Between Heaven and Hell: A Love Story

The air in the back room of the bookshop was thick with the scent of old paper, leather, and, more pressingly, burning sugar. Aziraphale waved a hand in front of his face, a cloud of flour puffing from his sleeve and dusting his cheek. On the counter, a tray of what were meant to be scones sat blackened and smoking, looking more like volcanic rock than a delicate teatime treat.

"Oh, bother," he muttered, nudging one with a tentative finger. It was hard as granite. He had been so determined to make this evening perfect. A proper date. The term itself felt foreign and thrilling on his tongue. After six millennia of orbiting each other, the explicit shift into something more was both a profound relief and a source of considerable anxiety. He wanted everything to be just right.

He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. A tiny, almost imperceptible shimmer passed through the room. When he opened them again, the scones on the tray were a perfect golden-brown, their tops lightly cracked and inviting. A wisp of steam rose from them, carrying the buttery, comforting scent of a successful bake. The acrid smell of smoke, however, still clung stubbornly to the air. He would have to do something about that. With a flick of his wrist, a breeze carrying the fragrance of jasmine and petrichor wafted through the small kitchen, clearing the last evidence of his culinary failure.

He carried the plate into the main shop, placing it carefully on the small table he had set for two. He’d used his best china, the one with the little blue flowers, and the silver was polished to a gleam. He adjusted a fork, then moved it back. He fussed with a napkin, folding it into a swan before deciding that was entirely too much and smoothing it back into a simple rectangle.

The little bell above the door chimed, its familiar jingle cutting through his nervous preparations.

Crowley sauntered in, all lean lines and dark clothing, a stark and wonderful contrast to the soft, cluttered warmth of the shop. He moved with a lazy grace that was entirely his own, a predator at ease in a sanctuary. He pulled off his sunglasses as he approached, revealing those impossible golden eyes, pupils slit like a cat's. A slow smile spread across his lips.

"Angel," he said, his voice a low purr. "Trying to burn the place down without me? I thought we agreed that was my department." He sniffed the air, the smile widening into a grin. "And you missed a spot. I can still smell the brimstone. Very on-brand for you, actually. Holy smoke."

Aziraphale felt a familiar warmth spread up his neck, a blush he was certain was visible even in the dim lighting of the shop. "It was a minor incident. All handled," he said, smoothing his waistcoat down, a gesture that did nothing to hide his pleasure at the demon's arrival. "I was… baking."

Crowley’s gaze swept over the table—the pristine china, the perfectly formed scones, the little pot of clotted cream and strawberry jam. He held up the bottle in his hand, a 1945 Château Mouton Rothschild. "Brought a little something. Figured your baking could use a liquid counterpart." He set the bottle down, the heavy glass making a solid sound against the wood. His eyes lingered on Aziraphale, a slow, appreciative appraisal that made the angel's breath catch.

"You went to all this trouble," Crowley said, his voice softer now, the teasing edge replaced by something else, something that felt as new and fragile as their official arrangement. He stepped closer, closing the small space between them. The scent of him—ozone, expensive cologne, and something uniquely Crowley—filled Aziraphale's senses. "For me?"

"Well, yes," Aziraphale said, his own voice a little unsteady. "It’s our… date night."

"Date night," Crowley repeated, the words tasting strange and wonderful. He reached out, not to touch the wine or the scones, but to brush the dusting of flour from Aziraphale's cheek with the pad of his thumb. The touch was light, brief, but it sent a jolt straight through the angel. Crowley’s fingers were cool against his skin. His gaze was intense, searching, holding a question that had nothing to do with burnt scones.

Aziraphale stood perfectly still, his heart doing a ridiculous flutter against his ribs. Six thousand years, and a single touch could undo him.

"Right then," Crowley said, pulling his hand back as if he, too, had felt the spark. He cleared his throat, turning his attention to the wine bottle with an abruptness that spoke of his own unease. "Best open this before you decide to miracle it into vinegar."

Aziraphale watched him, a small, genuine smile finally settling on his lips. The awkwardness was there, yes, but beneath it was the solid, unshakeable foundation of their shared history. This was new, but it was also just them.

The wine poured into the crystal glasses with a rich, dark gurgle. Crowley handled the bottle with a familiar reverence, the movements of his long fingers both economical and elegant. He slid a glass across the table to Aziraphale, the base whispering against the polished wood.

"To… not burning the scones," Crowley offered, raising his glass.

Aziraphale picked up his own, the delicate stem cool between his fingers. "To new arrangements," he countered softly, his eyes meeting Crowley's over the rims of their glasses. They drank. The wine was extraordinary, a complex tapestry of dark fruit and earth and time that slid down Aziraphale’s throat like liquid velvet.

He placed a scone on Crowley’s plate, adding a generous dollop of cream and a spoonful of jam. For a few minutes, they ate in a comfortable silence, the only sounds the clink of silverware against china and the faint hum of London outside the bookshop's old glass. It was a silence they had shared a thousand times before, in a thousand different places. And yet, this one felt different. It was heavier, filled with things unsaid.

"So," Crowley began, wiping a non-existent crumb from the corner of his mouth. "This is it, then. Domestic bliss."

"I suppose it is," Aziraphale replied, his attention suddenly focused on the precise alignment of his fork. He moved it a millimeter to the left. "It’s… nice."

"Nice," Crowley repeated, drawing the word out. He leaned back in his chair, draping one arm over the back of it. The posture was meant to look relaxed, but Aziraphale could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers drummed a silent, restless rhythm on the upholstery. "It is nice. It's also… bloody weird, isn't it?"

Aziraphale’s gaze flickered up from his plate. "Weird?"

"We've been… us… for six thousand years," Crowley explained, gesturing vaguely between them with his wine glass. "And now there's this… label on it. 'A couple.' 'Dating.' It comes with a whole new set of… instructions, I think. And I seem to have misplaced my copy." He took a long drink of wine, his eyes fixed on Aziraphale.

The angel felt that familiar heat creep up his neck again. Instructions. He knew precisely what Crowley meant. The unspoken understanding that had governed their interactions for millennia suddenly felt inadequate. Before, a lingering glance or a shared bottle of wine was just that. Now, it was a prelude. A step. But neither of them seemed to know what the next step was, or who should take it.

"I don't think it requires instructions, my dear," Aziraphale said, his voice a little too prim. He picked up his napkin and began refolding it into a neat square on his lap. "It's simply… a matter of… well. Being."

"Being," Crowley echoed, a wry smile touching his lips. He set his glass down and picked up his sunglasses from where they rested on the table. He began polishing the lenses with a cloth from his jacket pocket, a nervous, repetitive motion. "Right. Just 'being.' But the 'being' feels different. The space between us feels different."

He wasn't wrong. The air in the bookshop was charged, thick with possibility. Aziraphale was acutely aware of Crowley’s knee, just inches from his own under the small table. He could feel the warmth radiating from the demon, a low thrum of energy that seemed to call to something deep within his own corporation. He imagined leaning forward, closing that gap, and his breath hitched. He took a hasty sip of wine.

"It's just… new," Aziraphale managed, setting his glass down with a slightly trembling hand. "We'll… find our way."

Crowley stopped polishing his glasses. He looked at Aziraphale, his golden eyes stripped of their usual defenses. The vulnerability there was startling, a raw and honest thing that made the angel’s heart ache. "And what if my way involves… touching you?" he asked, his voice low and quiet, barely a whisper. "What if I want to do more than just brush flour off your cheek?"

The question hung between them, direct and terrifying and wonderful. Aziraphale’s mouth went dry. All the clever words, all the theological arguments and literary quotes he kept stored away, vanished. He was left with a simple, profound truth.

"I think," he said, his voice unsteady but clear, "I would like that very much."

A slow, genuine smile spread across Crowley’s face, a brilliant, beautiful thing that lit up his features. The tension in his shoulders seemed to dissolve. He put his sunglasses down, the nervous energy finally stilled. He leaned forward slightly, his intent clear, his eyes fixed on Aziraphale’s lips. The world seemed to shrink to the space between their two chairs, to the inches that were about to disappear.

The world contracted to the space of a breath. Aziraphale could see the flecks of gold in Crowley’s eyes, the way his dark lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones. The scent of him—that intoxicating mix of sulfur, old leather, and rain-soaked city pavement—was all-consuming. Aziraphale’s own breath caught in his throat, a silent prayer of anticipation. He felt the warmth from Crowley’s body, a low, familiar hum that resonated deep in his own corporation. His own hands, resting on the table, curled into fists, the knuckles white. He wanted this. He had wanted this across centuries of silent glances and shared bottles of wine, through wars and revolutions and quiet afternoons spent in this very shop.

Crowley’s lips parted slightly. He was so close now. Aziraphale could feel the whisper of his breath, could almost taste the wine on it. He tilted his head, a small, unconscious gesture of welcome, of surrender. Six thousand years of waiting, of wondering, of orbiting each other like celestial bodies bound by a force neither of them dared to name. And now, the space was gone. The waiting was over.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The sound was violent, a sharp, percussive assault on the old wooden door of the shop. It wasn't the gentle chime of the bell but a frantic, insistent pounding that shattered the fragile intimacy of the moment.

Both of them flinched back as if struck. Crowley let out a low hiss of pure frustration, a serpentine sound of annoyance that was pure demon. He shot a venomous glare toward the front of the shop, his posture stiffening with irritation. The beautiful, vulnerable moment was gone, smashed to pieces by three rude knocks.

"For Heaven's sake," Aziraphale murmured, his face flushed, his heart hammering against his ribs for an entirely different reason now. He pressed a hand to his chest, trying to calm its frantic rhythm. "Who on Earth could that be at this hour?"

The pounding came again, more insistent this time. BANG. BANG. BANG. A muffled voice called out, laced with panic. "Hello? Is anyone in there? I was told to deliver this. I have to deliver this."

Crowley pushed his chair back with a scrape of wood against the floorboards. "Ignore them," he growled, his eyes still fixed on Aziraphale, trying to reclaim the lost thread of their moment. "They'll go away. Miracle them into thinking they're a flamingo. A very lost flamingo."

"Crowley, no," Aziraphale chided, though his voice lacked its usual conviction. He was too flustered, the ghost of Crowley's proximity still tingling on his skin. He stood, smoothing his waistcoat with trembling fingers. "It sounds urgent."

He made his way to the front of the shop, weaving through the familiar labyrinth of bookshelves. Crowley followed a few paces behind, a dark, simmering storm of displeasure. Aziraphale flicked on a lamp near the door, illuminating the distorted face of a man pressed against the glass. He looked to be a postal worker, his uniform askew, his face pale and beaded with sweat under the dim streetlights.

Aziraphale unlatched the door and opened it a crack. "Can I help you?"

The man stumbled back, breathing heavily. He was clutching a single, thick envelope in his hand as if it were a venomous snake. "Are you… are you him?" he stammered, his eyes wide and fearful.

"Am I whom?" Aziraphale asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

The postal worker thrust the letter forward. "The Angel of the Eastern Gate," he read from the envelope, his voice trembling. "It's addressed to 'The Angel of the Eastern Gate, A.Z. Fell & Co. Booksellers, Soho, London.' My supervisor said… he said I just had to find this address and not to leave until it was delivered. He looked… terrified."

Crowley stepped up beside Aziraphale, his presence immediately making the poor man shrink back another step. "That's a bit of an archaic address, isn't it?" Crowley drawled, his voice dripping with suspicion. "Been a while since he used that one."

Aziraphale ignored him, his attention fixed on the envelope. He took it from the man's shaking hand. The paper was thick, expensive vellum, but the handwriting was a frantic, spidery scrawl. He felt a faint thrum of energy from it, a tiny spark of celestial power, warped by human panic. "Thank you," he said to the postal worker, his voice gentle. "You've done your duty. You can go now."

The man looked profoundly relieved. He nodded, turned, and practically fled down the street, disappearing into the London night without a backward glance.

Aziraphale closed the door, the latch clicking shut with a sound of finality. The intimate quiet of the bookshop returned, but the spell was irrevocably broken. The half-eaten scones and expensive wine on the table in the back seemed like artifacts from another evening entirely.

"A trap," Crowley said immediately. "Got to be. Heaven's finally decided to check if you're still guarding the gate or just collecting first editions."

"Don't be ridiculous," Aziraphale murmured, his thumb stroking the strange address. He used a silver letter opener to slit the envelope, his movements precise despite the lingering tremor in his hands. He pulled out a single sheet of paper and unfolded it. His eyes scanned the frantic lines of text, his expression shifting from curiosity to deep concern.

"What is it, angel?" Crowley asked, his irritation giving way to a grudging curiosity.

"It's from a man named Abernathy," Aziraphale said, reading aloud. "He's the head librarian at the County Library in Chumleigh, Devon." He looked up at Crowley. "He says they have a book, an 18th-century text on botany, 'A Study of English Roses.' It's… started to glow."

Crowley raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Glow? Is that all? Probably just mildew. Or a particularly ambitious firefly."

"No, it's more," Aziraphale continued, his eyes returning to the letter. "He says it's humming. A low, constant hum, and it radiates a… a gentle warmth. He says the air around it smells of sunshine and fresh soil. He's terrified. The whole village is talking. He begs for assistance from whoever might reside at this address, as he found it tucked into the book's original acquisition records."

Aziraphale lowered the letter, the paper crinkling in his grip. The almost-kiss, the wine, the nervous, wonderful tension of their date night—it all evaporated, replaced by the familiar weight of celestial duty. The letter felt heavy in his hand, a summons from a past he could never quite escape, an interruption that felt like fate.

Crowley snatched the letter from Aziraphale’s hand, his eyes scanning the page with a predator’s focus. He scoffed, a harsh, dismissive sound that echoed in the quiet shop. "Sunshine and fresh soil? Angel, that's not a miracle, it's a high-concept air freshener. It's a trap. Obvious, tedious, and frankly, insulting to our intelligence." He crumpled the letter slightly in his fist before forcing his fingers to relax, smoothing it out on a nearby stack of books. "And the timing? A bit too perfect, don't you think?"

He gestured vaguely with his head back toward the small dining table, toward the two chairs pulled close together, the wine glasses still half-full. The implication was clear. They were being watched. They had been interrupted on purpose.

"Don't be so cynical," Aziraphale said, though the thought had already occurred to him. He took the letter back, his touch gentle on the creased vellum. "I can feel it, Crowley. Even from here, from just this letter. It's a faint pull, but it’s… benevolent. A blessing of some kind, I think. Perhaps one that's gone a bit awry."

"A 'blessing'," Crowley repeated, his voice thick with sarcasm. He began to pace, a caged tiger in a room full of flammable paper. "A blessing that conveniently requires the personal attention of the Angel of the Eastern Gate, drawing him out of his cozy little nest. It's a test, Aziraphale. They want to see if you'll still come running when they whistle. They want to see who you'll bring with you."

The accusation hung in the air, sharp and undeniable. Crowley stopped pacing and looked at him, his golden eyes intense, all humor gone. "Burn it," he said, his voice low and serious. "Let the librarians of Devon deal with their own glowing horticulture. This has nothing to do with us."

Us. The word resonated deep in Aziraphale’s corporation. It was the word that had been taking shape all evening, the word that had hovered between them just before the knock on the door. It was a precious, fragile thing, and Crowley was right to want to protect it. A part of Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to do as he said—to throw the letter in the hearth, pour more wine, and return to that small table to see what happened next.

But he couldn't. The faint celestial hum from the letter was a call he was designed to answer. It was woven into his very being. "And what if someone is frightened?" Aziraphale countered, his voice soft but firm. "What if this blessing, as you call it, is causing real distress? It is my duty to investigate. It has always been my duty."

"Your duty is to Heaven!" Crowley shot back, his frustration boiling over. "The same Heaven that tried to execute you! Have you forgotten that? They don't get to demand your services anymore. You're retired."

"I am an angel, Crowley. That doesn't simply… stop." He folded the letter carefully and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket. The decision was made, he could feel it solidifying within him. He looked at the demon’s taut, angry posture, at the worry etched around his eyes, and Aziraphale’s approach softened. He offered a small, hopeful smile.

"Besides," he began, his tone shifting, becoming lighter, more coaxing. "Think of it as a little adventure. A delightful road trip, just for the two of us. We can take the Bentley. We’ll drive through the countryside. We could stop for cream teas." He let a teasing note enter his voice. "You do so love complaining about cream teas."

Crowley stared at him, his mouth a thin, hard line. For a moment, Aziraphale thought he would refuse outright. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant hum of London traffic and the ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner. Then, the demon let out a long, drawn-out sigh, a sound of profound and eternal suffering. He ran a hand through his dark red hair, messing it up in a way that made Aziraphale’s fingers ache with the urge to smooth it back down.

"Fine," Crowley grumbled, the fight draining out of him. "Fine. We’ll go to… where was it? Chumleigh?" He said the name as if it tasted foul. "We’ll go and look at your glowing plant book. But I'm driving. And I'm choosing the music. And if this turns out to be a celestial audit in disguise, I am personally turning that librarian into a newt. A very unattractive newt."

A genuine, brilliant smile lit up Aziraphale’s face, a wave of relief and affection washing through him. "Of course, my dear," he said, his heart feeling impossibly light. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

Crowley’s grumbling acceptance hung in the air, a white flag waved with maximum reluctance. Aziraphale’s smile didn’t falter; it was a warm, steady thing that seemed to physically soothe the sharp edges of Crowley’s mood.

"Excellent! I'll just gather a few necessities," the angel declared, bustling away from the table and its wreckage of their aborted date night. "One can't simply dash off to Devon without proper provisions."

Crowley leaned against a bookshelf, arms crossed, and watched. He tracked Aziraphale’s movements as the angel navigated the familiar, cluttered aisles of his shop. There was an endearing fussiness to his preparations. He selected three different travel guides to the English countryside, a book of Byron’s poetry (“for atmosphere,” he’d explained once), and a thick tartan blanket. As Aziraphale stood on his toes to pull the blanket from a high shelf, his waistcoat pulled taut across his back, and Crowley felt a familiar, unwelcome tightening in his trousers. He shifted his weight, annoyed at his body’s simplistic reactions. It had been one thing to feel this pull from a distance for centuries, another entirely to have it gnawing at him from three feet away, in the aftermath of an almost-kiss that had nearly undone him.

"Don't forget the emergency scone mix," Crowley drawled, pushing off the shelf. "Wouldn't want to get stranded without a potential fire hazard."

"Oh, hush," Aziraphale said, his cheeks coloring faintly. He turned, the blanket clutched to his chest, and found Crowley standing closer than he'd expected. The demon’s proximity was a physical force, a low hum of heat and power that smelled of expensive petrol and something ancient, like desert rock after a storm. Aziraphale’s breath hitched. For a second, the only thing he could think about was the way Crowley’s lips had looked in the lamplight, the way his own body had leaned forward, aching for contact.

"My turn for provisions," Crowley announced, breaking the spell. He sauntered toward the back room, his long legs eating up the distance with a predatory grace. He returned a moment later with a wooden crate stamped with the name of a French vineyard Aziraphale knew was obscenely expensive. "Essentials," Crowley said, setting the case of wine down by the door with a solid thud.

Aziraphale watched the muscles in Crowley’s back and shoulders work under the fine fabric of his jacket as he lifted the crate. The image was sharp and vivid, and it sent a fresh wave of warmth through him. This was all so new, this raw awareness of Crowley not just as a presence, but as a physical being. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "Is a dozen bottles entirely necessary for an overnight trip?" he asked, his voice a little strained.

"Angel, you're the one who wants to stop for cream teas. I need something to dull the existential horror," Crowley retorted, but his eyes glinted with something other than sarcasm. He looked from Aziraphale’s face, to his lips, then back up again. The question of the kiss, of what they were doing and what they were becoming, hung between them, more tangible than the dust motes dancing in the air.

Crowley cleared his throat. "Right. Bentley's waiting. Let's go see a man about a glowing book."

He grabbed the case of wine and headed for the door, not waiting for a reply. Aziraphale gathered his own bundle—books, blanket, and a hastily assembled picnic basket he’d miracled up when Crowley wasn’t looking—and followed. He locked the bookshop door behind them, the click of the bolt feeling unusually final.

The cool night air was a relief. The Bentley was parked at the curb, a black slash of menace and beauty against the quiet London street. Crowley tossed the wine into the back and slid into the driver’s seat, the leather groaning in welcome. Aziraphale settled into the passenger side, arranging his collection of supplies carefully at his feet.

Crowley turned the key, and the engine roared to life, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated up through the seats. He gunned it once, a smirk playing on his lips as Aziraphale jumped slightly.

"Was that really necessary?" the angel asked, smoothing his waistcoat.

"Completely," Crowley said. He put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb with a squeal of tires. "Now, about the music. I'm thinking something loud and blasphemous to ward off any lingering wholesomeness from Devon."

"Absolutely not. We shall listen to classical," Aziraphale insisted, reaching for the radio dial. "Something civilized. Schubert, perhaps."

Crowley’s hand shot out and covered his. His fingers were long and cool against Aziraphale’s skin. The touch was brief, a mere second of contact, but it sent a jolt straight through the angel. He snatched his hand back as if burned.

"My car, my music," Crowley stated, his voice a low rumble that had nothing to do with the engine. He put on Queen, loud enough to make the windows vibrate.

As the Bentley sped through the sleeping city, the familiar cadence of their bickering filled the car. They argued about the music, about Crowley’s driving speed, about the best route to Devon. It was a comfortable, well-worn argument, a shield they both held up against the vast, unspoken thing that sat between them—the memory of a look, the ghost of a touch, and the terrifying, thrilling question of what would happen when they finally reached their destination.