Chapter Text
London, 1909
The October fog at the London Docks smelled of salt and coal, undercut by something fouler – dead fish, tar, the pervasive rot that always clung to the Thames. Aziraphale pulled his scarf over his nose and looked at his pocket watch for the third time in as many minutes. Half past seven. The Antwerp Queen should have arrived twenty minutes ago.
He shifted his weight, feeling the dampness of the morning seep through his boots. Around him, the docks were busy: stevedores hauling crates, customs officers clutching their writing boards, merchants arguing over manifests. Gas lamps created islands of yellow light in the grey mist.
"Mr. Fell?"
Aziraphale turned to find a customs officer regarding him with the pompous and mistrustful gaze of a very young man in his first position of authority. He couldn't be more than twenty-five – his moustache was a sad little thing he was clearly quite proud of anyway and his uniform was pressed to within an inch of its life. Probably by his mother.
"Indeed," Aziraphale said, summoning his most charming smile. "I'm here to collect a book shipment. From Ghent."
"Books." The officer made it sound vaguely dirty. He consulted his clipboard. "Three crates, marked 'Educational Materials, Medical Reference'. That your lot?"
"Theological texts, actually. And some French poetry. Victor Hugo, mostly." This was true, but not the whole truth. What the manifest didn't mention was the false bottom in the middle crate, where a certain slim volume of Verlaine's more explicit verses lay nestled beside an anonymous edition of Teleny that would have given this young man's superiors an apoplexy.
The officer's eyes narrowed. "French, you say."
"Hugo is considered quite... traditional."
"We've had complaints," the officer said, not quite looking at Aziraphale. "About illegal materials coming through. Obscene filth. From the Continent."
Aziraphale's heart skipped a beat. "I can assure you, I deal exclusively in works of merit. I'm a member of the Bibliographical Society and can provide references – Bishop Carey of St. Stephen's has purchased from me, and Lord Harrington, and – "
"Right." The officer chewed his moustache. Aziraphale could see the thoughts behind his eyes: risk the wrath of respectable members of society by being too zealous, or risk his superior's wrath by being too lax? "Let's have a look, then."
They walked to where the crates sat. Aziraphale's hands were trembling, so he tucked them into his pockets. The officer produced a crowbar.
"That's really not necessary –"
But the tiresome young man was already prying the first crate open. Aziraphale held his breath.
Thank God – one of the safe crates. The officer pulled out a volume at random: Victor Hugo, La Légende des Siècles. He flipped through it – obviously he couldn’t read French. The pages were dense with text, no illustrations, nothing obviously offensive.
"What's it about, then?"
"The history of humanity from a Christian perspective," Aziraphale said promptly. "Epic poetry. Very moral."
The officer grunted and pulled out another book. This one, unfortunately, had an illustration – a cherub, plump and naked as cherubs tended to be. His eyes lit with righteousness.
"Now what's this?"
"Renaissance art," Aziraphale said, keeping his voice level. "Raphael. You'll find similar imagery in any church in England."
"Naked as the day," the officer muttered, but he was losing steam. The contents of the crate were clearly what Aziraphale had claimed them to be: proper, scholarly, catastrophically boring to anyone not inclined toward old books. He shoved the volumes back with less care than Aziraphale liked and straightened.
"The other crates?"
"More of the same. I can provide a complete list if you'd like to examine my records – "
"No need." The officer made a notation on his clipboard. Aziraphale could feel the moment he decided it wasn't worth it. "See they're transported properly. No selling to minors."
"Of course not. I run a respectable establishment."
"Soho, isn't it?" The officer's tone suggested Soho was several steps from respectable. Fair enough.
"Berwick Street," Aziraphale confirmed. "A.Z. Fell and Co., Antiquarian Books. We've been in operation for – "
But the officer was already moving away, on to the next inspection. Aziraphale exhaled slowly and signalled to the carter he'd hired.
"Careful with that one," he said, pointing to the middle crate. "Particularly fragile contents."
The carter, who had done this job for Aziraphale before and knew better than to ask, nodded.
It took ages to load the crates into the cart and get clear of the teeming docks. Only when they were rattling north through Shadwell, Aziraphale allowed himself to relax. The fog was thinning now to reveal a city waking up: shops opening, maids scrubbing steps, a milk cart making its rounds. London in the morning always smelled of hope and horseshit.
By the time they reached Soho, the streets were busy. Berwick Street was its usual self – loud, brash, neither quite respectable nor quite disreputable. The French restaurant on the corner was receiving a delivery of vegetables. The Italian grocer was arranging his window display. And there, between a tailor's shop and a wine merchant, stood A.Z. Fell & Co., Antiquarian Books, its bow window full of dignified leather-bound books, its sordid secrets tucked safely behind.
Aziraphale supervised the porter bringing in the crates, then paid the man generously and locked the door behind him.
Silence. Blessed, book-scented silence.
The shop was his favourite place in the world. The front room faced the street, all soft light when the sun cooperated. Shelves lined every wall, floor to ceiling, organized according to a system only Aziraphale understood. Theology. History. Poetry. Philosophy. The rolling ladder for reaching high shelves. His desk in the corner, piled with correspondence. The velvet armchair where serious customers could sit and examine potential purchases. The small coal fire, not yet lit.
But the real heart of the shop was the back room.
He moved through it now, past the threadbare, but extremely comfortable Davenport sofa to the shelves that looked like they held only overflow stock – duplicate Bibles, out-of-date encyclopaedias, nothing interesting. But if you knew where to look, if you knew that the third shelf from the floor had a false backing, you could access the real collection.
Aziraphale had spent ten years building it. Sappho in the original Greek. The complete Decameron. Sacher Masoch’s Venus in Furs. De Sade. Everything the National Vigilance Association would burn if they found it. Everything that proved humanity was more complicated, more hungry than the law allowed.
He opened the middle crate carefully, lifted out the legitimate books, and found the false bottom. There. The Verlaine – Hombres, a poetry collection they wouldn't even publish in France, let alone England. And Teleny, that strange, erotic novel of male love that was said to be co-written by Oscar Wilde. Aziraphale sincerely doubted that – it wasn't good enough for Wilde – but it would definitely put him in prison anyway, if anyone found it.
He shelved the books carefully in the hidden section, running his fingers over the spines. Knowledge. Desire. Truth. Things people needed and couldn't find anywhere else.
The doorbell rang.
Aziraphale froze, then forced himself to stay calm. The false backing was closed. Nothing looked suspicious. He straightened his waistcoat and walked back into the front room, summoning his shopkeeper's smile.
A customer stood silhouetted in the doorway, eclipsed by the morning sun so Aziraphale couldn't make out details. Tall, he noted. Thin. Wearing a well-cut coat. Carrying a walking stick with what looked like a silver handle.
The figure stepped fully inside, and the door swung shut behind him.
The first thing Aziraphale noticed was the hair – dark red, the colour of autumn leaves, wavy and worn just slightly too long to be fashionable. The second thing was the eyes – or rather, the amber-tinted spectacles that hid them. The third was the smile, which was crooked and charming and dangerous.
"Mr. Fell?" The voice matched the smile – smooth, amused, with an accent that was an expensive Eton drawl overlaid with something more interesting. "I was told you might be able to help me."
"That depends," Aziraphale said carefully, "on what sort of help you require."
The man wandered deeper into the shop, examining the shelves with the air of someone who knew what he was looking at. His walking stick – yes, definitely a silver handle, shaped like a snake – tapped softly against the floorboards.
"I'm looking for something … not entirely legal," he said.
Aziraphale's mouth went dry. "I'm afraid I don't – "
"Oh, come now." The man turned, and even through the tinted spectacles, Aziraphale could feel his gaze. "I was told that Fell and Co. specializes in books that one can't find elsewhere. You know. Interesting Books."
"Who told you that?"
"Does it matter?" He pulled off his gloves, finger by finger, revealing long elegant hands with two rings – one carnelian, one silver signet. "I'm looking for Baudelaire. Original French edition. Les Fleurs du Mal. The 1857 printing, before they made him cut the best bits."
The banned edition. The one they'd prosecuted for obscenity in France.
Aziraphale studied this stranger – this frankly beautiful stranger who walked into his shop asking for something that could ruin them both. Every one of his instincts screamed.
"I'm a poet myself," the man continued, examining a volume of Wordsworth with apparent fascination. "Anthony Crowley. I write for The Savoy when they let me. And other... less respectable publications." He glanced up. "You've probably never heard of me."
"I have, actually." The words escaped before Aziraphale could stop them. "You wrote that piece. 'The Serpent's Gospel.' About Eden being a prison."
Crowley's smile widened. "You read The Savoy."
"I read everything." Aziraphale gestured at his shelves. “Occupational hazard."
"And what did you think?"
What had he thought? That the poem was brilliant and blasphemous and really funny and exactly the sort of thing that gave him complicated feelings. That he'd read it three times, alone in his flat above the shop, wondering what sort of person wrote about temptation as if it were a blessing.
"I thought," he said slowly, "that it was very brave."
"Brave." Crowley tested the word. "Interesting. Not 'heretical'? 'Obscene'?"
"Those too. But bravery and obscenity aren't mutually exclusive."
They looked at each other. The shop was very quiet. Outside, a cart rattled past, and someone was shouting about fresh fish, but here there was only the dust in the morning light and the particular tension of two people who did not trust each other yet.
"Baudelaire," Aziraphale said finally. "1857 edition. I might know where to locate a copy."
"Might?"
"I'd need to check my... private collection. It's not something I would keep here."
"How very cautious."
"How very necessary." Aziraphale moved toward his desk, needing something to do with his hands. "The National Vigilance Association has been making noise. There was a strongly worded letter last week. They're watching certain establishments. It would be... unwise to be careless."
Crowley followed him, that serpent-headed stick still tapping. "Unwise. Does that mean you're trying for more respectability? How very tiresome."
"It means I'm trying for survival." Aziraphale found the catalogue he was looking for – the coded one, where Baudelaire’s Fleurs du Mal was listed as "French Botanical Texts, 1857."
“My business is preservation,” he said. “Keeping knowledge alive. That ends the moment I sell the wrong book to the wrong man and land myself in Pentonville Prison.”
Crowley smirked. "So how do you know I'm the right man?"
Aziraphale looked up. Crowley had removed his spectacles, and his eyes were... extraordinary. Gold-flecked honey brown, unusual enough to unsettle, amused enough to suggest he knew exactly the effect they were having.
Aziraphale swallowed, struggling to find his composure again. "I don't," he admitted. "You could be a police informant. You could be with the National Vigilance Association. You could be a journalist looking for a scandal."
"But you don't think I am."
"No."
"Why not?"
Because Aziraphale had spent a decade learning to read people, detecting the look of genuine hunger for knowledge. Because this man had mentioned The Savoy, which was edited by the brilliant and controversial Arthur Symons and had published Aubrey Beardsley's most risqué illustrations. Because he had asked for Baudelaire by the specific edition. Because the way he moved through the shop suggested someone who really loved books, not someone playing a role.
Because when he smiled, something in Aziraphale's chest twisted pleasantly, and that was possibly the most damning reason of all.
"Instinct," Aziraphale said.
Crowley laughed, genuinely surprised. "Instinct. An angel operating on instinct. That's deliciously blasphemous."
"Angel?"
"Isn't that what they call you? In the circles I run in. 'The Angel of Soho.' The bookseller with principles. The man who saves banned books like angels save souls."
Aziraphale felt heat rising in his face. "That's outrageously exaggerated."
"No, it's true." Crowley leaned against the desk, close enough that Aziraphale could smell his cologne – something expensive, cedar and spice. "You're notorious, Mr. Fell. There are people who'd pay a great deal to know where you source your collection. There are even more people who'd pay to shut you down."
"Then perhaps you should leave before you're associated with me."
"Now where's the sport in that?"
The door chime rang again. Both froze.
An older woman entered – Mrs. Patterson, one of Aziraphale's regular customers, who bought French novels and pretended they were for her niece. Aziraphale summoned his professional smile again
"Mrs. Patterson! How delightful. I have that Dumas you requested –"
Crowley straightened, putting his spectacles back on, transforming instantly into just another customer browsing. But as Aziraphale moved to help Mrs. Patterson, he felt Crowley's attention on him like a physical touch.
He sold Mrs. Patterson her Dumas. He recommended a new translation of Flaubert. He wrapped the books in brown paper and wished her a good morning. And when she finally left, the silence felt louder than before.
"The Baudelaire," Aziraphale said. "I do have a copy. But it will be expensive."
"How expensive?"
"Three pounds."
Crowley didn't even blink. "Done."
Three pounds was more than a working man made in a fortnight. Either Crowley was independently wealthy, or poetry paid better than Aziraphale had assumed. Or maybe he wanted this book badly enough to pay anything.
"I'll need to retrieve it from storage. It will take a moment."
"I'll wait."
Aziraphale hesitated, then made a decision that was probably foolish but felt right. "Come with me."
He led Crowley to the back room. Trusting. Risking. This was madness and could destroy him.
"Clever," Crowley murmured as Aziraphale opened the hidden section. "How many people know about this?"
"You're the first I've ever shown."
"I'm flattered."
"You should be terrified." But Aziraphale was smiling as he found the Baudelaire, its leather binding worn soft with age. "If you tell anyone –"
"I won't." Crowley's voice had lost its amused edge. "I swear it. On whatever deity you'd like. On art itself."
Their fingers touched as Aziraphale handed him the book. Just a brush of skin, but it felt like a spark, like the moment before lightning strikes.
Crowley opened the book reverently, reading the first banned poem – "Lesbos" – with the focused intensity of pure joy. When he looked up, his expression was open and naked.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"Nothing to thank me for. It's just an expensive book."
"No." Crowley closed the book. "Thank you for this." He gestured at the hidden shelves, at the shop. "For being... enough of a stubborn, glorious bastard to keep these alive."
Aziraphale didn't know what to say. Compliments made him uncomfortable. Vulgarity more so.
"I should wrap it up," he said instead. “If you're stopped –"
"I know the risks."
"Do you?" Aziraphale met his eyes. "Mine as well? If you're caught with this, you'll only lose the book and pay a fine. If I'm caught having sold it, I'll lose everything."
"Then why do it?"
Why indeed? Aziraphale thought of the young man who'd come in last year, desperate and afraid, looking for anything that told him he wasn't alone. He thought of the woman who'd wept when he'd sold her a copy of Sappho. He thought of all the people who needed these books not for pleasure but for survival, for the simple proof that they weren't monsters.
"Because some truths are too important to remain forbidden," he said finally.
Crowley studied him for a long moment. Then he reached into his coat and pulled out a slim notebook, scribbled something, tore out the page.
"My address," he said, handing it to Aziraphale. "If you ever need... anything. A friendly ear. A place to hide books. A drink. Anything."
Aziraphale took the paper. The handwriting was elegant and slightly chaotic. 16 Cheyne Walk, Fourth Floor. Chelsea.
"I don't – "
"There’s no need to decide at once." Crowley smiled that crooked smile again. "But the door is always open. I'd like to think... well. The right acquaintance can be… surprisingly rewarding."
"Is that what we are? Acquaintances?"
"I'd like us to be friends," Crowley said simply.
The word hung in the air between them – friends, which could mean anything or nothing. Safe on the tongue, perilous in the heart.
"I'd like that too," Aziraphale heard himself say.
They went back to the front room. Aziraphale wrapped the Baudelaire in brown paper and sealed it with wax. Crowley paid with three crisp pound notes from a silver case. Their transaction complete, he should have left.
Instead, he lingered by the door.
"That poem," he said. "The one you read. 'The Serpent's Gospel.' I'm working on a collection. More poems like that. Even more... honest. No publisher will touch them."
"Too shocking?"
"Too … true." Crowley said the word deliberately, making it a challenge. "Too explicitly about men loving men. Not hidden behind Greek mythology or platonic love. Just... true."
Aziraphale's heart was beating very fast. "I see."
"Do you?" Crowley tilted his head. "Because I'm wondering... if an angel who saves banned books might be interested in a demon who writes them."
There were so many ways this could go wrong. So many reasons to say no. Aziraphale could list them alphabetically.
"What's it called?" he asked instead. "Your collection."
Crowley's smile was radiant.
"Second Circle," he said.
Of course it was. The second Circle of Hell. Lust.
"Send me the manuscript," Aziraphale said, making a brave decision. "Let me read it. Then we'll see."
"We'll see," Crowley repeated, as if the words were a promise.
He left then, the door chime marking his departure. Aziraphale stood in the sudden silence of his shop, feeling as though he'd just stepped off a cliff.
Outside, London continued its morning. But inside A.Z. Fell & Co., Antiquarian Books, something had shifted.
Aziraphale touched the paper in his hand and allowed himself a small, private smile.
16 Cheyne Walk, Fourth Floor, Chelsea.
He'd visit, he thought. Not today, not tomorrow. But one day.
After all, what was the point of saving dangerous books if you never let yourself be daring in return?