Chapter Text
I believe if there’s any kind of god
it wouldn’t be in any of us, not you or me,
but just this little space in between.
- Before Sunrise (1995)
The trouble, unsurprisingly, began with the Americans.
Since entering the lounge carriage a half-hour ago, they had made no less than a dozen comments that even the most discerning of etymologists would struggle to classify as anything other than ‘obnoxious’. The seats were not to their comfort, there were items on the menu they couldn't pronounce; that sort of nonsense. At present, they seemed to be engaged in a small verbal war over whose idea it was to take the train to London rather than fly.
“All I’m saying is, we’d be there by now if we’d flown.”
“And all I’m saying, honey, is that someone wanted the ‘authentic European experience—'”
“Oh, don’t ‘honey’ me, you know I hate that—”
And so forth. Minutes passed, patchwork hills rushing by in an Impressionist blur. Aziraphale stared absently out the window, lulled by movement of the train, the steady thrum of conversation around him. Conversation, he noted, that was once again becoming quite animated. He took a delicate sip of wine. Irritating as this inane bickering might be, there was a not-so-small part of him that reveled in the delicious superiority that came from observing someone else’s interpersonal drama and confirming that, in fact, one was a better person than they were.
“...look, here’s an article about you. ‘One in eight women are addicted to alcohol.’ Care to comment?”
“That’s hilarious, coming from the man who’s on his second glass of Merlot.”
“Keep talking, and I might just make it to three.”
Aziraphale managed to avoid aspirating his drink, but only just. He glanced around the carriage, but nobody appeared to have noticed this near-blunder— except perhaps the man he had just locked eyes with across the aisle. An amused smile passed over the man’s face. Aziraphale immediately dropped his eyes to his book, but the impression lingered, a snapshot afterimage: bright eyes, mouth curving. He stared pointedly down at the paragraph he was reading, skimming over the words without parsing any of them.
“Maybe you should move back in with your mother, since I’m just so awful.”
“Jesus, this again. You should go live with my mother, with how often you bring her up.”
“You know what? Eat my ass.”
“Don’t threaten me with a bad time, honey—”
Unable to resist looking up, Aziraphale did so, and subsequently witnessed the exact moment that the American woman tossed her drink square in her companion’s face. The unfortunate fellow sputtered uncomprehendingly as she stormed off down the aisle; then he lurched after her, and in a flurry of colorful curses and slamming doors, they vanished into the neighboring carriage.
“Well, that went down like a lead balloon,” said the man across the aisle, now wearing an expression of unmistakable delight. More impressions: copper hair, an angled nose. Brow lifting when he caught Aziraphale looking his way.
“Oh, erm—” Aziraphale darted his eyes around again with the desperation of someone who had accidentally opened themselves up to the mortifying ordeal of small talk and was hoping to be swiftly saved. When no such rescue materialized, he plastered on a tepid smile. “Yes, I suppose it did.”
“Gives you some perspective, doesn’t it?” the man said. “Day can’t get much worse than that poor bloke’s. Though for my money, he had it coming.”
Aziraphale hummed noncommittally, turning back to his book in the universal signal for if you would be so kind as to leave me alone now that pleasantries have been exchanged, it would be most appreciated.
“Still,” the man carried on, deficient, it seemed, in these more subtle skills of observation, “shame about the wine. I mean, top marks for form, classic drink to the face if I ever saw one, but surely a regular old glass of water would’ve gotten the job done?”
“I don’t believe the variety of drink was of chief concern in this instance,” said Aziraphale, making a somewhat deliberate show of turning the page in his book. “Nor, apparently, was an awareness of what constitutes acceptable behavior in public.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” The man stretched across the aisle, holding out a hand. “Name’s Crowley, by the way. Since we’re talking manners and such.”
Ah, well. It seemed that a proper conversation was all but imminent, if introductions were being made. He took the man’s hand. “Aziraphale. And before you ask: yes, that is my real name, and no, I will not be spelling it for you.”
“Get that a lot, do you?”
“You’ve no idea. I’m ‘Ezra’ to every barista within ten miles of my flat, for the ease of all involved.”
“Aren’t you an angel,” Crowley said, mouth twisting in a manner that suggested Aziraphale ought to be in on the joke, not the joke itself. The effect was oddly disarming. So much so, in fact, that Aziraphale briefly forgot they were still grasping hands. With a tiny jolt, he pulled away.
“Headed to London, then?” Crowley asked, slinging an arm behind his seat.
“Paris,” said Aziraphale. “A recent relocation.”
“For work, or…?”
“Ah— not exactly. I’m in between careers, at the moment.”
Crowley bobbed his head knowingly. “Still trying to figure out what you want to be when you grow up?”
“Something like that,” said Aziraphale, doing his level best to ignore the abrupt clench of his stomach. Thus far on his little sojourn, he had been moderately successful at not thinking about— well, any of that nonsense, and he had no intention of starting now. “Where are you headed?”
“Heathrow tomorrow morning, then across the pond.”
Aziraphale grimaced. “My sympathies. Are you traveling for business or pleasure?”
“Going home, actually.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “But to each their own, of course,” he quickly amended, face going warm as Crowley grinned. “Whereabouts are you living?”
“New York. Ever been?”
“Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure, no.”
“Think of it like a louder, dirtier London. Everything’s less efficient. The people are grumpier. Those two”—Crowley jabbed a thumb in the direction of the carriage doors—“were tame, comparatively. But we’ve apparently got the best cheesecake, so, y’know. It all balances out.”
Aziraphale gave a tiny shrug. “I prefer torte, myself.”
Crowley’s eyes flashed mischievously. “How fancy. Suppose the tartan collar should’ve tipped me off.”
“Tartan is stylish,” said Aziraphale, sitting up a bit straighter.
“‘Course it is,” Crowley said, mouth pulling up in another small grin. Rather without permission, Aziraphale’s eyes followed the movement.
Oh, but this was silly. The man was a complete stranger. He lived in America, for heaven’s sake. And he was— provocative felt like too dramatic a label, given that Aziraphale had known him for all of five minutes, but perhaps something just south of that. Certainly not an attractive quality. Not that Aziraphale was thinking about what was and was not attractive. Or the concept of attraction at all.
Clearing his throat, Aziraphale went to refill his wine glass. By his estimate, they would be arriving in London within the hour. He had his book, he had a perfectly serviceable drink; surely he'd be capable of avoiding further provocations until then.
Surely.
Three-quarters of a glass later, Aziraphale had rather spectacularly failed in this endeavor. In fact, he went in quite the opposite direction; but he could hardly be expected to hold his tongue when Crowley admitted that he preferred films to books, or that he had no qualms about driving over the speed limit, or that he listened to musical groups with names like The Velvet Underground, whatever that might be. Aziraphale imagined this was the same morbid fascination people felt when they were unable to look away from a car crash.
“Public access!” Crowley declared. “Oh, the public access channel is brilliant.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Aziraphale said dubiously.
“Anyone can put out a show for dirt cheap,” Crowley continued, undeterred. “Film it, produce it, the whole shebang. As long as it’s safe for work, you can broadcast it. I actually had this idea for a program that would last 24 hours a day for a year straight. Three hundred and sixty-five people from all around the globe, documenting their daily lives. Could start with a guy waking up in the morning, for instance, making his coffee, reading the paper—”
“In other words, all the unremarkable aspects of the day-to-day.”
“I was gonna call it the poetry of everyday living, but sure,” Crowley said.
“And who, pray tell, would be the target audience for a program of such…eclectic value?”
“Middle-aged men who still carry a pocket watch, primarily.”
There it was again. Words that should be dripping with ridicule, and instead they sounded vaguely…appreciative? But, no, that couldn't be right. Aziraphale was fairly confident that he was the furthest possible thing from Crowley’s type, if he had one. They had vastly different views on nearly every topic under the sun, for one thing. And for another…
Aziraphale pursed his lips, tongue pressed behind his teeth. Crowley was now directly across from him, having moved seats amidst a lively discussion about wine pairings—“Port with cake?” Aziraphale had asked, unsure he’d heard correctly. “Lord, imagine the hangover”—and was sitting at an angle not dissimilar to a hastily folded-up lounge chair. Every inch of the man’s aesthetic was as opposite from his own as two opposing things can be, from the sunglasses sitting askew atop his head, to the dark blazer and fitted tee combination, to the absurdly tight jeans.
Giving all of this a meaningful look over the rim of his wine glass, he said, “I do believe that’s the pot calling the kettle black.”
“Yeah, alright, touché,” said Crowley, spinning his own glass between his fingers. “Speaking of, how is life in the city of love? All crêpes and baguettes and romantic bike rides along the Seine, I imagine?”
Aziraphale pictured his one-bedroom flat, listless mornings where all he managed to accomplish was getting out of bed. No bureaucratic wiles in need of thwarting, no good deeds in need of doing. Nothing needed of him at all. An ‘early retirement’, Gabriel had called it, which ought to suit Aziraphale just fine. He just had to work harder some days to convince himself of it.
“The food is absolutely heavenly,” he said, tucking these thoughts neatly away. “But I’m afraid I can’t comment on the— the last bit. With the bicycles. Seeing as how I—” am currently unattached, and will likely remain unattached until the end times— “never learned to ride one.”
Crowley looked surprised. “Never? Really?” Aziraphale shook his head. “Well, who am I to talk? I drive everywhere.”
“Yes, you mentioned that. I was under the impression that owning a vehicle in the city was…”
“Highly impractical?” Crowley supplied.
“Just as you say.”
“Yeah, you’ve got me there. Then again, owning a vintage car of any variety is impractical, isn’t it? I figure, hey, if you’re going to idle your life away in traffic, might as well do it with style.”
“That’s certainly one way to look at it.”
Crowley shrugged. “You have to admit there’s a sort of poetry to it. Everyone in their own car, stuck in a jam with hundreds of other people. All that shared misery, no one to take it out on but each other. It’s great.”
Aziraphale scoffed lightly, catching Crowley’s eye as he did so. He had rather nice eyes, now that Aziraphale was properly looking, a sort of honeyed brown in the late afternoon light.
Feeling warm again, he turned to look out the window, and they lapsed into a tenuously comfortable silence. Perhaps he could use this natural lull in the conversation as an excuse to return to his reading. Anne Elliot was just about to receive a very important letter from Wentworth, as it were.
Or perhaps he could set his book aside, which he did. “You’ve lived there awhile, then?”
“Ah…yeah,” Crowley said slowly, as if surprised that Aziraphale was asking. Well, that made two of them. “Yeah, you could say that. Been there since before the moon landing. The Beatles were still touring.” He winced. “Fuck, I’m getting old.”
“Golly,” Aziraphale said. Crowley’s lips quirked. “No, I don’t mean— what I’m trying to say is I can’t fathom making that big of a move at that age. And to America, of all places.”
“Being young and stupid helps,” Crowley said.
“Yes, well, it took me five decades to leave Soho. And even then, I only made it a hop, skip, and a jump across the Channel. Questionable taste in locale aside,” Aziraphale says, “I suppose you must have been quite brave, doing what you did.”
Crowley looked down at his hands with an indiscernible expression.
Aziraphale frowned. “If I’ve overstepped—”
“No, no,” Crowley said in a rush, shaking his head. “No, it’s nothing you said, it’s—” He chewed his bottom lip for a moment, then leaned forward. “Listen, Aziraphale, I—”
The train lurched, and Crowley’s mouth snapped shut. Aziraphale blinked. They were— slowing down? Already? The rolling countryside appeared to have been swallowed up by central London’s familiar sprawl.
“We’ve arrived,” he said, rather stupidly.
Crowley said nothing. A furrowed line appeared between his brows, and he was back to worrying at his lip.
The train rolled to a stop. Around them, the other passengers began to retrieve their belongings, shuffling down the aisle to disembark.
“Well, erm,” Aziraphale tried again. “It was nice chatting with—”
“Look, let me pitch you something,” Crowley cut in. “It’s admittedly insane, but if I don’t ask you now, I won’t ever ask, right? Right, so— you should get off the train with me here in London.”
“I’m…sorry?”
“You should get off the train,” Crowley said. “We could do— not lunch, it’s too late for lunch. Early dinner? Drinks, maybe? Hang around the old stomping grounds, see the sights. What do you say?”
“What do I— my dear fellow, I have another train to catch,” said Aziraphale. “To Paris. Where I live.”
“Yeah, no, I get that, it’s just— all right, so I don’t know what your situation is. But I’m enjoying myself, and I think you are, too. I think there might be, I dunno. Something. Here. With us. And I’d like to—” Immediately, Crowley’s nose wrinkled as if he caught an unpleasant smell. His cheeks had gone pink. “Oh, Christ, I’m having war flashbacks. It’s sixth form all over again. On second thought, if you could just kill me, that would be great.”
A startled laugh burst from Aziraphale’s mouth, prompting Crowley to groan and bury his face in his hands. “War flashbacks?”
“Shut up,” Crowley mumbled weakly through his fingers.
Something tugged at Aziraphale’s core, something that felt suspiciously like fondness. So this was what came of being an incurable romantic. Crowley could very well be some sort of axe-murdering miscreant, luring in would-be victims with his slinky hips and charmingly awful taste in wine. Then there was the small issue of them living on opposite sides of a very large ocean. They were about as likely to pursue something beyond this evening as Aziraphale was to become the president of France, was the simple fact of the matter.
And yet, he wasn't saying no. He was very much not saying no.
He wasn't saying yes either, which Crowley seemed to have accepted as the same thing. “Ah, you know what, forget it,” he said, standing and sliding his bag down from the overhead rack. “Honestly, no hard feelings. I shouldn’t have— stupid of me to assume, really—” He hesitated, halfway in the aisle, bag slung over his shoulder. With one hand, he flipped his glasses down so that they were covering his eyes. “Good luck with everything.”
Aziraphale watched the line of his back as he sauntered towards the exit. Let him leave. You should just let him leave.
“Dinner, you said?” he asked instead.
Crowley spun around, almost tripping over one of the seats. “Or drinks. Or— neither? Both? Whatever you want.”
“Dinner, then.” Aziraphale smoothed his palms over his thighs. “And perhaps one drink.”
Crowley’s lips quirked. “This isn’t some, some pity thing, is it? Because you really don’t—”
“Oh, do stop talking,” Aziraphale said, biting back a grin and standing to retrieve his own bag. Perhaps his earlier assessment had been incorrect. He suspected the real trouble was only just beginning.