This started off as a little AU prompt I did on Twitter ( aziracrowley, if anyone is interested. Hit that follow button and come say hello). I decided to write it, and I feel like it's the best thing I have ever written and I really love the fluff (which is weird for me because I am normally very angsty. But hey! Stepping out of your comfort zone is "good for you" according to most parents, right?)

He let the door close behind him with a thud as he slipped into the kitchen. The buzz of the room tuned out the sound of the door, as knives chopped down on wooden boards in quick, repetitive movements, fast paced movements as chefs went from stoves to carefully arranging food on plates in elegant designs . No one so much as looked up at him as he walked over to the spare room. He wrapped the thin straps of the black apron around his waist, tightening it rest on his hips before proceeding to lather his hands up with soap.

He could hear the other servers rushing around, plates being lifted up from counters and the door whooshing opened and closed. Their sense of urgency didn't increase his pace. After all, it was just another busy Friday night. Famine's offered tiny portions at outrageous prices, the kinds that catered to trust fund posh couples out to enjoy the start of the weekend, who usually tipped too little, and found ways to blame them for bringing out their food with minute problems that he thought was too expensive anyway. And it wasn't even like they actually stopped to enjoy the food; the instagrammers pulled out their phones to take pictures while others shuffled the food from side to side. Most of the appeal came from the upscale decor and the ability to show that you were able to get onto the six-month long waiting list.

If he could've helped it, Crowley would've worked just about anywhere else. He didn't enjoy the company of the chefs or other servers, and he especially didn't like the joy the head chef got out of seeing most of the plates returned almost completely full. Raven Sable looked like a skeleton in a Dior dress, and seemed to get most of his joy out of life from ensuring everyone else around him was held to the same standard.

Crowley had heard the old saying, "never trust a skinny chef," and if there was any truth in the matter it surely wasn't common practice at Famine's.

He took a deep breath before he stepped out into the kitchen, reaching for two plates from the nearest counter and quickly reviewed the neatly written table number on the tiny white paper hanging off one of the metal light fixtures. One of the plates had a small side salad, and a piece of grilled chicken hardly bigger than Crowley's thumb and index finger; the other no more than five pieces of garlic penne with two cherry tomatoes split in half. He rolled his eyes and stepped out the door. Best to get his thoughts out before he made his appearance, he was far too aware he couldn't afford his pay being docked again.

If you allowed yourself to take in the sights, the restaurant was simply magnificent-the best in London. The wide, long windows reached almost all the way from the ceiling to the floor on one half of the circular room. At the wrong time of day, the sunlight would bleed through and nearly blind anyone facing directly towards the windows, which with circular tables was always at least one or two of the occupants at the table, while shining at the corner of your eyes. Crowley hated the bright lights and always kept his sunglasses on, but he couldn't deny it provided the perfect lighting for people snapping pictures of their plates or themselves which he knew was the point.

It also made whoever was seated in the further back envious, and often led to them trying to poke around to other tables and causing food orders to get mixed up. Not that it mattered, Sable had strict policies against offering free meals when things wrong, which more than often meant people left after paying the bill on empty stomachs.

This evening, the couple he was meant to be serving were sitting next to the window. The first woman sat with her glass raised against rosy lips, phone extended in the other hand as she lifted her chin and twisted her head from side to side, collarbone perfectly accented by her red dress, while the second sat stiff in her black Armani suit, furiously and quickly responded to messages. He set the food down in front of them, and corked open a second bottle of wine. They barely glanced in his direction, before turning back to their original tasks. Nothing out of the ordinary.

They might actually pause for a minute to take a few bites of food, though.

He walked away, before his glance caught a spare table that was closer to the back but probably only fifteen feet from where he stood. It wasn't one of their prime seats, but it was close enough to the bar to still be considered highly popular. It was one that often took six months or longer to request, unless they had strings to pull.

The table had two long wine glasses in front of the seats, one menu laid down flat while the other in the hands of a man with rather...unusual taste for the type of people that came in to the restaurant. For starters, he looked like he had come dressed in his grandfather's clothes, though the jacket almost looked like it could've belonged to his great-grandfather. Even so, even at a distance he could tell that it had been well kept. From the distance, it looked like a creamish color which covered a brown, aged waistcoat. He couldn't see what the man's trousers looked like, as his legs were relaxed under the white table cloth, but Crowley imagined they probably matched the hideous tartan bow tie. He loathed how prominent the pattern was.

But, his eyes stayed settled on the face. His cheeks were fuller, a light blush to them that Crowley couldn't quite decided was there naturally or a product of the lighting. Blonde relaxed curls twisted in different directions, not tight and controlled like some of the other patrons. This man clearly did not belong here.

And Crowley could not take his eyes off of him.

He felt a tight knot form in his throat, as the man turned and locked eyes with him. This man was looking right at him, as if he could see through Crowley's sunglasses and actually maintain eye contact, and he hated it. It was supposed to be one of the perks of the job: being able to avoid human interaction. A wide smile spread across the man's face-the first genuine smile Crowley had ever seen on anyone during his time of employment. He raised his hand, waving Crowley over, but he couldn't quite his feet move. Who did this guy think he was and where did he think he was? Nobody acted so friendly at Famine's.

He felt a bead of sweat slipped down his temple, heartbeat quickly raising. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

"Crowley," a voice growled. He didn't need to turn his head to know it was Hastur, nor did he want to. For looking so pristine and well groomed, there was always some scent of death and decay that followed Hastur wherever he went. He didn't think anyone else ever seemed to notice, but it made Crowley's skin crawl. "Stop being worthless and go and take that order. You aren't getting paid to stand around."

"We're here to provide competent service?" he quipped back, as his lips tugged into a thin smirk. He heard Hastur snarl as he shoved Crowley forward by placing his hand flat against Crowley's back.

His sunglasses got knocked off, hitting the floor with a crack. He grumbled as he stepped forward, picking them up off the floor before he walked over to the gentleman's table. He crossed his arms over his chest, and shifted his weight to one side. "Your order?" he snapped.

Aziraphale sat straighter in his chair, if that was even possible, and tried to look his waiter squarely in the eyes. "My dear, I'm not sure what I've done to upset you but I do most sincerely apologize." He gestured to the empty seat in front of him. "I'm, well I'm afraid my date hasn't shown up yet. I haven't heard anything since I tried to reconfirm the arrangements for the evening via email early this morning. I'm sure they are on their way, of course, but in the meantime I would appreciate a glass of your house chardonnay."

Crowley's head was spinning. How was it possible that this man had said the same amount of words to him as every other patron in the restaurant had in the last six months? And how was his voice so soft, almost like it should be set against a few notes from a violin?

He hated that he could hear his heart thumping in his ears.

"Yeah. Right. 'Course. I'll get right on that, sir," Crowley spat out, nearly babbling.

A low chuckle bubbled in the man's gut. He continued smiling cheerfully at Crowley. "Aziraphale is just fine, thank you. No need for such formalities, I quite appreciate your service and I certainly don't see the need for you to address me by anything other than my name."

"Right. 'Ziraphale," Crowley responded, each syllable foreign and heavy on his tongue, but he almost enjoyed how it dripped sweetly like honey. "Be right back with that."

Crowley quickly turned on his heel, and headed back to the kitchens about as quickly as his legs could carry him. He wasn't sure why he was suddenly so aware of his surroundings, and every single detail of one customer keep floating back into his head. It was as if the restaurant was suddenly brighter, and he could feel his lips curled into a thin smile.

He bit his lip. The cute, bubbly man with the shiny disposition was on a date. People didn't come to Famine's without one, and Aziraphale had already told him as much.

Best to keep him waiting, then, Crowley thought. If he kept the drink order on hold, surely it would give Aziraphale's date enough time to show up, they would become impatient and it would chip away at that large smile, frown lines present and eyes narrowed the next time Crowley made his way over to the table. Surely.

He purposely only took tables at the other end of the restaurant. With the curve of the wall, he was hidden so long as he didn't step too far to the right. He had to make sure he couldn't be waved over, and good service twice in one night for the same customer was something even Hastur wouldn't require. He wouldn't have to go back to that table until he was properly prepared to see the disappointment, the annoyance etched across the man and his date's faces.

Crowley would've thought hours had ticked by. He had shuffled past the man and woman who had already come into the restaurant bickering about some text messages he had seen on her phone; another woman who looked back and forth between the two pages of the menu, before settling on the smallest, most affordable option, and clutched her handbag, trying to brace herself while her partner ordered the most expensive (and followed up with a comment about how they didn't even like salmon and didn't appreciate gold flakes); and several other repeats of people he had seen previous versions of.

That was, until curiosity got the best of him and he turned his head, just slightly enough to get a glimpse of the only person left eating alone, thick book between his hands, thumbs gently holding the edge of the pages and fingers supporting the book's spine.

Alone.

Aziraphale was still alone.

Crowley glanced at the watch on his wrist. So, hours had really only been fifteen minutes, but how could someone leave this man waiting for so long? Crowley scrunched his nose, as he turned to look directly at Aziraphale. He didn't seem to mind that he was alone with his book, he rather seemed lost between the pages of whatever worlds he was reading about.

It was quite out of place for the restaurant, and Crowley found himself unable to look away. Most other patrons who had been left waiting-it didn't happen often, but it did happen-pulled out their phones and posted selfies, complained on Facebook, and in the occasion of one particular man, had tried to discreetly take photos Crowley was certain no one actually wanted to see. He had taken great pleasure of throwing that man out on his ass, but still made him pay the reservation fee.

He slipped back into the kitchen and grabbed the bucket of ice, and he delicately placed the bottle of chardonnay into the ice bucket. He held it in one hand, while he placed a thin piece of vanilla cake and what amounted to a shot of hot chocolate on a silver tray.

He slowed, only for a moment as he reached Aziraphale's table. He straightened his shoulders, and walked up tall and proud. Aziraphale still didn't notice him, not even as he placed the bucket down with a light thud. "Here is that chardonnay you asked for, but I thought perhaps you'd like something a little more suiting to the book you're reading?" Crowley offered, as he carefully chose his words. There was a hint of nervousness, as a little shadow of doubt crept over his mind.

He hated this sudden rush of emotions. He couldn't understand them, and he certainly felt no need for their presence. He was just trying to actually be good at his job, for once. 'If you were actually trying to be good at your job, you'd have walked away without bringing him cake,' his thoughts taunted.

Aziraphale peeked out from over his book, and glanced at the small glass and plate directly in front of him. He squinted at the food items in front of him, then looked up at Crowley with that same, wide smile. "Yes, well, I do tend to be able to actually see the things I am eating, though I do suppose I had heard this establishment offered such small portions." He chuckled to himself, as he placed the book lovingly down across the table on the empty silver placemat. He carefully draped the white napkin across his lap, as he sat up right once more.

"Yeah. Well. Y'know how rich people are these days," Crowley responded, without giving much thought about how that could come off as an insult.

Aziraphale paused what he was doing, and looked up at Crowley, and he felt a small lump form in his throat. Apparently, it was an insult. Panic started to flood his brain until, "Gluttony does seem to be looked down on, though I haven't the faintest idea why. I'm quite fond of food myself," he chuckled, as his hand lightly patted his stomach. "Life is far too short after all, to be spent doing things that one doesn't like, or avoiding the things that one would like to do, my dear."

"Right," Crowley nodded. My dear. Who even spoke like that anymore? Crowley supposed his nan might, if she were still around, but Aizraphale hardly looked more than five years his senior.

It could be flirting, he thought for a moment, but then violently swatted the thought from his head. Aziraphale was waiting for a date, and he certainly had too much class to flirt with him.

He watched as Aziraphale took a small bite of cake, and thought he heard something about how scrumptious it was, but Crowley was already walking away, headed back to serve others who had been waiting on him. Aziraphale didn't seem to notice his departure, as he continued to enjoy the cake and hot chocolate before returning to his book.

The next time he went back to Aziraphale's table, he waited until he had excused himself somewhere else. The date still hadn't arrived, which continued to irritate Crowley to no end. Aziraphale had clearly been the one to go through such lengths to make the arrangements, had bothered to show up on time, and still kept a cheery disposition about the whole thing.

If it had been Crowley on the date-he growled at that thought. Of course it wouldn't be him on the date. He was hardly dating material, had been told as much on a number of occasions by both men and women, and tended to be a last resort as the bar was shutting down or after someone had a nasty breakup. He was usually quite alright with the arrangement, he didn't often want more company than what was provided, but then again he supposed he hadn't ever been so impressed by someone on the first impression as he was by Aziraphale.

It didn't matter. He was sure the date had surely called or sent a message, and Aziraphale had decided to stay rather than try to find somewhere else to eat on a busy night. He had told Crowley he liked food, after all, and even in the portions were small, there was nowhere better than here.

This time, he left a small apple rose puff, drizzled elegantly by a nice thin line of caramel and another hot chocolate, this one made with darker, richer cocao. He placed them nicely in front of Aziraphale's seat, then dipped around a corner.

He watched Aziraphale smile, and Crowley could've almost swore he saw him pull out his phone and take a photo.

Crowley continued to ignore Aziraphale's table until he happened to look up from where he was standing, collecting plates from a couple's table who had just left-he certainly wasn't trying to steal a glimpse, it was definitely just a matter of picking his head up at the right angle at the right time, to see that he had almost completed what Crowley was sure was at least an 800 page novel. He quickly rushed to the kitchen, and grabbed the first tray he could get his hands on.

He nearly ran into one of the other servers as he headed back out the door, tripped someone accidentally with his foot as he twisted around some couples as they exited, and continued to Aziraphale's table.

He never ran. Why was he running now?

He barely managed to slow his pace as the table came back into view. He placed the plate down in front of Aziraphale once more and actually got a glimpse at what was there.

A crepe. Singular. Quite pathetic compared to some of the other things he had brought over. Crepes weren't even generally on the menu, which meant that one of the more demanding customers had come in, with his special requests. They kept the dry ingredients on hand for the man Crowley only knew by his Westwood suit. He was sure there would be some shouting in a few minutes, but that was someone else's problem to worry about.

"Good book, then?" Crowley asked, as he watched Aziraphale turn the final pages.

Aziraphale looked curiously at Crowley, then back at his book as he closed it. "I'm afraid it was not, I could hardly tell you what it was about now. Tried rather hard to focus on the story but I kept finding myself rather distracted by other things," he smiled, looking right at Crowley once more. "You offer quite good service, I have to admit I had heard awful things about the staff here, for as good as the food is. But you're rather nice-"

Crowley's lips tugged down, and he bit his tongue as he tried to maintain his growl. "I'm not nice. Nice is a four letter word, and it certainly has no place here. I could lose my job," he whispered, trying to disuaed any further compliments. His face betrayed him with a light blush, where more of an angry red ought to be.

"Yes, yes," Aziraphale nodded, his body never shrank and his smile never faded. "Of course, We wouldn't want that to happen." He turned to the crepe. "I've never quite found a crepe that I liked outside of Paris, but this does look promising."

Crowley chuckled, "too kind. I can attest, they are not that good, angel."

He nearly choked after he heard the word slip off his tongue, and covered his mouth with his arm as he coughed.

"Quite alright?" Aziraphale asked, as he quickly filled the other wine glass and extended it to Crowley. "Here, have a little drink. I'm sure drinking on the job is generally frowned upon but you should be closing shortly, and I certainly won't tattle on you."

Crowley quickly threw it back, and tried to ignore the rush of warmth he felt when their fingers gently brushed for a moment as he took the glass. He wished he had his sunglasses, as his heart thumped in his chest and he would've swore he felt his pupils dilating. He placed the glass back on the table, not giving it a chance to slip from his hand.

"Right. Enjoy the rest of your meal, Aziraphale. It has been a...pleasure."

Crowley continued the rest of the evening without trying to think of the strange man with his bubbly grin, who had disrupted his evening and made him be good at his job. He'd never see him again, or if he did manage to get another reservation it wouldn't be for at least another six months and Crowley was certain he would resign on the spot if that ever did happen.

He finished cleaning up his pile of dishes for the night, and threw his apron in the laundry pile to be taken out in the morning. He wrapped his leather jacket tightly around his thin frame, and he shuddered the moment the chill evening hair brushed against him. He shuffled from side to side, as he tried to find a means to keep warm on the short walk over to his Bentley. The payments chipped away almost all of his monthly income, but he couldn't quite bring himself to drive anything else.

He kicked a rock with the tip of his shoe, his eyes focused on the ground. That was until his eyes glimpsed a pair of brown loafers, attached to legs that were covered in a familiar shade of brown. He looked up slowly to see Aziraphale sitting on the red brick wall that bordered off the employee parking. He was sat tall, even though he didn't have any back support, and his hands rested in his lap. He smiled at Crowley when he looked up at him.

"Sweet Jes-Sata-sweet somebody," Crowley stated, his body jerked back slightly. He refused to show he was too spooked. He liked spooky, he shouldn't be so off his guard after all.

"Ah, yes, hello Crowley," Aziraphale smiled. "Perhaps this wasn't the best way to wait for you but I didn't quite see anywhere else where you would've spotted me and I didn't want to risk missing you."

"Didn't have to come across as a bloody stalker," Crowley teased. He wrapped his arms around his body, and shivered. His car was only a few feet away now, it would've been easy to quickly hop in, but he was-intrigued.

"Again, my apologizes my dear," Aziraphale replied, standing up and offering his overcoat to Crowley. He looked puzzled at it for a moment, before his fingers reached out and quickly drapped it around his shoulders. He'd never been able to resist warmth. "But, I figured outside of your place of employment was a much better location to give you a compliment and thank you so very much for your service this evening. I haven't had such delightful treats in a very long time, though I am still rather hungry-"

"Which is why it is called Famine's-"

"So I was rather hoping you might accompany me to a little late night snack, I know a lovely kebab shop just around the corner. A little greasy, but the owners are the most lovely couple and they just had a new little one so I wanted to stop by anyway to drop off a little present."

Crowley paused, and reached up to scratch his ear, Aziraphale's jacket almost falling off his shoulders. He couldn't have heard him correctly, because it almost most certainly sounded like he was asking him out on a date. Though, he wasn't quite sure who else would've used the word accompany, he had gotten quite used to Aziraphale's vocabulary and he wasn't stupid enough to think he meant anything else. That was why he was certain he had heard him wrong.

"Well, I mean-"

Aziraphale nodded, and Crowley thought he saw his smile shrink for the first time that evening. He'd call that an accomplishment, if he wasn't disappointed to see it go. "Right, as I said it was just a hope after all and if you'd rather not I completely understand not wanting to join someone you've only just met after working such long hours-"

"What happened to your date?"

"My date? Oh, well, I suppose I used that term quite loosely without giving it much thought. I had arranged to meet with a publisher about selling me a first edition copy of a book I thought nearly impossible to get my hands on, though he stood me up to meet with a librarian." He shuddered at the words. "As if a librarian would appreciate the book or give it the loving care and touch it deserves."

Crowley tried to keep himself from smirking. He felt better knowing he wasn't the second option. He wasn't sure he could handle being Aziraphale's second choice. He stepped closer, extending his hand to Aziraphale.

"I must warn you, I have been told I'm not the best driver. Bat out of hell, or somethin' I think, has been used. But, I do have a car. A quite nice car. And a kebab does sound quite nice."

Aziraphale beemed, taking Crowley's extended hand. "I do think we could just walk, it is not that far away and I never have felt that comfortable in cars. Never learned how to drive one myself, never actually even got past my first lesson."

Crowley chuckled, tugging him towards the Bentley. "Get in the car, angel. I won't go too fast for you."