Right,” Aziraphale agrees, having no idea what he is talking about.
The light seems perfectly acceptable to him. It’s not like they are back in the Dark Ages, what a trial that was. Mud and muck everywhere, not to mention the perpetual gloom. No thank you, he much prefers the bright liveliness of Whickber Street specifically and London as a whole.
Aziraphale doesn’t attempt a second invitation to stay with him at the bookstore. Crowley seems far too impatient to be off when he drops the angel back at the entrance. The Bentley barely comes to a complete stop before it is disappearing around the corner and out of sight.
And for the first time, Aziraphale begins to wonder as he unlocks the door, leaving the closed sign firmly in place. Passing his desk, he lets his fingers trail the small bakery box before moving off to the shelves in search of an atlas.
He finds the largest one he can carry and brings it to his desk, scooting the box of tea cakes to the side. Shuffling through the illustrations, he stops at the United Kingdom and takes a moment to study it. His eyes dart from Northumberland, then over to Herefordshire, back up to Yorkshire before traveling home to London.
Very curious indeed.
It is a small thing, hardly worth noticing. Not even that surprising for one who is living out of one’s car to take the time to travel. However, Crowley has always been drawn to the hot spots of the day. The angel would hardly call Herefordshire a hot spot and until recently can’t say that he had ever thought of that particular rural county. He supposes they have passed through Northumberland on their way to and from Scotland but nothing else comes to memory.
And why these counties should be the destination when the lights of London become too bright, he can’t possibly answer. Aziraphale glances from the pages of the atlas to the box and recalls the previous baked goods that came his way.
Feeling the sudden thrill of a mystery, Aziraphale whispers to no one in particular, “Finally, a clue!”
The first time was not altogether unlike the third with the demon’s sudden and startling arrival.
“Angel, are you here?’
The angel in question had no time to respond before Crowley found him amongst the shelves and plopped a small white paper bag on top of the stack of books he was balancing.
“What is this then and just where have you been?”
“What do you mean?”
‘I’ve telephoned for days and days and haven’t heard a peep out of you,” Aziriphale replies indignantly and moves off to find a clear spot to drop the books. “I brought a cassoulet by your flat only to learn there’s another demon living there. What the hell is going on?”
He finds a spare table and lets the books fall, catching the bag before it topples off the side.
“Aziraphale,” the demon murmurs, coming to stand quite near. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“Yes, well, you did.”
“I’m sorry.”
The angel resolutely looks away and Crowley tries a different tack. “Shall I do the apology dance then?”
Aziraphale can’t help but smile and glances over to see that the demon has made the offer solemnly and appears uncharacteristically flustered. Though it is difficult to see his eyes, the angel is sure there is remorse there.
“Perhaps, next time. Are you alright?”
“Perfectly fine, Angel,” Crowley replies with a little of his nonchalance returning. “Went for a drive and was out of range I suppose.”
“What were you doing?”
Instead of answering, Crowley points toward the bag and says hurriedly, “Made me think of you.”
The angel feels a sudden, well, zing up his back and makes a point to concentrate on the paper bag and notices the imprint on the side.
Heavenly Delights
The North’s Finest Baked Goods since 1894
Berwick-upon-Tweed, United Kingdom
Peeking inside, Aziriphale can’t help but giggle. “Do I remind you of a Victorian sponge then? Or was it the Heavenly Delights? Perhaps the tweed?”
“Look why don’t I just do the dance so you can let me off the hook,” Crowley mutters, darkly.
“Okay, I’m done. Stay for tea?”
“Yes, but….”
“What’s the matter?”
“It was a long drive cooped up in the car.”
“Ahhh, I see.” Aziraphale gives him a wink and walks to the desk to trade the Victorian sponge for his keys. “What do you say we take a walk? Tea can wait.”
It was later, much later when the tea service and the dinner that followed had been cleared away and Crowley left for the night, that Aziraphale hesitated before throwing the bag in the rubbish bin. He let his fingers trace the words printed beneath and smiled into the darkness before slipping it into a cubby on his desk.
Heavenly Delights.
Indeed.
The second time was most unexpectedly curious, occurring a few weeks later.
“Here,” Crowley says gruffly, plopping down next to him on the bench. “Tacky something or other.”
Aziraphale was reading a book in Berkeley Square when he looked over to see a small bake shop box scooting towards him.
He takes his time closing the novel, not wanting the demon to notice his breath coming quicker or that strange fluttering feeling that sometimes passes through him at the sound of his voice.
Averting his gaze until his insides are set to right, Aziraphale opens the lid just enough to peek inside. “You mean sticky toffee pudding,”
“That’s what I said.”
“Right.”
Crowley is lounging in his usual way, taking in the scenery, giving Aziraphale a moment to study him. He’s been gone again, out of range and beyond his reach. This trip was of a shorter duration though, and the angel could only surmise it was for the sole reason of not worrying him again. At least that is what he very much wants to believe.
“Another trip?” Aziraphale asks casually.
“Mmmm.”
Losing a bit of patience, the angel turns to him and taps him on the thigh. “Crowley, why don’t you simply stay with—”
“Isn’t tonight your concert at Royal Albert Hall?”
“You know it is,” Aziraphale murmurs with a sigh.
“I’ll meet you after and we can nip into the pub for a sherry.” Crowley rolls his eyes at the angel’s surprise and continues drolly. “And a whiskey for me.”
“Perhaps you’ll share this pudding with me afterwards.”
“Perhaps I will, Angel.”
He is gone, leaving Aziraphale to wonder if it was his imagination, the way Crowley’s voice dropped low. The hint of something there. Almost like a promise.
If demon’s were inclined to keep promises which normally would go against their nature and suddenly Aziraphale is quite confused.
Just before he rises to make his way home to change for the symphony, he spies a small silver label on top of the box.
Sinfully Sweet Patisserie
Serving Decadence and Spice since 1901
Leominster, United Kingdom
It must have caught Crowley's attention. Sinful and sweet just like the two of them.
Only sometimes the angel stops and lets himself wonder which is which.
Aziraphale finds himself pacing the shop, recalling these brief strange interactions.
Strange and oddly…..delicious.
And not at all having to do with the rather scrummy creations the demon so thoughtfully brought to him.
He is pacing and waiting for the fourth, if it comes, and can’t quite keep the thought at bay. The one that whispers to him at odd moments through the day and keeps him awake in the night.
How he must be in the demon’s thoughts.
Just as Crowley somehow crossed his own mind and has never left it.
Aziraphale has gone back over it all. The journeys coming a few weeks apart. How Crowley was out of range. The remoteness of his destinations.
Blast it! What does it all mean?
The demon was there earlier today and gave no hint at an upcoming trip and managed to avoid Aziraphale’s rather pointed questions about planned excursions. Not one clue and it is all so damned frustrating.
With a huff, the angel pours himself a scotch and sits down to distract himself with the daily news. Not much of a distraction though as the words blur together on the page, and he gives it a snap trying to concentrate.
And discovers what he has been searching for.
Another clue.
A small section of paper has been torn away, but there’s no way to tell what article it was. It could only have been done by Crowley, though, when he brought the paper with him.
He holds the missing section up to the light and wonders what the hell the demon is up to.
“We will just see about that,” Aziraphale says to the empty shop and is still smiling broadly when he reaches the newsstand up the block to purchase a duplicate.
Five minutes later he has the answer he has been looking for.
And a few more minutes after that he is out the door, immediately turning his eyes upwards.
Crowley was right. There is too much light sometimes.
The Bentley makes excellent time and Crowley arrives well past nightfall.
He’s not really sure where here exactly is other than the recollection of having crossed into Wales some time ago. The faint shape of rolling hills stretch far beyond the beam of the headlights and with a small motion of his hand, the lights shut off in an instant.
“And darkness was upon the face of the deep,” Crowley murmurs before looking skyward.
“I’ve always loved that part.”
With a start the demon spins around, searching the night. “Angel?”
“But then I’m also partial to let there be light as well.”
“Angel,” Crowley repeats through gritted teeth. “What are you doing following me?”
“You followed me to Paris if you recall. And all the way into the church.”
“I was there to rescue you!”
“Well, now it's my turn,” Aziraphale replies matter-of-factly. A small lantern switches on with just enough of the flameless glow to guide his steps to the demon’s side.
“What? You're going to rescue me from the wilds of rural Wales,” Crowley asks and his exasperation only grows seeing the angel’s indulgent smile.
“We’ll get to all that. Now firstly where shall we set up?”
Only then does Crowley notice that in addition to the small lantern, the angel also has a blanket and picnic basket tucked under his arm. He moves ahead into the darkness and comes to stop a little ways from the car. It is the perfect vantage spot. The treeline is some distance away and there is only the heavens stretched out all around them, as if they are no longer on earth but have come to rest on a cloud.
He chuckles at the silly human image it evokes of angels and clouds. Stuff and nonsense since he personally much prefers his bookshop to a damp and cold atmospheric formation that is apt to disappear beneath you at a moment’s notice.
Once the blanket has been spread out he sits and unpacks the basket and calls over his shoulder, “I’m afraid I didn’t have much time to gather a proper picnic lunch or rather dinner, I suppose I should say.”
There is nothing but silence from the region of the Bentley so he tries again. “I have a thermos of hot chocolate and Nina gave us all the eccles cakes she had left. Oh and there’s a bottle of Talisker if you’re in the mood for something stronger.”
He can hear the demon’s sigh from here and stifles a laugh. When he arrives next to him on the blanket, Aziraphale can’t help but lean a little closer and ask softly, “Now that wasn’t so difficult was it?”
“Are you going to share the hot chocolate or not?”
It is after they both have their mugs in hand that Aziraphale can finally look back to the heavens. It is nothing short of miraculous.
How soon he forgets having lived in London all of these years and years, just how many stars are visible to them now. He searches for the brightest points of lights knowing they are planets on their course around the sun. And there is the milky way in all its ancient and mysterious glory.
“Is this why you wait for the new moon? So it will be even darker for your stargazing?”
“How did you find me?”
“How did you find me before the guillotine could do it’s terrible deed? Or arrive at the altar in time?”
“It just happened. It’s…”
“As if there is a string leading from one of us to the other and back again. And if it were to snap we’d be….broken”
“Is this a metaphysical string or—“
“It’s ineffable,” Aziraphale says softly.
“Did you just now come up with this string theory, Angel,” Crowley asks, smiling in spite of himself.
“I read it in a novel if you must know but it applies. We are bound, you and I, and that is why I came here tonight.”
“To rescue me?”
“Yes,” Aziraphale nods emphatically. “To tell you that you’re not alone. You’ve lost your job and home and I suppose your purpose but you haven’t lost…”
Crowley’s smile fades to something that can only be described as expectant, even yearning, as he whispers, “Tell me.”
“Me. You haven’t lost me”
A movement catches their eye as a flash of white shoots across the sky. And another.
The meteor shower is starting. The one mentioned in the article Crowley tore from the newspaper and drove to the countryside of Wales where the best vantage point was given.
“I’ll say it again. You did an excellent job.”
“It wasn’t really me you know.”
“But you helped set it in motion,” Aziraphale replies, running a hand down the demon’s arm.
A few more meteors go by. And a few more after that.
“It's just space junk flying past.”
“Don’t ruin the moment, Crowley.”
“It is beautiful though,” the demon remarks quietly. “London has seemed too loud of late. Too lit up for me to think or sleep. So I come to these dark corners until…”
“Until?”
“Well, it only works for a short while, before I need to return.”
“Why?”
“Because I miss you, there I’ve said it. Happy now?”
“That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” Aziraphale leans into him and feels Crowley do the same.
“Where else is there between heaven and hell worth being other than where we both are?”
“Then why won’t you stay with me?”
“So that we don’t move too fast,” Crowley murmurs, looking at him intently.
There it is again. A promise of something they are moving towards and suddenly their insides feel better than anything the hot chocolate could ever do.
They are in their orbit now just as the galaxies that twirl and spin overhead. There must be a plan to it. How else would their paths be so inextricably linked.
“Then you will stay close and perhaps once in a while we’ll find a sky all to ourselves,” Aziraphale says softly, hesitating only a moment before reaching for the demon’s hand.
“Now who’s moving fast?” Crowley teases, but in the dimness of the lantern his eyes give off a brighter glow and he thinks how nice it is to be rescued.
“Well there’s taking things slow and then there’s positively glacial. I think we can do better than that,” Aziraphale replies saucily.
They are quiet for a time, enjoying the night and the stars, counting the meteors that streak by.
“I’ve never said this, Angel.” Crowley clears his throat keeping his eyes turned toward the heavens. “I’m glad you were with me that first day when the light turned on.”
“In the beginning. I’ve always liked that part.”
“I never want it to end.”
With their hands linked together it seems very much like something new, but time enough after all that has happened through the ages for the angel to whisper quite without thought, “And I’ve never said this, Crowley, but I love…”
It suddenly feels too overwhelming, too enormous, even for the universe above to contain the emotion bearing down on them. So it will stay there unspoken, like the string that keeps this most improbable connection from breaking. It will happen in its time.
“What do you love?” Crowley asks quietly, squeezing Aziraphale’s hand.
“When it’s just the two of us.”
“I feel exactly the same, Angel.”