Aziraphale took in the air. Paris didn’t smell like it used to, but it was surprisingly similar in certain ways. Especially on certain streets, where he always felt like he could stop in one more place, no matter when he had last ate.
But that wasn’t the point of the day. He waited out on the street, watching those who passed him with mild interest.
He felt when someone walked up behind him, but he didn’t turn. Aziraphale gave Crowley the opportunity he wanted to place a hand on his shoulder.
Been waiting long? he mouthed, in a language no one would have known, even in London. Continue reading “Paris”
It was supposed to be only something they could do on purpose. So when Crowley woke up in the bookshop, he knew something was wrong. He didn’t even have to move to know something was wrong, because the body he found himself in hadn’t just been sleeping. It had sat in front of a book in an armchair that was far too squishy. As well as the body he was in. More squishy than his own. Continue reading “Body Swap”
The thing was, it always smelled like Aziraphale.
Books and tea and dust. Most people didn’t care for the last part, but most people couldn’t catch it when the dust wasn’t actually there. Aziraphale had made a place that reflected himself. Crowley had watched it happen with interest, because he didn’t think Aziraphale thought about it like that.
It explained even more as to why he didn’t want anyone inside. As good of a person as he was, Aziraphale had a lot of barriers up.
That explained why Crowley didn’t really want anyone inside. This bookshop was Aziraphale and he didn’t think anyone else really had earned the right to see the inside. That Aziraphale would try to chase others out, but not him, told him how much he was right.
But different bookshops? That was different.* Continue reading “Bookshop”
“Crowley’s Milk As Good as Any Better’n Some”
Aziraphale choked on his tea and looked at it again. “J.K. Crowley?”
It was an old carton. Early 1900s, if he had to guess. Aziraphale had gone through an old chest and found it there – thankfully void of milk. He had no idea how it had gotten there. He had probably spent more time than he should have staring at it. Enough time for someone to knock at the door for the third time.*
“Angel, what are you doing in there?” Crowley asked, letting the door open and pretending it hadn’t been locked the entire time. Continue reading “Ice Cream”
At nine precisely they will dine
Living through each other’s lips
Perhaps through words without the scripts
Hands passing by, they refill the wine
And through the cracks where stars align
Choosing a new place their feelings eclipse
Ever at nine they will dine
Needing nothing but words on each other’s lips
Through the stars which split through time
And new horizons which tell him “mine”
Under too many bottles, as laughter tips
Resting beyond an absent Apocalypse
Impressing that in any place, at nine they dine
“Please, please, look where you’re going!”
“I’m looking out the window,” Crowley said, as though Aziraphale wasn’t having a panic attack.
For his part, Aziraphale wondered what heart palpitations felt like. He practiced breathing because he liked it and it made things natural with mortal beings, but he had never really let his corporeal form deal with the complexities of a heartbeat beyond the normal kind.
“You’re looking out the wrong window.” Continue reading “Reverse”
Edith waited in the rain, as she was supposed to. Her cigarette wouldn’t stay lit, but that wasn’t the point. The only thing keeping her hair looking good was the wide brimmed hat she wore, which amazingly survived the onslaught despite how improbable it was.
“Wh-what are you doing out here?”
She looked up. The man standing there, she knew. But she wasn’t supposed to. She saw the realization dawn on him as they were both playing different roles. They had to be strangers.
Sometimes that was fun. Sometimes it was obnoxious. She couldn’t wait to see what this time would be. Continue reading “Eden”