Our ineffable pair have already described to one another their respective versions of the creature comfort that is music - inevitable to the human spirit, but merely pleasurable for a supernatural being - and have agreed to experience the live versions of both, together. Each partner has also requested that the other alter his wardrobe somewhat, for the occasions in question.
So this chapter is mostly about clothes. And a little bit about Crowley's general hotness.
Enjoy!
MODERN FIT
Tuesday morning, a gawky-looking young man, probably no more than seventeen years old, turned up at the flat with a laundry cart. He'd come from a nearby collect-and-drop-off dry cleaner, and was there to pick up a large pile of clothing and blankets. He thanked "Mr. Fell," and gave a promise to have everything back by the end of the week.
Aziraphale handed him a separate bag – a large leather duffel, containing the trousers, waistcoat, and overcoat of two full suits, neatly folded. "I've spoken with your employer about these," Aziraphale said to the adolescent, earnestly. "These garments are over one hundred and fifty years old, and need to be treated with special care."
"Right. He told me about that. Don't worry, sir – we have special processes for vintage items."
"Just make sure that you don't add them to the general… pile," Aziraphale reminded him, looking into the laundry cart with distaste.
"I won't, I promise."
"Thank you for your attention to detail, young man," Aziraphale said, holding out his hand.
The kid shook it, chuckled, then turned back toward the lift.
Aziraphale watched him walk away with some their favourite items – not just Aziraphale's Victorian suits, but also satin pyjamas, expensive bedclothes, and Crowley's leather trousers and silk shirts. He sighed wistfully, knowing the items would probably be all right, but trusting strange humans with their belongings was quite difficult. For the hundredth time that month, he resolved to be more careful with… well, all things that can stain clothing. Especially olive oil – that, weirdly, was the most embarrassing one.
He then went back inside the flat, stripped Crowley's bed and stuffed the charcoal-grey sheets into the washing machine, along with some detergent, and ran it. He had been getting the hang of the apparatus, and was rather proud to have produced three dozen pairs of clean socks the previous week, all on his own. Crowley had managed to keep both of them in clean shirts and pants, plus bath towels.
He thought it a tad ironic that today was a day when he was sending off their usual clothing to be cleaned, and they would be bringing new togs into the flat. A day of heavy clothes-handling.
The plan was that he and Crowley were to have lunch in a while, then spend the rest of the afternoon at Harrod's, essentially dressing each other. Aziraphale hadn't quite known what to expect, upon suggesting that his companion wear a suit to the symphony. Over the years, he had seen Crowley in a suit more than a few times, but he did bear in mind that suits had been considered the epitome of "cool" at different points in history. Crowley's twenty-first-century brand of cool, however, had more to do with counter-culture and hipster chic than with appearing wealthy and respectable and/or looking like a mobster.
The twentieth and twenty-first centuries had been so rapidly-changing, so fickle, so clear about what they'd left behind, that Aziraphale had almost forgotten: for most of history, he himself had been quite fashionable. He had been particularly fond of the clothes seen as stylish in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. He had loved the brocaded coats and britches, chemises and cravats of the 1700s, which he was aware, were the attire of the aristocracy (and it had almost got him decapitated and discorporated in France). These gave way to Victorian waistcoats, tails, and bowties.
The nineteenth century had been the last time when his and Crowley's tastes had coincided – the clothes, the music, the general aesthetic of the era, but Crowley's proclivities had moved on with the times. Aziraphale's had not. He forever maintained a neat, put-together appearance, but had stalled out around 1890. He had been aware of style marching forward without him, but he just couldn't quite bring himself to begin wearing the fedora, the modern necktie, or dungarees, or God forbid, shorts, in the twentieth century. He had never quite understood why, though had grown more or less comfortable with this particular quirk.
Though today, he wondered if he had hung onto his nineteenth-century bent because men's suits had turned boring and dark in the early twentieth century, and he remained nostalgic for time when his taste jibed with Crowley's. Perhaps he had been, for the past thirteen decades, fooling himself into thinking that Crowley still fancied that style of dress, even though he had made amply clear, over the years, that he found Aziraphale's fashion sense backwards (if adorable, and inextricably part of him).
But because Crowley was adaptable, he had accepted the idea of wearing a suit with his usual insouciance, while it was Aziraphale, set in his ways, who was nervous about being restyled for a popular music event. He felt sure that his partner would not choose something that might cause him to humiliate himself, but still, stepping outside his creature comfort zone for the first time in over a century was nothing to sneeze at.
"Well," he sighed, looking in the mirror. "I am who I am."
He adjusted his bowtie, and shut the closet door.
That was when Crowley entered the room. "You might not want to don the whole shebang today, angel. You're going to be getting into and out of your clothes, maybe several times. Do you really want to do up the waistcoat and bowtie and coat, every single time?"
Aziraphale looked his companion over, and noted the simple black tee-shirt and black jeans. He smiled a bit naughtily. "Is that why you've always kept things simpler? Climb out of your togs on a moment's notice?"
"A demon's got to do what a demon's got to do," Crowley smirked.
"Actually, Crowley, I'll be feeling enough like a fish out of water. I'd prefer to be able to get back into clothing that makes me feel like me, when we are finished."
"Okay. Suit yourself." Then Crowley indicated Aziraphale's light brown lace-up boots. "You also might want to consider wearing something on your feet that you can slip on and off. Do you own any shoes that you can slip on and off?"
"Erm… yes, I do," replied Aziraphale, reopening the closet and taking a shoebox off the top shelf, containing some loafers he had only worn a couple of times. "They're Sawyer and Sims!"
"You named them?" Crowley asked, looking at the shoes, feigning disbelief.
Aziraphale stifled a laugh. "Yes, Crowley. I name all of my inanimate possessions. Especially things that come in pairs. My usual shoes are Margret and Steven. These socks are Bonnie and Clyde, because they have a lot of holes."
"Wow, angel," Crowley marvelled. "Dark, as well as sarcastic. Well done."
"I've learned from the best."
There were not a lot of people at Harrod's that day, though one could not say that business was "dead," exactly. Shopping conditions were just about perfect, as far as Aziraphale was concerned.
"Well, in light of the fact that 'The Rite of Spring' is in only two days, shall we begin with the suit, as we'll have to have it tailored, and will have to pay extra for expedience as it is?" Aziraphale asked, as they reached the top of the escalator near menswear.
"I suppose so, but if you start beating some sort of let's-wait-for-another-day drum when it comes to choosing new duds for you…"
"I won't, I promise," Aziraphale said, and his stomach flipped over. He frowned deeply.
"Oi, what's that look? What are you so worried about?"
"Oh, I don't know," Aziraphale whined. "I know it's just clothes. I know I can trust you to choose something that becomes me…"
"Exactly," Crowley said, rather gently, taking his hand. "I know it's been a while, angel… but it's going to be okay. Maybe letting you choose out something for me first is precisely what is needed, eh? Help you loosen up?"
The two of them were soon approached by a five-foot-two, ninety-pound, dark-haired, red-lipsticked salesperson whose nametag read 'Felicia.' She introduced herself, and pronounced her name in the Spanish way, feh-lee-see-yah, and asked what she could do to help them.
"Hello, my dear," Aziraphale said, rather uneasily. "It has been, erm, well… nigh on ages since my partner has been to a performance of the Royal Philharmonic."
"I see," Felicia said, with a smile.
Aziraphale turned to Crowley and whispered, "Can I say 'ages' to her?"
"Yes, yes, it's fine. Just keep talking, angel," Crowley sighed.
"Oh, good," Aziraphale continued, turning back to the salesperson. "So, he needs a new suit. Something modern, with the appropriate amount of cool, yet more formal than what he is currently wearing. Oh, and most likely in dark colours, as that seems to be his preference. Actually, is 'cool' a relative term? Do we need to explain more?"
The woman smiled and couldn't say anything for a moment, unable to hide her surprise at this seeming relic of a man, who appeared entirely uncomfortable here and spoke like a total Victorian transplant.
Crowley could read her thoughts somewhat, and said, "It's been nigh on ages since he's thought about clothes – you'll have to forgive him."
"No need," she assured them, recovering. Then she asked Crowley, "Do you have a particular brand that you prefer?"
"The usuals," he shrugged. "Armani, Versace, Hugo Boss…"
"Well, gents, right this way," she said, leading them around a corner, through a salesfloor filled with leather goods, and through a doorway. It turned out to be a very spacious, very posh dressing area. She pulled the door closed, and threw a kind of lock that signified the room was private and occupied. There was an area in the middle with grey leather ottomans and tiny tables for drinks. The room was lined entirely with men's suits of varying sizes, colours and brands. "Have a seat. Would you like some wine?"
"Yes, please," Aziraphale said, as though he'd just been offered a lifeline.
"Red or white?"
"Red, if you please."
Crowley signalled the number "two," and Felicia disappeared for a few moments.
"All right, angel?"
"Mm-hm," Aziraphale answered, moving round the room, looking at the merchandise the way a bird looks at an approaching cat. "Tickety-boo."
"Oh, shit, we're in trouble now," Crowley muttered.
"Why so?"
"You only say tickety-fucking-boo when something is seriously wrong."
"Nothing is seriously wrong," Aziraphale sighed. "I'm just nervous, all right?"
"You've got nothing to be nervous about," Crowley told him, catching him in mid-pace, and pulling him into a hug. "It's just clothes."
Aziraphale, of course, hugged back, but said, "It's outside of the cube for me."
"Outside the box?"
"Yes, that."
"Angel, all you have to focus on, for right now, is sitting on a cushioned ottoman, drinking wine, and watching me try on designer suits. You can handle that, can't you?"
Aziraphale chuckled. "Yes, of course. I rather fancy the idea of seeing you gussied-up for a formal event."
Crowley pulled back, and held his companion briefly by the elbows. "Do me a favour, and don't ever say 'gussied-up' again. Unless you want to see me in a corset and stockings."
"Well…" Aziraphale began, eyebrows up, in a contemplative expression.
Crowley then stepped away and opened his arms to make a point. "And in an hour, you'll have some fermented grape in your veins, you'll have been plied into a state of – dare I say? – mild arousal, and then you get to let me do the same thing."
"L-let you do the same thing?"
"Mm-hm," the tall, dark tempter sang, smirking. "Drink wine, lie back like a gecko sunning himself on a rock, and try not to touch the bulge forming in my trousers, while you model for me. Nothing scandalous, just modern chic, befitting a man of the world in the twenty-first century. Efficient, elegant, smart. Nonchalant, fashionable, sexy."
"I am none of those things, Crowley."
"You are ALL of those things, angel. Well, perhaps not exactly nonchalant, but whatever – I've got nonchalance enough for the both of us. It's just that your clothing suggests that you were all of those things a hundred-and-fifty years ago, which distracts from the fact that you still are."
"Oh. Goodness," Aziraphale said, quietly, with a noticeable swallow. "I'm going to feel like I'm in a costume, Crowley."
"Perhaps, but all you're doing is trying it on today, and then going to one concert in a couple of weeks. That's it. You could think of it as role-play, if you like. It will make me happy. Some parts of me happier than others. How does that sound?"
"When you put it that way, rather Heavenly. I almost wish we didn't have Felicia."
"That's the spirit, angel," Crowley growled, then moved closer for a kiss. He moaned just slightly as their lips pressed together. Then, "Think of it as foreplay."
"Is that how you've been looking at it?" Aziraphale whispered.
"You have to ask?" Crowley whispered, flitting a naughty eyebrow.
"In that case, I don't think we're finished talking about the corset and stockings."
A dark smile began to form on Crowley's face, and Felicia returned then with a glass of red wine in each hand. She handed them off, and Aziraphale sat down with his.
"Well, now," Felicia said, looking Crowley over. "Let's see… I'm going to guess, just for trying-on purposes… inseam 33, waist 30ish? Is that, right, Mr…?"
"Crowley," he said. "And yeah, more or less. Depends on the brand."
She continued looking him over, and making little affirming grunting noises, then she moved over to a rack, and pulled down a suit jacket and trousers, and held them out to him. "This is made by Saks Fifth Avenue Italy. I think the Modern Fit would suit you, since you're, shall we say, thin and robust. It's polished wool of course, Milano silk lining and retails for just under seven-hundred pounds."
"It's black," Aziraphale commented.
"Yeah," Crowley said. "Eighty per cent of what I own is black – where've you been?"
"Yes, but you're not going to a funeral, Crowley. Wouldn't a nice dark blue be much better for the symphony?"
"Well, since it's 'The Rite of Spring,' wouldn't the aforementioned corset and stockings actually work even better than that?"
Felicia laughed, unperturbed.
"Crowley!" Aziraphale scolded.
"If you want blue, we've got blue," Felicia shrugged. "A deep navy would complement your hair and skin tone, I must say."
"Let me just try this one for the style and fit," Crowley said. "Then, if you want me in blue, who am I to argue? But I've never owned a 'Modern Fit' suit, so let's just see where that takes us, conceptually, yeah?"
"Absolutely," Felicia said. She eyed Crowley one more time, then moved over to a rack that contained at least a hundred identical, generic, white dress shirts. She pulled one, then held it out for him. "All right, Mr. Crowley, you can go behind that curtain there, or I can step out, and you can try it on right here. The basic fit should work, but of course, if you're interested in it, we'll tailor it to your specifications."
Crowley stepped behind a grey suede curtain, and Felicia sat down beside Aziraphale.
They discussed the weather, the fact that Felicia enjoyed her job and had been at it for seven years, Aziraphale's Sawyer and Sims loafers, and the fact that Felicia's husband owned a pair as well.
It acted as a segue into, "So, are you two married?"
The question took Aziraphale so off-guard, he almost spilled his drink.
"Oh! No," he said. "No, we're… we're together. Not married."
She chuckled. "Sorry. I won't ask any more questions."
"It's all right," Crowley called from behind the curtain. "He just gets dodgy when people ask us about marriage because he's reluctant to commit."
"I see," Felicia said.
"Why, that's… that's… that's not true at all! Why would you say such a thing, Crowley?" Aziraphale sputtered.
Crowley could be heard laughing behind the curtain.
Aziraphale frowned. "Oh, belt up, you old snake!" He turned to Felicia. "I am in no way reluctant."
"You don't owe me an explanation," she said, waving off the comment with a well-manicured hand. "What would a safer question be? How about, what do you boys do for a living?"
"Oh, I own a bookshop in Soho," Aziraphale told her, proudly. "Rare and antique. Been there… well, a long time, now."
"And you, Mr. Crowley?"
"Er, I am currently a gentleman of leisure," he told her. "Perhaps 'kept' might be the proper word?"
"Crowley," Aziraphale scolded, with an eyeroll.
"Sounds intriguing."
"Oh, it is. I drink wine, keep my car sparkling clean, keep the flat stocked with rich foods, and make sure to stay pretty."
With that, Crowley pulled back the curtain. He now stood there in a burning white dress shirt with the top two buttons undone, and a black, slim suit that highlighted his long, lithe, reptilian frame. He wore no shoes at the moment, but the smirk overtook everything.
Aziraphale sat up straight and took notice, putting his drink down for good measure. "Good Heavens," he breathed.
"Like?"
"Oh, yes," Aziraphale answered, getting lost in the moment. And just like that, his nervousness melted away, and a certain thrill took over. He imagined being the one in the clothes, being viewed as he now viewed Crowley, with awe, lust, anticipation… the thought of it was intoxicating.
Then he realised there was a third person in the room, and he cleared his throat and said, "I mean, yes, Crowley, it suits you extremely well. Pardon the pun."
A snake-like smile crawled across Crowley's face as he watched Aziraphale blush, and struggle to hide his surprise and surges of lust.
Felicia moved forward and began tugging at the suit, discussing the very minor adjustments that might need to be made.
"Would you like to try a Versace?" she asked him.
"Sure, why not? Bring me blue," he answered, winking at Aziraphale.
Felicia obliged, and the curtain slid shut again.
"You all right?" she asked Aziraphale. "Would you like some water?"
"No, no, thank you," he said, though he would very much have liked to accept.
The next time Crowley opened the curtain, he was wearing a blue pinstriped suit, with the same ardently white shirt, same smirk, and Aziraphale had the same reaction. He felt obliged to use breathing techniques he'd learned in Yoga classes in order to keep his blood flowing properly.
Once again, Felicia fussed over the cuffs and hems, and marvelled at how well the suit off-the-rack fit already.
"Would you do me a favor, Mr. Crowley, and try on the Armani Collezioni G-line?" she asked. "I absolutely adore that suit, and very few men could pull it off as you could."
"Lay it on me," Crowley shrugged.
She bustled around the room collecting the jacket and trousers needed. "I think you'll love it. It's upwards of thirteen-hundred pounds, but it might be worth it to you. Oh, bugger."
"What's wrong?" Aziraphale asked.
"We only have it in black," she said. "We can order it in blue, though, if you decide to go that direction." She then handed the suit to Crowley, and once again, he shut the curtain.
Just then, the phone at Felicia's hip rang, and she said, "Excuse me, please," and answered it. The conversation lasted ten seconds, before she cut off the call, and said, "Gents, can you excuse me for a few minutes?"
"Take your time, love," Crowley said, from behind the curtain.
Aziraphale panicked a bit. Flashes of what might happen if he and Crowley were left alone together once the curtain was open, and Crowley was standing there painted in Armani…
"Er, Felicia, perhaps you could show me to the ties," he said, desperately. "Crowley, you don't own a modern cravat-style tie, do you? I'll choose one or two, and see what you think."
"All right, angel," Crowley answered.
Felicia giggled. "Angel. That's so sweet."
She then stepped outside of the VIP dressing room and gestured toward the section of the store where ties were displayed.
When Crowley opened the curtain this time, neither Aziraphale nor Felicia was in the vicinity. He sauntered about the room, wearing the best-fit suit yet, in black, seriously cool, admiring his profile in the mirrors, hands in pockets, hands out of pockets, jacket open, jacket closed… feeling pretty pleased with himself overall.
After a couple of minutes, the door opened, and Aziraphale stepped inside. "Oh, Lord," he exclaimed, with more breath than voice, upon seeing the spectacular man currently making his way back round to the curtained-off area. He swallowed hard, watching Crowley move, and wondering whether this G-line might have been designed with his partner specifically in mind.
"I'll take that as a compliment," Crowley lilted.
"Oh, indeed."
"Still think you'd prefer me in blue?"
"I don't think so."
"No? Why not?"
"Because I found this," Aziraphale said, holding up a tie he had chosen. It was black silk, with a shiny, red, scaly, severe-looking snake coiling unevenly up and down the tie. Its head was reared back, its mouth was open, its fangs bared. Bright gold thread composed the dagger-like teeth, as well as the eyes, slitted with vertical black pupils.
Crowley felt quite moved, and almost choked-up when he saw it. "Angel, you chose this for me?"
"Yes. Do you like it?"
"It's... perfect," Crowley replied, fingering it, squinting at it, as though he couldn't quite believe his eyes.
Aziraphale smiled softly, and wrapped it around Crowley's neck, adjusting the shirt collar to accommodate it. Slowly, gently, he tied it in a flawless Windsor knot, replaced the collar, and smoothed it down over Crowley's chest with one firm stroke, tucking it inside the G-line suit coat. He looked his partner over, and marvelled at how the tie complemented the flaming, shiny red hair, and the serpentine body itself.
He looked up, knowing that Crowley's brown, soulful human eyes had never left his as he had been doing this, and just for a moment, they amalgamated with the golden eyes on the tie.
The next thing he knew, he'd been grabbed hard, and Crowley's tongue was in his mouth. He let it in with a groan, and gave himself over to a delicious, clandestine kiss…
…and somewhat to the feeling of tightening trousers, and the sensation of Crowley hardening, pressing against him.
Felicia was on her way back, they both knew it, and these clothes hadn't been paid for
My hope is that you found this chapter interesting, but mostly sweet, and at the end, romantic. Thoughts? Suggestions?
I loooooove comments and reviews, and this story gets almost none, so feed my neediness and keep me going! :-)
Thank you for reading!