Chapter Text
Aziraphale Fell has been having a very good day. In fact, his whole trip has been going wonderfully. Thank you very kindly for inquiring.
This was his 6th year attending the International Antique Guild’s three-day summer conference for antique collectors, curators, and restorers. The event was scheduled so attendants arrive Tuesday, attend seminars Wednesday and Thursday, and close out with a large charity auction Friday. He would follow the conference by spending a few days after exploring the exhibits in the nearby Smithsonian museum.
Even the days leading up to the conference had gone exceptionally well.
He was able to get his brother Gabriel and cousin Muriel to watch over his bookshop while he’s away. He recently reconnected with his brother after a nasty spat over their mom’s inheritance, and he was thrilled they were able to make up and are getting along so well.
Said inheritance came to him about a decade earlier, and he used it to open his bookshop in Soho. Gabriel initially was against it, thinking it was a bad business decision in a rapidly digitising world, with him using his portion to open his own consulting firm. The blow up led to years of only speaking on birthdays and holidays. Gabriel had screamed at Aziraphale to “shut your stupid mouth”, and stormed out of the newly purchased shop. After a recent health scare that led to some soul-searching, Gabriel reached back out to reconnect, and they had been doing well since.
Muriel was young, fresh out of their criminal justice degree and was planning to use the time spent watching the shop as a sort of mini vacation before looking for a job. They knew it would be easy, watching the store until Gabriel would meet them after he was off work, because Aziraphale gave the explicit instructions to NOT sell anything. They had wondered why Aziraphale wouldn’t just have the shop stay closed, but he maintained it was important to keep regular operating hours for the Uni students who came to browse (but never actually bought anything). The fact they would get to bug their Uncle Gabriel was a plus.
Aziraphale was confident Muriel would hold down the fort in the day, and Gabriel would care for his shop and his flat above in the evenings.
The journey from London to Washington DC was normally the worst part of the experience. While Aziraphale loved being able to visit the Smithsonian after the conference every year, he would have happily traded it for not having an 8 hour flight, then having to slog through all of the American tourists. However, he had been unexpectedly bumped from business class to 1st class. (It may have been the result of him offering his unopened Flake to the tired looking stewardess.) Aziraphale slept like a dream in the 1st class seats that fully reclined, and once he landed bright and early on Tuesday morning, the weather was unseasonably nice for the time of year. Then, his journey to the hotel was met with less traffic and a smoother cab ride than expected.
The new hotel for the conference was also a marked improvement from the Embassy Suites that had hosted previously. Hotel Haven d’Ange was recently built with a beautiful Modern twist on Roman Catholic Architecture. It was full of clean lines mixed with gold and pearl detailing. The art and statues dotted through the lobby and rooms could have just as easily fit into some cathedrals back in England.
When checking in, he was told that they had unfortunately run out of single bed city-view rooms. Before he could be upset about losing the view he had paid extra for, he was upgraded to a deluxe suite with separate kitchen area and, arguably, an even better view. Aziraphale was beyond delighted at the extra space he could use to prepare for the upcoming conference.
During the first day, Aziraphale attended a lecture on preserving patina in pre-WW1 silver jewellery, one on incorporating modern bookbinding techniques when restoring old texts, and one on how to determine the authenticity of various antiques. He was able to get to the cafeteria early for lunch, and the hotel had gone all out with a selection of Mediterranean food catered by a local shop. His falafel was warm and tender, the lemon couscous was pleasantly creamy, and the baklava he ate for dessert was light and flaky. He was even able to take a portion of the baklava back to his room to enjoy after dinner that night.
The morning of day two, Aziraphale was able to meet with a couple of other book collectors, and made some promising connections he was very excited about. Afterwards, he had a quick call back home with Muriel, who confirmed that her and Gabriel were getting along just fine and the bookshop was still standing. Muriel said that she had an amusing conversation with her mom, Aziraphale’s Aunt, where she referred to Gabriel as the shop assistant, much to Gabriel’s annoyance.
For lunch, he took a portion of the catered Italian, a pesto ravioli, back to his room in order to prepare. This year was extra special, as he was asked to host his own seminar on the process of appraising the worth of antique texts at his bookshop, and was slated to present mid afternoon. It gave him more than enough time to double check his notes. 30-minutes before his seminar, he headed down to the conference room. While he waited for the previous seminar to conclude, he had taken a picture next to the room sign with his name, Aziraphale “A.Z.” Fell, and saved a program that had listed him as a speaker to commemorate. He was wearing his lucky crushed velvet waistcoat from the late 1800’s, and a new tartan bow tie gifted to him by his brother, and felt confident he looked the part of “book expert” for his presentation.
While his conference room wasn’t full when it was time to present, he had a respectable turn out and the crowd was very engaged. There was a young man who asked how to list pieces for sale and drumming up business without using the internet. The young man blushed when the young woman next to him then asked about evaluating illustrated books.
Aziraphale even collected the number of that young woman, who was also London based despite her slight Hispanic accent, as she was interested in learning more about how a doodle she made as a child in her family's heirloom book of prophecy may have affected the value. Once she had shown him pictures of the book on her cellular phone, Aziraphale had trouble not salivating over the opportunity she was giving him to see it in person. They tentatively set a date for the end of next week to meet, to allow him a few days to explore the museum after the conference ended tomorrow. He would enjoy a long weekend before his return flight the following Tuesday.
Now, Aziraphale was seated at the hotel bar enjoying his second glass of red wine, having wrapped up the day’s events. The bar was just as beautifully decorated as the rest of the hotel. The room itself large and spacious, the bar top a beautiful white marble and the sconces in the area had some gorgeous wing detailing.
As he sipped his wine, he was hard pressed to think of any ways his day could have gone any better. It was nearly perfect, and he was excited to attend the charity auction tomorrow that closed out these conferences. He had gotten a 2nd edition Oscar Wilde’s The Happy Prince at the one last year, and had his eyes on a beautifully illustrated 1st edition Jane Austin’s Emma this year.
Aziraphale was brought out of his thoughts when he heard a deep voice from a few stools down place an order for Whisky, neat. The sound sent an unexpected tingle down his spine, and he nearly dropped his wineglass when he turned to look at the owner of the voice.
He was the most singularly stunning individual Aziraphale had ever seen in his 38-years of life. While not one for casual sex, Aziraphale decided he would make an exception for this man, if the man is interested. It had been a few years since his last relationship ended, and he had been perfectly happy to focus on his bookshop instead of romance or physical intimacy. Seeing this man changed his mind on that.
Maybe if he played his cards right, he could end the night with this vision in creams and pale greys in his bed.
Anthony Crowley (just call me Crowley) was having a not good, very bad day. His whole week has been shit so far. Fuck you very much for asking.
He didn’t even want to come to this bloody conference, but his business partner Bee had to back out because their wife gave them mono. How did a grown adult manage to get mono anyway?
Don’t tell him, he doesn’t actually want to know.
Crowley and Bee were old friends, and grew up together from the time they were 7 and 5 respectively. At one point their parents were convinced they would end up together, and when they found out, they hadn’t stopped laughing for a solid two hours. That was a fun conversation, explaining to their parents that they were most emphatically not each other’s types. Once graduating Uni, they both got a job at the same pawnshop and he and Bee realised they had a knack for convincing rich blokes to buy really old junk. So at the ripe ages of 30 and 28, they went into business for themselves, and had been going strong for the last five years.
All that led him to his current predicament. Crowley hated the States and hated leaving good ol’ Great Britain, but Bee and him got contracted by some diplomat to secure a Greek statuette that would be up at the auction. Apparently the wife decided she had to have it for the centrepiece of their next political gala. They couldn’t afford to lose that deal, and it would be stupid to miss out on any other valuables their clientele may be interested in. Bee forwarded him a copy of the itinerary and agreed to let any personal meetings know he would attend in their place.
He bitched the whole time about how the life of a curator wasn’t supposed to be so stressful.
Crowley rang his neighbour and asked if she could water his plants for the next few days. No small feat, seeing as Crowley’s flat could be considered more lush than some jungles. The kindly old lady next door agreed to the task anyway, telling him she could handle the green buggers, and had done so for him many times. She even had a small collection of greenery he had gifted her, saying they weren’t performing to his standards so maybe she could whip them into shape.
So with everything sorted, Crowley quickly packed his carry-on and checked bag, booked a last minute flight, and was at the airport less than six hours later. He wasn’t able to transfer Bee’s ticket as he missed the flight they were scheduled on, so had to book a new flight. It was so last minute he had to sit in a middle seat, in economy, near the loo, for a whole eight hours. His knees may never forgive him.
It didn’t get any better when he landed late Tuesday evening. The airline had apparently put his checked bag on the wrong flight, and the soonest they could get it to him was Friday, right before he would have to load it back up and return to London. That meant he was stuck with the meagre clothes on his back and what he hastily threw into his carry-on; which was nothing but faded band t-shirts, some lacy underthings (he liked to feel pretty even if he was the only one seeing them) and the snake print fleece pyjama trousers he wore on the flight.
He didn’t even have proper shoes, just the white Croc slides Bee had gifted him as a joke for Christmas. They were complete with a small cartoony snake jibbitz in the left sandal. Unfortunately, they had the misfortune of all Crocs that despite being ridiculous, they’re ridiculously comfortable, and had quickly become his go-to travel and lounging shoes.
Crowley’s lovely black suits, black waistcoats, and black loafers were all in the lost checked bag, along with his sunglasses he wore for migraines. He wouldn’t have much time to replace them, he was scheduled at 8:30 the next morning to meet with another curator, so the hotel boutique would have to do.
Once he managed to get to Hotel Haven d’Ange he beelined to the boutique. It closed at 9:00pm and it was already 8:40. His heart dropped when he realised its meagre offerings. In keeping with the hotel’s fluffy angelic theme, all of the clothes on offer were in various shades of pale, and designed for comfort. There weren’t even any proper shoes, only some flip-flops. Crowley quickly vetoed the small rack of sundresses, now was not the time to challenge the old farts at the conference's view on gender norms. There were some fluffy robes that also wouldn’t do, and a rather scandalously sheer button up with wings crocheted on the back that was most likely designed as a swimsuit cover up.
With limited options, he settled on a pale grey velour tracksuit (which thankfully was free of any silly logos or words on the arse), a sinfully soft ivory turtleneck jumper (the most normal piece of clothing in the store), and a thin strip of a gold metal mesh that was meant to be a statement wrap-belt or scarf of some kind. He grabbed a gold eyeliner and gold nail polish on a whim. Lastly, he splurged on a pair of dusty rose tinted sunglasses. They were comically overpriced and the hotel most likely had a deal with the designer as they were the most expensive items in the store by a wide margin. It would have to do, his schedule was jam packed until Friday morning and he wouldn’t be able to make it to any other DC clothing shops in the next two days before they closed.
Small mercies, Crowley was able to check in late with minimal issue, though he was given a double bed instead of a queen. It was slightly too short for him to lay flat without his toes hanging off the bottom so he had to sleep diagonally.
In the morning, he grimaced seeing the outfit. He styled his short red hair the best he could and tied the gold mesh belt-scarf thing around his waist. Unfortunately the time change had him mistiming his morning, and he ended up being late to his meeting but because of his tardiness he had to skip his coffee.
Luckily, the antique crowd was an eclectic bunch, so he felt he didn’t stand out too badly, even with the Croc slides. He still felt like a dork, but at least he had a pretty face, and the people around him seemed a little dorky anyways. The outfit wasn’t that bad in his opinion, even if it wasn’t his preferred all black tailored suit. Maybe, hopefully, fake it ‘til you make it at least.
If there was one thing Anthony Crowley could fake, it was confidence.
Crowley strutted around like he owned the place, struck up conversations like he didn’t look like the biggest dork in the universe, and did his best to project an air of confidence. Unfortunately for him, he ended up falling asleep in his late morning lecture (blasted time change), and no one was kind enough to wake him up when it ended. After he roused and left the empty room, he arrived at the lunch hall as they were starting to wrap up, so he was stuck with eating the last bit of hummus and some baklava scraps.
He had to rush to make another meeting that was set up with a collector who may be interested in selling some toga charms from the Roman era. Even though he realised the man was asking outrageous prices, he ended up over paying for a piece shaped like a snake, because he fell in love with it.
After attending one last seminar on a new alternative online selling platform to eBay, he returned to his room. He took a quick shower, then Crowley sent Bee a text fessing up to buying the snake charm around 8:00 pm eastern, 1:00 am in London. Bee immediately called and tore Crowley a new one. He thought he would be safe because of the time change but apparently he was wrong, and used the time he was getting chewed out to also paint his nails with the gold polish. Might as well multitask. He ended up passing out after that conversation, having changed into a Buddy Holly T-shirt, and a pair of red lace underpants.
Day two was right back to being shit. Even with Crowley pulling his hair back using the headband he wore during his facial routine, and looping the gold metal mesh strip around his neck like a scarf to try to differentiate it from how he wore it as a belt the day before, people seemed to notice he was wearing the same outfit. No one outright said anything, but he could feel eyes on him. Whether this was because people actually noticed the outfit repeated, or if it was that the lines of his red lace underpants were visible through the pair trousers, the world may never know.
He felt like a dork, he looked like a dork, and he was regretting his bit of bravery with the gold eyeliner he used to outline his eyes and the little snake tattoo by his ear.
His morning seminar was a complete waste of time. The presenter was long winded, and had a habit of going off on tangents. They didn’t even cover tips on building relationships with auction houses like they were supposed to.
After lunch, he ended up missing the one seminar he was actually looking forward to. Diplomat Arsehat had called to demand Crowley attempt to get a small bronze scale in addition to the statuette, and talked about how his wife needed the scale all through the lecture on pricing antique books. He was bummed, it was a market he and Bee were looking to break into and he wanted to get some tips.
Defeated, feeling dorky, miffed about missing some insider knowledge on a new venture, Crowley decided it’s time for Alcohol, quite extraordinary amounts of it. He briefly considered trying to score, but then remembered what he was wearing and quickly changed his mind. Besides, he hadn’t been one for anonymous hook-ups since Uni. He was never good at the morning after, because he tended to let his feelings get involved and would get a little clingy. That led him to now, posted on a hotel bar stool hoping the Whisky he ordered is serviceable.
He didn’t even notice the soft man a few seats down from him openly staring.
Aziraphale was glad the man hadn’t seemed to notice him yet, it meant he could ogle uninterrupted. The man’s red hair was pulled back from his face, showing the striking lines of his jaw and cheekbones. Said jaw had a beautiful hint of gold in the form of a coiled snake right below his ear. The golden shimmer matched the hint of golden eyeliner he could just make out at the corner of the man’s glasses. Aziraphale found he would very much like to lick the little snake, despite knowing it would taste like makeup. The velour of the suit set he was wearing looked wonderfully soft, and clung around his thighs showing off his well toned legs, and the pale grey let his red hair really shine. Following his legs down it looked like the man had opted to don some comfortable footwear for the evening. The small snake charm on the sandal was as amusing as it was adorable. Raking his gaze back up, Aziraphale noticed the man's elegantly long neck was wrapped in a turtleneck jumper, also light enough to highlight the planes of his chest and dips off his collar bones. Said collar bones were further brought out by the shape of the handsome gold scarf draped over them. And those glasses, while Aziraphale would like to see the man’s eyes, he could appreciate the geometry in the unique eyewear, reminding him almost of stained glass.
If Aziraphale thought he was salivating over the book of prophecies earlier, he was downright drooling now.
This had to be, without a doubt, the most handsome, fashionable man he had seen in his life. A man who had to be some form of queer, if his painted nails and makeup were any indication. And the man had just about finished his Whisky.
Feeling an uncharacteristic wave of confidence, Aziraphale slid two stools over as gracefully as he could manage. The man still hadn’t noticed his presence even with him in the new seat. Aziraphale raised a hand to grab the bartender's attention. She nodded in acknowledgment.
“I would like another glass of the house red please, and I believe this dashing gentleman is about ready for another Whisky, neat?”
He posed the end of the statement as a question, watching as the redhead finally realised he was there.
Crowley turned and was momentarily stunned by the literal Angel next to him. He shouldn’t have been so surprised, with the hotel theme this Angel fit right in. The Angel was soft looking, posh even, and the way he held himself almost screamed “gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide”. Crowley didn’t realise how long he had been frozen until the Angel’s smile faltered.
“Whisky, neat, if you like my dear?” he repeated.
That broke Crowley from his stupor, and he nodded, feeling strangely relieved when the Angel’s smile returned to its full force. The bartender nodded again and poured the drinks, passing them over and trading for the empty glasses.
“Thank you, you can add them to my room’s tab,” he turned back to Crowley, “My name is Aziraphale, what may I call you?” Aziraphale had a slight blush on his cheeks and ducked his head after asking.
Holy shit, that sounded like flirting. Was Crowley being flirted with? By an Angel? He may be getting flirted with by an Angel while dressed like the biggest dork in the world. What, why? He took a moment to look over the Angel, Aziraphale. He was wearing a worn velvet waistcoat, with a pocket watch chain hanging from it, and a bow tie. Tartan, a tartan bow tie. Crowley noticed the Angel’s head tilt in question and he realised he’d been silent for an awkward amount of time.
“Anthony Crowley, but just call me Crowley. Pleasure to meet you angel.” Good, that sounded like flirting back. It seemed Crowley’s brain decided Aziraphale must also be a little dorky, and also decided this meant to turn on his confident charms, despite being able to hear his pulse hammering in his ears. Fuck, one smile and he’s smitten.
Aziraphale smiled another blinding smile that he tried to hide in his wine glass at the blatant flirting. Not only was the man, Crowley, incredibly attractive, but he was charming too. How wonderful.
“The pleasure is all mine, truly.”
“I’m glad I can please you,” Crowley winked and mentally high-fived himself.
“From your accent,” Aziraphale started, flustered and charmed, “I take it you’re from the motherland. Are you also visiting or have you settled stateside?”
Crowley couldn’t help but snort, “just visiting for the conference angel, I’d rather eat my shoe than leave my flat in Mayfair.”
Crowley blushed in mortification as they both looked down, and he remembered he was still wearing his silly little snake Croc slides. Aziraphale chuckled but graciously did not comment.
“I’m due to return Tuesday to my bookshop, I’m based in Soho. We’re practically neighbours”, Aziraphale scooted closer. “In the spirit of being neighbourly. Perhaps we can get to know each other a little better?”
Crowley felt like he did when he discovered the original DaVinci sketch now framed in his office, like the luckiest bastard in the world.
“Fuck, I’d love that, yeah.”
Aziraphale blushed harder, this was going swimmingly. He found he was rather transfixed by the lovely shine of Crowley’s scarf. Feeling bold, he ran a finger gently down the edge of the scarf, putting just enough pressure Crowley would feel it. “This is a lovely piece you are wearing.”
Now that’s definitely flirting, Crowley thought, there’s no way Aziraphale actually liked any piece of his dorky get up. It’s sweet he was trying to compliment him anyway.
“Thanks, so, bookshop in Soho… Wait, did you host the book pricing seminar? I remember seeing in the program it was being hosted by a Soho based antique bookshop owner”
“I did,” Aziraphale lit up at the question and left his finger to continue tracing the scarf, “were you in attendance?”
Aziraphale was almost certain he wasn’t, there was no way he wouldn’t have noticed Crowley in the crowd if he was there. He was even more attractive with the light blush he’d been sustaining sense the silly shoe comment.
“No, the arsehat who contracted me to come here called and I missed the entire thing. I was looking forward to it too.”
Crowley jumped slightly as Aziraphale dropped his hand and settled it lightly on Crowley’s knee. Crowley decided it was time to up the charm and put on his most winning grin.
“Maybe, you could give me the presentation, one-on-one.”
“Well my dear, that sounds perfectly doable. If you like, we could adjourn to my suite and I can show you my notes, open a nice bottle of wine?”
Crowley slid his hand to link fingers with the hand still on his knee. With the other he motioned to the bartender and asked to close their tabs. He turned back to Aziraphale, who was smiling slightly looking at their linked hands.
“Lead the way angel.”