Chapter Text
Aziraphale is cold, he's so cold! He's only ever read about this kind of cold, and he's feeling it in his bones, with every hair on his skin.
It's his corner of the street, the one he's been working for decades, and yes, perhaps, he has to dress more alluringly, but then he'd be even colder than he's now, which shouldn't be possible without passing out. He's been working this corner for so long, and he couldn't complain, he really couldn't… But he's old now, he's old, he's dressed in a cream-coloured suit, he isn't sexy anymore.
He has welcomed the progress, he's welcomed not being a criminal, but it also means that he has to look sexy - and Aziraphale's version of sexy is something entirely different to what the rest of the world finds sexy.
Some of his colleagues have set up websites and they wait for their clients in the warmth of their flats, yet Aziraphale, he tends to cling on to things, he tends to cling on to the old cliches. It's what he knows, after all, it's what has been keeping him warm and fed for years.
He's shivering and he's alone. No one else is working this street anymore. Aziraphale can only rely on the reputation of the area to be noticed, to be hired for at least an hour. Just fifteen minutes of warmth would be fine.
He's always loved giving pleasure, defying the hypocrites, being free with his desires. He's not an easily pleased man, he's come to terms with it, but he enjoys himself when he's the one pleasuring, the one making his current, mostly anonymous lover sob with delight.
He's not ashamed of being a sex worker. He has never been. But he's very much ashamed of being cold, of spending yet another night like this, hoping for work and getting some brutish client instead, and that's if he's lucky.
He's used to pleasuring quiet, bookish people like himself, but such men have been rare lately… In the last ten years, he thinks. He doesn't understand how he can still think.
If he's lucky, he's going to get his throat fucked, he's going to be treated badly, because he's desperate, because he doesn't know he can refuse… He can't refuse, actually, because he has rent, because he's hungry.
There's no one to blame, really. He has refused to move on with the times, he has made himself vulnerable to all the bastards who look for someone no one will care about to abuse.
He's used to that too, by now. After all, he's old, he's not sexy, he loves to eat, although he eats less these days, because the clients are rare and don't pay well.
He wants to hug himself, but then he'll let the part of his mind he's scared to acknowledge, show. He doesn't want anyone to see he's desperate.
There's a black car stopping next to him, and then a tall, lanky man steps down from the car.
Aziraphale can see that the man is distressed. Why else would he wear sunglasses at night? His cheeks are a bit puffy too, betraying a long cry. Aziraphale loves bringing consolation, and…
"Are you alright?" The man asks. He has red hair, shoulder-length, and the dim light makes it glow like fire… like warm and inviting flames.
What has he said? Aziraphale doesn't know… he should check his hearing, he should, but he doesn't really want. Many of his clients talk dirty, and Aziraphale doesn't like it, so it's all for the best.
The man… he saunters over to Aziraphale. He's handsome, he's young, he smells of… of not having to bother about warmth and food. A peculiar smell, by all means.
"Are you alright?" The man asks again, touching Aziraphale's shoulder.
"Cold," Aziraphale replies. He hates himself for admitting it, he has to flirt and be forward, he has to…
"Come here," the red-haired man says.
He leads Aziraphale to his car and opens the door for him. The front door.
Aziraphale gets in.
It's warm inside, it's warm… and Aziraphale allows himself to think that it's safe, if only for a few minutes.
The man sits next to Aziraphale.
Aziraphale tries to smile seductively…
"None of that," says the man. Aziraphale can hear tears in his voice, and he could make the man feel so good, but… "You're cold. You're fucking freezing. For fuck's sake, what are you doing outside?"
The man is dressed lightly himself, but he doesn't seem to be cold.
"Where do you live?"
"I… I work here. I can make you feel good, I…"
"Fuck! Fuck this word, fuck this whole fucking planet! Fuck everything!"
The man punches the wheel and breathes heavily.
Then he sharply turns to Aziraphale and lifts his ridiculous sunglasses to reveal very strange eyes - one yellow, one black and unmoving. "Ok… ok, listen. Listen… do you have a place to stay?"
As he speaks, he empties his wallet and shoves quite a lot of cash into Aziraphale's hands.
"I… I rent a flat…" Aziraphale replies. He's very lost. And cold. And hungry. He won't be able to buy any food at this hour, well, not without the internet and he doesn't use the internet. So he'll have to wait…
"Do you want me to take you there? Are you safe there?"
"Of course I am!" Aziraphale replies. He can't pocket the money, he hasn't done anything to earn it.
"Good. Do you want me to take you there?"
Actually, Aziraphale doesn't want to go back. It's cold there too. It's cold and lonely. There's no food, there's no companion.
"Ok, ok, you need to think, so I bet you don't want to go back. Do you… Ok…" The man drives terribly, and he keeps crying, as far as Aziraphale can say. "Ok, I… I'm not from here, I mean, not from London. I'm staying at the Ritz because my so called status demands so… Do you… do you want to come with me to the Ritz? We could eat? Could talk? It's… you don't have to do anything. I have a strange relationship with sex, so how about we just eat?"
"I'm hungry," Aziraphale admits. There's no shame in being hungry, but he rarely admits it to anyone, he doesn't even admit it to himself.
And he's been dreaming about the Ritz since he was a young man, just starting out, tossed away by his family for being gay and being very excited about sex.
"Alright," Aziraphale says.
"Ok. Ok, good. Consent is crucial," the man mutters as he's driving to the Ritz.
***
Again, Aziraphale isn't ashamed of his profession. He's brought pleasure to many a man through the years, but all the same, it's nice when the man holds his hand and opens the door for him.
Someone very eager to please rushes to the red-haired man. "Mr Crowley! So good to see you again! And your father of course!"
Aziraphale blushes. He doesn't like being old, because he's useless like that and…
"Now listen here, you underpaid shit!" Mr Crowley hisses. "I don't know if you hold hands with your father still, but if you do, I'm ready to pay for your therapy. This man is my lover, and you're an ageist homophobic prick. Want me to talk to your manager about it?"
Aziraphale is shocked. Crowley is furious and holding Aziraphale's hand. The eager to please man is so pale Aziraphale is worried about him.
"Thought so," Crowley says and tugs Aziraphale towards the lifts.
"Fucking… people…" Crowley positively punches the button. "Say… oh you autistics, you can't get us, and then they are terrible! Just terrible!" Crowley holds Aziraphale's hand, he's gentle, he's young, he's so vulnerable…
"My dear… are you alright?"
"I am. I am. Sorry, angel."
"Angel?"
"Yes. You're an angel." Crowley's tone allows for no argument, so Aziraphale doesn't argue.
They enter the suite. It's big and warm and Crowley seems to care nothing about it.
Before Aziraphale can take everything in, Crowley is calling the room service. "Hello? Hi. I want your entire menu, probably twice… Oh really? Go check your fucking notes! I'm staying in the royal suite. I've been staying here for two fucking weeks! I want your entire menu and I want it twice and I want it now!"
Crowley's voice makes the air in the room thin, but then he looks up at Aziraphale and smiles, soft and vulnerable. "Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you. They always expect someone else, you know…"
Aziraphale just nods.
Crowley brings him every blanket and duvet he can find. "There… I'll… I'll make you a bath!"
Crowley hurries away. Aziraphale is too stunned and too warm to ask questions… He's asleep soon.
***
When he wakes up, he's surrounded by the smell of food, of good, fresh, exquisite food…
Aziraphale opens his eyes and takes in the sight in front of him.
There's food, of course.
But there's also that man, Crowley, smiling at Aziraphale and holding a cup of something hot in his long and pale hands.
"I realised I might have been a creep… I really don't know what else to say."
Aziraphale looks at Crowley and decides that he's too hungry for any judgment, besides, he really likes eating.
So he eats. Crowley helps him to seconds and thirds.
"Look… look, I don't intend to… to assume or anything. My so called business partners, they assume a lot, and I'm tired of being… Fuck, I'm just too tired. How about we have a kind of… arrangement? I pay you your monthly rate per day and you pretend to be my partner, I mean my romantic partner?" Crowley's eyes go somewhat foggy then. "Listen… I'm autistic. Most of the time I just… I spend it in my house far from here. In South Downs, actually. I love learning, and I love studying, and well, at some point it turned out I'm a very good consultant. Hawkeye for detail and so forth. My friend manages it all. I have to show my face and make everyone believe that I'm a smooth devil. Better the devil you know, apparently. I just don't want to be alone through it all, ok?"
Aziraphale thinks for a bit.
"I might be too old to fit the description of a smooth devil's partner," he finally says.
"Hey, you're beautiful, and you… I'm safe with you. I feel safe with you. Please. It will buy me enough time and space to be myself. It will buy you a few months of rent. I can pay your rent for a year, and you won't need to do anything…"
"My dear, I'm pretty comfortable with being a sex worker."
"And I don't intend to shame you. Fuck, I'd be proud if I had you for a boyfriend! Please, help me out. Anything you want, angel… Well, if you want to suck my cock, then it might involve a lot of talking, but… please."
Crowley is beautiful. He looks lost and confused.
"Alright. It's my rent for a year, and then I'm all yours."
"Ok. Ok… give me the number, I'll make sure to pay you tomorrow. Cash, checks, you name it."
Aziraphale gives Crowley the sum.
"Perfect. I think it's too small. I double it. There…" Crowley fetches his checkbook and writes Aziraphale a check. "We can cash it out tomorrow, if you want. Or a part of it. Really, I mean it. Anything you want. Clothes… do you want new clothes? I could spoil you," Crowley chuckles bitterly. "If you want. Consider me your Mephisto."
And at that Crowley turns a bit, to toss his checkbook away and to let Aziraphale see that the lining of his coat, that he's still wearing, is red.
"Fine," Aziraphale replies.
"Really? Fuck! Thank you!"
That night Aziraphale falls asleep in a big, fluffy bed. Crowley shifts closer to him in his sleep, but Aziraphale doesn't mind. The man seems to be eager for affection and Aziraphale is generous with his.