Happy Holidays, Shenaniganders!
Title: Frothy, Fuzzy, Sweet
For: shenaniganders
From: mozzarellaroses
Rating: T for slight language but mostly just G
Summary: Holiday-ish barista AU, no powers (sorry!)
AJ ("everyone-calls-me-AJ-but-everyone's-a-tool") Crowley wasn't the kind of guy you'd expect to see working at a coffee shop--if you knew him.
But therein lay the rub, since no one really knew him. Not really. Not the way he was told by countless motivational speeches not directed solely at him claimed he deserved to be known.
He had his crowds, sure. Granted, they weren't the best of crowds, and he was pretty sure one or two of those guys were out for his blood given the excuse... but at least half the people in that crowd were good company. And they had great taste in music.
"Hey, Crowley! Man the counter, will you? I've gotta take a call. Don't mess up," said Red, her way of saying "I will slit your throat if you act like a dick in front of our customers."
Crowley liked Red, liked that she called him by his last name and didn't give him any BS, but friendship wasn't something easy to consider with a woman who could probably murder him in his sleep.
Distracted as he watched the bombshell of a woman stalk off to wherever women ten leagues beyond anyone went, he didn't notice the customer until he heard the respectfully soft clearing of throat right in front of the counter.
"Excuse me."
"Right, sorry. Your order?"
"One large chai latte with soy milk, extra foam, and caramel drizzle on top with a pinch of cinnamon if you can spare it?"
Crowley wouldn't be lying if he said he was tempted to wipe his shades off just for that order (call him a douchebag and you might be right, but shades in the day were better than 2 a.m. study rings at 7 in the morning).
"Sorry?"
The customer had the decency to look sheepish, at least. He asked for a pen and paper and as he wrote down his order, Crowley was able to get a proper look at the bloke, and concluded that if anyone else had asked him for the abomination of a frothy fuzzy sweet drink that he just had, he would have quit.
But this guy didn't seem like the entitled type who expected baristas to be magic fairies who could take any order and make it a masterpiece--even if most of the ingredients weren't in stock.
He was chubby, plump enough that his cheeks made a funny heart shape over his tacky tartan scarf, and he dressed like what Crowley would describe as a frumpy librarian. His hair was a light, wispy sort of blond, reminiscent of the vintage dutch boys in lederhosen you saw on those old flour boxes.
Crowley felt his heart jump when the other finally looked up from under some inspiringly long eyelashes, and all he could think was oh fuck me when the blond out of time said "Here you go, dear."
That was what someone's grandmother might say. That wasn't supposed to be sexy.
But hey, there you go.
--
"Don't mock my choices in caffeinated drinks, dear. I'm the one paying for them."
"Wouldn't dream of it, angel," Crowley laughed as Aziraphale (months after the first time he'd met the frumpy librarian, who since then had ordered a dozen more variations of the strangest drinks Crowley had never heard of, and had solidified Crowley's opinion of his frumpiness with his love of tartan and his obsession with old books) shook his head.
"I wish you wouldn't do that," the blond murmured. Crowley slipped his shades down onto the bridge of his nose and looked up at the other with questioning eyes.
"Do what?"
"Joke around like that."
Ah, Crowley thought wryly.
Over the past few months, the two had gone from 'eccentric customer and disgruntled barista' to casual conversation partners, onward to easygoing acquaintances, and eventually upgrading to friends somewhere down the way.
About a month ago, Crowley had started calling Aziraphale 'angel' (because his name was a mouthful but he knew other people called him 'Az' or 'Fell' or 'Zira' and other people were tools). Every time he did, Aziraphale would shake his head, get this cute little blush, and turn away like Crowley was joking.
It went without saying, but joking was the last thing Crowley was doing when he called him that.
Aziraphale was an angel, in his own special way.
For one thing, he was kind. Not a pushover, as Crowley was endlessly pleased to learn, because while his physique didn't lend to the idea, Aziraphale could hold his own in a fight (especially if you handed him a stick, or a sword, or even a tire iron). One memorable instance had Crowley on his knees while his good friend, who'd earned the name of fuckface (but whose real name was Hastur), tried to kick his ribs in. Luckily (though he didn't think of it at the time), Aziraphale had gone looking for him when he missed their daily session feeding the ducks in the park, and found Hastur and Ligur (dickbag) trying to break Crowley's shades against his considerable cheekbones.
It went something like this:
"You leave him alone!"
Some laughter. The sound of an umbrella being swung. A sickening crack. Hastur and Ligur running away while Aziraphale abandoned his twice-broken umbrella to help Crowley up.
"You didn't have to," Crowley protested behind a bloodied eye and a fast-growing lump against the side of his face.
"Of course I did, dear," Aziraphale had said quietly. "We're friends, after all."
And that was how, Crowley would reflect later, he got his first real friend in... well, in as long as he could remember.
Their friendship consisted of the usual things--meeting up, discussing everything under and beyond the sun, getting drunk at inappropriate times, and Crowley mocking Aziraphale's taste in everything, while simultaneously supporting his friend's obsessive love of books and his preference for sushi, which they had nearly every Friday since.
Through all that, Crowley's not-altogether-misplaced crush never went away.
And he was alright with that.
By the time he realized he'd been flirting with Aziraphale, he was just about ready to put all his cards on the table. If Aziraphale wasn't going to get "angel" then Crowley doubted anything less than a printed card reading "You are invited to a seduction" would get the message across.
But he supposed a nice personalized drink would work just as well.
"Thank you dear. What is it?"
"Just try it," Crowley said. "Trust me, you'll like it."
And Aziraphale did. The way his face lit up on the first sip as they sat outside, surrounded by softly falling snow, told Crowley just that.
"Very Christmassy," Aziraphale said approvingly. "I didn't know peppermint and cinnamon could work in the same drink."
"Well I didn't know it was even legal to mix half the drinks I've mixed for you since we met."
"Hmm. I'm glad that we did."
"That we what?"
"That we met, dear," said Aziraphale, shaking his head in that way of his.
"Do you call everyone dear?" Crowley asked out of the blue.
"What? Oh, well..."
"Because I don't use 'angel' on anyone but you."
"A good joke, I'll grant you--"
"Who said I was joking? Not me."
In the cold, Aziraphale's blush was twice as visible.
And Crowley leaned forward, throwing whatever insecurities he might have had right out of his mind, tasting the drink he'd made just for the angel who'd inspired him to make it, and feeling his angel kiss him right back.
Happy Hoolidays, shenaniganders, from your Secret Writer!
For: shenaniganders
From: mozzarellaroses
Rating: T for slight language but mostly just G
Summary: Holiday-ish barista AU, no powers (sorry!)
AJ ("everyone-calls-me-AJ-but-everyone's-a-tool") Crowley wasn't the kind of guy you'd expect to see working at a coffee shop--if you knew him.
But therein lay the rub, since no one really knew him. Not really. Not the way he was told by countless motivational speeches not directed solely at him claimed he deserved to be known.
He had his crowds, sure. Granted, they weren't the best of crowds, and he was pretty sure one or two of those guys were out for his blood given the excuse... but at least half the people in that crowd were good company. And they had great taste in music.
"Hey, Crowley! Man the counter, will you? I've gotta take a call. Don't mess up," said Red, her way of saying "I will slit your throat if you act like a dick in front of our customers."
Crowley liked Red, liked that she called him by his last name and didn't give him any BS, but friendship wasn't something easy to consider with a woman who could probably murder him in his sleep.
Distracted as he watched the bombshell of a woman stalk off to wherever women ten leagues beyond anyone went, he didn't notice the customer until he heard the respectfully soft clearing of throat right in front of the counter.
"Excuse me."
"Right, sorry. Your order?"
"One large chai latte with soy milk, extra foam, and caramel drizzle on top with a pinch of cinnamon if you can spare it?"
Crowley wouldn't be lying if he said he was tempted to wipe his shades off just for that order (call him a douchebag and you might be right, but shades in the day were better than 2 a.m. study rings at 7 in the morning).
"Sorry?"
The customer had the decency to look sheepish, at least. He asked for a pen and paper and as he wrote down his order, Crowley was able to get a proper look at the bloke, and concluded that if anyone else had asked him for the abomination of a frothy fuzzy sweet drink that he just had, he would have quit.
But this guy didn't seem like the entitled type who expected baristas to be magic fairies who could take any order and make it a masterpiece--even if most of the ingredients weren't in stock.
He was chubby, plump enough that his cheeks made a funny heart shape over his tacky tartan scarf, and he dressed like what Crowley would describe as a frumpy librarian. His hair was a light, wispy sort of blond, reminiscent of the vintage dutch boys in lederhosen you saw on those old flour boxes.
Crowley felt his heart jump when the other finally looked up from under some inspiringly long eyelashes, and all he could think was oh fuck me when the blond out of time said "Here you go, dear."
That was what someone's grandmother might say. That wasn't supposed to be sexy.
But hey, there you go.
--
"Don't mock my choices in caffeinated drinks, dear. I'm the one paying for them."
"Wouldn't dream of it, angel," Crowley laughed as Aziraphale (months after the first time he'd met the frumpy librarian, who since then had ordered a dozen more variations of the strangest drinks Crowley had never heard of, and had solidified Crowley's opinion of his frumpiness with his love of tartan and his obsession with old books) shook his head.
"I wish you wouldn't do that," the blond murmured. Crowley slipped his shades down onto the bridge of his nose and looked up at the other with questioning eyes.
"Do what?"
"Joke around like that."
Ah, Crowley thought wryly.
Over the past few months, the two had gone from 'eccentric customer and disgruntled barista' to casual conversation partners, onward to easygoing acquaintances, and eventually upgrading to friends somewhere down the way.
About a month ago, Crowley had started calling Aziraphale 'angel' (because his name was a mouthful but he knew other people called him 'Az' or 'Fell' or 'Zira' and other people were tools). Every time he did, Aziraphale would shake his head, get this cute little blush, and turn away like Crowley was joking.
It went without saying, but joking was the last thing Crowley was doing when he called him that.
Aziraphale was an angel, in his own special way.
For one thing, he was kind. Not a pushover, as Crowley was endlessly pleased to learn, because while his physique didn't lend to the idea, Aziraphale could hold his own in a fight (especially if you handed him a stick, or a sword, or even a tire iron). One memorable instance had Crowley on his knees while his good friend, who'd earned the name of fuckface (but whose real name was Hastur), tried to kick his ribs in. Luckily (though he didn't think of it at the time), Aziraphale had gone looking for him when he missed their daily session feeding the ducks in the park, and found Hastur and Ligur (dickbag) trying to break Crowley's shades against his considerable cheekbones.
It went something like this:
"You leave him alone!"
Some laughter. The sound of an umbrella being swung. A sickening crack. Hastur and Ligur running away while Aziraphale abandoned his twice-broken umbrella to help Crowley up.
"You didn't have to," Crowley protested behind a bloodied eye and a fast-growing lump against the side of his face.
"Of course I did, dear," Aziraphale had said quietly. "We're friends, after all."
And that was how, Crowley would reflect later, he got his first real friend in... well, in as long as he could remember.
Their friendship consisted of the usual things--meeting up, discussing everything under and beyond the sun, getting drunk at inappropriate times, and Crowley mocking Aziraphale's taste in everything, while simultaneously supporting his friend's obsessive love of books and his preference for sushi, which they had nearly every Friday since.
Through all that, Crowley's not-altogether-misplaced crush never went away.
And he was alright with that.
By the time he realized he'd been flirting with Aziraphale, he was just about ready to put all his cards on the table. If Aziraphale wasn't going to get "angel" then Crowley doubted anything less than a printed card reading "You are invited to a seduction" would get the message across.
But he supposed a nice personalized drink would work just as well.
"Thank you dear. What is it?"
"Just try it," Crowley said. "Trust me, you'll like it."
And Aziraphale did. The way his face lit up on the first sip as they sat outside, surrounded by softly falling snow, told Crowley just that.
"Very Christmassy," Aziraphale said approvingly. "I didn't know peppermint and cinnamon could work in the same drink."
"Well I didn't know it was even legal to mix half the drinks I've mixed for you since we met."
"Hmm. I'm glad that we did."
"That we what?"
"That we met, dear," said Aziraphale, shaking his head in that way of his.
"Do you call everyone dear?" Crowley asked out of the blue.
"What? Oh, well..."
"Because I don't use 'angel' on anyone but you."
"A good joke, I'll grant you--"
"Who said I was joking? Not me."
In the cold, Aziraphale's blush was twice as visible.
And Crowley leaned forward, throwing whatever insecurities he might have had right out of his mind, tasting the drink he'd made just for the angel who'd inspired him to make it, and feeling his angel kiss him right back.
Happy Hoolidays, shenaniganders, from your Secret Writer!