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“He’s in the shop,” Ana practically sings as she enters the small office.
“Again?”
She nods. “He — very charmingly — refused my help and asked for you.” Her eyes are practically dancing at Aziraphale. “Like last time.”
Well, the paperwork would still be here later. Aziraphale sighs dramatically as he gets up. Ana rolls her eyes at him, obviously not buying his act.
She’s right, of course. And not only because Aziraphale would rather spend half an hour explaining why white wine isn’t ‘always the best’, certainly doesn’t pair with steak or the difference between their fine wines and the ones they sell in boxes like juice, than do paperwork. He shudders as he remembers those customers who certainly did not come again. And good riddance.
Aziraphale steps into the shop proper — and there he is in all his glory. The tight dark clothes perfectly frame his lean form, the flaming red hair is tousled upon his head in a style that must have taken a good hour and some high-end product to achieve, the long limbs seem both elegant and improper as he leans leisurely on the counter. Long limbs that hide a lot of strength that this man knows just how to use.
Anthony J. Crowley, former competitive ice skater and Olympic gold medallist. Aziraphale followed his career with great interest and more than a few wistful sighs until the man retired five years ago. He thought he wouldn’t see the gorgeous man again, unless maybe as a star in the occasional ice show.
Until two months ago, when he suddenly stood in the middle of ‘Folio & Flask’, looking for a gift without any serviceable knowledge about wine. Since then, he came in at least once a week, asking for Aziraphale. The man has either a lot of wine-enthusiast friends, or a very expensive and problematic relationship with wine, and Aziraphale has inadvertently become his favourite supplier.
There couldn’t be any other reason.
“Mr Crowley,” Aziraphale starts and almost loses the plot entirely when the man turns around and grants him with a smile that should be classified as a weapon. “H— How can I help you today?”
Ana grins and heads for the door. “I’ll go pick up the flyers from the printer,” she says despite there being no flyers to pick up from any printer at all.
“Hello Aziraphale. And I told you, just Crowley, please.” Crowley’s voice was like a mature Barolo Riserva Monfortino: rich, silky and complex, the perfect after dinner drink. “I’m hosting a private, romantic dinner and need a wine.”
“Oh how lovely,” Aziraphale says with a cheery smile, he doesn’t feel; there is a sting in his chest as he wonders who the lucky person is, “what are you serving?”
“I’m planning to make Coq au Vin. And chocolate and cherry lava cake for dessert.”
Aziraphale swallows, hoping his smile doesn’t slip. “Oh, I love a good Coq au Vin” — for a moment he thinks he hears a mumbled “I know”; he is obviously mishearing things — “and with that lava cake… You’ll need something that could pair well with both, that you could also use for cooking. Something fruity but with enough structure for the main course.” He taps his index finger against his lips as he thinks about the best wine to use. Crowley’s gaze remains glued to him — his face, not the finger against his lips, clearly — as he waits for the answer.
“I would choose a Domaine Marquis d'Angerville Volnay 1er Cru Champans.” Aziraphale easily picks two bottles of the full shelves. “From 2019. The 2020 is the more sophisticated option but might overwhelm the dish. The 2019 is fresh and silky and should do nicely.”
“Sounds perfect.” Crowley smiles his lovely, lethal smile again.
While Aziraphale packs up the purchase, Crowley slides a card over. Aziraphale sees it and gasps. The card contains Crowley’s address and phone number.
“Are you free Friday night?” Crowley asks. “I’ll cook Coq au Vin just for you.”