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Aziraphale slotted another book from the pile into the last empty space on that row, exhaling with relief as it returned to its rightful place. Gabriel, or Jim, rather, had certainly taken an interest in sorting books by systems so horrendous you would struggle to even find it in Hell. He couldn’t be sure if that was because demons were reasonable enough to draw the line at ‘alphabetical by the first letter of the first sentence within colour groupings decided by an Angel who was very possibly colourblind’, or if they weren’t awful enough to have thought of it. No matter. It was harmless and it kept him busy. It didn’t bother him. He merely figured that since he had some free time, he may as well fix it, especially since he would hold the meeting tomorrow, and there would be no love blossoming in the presence of such a foul, unreasonable–
The golden bell above the door chimed, and Aziraphale paused his activities, wandering over to the railing overlooking the entrance to the shop.
“Oh, Crowley!”
“Hey, Angel,” Crowley practically purred, one hand lazily stuffed in the front pocket of his tight black pants while his other fingers were looped around the handles of a tall, brown paper bag, as well as a smaller white bakery bag. “Tempt you to a drink?”
A wonderful idea, and one that couldn’t have come at a better time. Aziraphale supposed he could be considered thoroughly tempted.
“When you put it like that, how could I say no?” he answered, already smiling. “I’ll be down in just a tick!”
Aziraphale moved the next pile of books to the side, intending to continue once Crowley had left. He padded down the stairs, finding Crowley waiting for him on the ground floor.
“What’ve you got there, by the way?” Aziraphale said, clasping his hands together in front of him and curiously glancing at the second bag in his hand. Crowley lifted it higher up, aimlessly swinging it.
“This? Oh, right. Ran into Nina while she was closing up across the road, they had a few leftovers she couldn’t sell the next day. Grabbed some pastries for you. There were a few macarons, a danish, uhhh…”
Crowley scratched the back of his neck with his free hand, handing it over with a shrug. “Couple eccles cakes, too, I think.”
Aziraphale took the bag gratefully, poking it open and cheekily taking a peek. The smell of fresh pastry wafted out, just as sweet as the gesture. It didn’t escape him that it consisted of his favourites, with the addition of something that was allegedly calming.
“Thank you. These are lovely,” he earnestly said. Crowley cleared his throat into his palm, striding off for the back room.
“It’s fine. Anyway, were you re-sorting the books again? It’ll take you all night, like that. Why don’t you just miracle it?”
Aziraphale sighed, following inside and fishing out the wine glasses from the cabinet.
“You know how I feel about that. It’s just so… impersonal. There’s no care to it, or finesse. Not to mention that some of my collections are extremely fragile, carelessly moving them about with a snap of the finger could damage the paper.”
“You could fix that with a miracle, too,” Crowley pointed out, completely missing the point.
“It would never be the same! If I restored them all like that, they would be no better than a replica.”
Crowley slipped out one bottle from the bag with a shrug, dropping onto the lounge with a sprawl like one who believed limbs were quite optional (in his case, it was not all too far from the truth).
“Suit yourself. I dunno why you keep letting Gabriel mess with your stuff,” Crowley idly commented. Aziraphale could practically see into his mind, the way his train of thought became visibly tangible when he abruptly groaned. “Please tell me he’ll be very, very busy somewhere that isn’t here for the foreseeable future. If I get too drunk I might actually consider singing him the stupid alphabet song.”
“You answered your own question. I let him because it gives him something to do,” he said, with the long suffering patience of a single mother with toddlers, pouring both himself and Crowley a very generous drink. “Not to worry though, I’ve put him to bed early tonight. We have the night completely to ourselves.”
Aziraphale took a sip of the wine, humming in approval.
“No, hold on– you what?” Crowley asked, his eyebrows jumping up his forehead. “What does that mean? He’s an angel. You lot don’t sleep.”
“You should know as well as anyone that we are very capable of doing so, just because I personally don’t often partake–”
“Okay, rephrase. Gabriel, ‘I do not sully the temple of my body because I think I’m soo much better than you’, does not sleep.”
“He’s not in his right mind,” Aziraphale pointed out, ignoring Crowley’s subtle sneer because he was well aware of his doubts.
“Sure, fine. But does he even know how?” he asked, reaching over for his glass and taking a drink.
“Well… I’m still not quite sure he understands the difference between sleeping and lying very still in a bed, but uhm, he doesn’t seem to mind it terribly either way?” Aziraphale busied himself with digging through the bakery bag for a macaron, continuing to steadfastly ignore Crowley’s incredulous looks. “He is very… what’s the word, extraverted? And I just, well, I needed some kind of reprieve, alright?”
Crowley threw his head back with a bark of laughter, and Aziraphale furrowed his brow, watching the bob of his throat and following it down to the exposed skin where his henley was carelessly unbuttoned… He reached up and slipped off his sunglasses, placing them aside. Aziraphale bit into a lemon macaron, savouring the taste crumbling on his tongue.
“The word you’re looking for is annoying, Angel, he’s annoying,” Crowley said, his beautiful serpent eyes curved visible delight. “And you tricked him into sleeping ‘cause you wanted him to sod off! Oh that’s a good one, that’s hilarious.”
“I did not ‘trick’ anyone! I very truthfully suggested an activity that I think would do him some good, one which also so happened to keep him out of my hair for a time,” he corrected, unhappily pursing his lips. Crowley’s amusement didn’t fade in the slightest. “You make it sound so terrible. He looks forward to it, I make him hot chocolate beforehand.”
“So you’ve trained him like a dog,” Crowley summarised in an amused voice that was bordering on impressed. Aziraphale floundered. Oh, it really did sound like that, didn’t it?
“Well, I… I can see how it may come across that way.”
“You are a right bastard when you want to be,” Crowley continued. His grin was sharp and full of teeth. Aziraphale exhaled, exasperated. Perhaps he should admit he could be– sometimes, and in small amounts. Just enough of one, anyway, and not an inch more.
“Please try one of the macarons and be quiet,” Aziraphale said instead, picking out the strawberry pink one and holding it out. He knew Crowley wasn’t a big sweets person (or food person at all, really), but they made their strawberry flavour closer to the real fruit, and he was known to enjoy that from time to time. Crowley’s grin didn’t diminish in the least, leaning over to take it. It was undoubtedly only to indulge him, but he obediently ate it regardless. Aziraphale watched him lift it to his red lips, and quietly brought his own wine glass up to his face.
“Mn, that’s nice, actually,” he thoughtfully commented. “You have the rest, though. It’s still a bit sweet for me.”
“Very bold of you to assume I planned to offer more than one. Even my generosity has its limits, you know.”
Crowley laughed again, and Aziraphale chucked along with him. It surely hadn’t been more than a week, but it felt like an eternity since the last time they had gotten to talk like this, just the two of them. Aziraphale loved the world, he loved its people and he loved its books; but re-sorting an entire bookshop grew exhausting, and no matter how much he enjoyed the company of some wonderful humans like Maggie, he couldn’t handle it for long periods of time. Gabriel was confused and lost, and as terrible as the thought may be, he was significantly more bearable like this. Aziraphale didn’t blame him for the way he was, he certainly held no grudges, but he needed to hide from it all sometimes just to catch his breath.
It was different here. Drinking himself silly with Crowley under the gentle, golden light of the bookshop and the smell of pastries and old paper, Aziraphale felt perfectly content. Then again, when had the usual rules ever applied to the two of them?
Some nights, Crowley and Aziraphale would have a drink. Then there were other nights, where Crowley and Aziraphale would drink. Hours passed, and the night was revealed to be the latter. Aziraphale was quite certain of that fact, giggling with rosy, dimpled cheeks.
“Oh my, what a d– dis, disaster.”
“You’re telling me! How’re we ssssupposed to do paperwork for that?” Crowley said, his hissing lisp slipping out. Aziraphale always found it ridiculously endearing. He put on a higher pitched voice and a slightly different accent, continuing, “Form 668-B, reason for ress, ressiss, ssisssstance– bloody hate that word– But the reason is, y’see, the man thought he was in a bloody sssex dungeon and flashed the interns!”
More laughter bubbled up from Aziraphale’s chest. He felt warm. Love always hung in the air of the bookshop, for how very loved it was, and as an angel who could sense that kind of thing all the time, he was rather used to it; but every now and again, he could feel it more acutely than before. It washed over him in waves. It was wonderful, richer and gentler than anything Hea– Oh Heavens, he couldn’t be thinking like that. He reached for the bottle again, tilting it over his own glass. It took him a good couple seconds to process that nothing was coming out. He frowned at it, and then frowned at the second empty bottle on the table, for the incredibly rude act of disappointing him while he was having such a nice time.
“All out? Already?” Crowley observed, hanging over the armrest in a way that could only very loosely be described as sitting. At some point his blazer had come off, haphazardly left over the back of the lounge. His shirt clung to his lean shoulders. Aziraphale very swiftly decided they needed more wine.
“I’m going to go… get us, some more,” he informed him, stumbling up to his feet. Naturally, he had his own stash. They wouldn’t miss one less at the meeting (ball).
On his way, he noted the rustic golden hands on the clock, pointing to a rather disappointing time. Crowley would likely leave soon, then. He had his own things to do. Whatever those things were. But they were important, Aziraphale was sure! Like… His plants, taking care of his plants. Well, yelling at his plants. He brought the wine back over to the table, and Crowley made eager grabbing hands at it, wiggling his fingers.
“Yessssssssssssss,” he hissed, grinning. He popped off the cork, probably with a minor miracle, and took a swig straight from it. It did seem to be that time of the night.
Aziraphale sat back down, contemplating Crowley’s plants. They carried a few boxes back to the Bentley earlier that day, but it didn’t feel like nearly as many as he used to have. Were the others misbehaving? Oh, he did hope they weren’t all shredded. He was far too harsh on the poor things.
“Mmkay, spit it out. That’s your, your, ‘something minor is veryyy greatly bothering me’ face. What’s on your mind?” Crowley suddenly said, gesturing with the bottle. Aziraphale swiped it out of his hand, taking a sip from the bottle himself. He sighed, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief.
“I was thinking,” he started, his brain taking a minute to actually remember what he’d been thinking about. “I was thinking about your plants. There’s so few of them, now.”
“It sssssucks!” Crowley said, immediately enraged and throwing his arms up in the air. “I’ve worked on some of those plants for twenty years, and then, baboom, you have to downsize, and they’re just gone!”
“That’s terrible,” Aziraphale sympathised. The idea of having to downsize with his books made him positively nauseous. He wasn’t actually certain why Crowley had to downsize. Was it the same reason his plants were in the Bentley? Aziraphale assumed he just had a strange new method of cultivating them. He thought talking to them was strange when that first became a fad, it wouldn’t be all too surprising to hear that travelling with your plants was the latest trend.
“I lost a whole group of venus fly traps,” he sadly groaned, squishing his face into the side of the lounge. “You know, you know how hard those are to keep happy? They’re always like, stressed, and they’re the only plants that die if I threaten them, sssso it took a lot of extra work.”
“You’ve… I don’t believe, you’ve ever actually told me about them,” he said, frowning. He didn’t know all of Crowley’s plants, but he thought he was relatively up to date on the ones he was most proud of. Crowley wiggled into a new, even stranger position that only Crowley could manage looking comfortable in.
“I didn’t? Huh. Took a lot of uhhh, trial and error, to get right. Big personalities, those guys. Needed specific conditions. They would’ve hated it in the car, I gave ‘em teeth and left them in the apartment. I hope Shax tried to grab one. Nn, I’ll missss them. Good plants, they were.”
“Wait, Shax? Why on Earth would she have your plants?” Aziraphale asked, confused as to how she got brought up at all.
Crowley paused. Visibly. He had the look of a man (not literally, but so to speak) who accidentally let something slip.
“Nhh. You know.”
“Crowley.”
“She’s in my– the apartment. Other plants are there. Were there, anyway. Yeah.”
Aziraphale frowned harder.
“Whatever is she doing there?” he asked, leaning closer persistently as Crowley uncomfortably shuffled backwards. His eyes darted around the room, and he idly tilted his head back and forth, deliberating.
“I wouldn’t know,” Crowley vaguely answered, dramatically shrugging his shoulders and slouching himself over the armrest. “Jussst, living there, I presume. Whatever it is you do in apartments that you own.”
“She… owns your apartment?” The shock was sobering. Aziraphale put the bottle down seriously, and Crowley continued to do his best impersonation of a waving inflatable man from a car dealership as it died a slow and agonising death.
“‘S not really my apartment anymore, if she owns it. That’s sorta the thing, with ownership.”
“Crowley, enough of that! Tell me why she took your home, and– and tell me why you didn’t say anything, you ri– ridiculous…” Aziraphale pointed accusingly, but couldn’t find the words to finish it.
He wasn’t slow. Rather, quite the opposite; his brain liked to fill in the gaps of things he didn’t understand, painting a picture so vivid that he often forgot it wasn’t necessarily true. He wasn’t ever taught to question things. So, Crowley had begun keeping his plants in his car, and Aziraphale thought: How wonderful. They must get plenty of sun in there.
It was so long ago, too. He… supposed he never really asked where Crowley went, when he left the bookshop. He just assumed. Asking felt like overstepping, but the moment he put that sentiment into words, it didn’t seem like the good excuse he thought it was.
“Er. Well. It uh, came with the job, sssso…” Crowley reached his thumb up to his jaw, idly tapping at the tattoo beneath his ear. “Dunno. Just never came up. It doesn’t really make a difference t’anything. What’s the big deal?”
“No, no, there is a… deal. A big one. Ah, we should discuss this, sober…er.”
Crowley whined, a pitiful little noise.
“Do we have to? ‘S much nicer to talk, drunk.”
Aziraphale did consider that, and admittedly, Crowley was much more likely to be clammy and grumpy sober. Aziraphale himself was less likely to ask the questions he truly wanted answers for.
“Why’s’it even matter?”
Aziraphale opened his mouth to answer, an answer he thought would come to his lips as naturally as breathing. It didn’t. Why did it matter to him? It did, that much was certain. Certainly, it bothered him a great deal.
“Have you been staying… in the Bentley? The whole time?”
“Ngk. Yeah.”
He had been living out of the same Bentley he let Aziraphale drive earlier that same day. The Bentley was his home now, but when the apartment had been his, he’d offered that, too– ’You can come and stay at mine. If you’d like.’ He’d offered everything he had, and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to ask for anything in return. Crowley was a demon, how could he be so selfless?
“It’s er, not so bad. In the Bentley, I mean,” Crowley said. Aziraphale levelled him with a look. “… Okay, yeah, it’s boring, and she’s not happy about it either.”
Then why wouldn’t he ask to stay?
It couldn’t be that he didn’t want to stay at the bookshop. He spent so much time there that Aziraphale had already begun to consider it a little bit his, too. Crowley liked it, Aziraphale was sure. He liked the warm patches of sun. The small nooks and crannies where he could hide away as a snake, and watch Aziraphale desperately chase away customers. He liked discovering odd books that had definitely not been present in Aziraphale’s collection prior to Adam’s best attempt at reconstructing the world.
Was he simply convinced Aziraphale would say no?
The notion felt ridiculous. They were on their side, there were no forces from Heaven or Hell to stop them anymore. There were forces from Heaven or Hell that did have problems with other things, namely, the wanted angel upstairs, but that was neither here nor there. It was ridiculous to think that he would say no. Of course Aziraphale would allow it, why would he ever think–
No. He had every reason to think so, didn’t he? You go too fast for me, we aren’t friends, we’re an angel and a demon, I don’t even like you!
“Oi, come on. Say something. Stop looking so… miserable. I said it’s boring, not that I’m martyring myself.” Crowley interrupted his thoughts, waving his hand about to catch his attention. Aziraphale’s face twisted in what one might describe as a frankly devastating pout.
“Why don’t you want to stay here?” he said, and the alcohol in his system ensured it was out loud. Crowley’s yellow eyes widened.
“Why don’t I… Angel, what?”
“Oh, you heard me, you slippery thing.” Aziraphale shook his head, annunciating every word perfectly but in the tone of a petulant mumble. Crowley was quite right. He wasn’t very sure he wanted to be sober for this.
“Why don’t I want to? When’ve I ever said that?” he said, baffled.
“If you wanted to, you would have simply asked. I am not that daft,” he firmly replied, a slight more upset than he felt he should have been. “Never… Well, nevermind. You don’t have to justify yourself to me. I sound silly. One– one too many drinks, I think.”
“I did,” Crowley murmured, snatching the bottle from the table and bringing it up to his face, as if he thought he could hide behind it. “Ask, I mean. I asked, once. Sorta.”
“What? You absolutely did not!”
“I did!”
“How come I don’t remember it?” Could he really have denied him? Of course, it would have been different before the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, but over the past few years, he thought he was… There was no one to set the rules anymore, no one but themselves. Crowley took a big gulp. Aziraphale personally felt more than drunk enough.
“I cannot imagine a circumstance where I would have said no.” Unless he was referring to…
“Uhhhh, I could probably think of a few,” Crowley said, deeply sceptical. Aziraphale abruptly got to his feet, incensed. His righteous anger was undermined by the drunken sway.
“Lockdown! It was during lockdown! If you had just explained the situation, I would not have dismissed it so quickly! That does not count as properly asking, you, you foolish snake. Oh Crowley, what were you thinking?”
Crowley was in his car throughout the lockdown, and he barely even mentioned popping over for a visit. What a terrible, miserable time it must have been. It was no wonder he slept through the bulk of it. Aziraphale put his hands on his hips expectantly.
“Errr…” Crowley unhelpfully answered. “Didn’t wanna pressure you?”
“Pressure me– Pressure me!” Aziraphale repeated, huffing. “I would love you to stay!”
“What? Noooo you wouldn’t,” Crowley replied in an annoying, nagging voice. “You hate people in your shop.”
“I do not h…” Aziraphale hiccuped, shaking his head. “Hate is a strong word. I do not hate. I dislike when people linger and touch my very fragile books with their unwashed, oily hands.”
Crowely lifted his glass higher up, so he could seemingly investigate his own hands, squinting.
“I have very dry hands,” he acknowledged, inclining his head with a subdued acceptance.
“I know, dear, being a snake does not mean your palms should be so rough, and you really should invest in some hand creams,” he very reasonably said, distracted from the topic at hand.
“Hm. ‘lright then.”
“Quite. No, wait, we were talking about people in my shop, I dislike people in my shop,” Aziraphale quickly rerouted, his mind scrambling to pick up the threads again.
“Yes, Angel, you do.”
“That doesn’t mean I dislike you in my shop. You’re not… people.”
“I’m a demon, true. Not ssssure how that’s much better.”
Aziraphale didn’t mean it in such a literal sense. Crowley was different from everyone, Heaven, Hell and Earth. He couldn’t elaborate on why. It was beyond what words made for humans could ever hope to describe. In his contemplative silence, Crowley took the initiative to talk again, shrinking back into the lounge.
“Look, not a big deal, this whole thing. I’m usually hanging around here bothering you all day regardlessss. Like you said before. Gets plenty of use, this bookshop. It wouldn’t do any good to move the plants in, anyway, so.”
“Whyever not?” he asked, biting his bottom lip. He was fairly confident that Crowley was making excuses to justify why he wouldn’t want to live there, so it would be harder for Aziraphale to reject him outright, but a part of him genuinely worried that Crowley didn’t think the bookshop fit for the plants he cares for so dearly. Crowley scrunched up his nose, and grandly gestured.
“Too much…”
“Too much?”
“Love. Too much love. Eugh. All your customers would compliment them, wouldn’t be able to help themselves. ‘Ohhh, the greenery in here is just wonderful.’ ‘This Monstera doesn’t have a single curled leaf, what a miracle!’” he muttered in a voice, completely convinced that anyone and everyone who saw his plants would trip over themselves in awe at their beauty, because that only made sense, really. “And then you’ll agree, and they’ll feel all appreciated and get a big head about it.”
“They are very wonderful plants,” he said, indulgently.
“Ssssee? You’ll spoil them.”
“I will not. I am perfectly capable of restraining myself.”
“What bloody restraint? I left you with my car for a couple hours and you turned it yellow!” Crowley argued.
“I simply, and reasonably, quite thought that… Well, it was indeed quite…” Aziraphale half-heartedly defended himself, speaking without any real end goal.
“Yellow,” Crowley emphasised.
“Fine, I thought the yellow suited her, and I still happen to think I was right.” Feeling rather bold, Aziraphale continued to say, “Perhaps some positive reinforcement would do your plants some good.”
Crowley shook his head so fast that it must have caused a headache.
“No. No, no, no. Abso… Absolutely not. I worked very hard to get them this terrified, you will not be going about and ruining it,” he vehemently hissed, and, well. They were his plants. Just like this was Aziraphale’s bookshop, and outside was Crowley’s Bentley, and how everything they touched had this arbitrary line drawn in the sand.
“Then, if you must insist, I will ensure they are treated with utmost hos– hostility.”
“I’d love to see you try. I might have to take notes.”
“You’re making fun of me,” he pointed out, narrowing his eyes. “I’ll do my best, I’m still an angel and plants are part of, part of God’s creations, but–”
“Oh please, Angel, I’m literally begging you to never say that again,” Crowley interrupted with a full body shuddering. Aziraphale nodded, slowly attempting to rephrase.
“What I mean, I mean to say that, I would like to compliment them. I don’t know if I have it in me to threaten them like you do, it wouldn’t be very convincing. But, they’re… they’re yours, Crowley! They’re very beautiful, you take such good care of them, and it warms my heart, so I’ll try to make sure you, well, that they’re treated as you wish.”
Perhaps they could put up a sign? ‘Please don’t talk to the plants’. Or rather, ‘Do not acknowledge the plants’, maybe? If it was fittingly ominous and strange, it might do well to drive off customers too.
Crowley stared intensely and unblinkingly. He had mostly gotten the hang of blinking for the sake of appearances, but Aziraphale noticed he would sometimes forget. It was very, beautifully Crowley. The yellow of his eyes was the colour of dandelions, but Aziraphale preferred to think of them like the sun.
“I, ngk, I dunno, it’s just a hobby,” he said, abruptly shy. “My plants aren’t that weak, a couple compliments won’t kill ‘em. But still, it’s… You won’t like the yelling, you know. You’re fussy about your quiet reading time, nearly bit my head off that one time I–”
“Would it be truly so miserable? To spend more time, to… with me, in my company?” He really shouldn’t be saying all this, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He wrung his hands together. “If you don’t want to, I would much rather you said so, instead of insisting that you know what I want better than I do.”
“I do want to,” Crowley corrected, quick as lightning and nearly breathless with it.
“Then… Just stay, Crowley,” he practically pleaded. He hoped Crowley agreed soon, and they could quickly make said changes, before he had time to examine exactly why this conversation was eating away at him. “I don’t understand why you’re making it complicated!”
“Don’t want you to get sick of me.” Crowley sat up straighter, lounging his arm over the armrest, but taking up an uncharacteristically small amount of space. Aziraphale softened. “Whatever, I s’pose it sounds a little dim-witted to say that now.”
“It does,” he serenely and earnestly concurred.
“Oh, hop off it.”
“I allowed Jim to stay here, does that mean you think I prefer his company…?” he slowly asked, the implications borderline offensive. Crowley seemed to agree. He fumbled with his glass in shock, trying to slam it on the table and more rather pathetically tipping it over, wine spilling over the wooden round table.
“Fuck. That wanker!” he cursed. “Didn’t even think about– Of all people, before I could even– Infuriating bastard. And he has the bed. What a load of shite.”
“There’s an idea! If you stay here, you could help keep him occupied so he doesn’t rearrange my books!” He didn’t want to call it babysitting, per se, but if it’s in St. James park, and it quacks like a duck…
“Uh, no, good point. I’ll stick with the car.”
Ah, he wasn’t serious. Aziraphale laughed quietly, basking in the moment. Crowley smiled back, his eyes curving fondly. His gaze unfortunately tracked down to the spilled wine between them.
“Ah. I should fix that, shouldn’t I?”
Crowley absentmindedly waved his hand over the table, soaking up the liquid into the air and drawing out the stains with one motion. Aziraphale smiled, helpless. It would have been just as easy for him to do, but what could he say? Crowley liked to feel helpful. Aziraphale happened to quite like being helped.
“Thank you,” he said, with feeling. Crowley shrugged it off, but Aziraphale wasn’t finished. “Really. And to think, you honestly believed I could get sick of you.”
It hit a little too close to the mark, the centre target of all the things they’ve only ever vaguely talked around and never said in words. Crowley tilted his head, parted his lips, and his eyes were searching for something in Aziraphale’s. 6000 years of being the fastest running snails. Still, after all this time, Aziraphale didn’t know how to answer that look. He wanted, and the wanting had a weight that was bigger than himself, bigger than the Grand Plan– He wanted, but he’d never known how to have. He didn’t know what it meant to have someone.
“I’m gonna sober up, ‘fore I say something stupid,” Crowley mumbled, taking a deep breath and leaning his head over the back of the lounge. For the one between them without a forked tongue, Aziraphale felt remarkably tongue tied. After all his searching, he wondered what Crowley found, in the end.
“Yes. Quite,” he quietly said, closing his eyes and slowly draining the alcohol from his system.
The room was heavier, quieter, once it was gone. There was an awful taste in his mouth, and a dull pounding in his head. He rubbed his temple idly, opening his eyes to Crowley doing much the same.
“I’ll get us some water,” he said, primly dusting off his pants. Crowley nodded. Just as Aziraphale made to leave, he spoke up.
“Make some room on your desk on your way past. ‘S a nice spot, direct sunlight, room for hanging. My Devil’s Ivy will love it there.”
Crowley sprawled back out over the couch, casual in a way that was not actually very casual at all. Aziraphale watched him, momentarily overwhelmed by the sudden swelling of affection.
“I believe I can manage that,” he said, smiling warmly.
“I’m telling Jim he’s not allowed to talk to my plants. Not even small talk about the weather. Nothing.”
“You’re very welcome to do so.”
“And, I… No, that’s all I can think of. I guess, uh… Do I say thank you?”
“There’s no need for that,” Aziraphale replied. “There’s no favour being offered. You spend so much time here either way, and now I won’t have to call you every time I want to share something interesting with you. It just makes sense. This is mutually convenient.”
“Mutually convenient, Satan, you’re so…” Crowley barked out a laugh, pushing a hand back through his messy red hair and leaning his chest against the armrest, his chin propped on the edge to stare back at Aziraphale with an uncommonly open expression.
“So, what, exactly? If you’re about to say something rude, I’ll have you know that I can think of numerous praises for your plants, of which I can express to them anytime.”
“Soo… angelic and generous, is what I was gonna say, sharing your bookshop with this foul fiend,” he said, cheekily.
“I see. In that case, now that the bookshop is being properly shared, perhaps we should revisit the matter of yellow on your lovely Bentley?” Aziraphale teased back, quite proud of himself for maintaining a serious and earnest tone. Crowley narrowed his face in a sharp scowl.
“Angel. Don’t even think about it.”
“Hm, I suppose I wouldn’t mind compromising with an orange.”
“That is literally not even close to a compromise. I’m not sure you understand what a compromise is. Orange, are you out of your mind? I’m gonna have nightmares about that the next time I sleep.”
Aziraphale, not for the first time, was struck with the urge to cradle his face, and simply hold him there to look at. It was the first time that urge was followed by the thought, would he like it, if I did?
There was no use in following that thought any further, at least not now. This, as it was, was enough. Crowley would stay, and though it made very little practical difference, it felt different. Aziraphale was cautiously eager, whatever that meant for people like them.
“You’re right,” he said softly, drinking in the colour of those beautiful eyes. “Yellow is much better.”