The first time you saw him
By mimma
Summary: One of Aziraphale's good deeds goes slightly sour. Crowley restates his claim.
The first time you saw him, him, not just the owner of the sleepy little bookshop you'd wandered into because you wanted to get out of the rain once, but the man who'd stopped and helped you –for no damn reason at all, except maybe you'd looked especially pathetic- into his shop and out of the night, bandaging the minor scrapings and bruises one could only expect to find if one had been running around in the dark on the waning of a high (and tutting over them. Honestly, how old was this guy?), you thought he was crazy. Crazy, but nice, in a vaguely antique way you hadn't seen since your grandmother went away. Where did she go? Away. Just away. That was all anyone would tell you and even then to your ten year-old mind the words had conjured up white walls and hushed whispers.
The tiny little memories he invoked in you prompted you to go over again, bringing coffee. Starbucks. Lattes, just the way he had made them that night, extra sugar and extra cream. You couldn't understand why his face scrunched in a vaguely disapproving way when he saw them (1)–mingling with the expression of pure repressed happiness at the sight of you. His face actually stopped you dead for a minute or two, staring in the most contradictive face you had ever seen. You thought it was cute, then squashed that thought. You'd never been particularly attracted to men before –or women, for that matter, except as a nighttime fling- but you didn't say anything. You were flattered, of course, that he was so happy to see you- but old-fashioned people often were.
It was that time, you think; when you brought him coffee and he welcomed you, that you began to fall in love with him.
At first you really didn't believe that. Love at first sight was for women or romantics, and certainly didn't happen in real life. Butyour mind reasoned, it was hardly first sight. It had been something like third, and after you'd had a long conversation with him (he wouldn't let you go because it was dark, and you had really been far too eager to stay in that dusty little place, which unaccountably smelled familiar) and after he'd been nice to you.
You stopped staying out late, because he worried. You stopped with the needle, because… he was old-fashioned. And wouldn't like it. You visited more and more often, finding out that he never wanted to sell any books and threatening him with purchase to bribe him to dinner with you. You think, perhaps, this is the happiest time of your life.
Then he came, Mr. A.J. Crowley, swaggering into the shop, in between you two when you talked, inviting himself to your table in places you would have thought were too shabby for Mr. Freshly Pressed Designer Suit, places which you had not found for him. You think you hated him, with his expensive, perfectly maintained vintage car, smug smirk and cool glare behind sunglasses you would never be able to afford, not if you saved for ages, not on your job, casual arm slung over shoulders you longed to touch.
You think you hated him most of all, though, when you came walking back through the street looking for your card case, and saw him with his mouth firmly fastened on the humble shopkeepers mouth, hands sliding under sensible tweed, hips pressed against the same. You knew you hated him when fumbling hands opened the shop door and they fell inside, but not before his eyes locked on yours and transmitted one clear message, further emphasized by what was in his arms: Mine.
You didn't remember how you got home. In the morning, you didn't remember the shop, or the owner, either. You did remember Mr. A.J. Crowley, though you could never quite remember why he'd glared like that when you refused his wares. Before that, too. You did remember something about coffee, but you never really did remember about extra sugar and cream.
end-
(1) - Starbucks. I'm sure you don't need any other reason if you're an angel.