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i.
It’s hard to keep away.
He tries. Honest to Go— to good— honestly. Weeks, months, seconds melding into minutes and days. The longest he’s gotten must have been half a decade. It’s hard, but he tries.
Then he bumps into Aziraphale and the angel greets him with those eyes, blue and bright, the sincerity of his happiness to see Crowley seeping through his words—
And his entire resolve breaks.
ii.
“Where have you been?” Aziraphale asks him, this time over thin slices of meat, vegetable pancakes, soup, and the local alcohol. The food stall is on the side of the road, crammed with people. It’s raining hard, the canopy sagging from the weight of the water. This is the only place that has miraculously stayed dry. The owner has taken advantage of the situation and has raised the prices. Aziraphale glares at Crowley and everyone is surprised to see that they have enough money to cover the food and some extra to make it home.
“Oh, you know. Here. There— everything tends to blend together when you’re on back to back assignments,” Crowley says, slouched against the plastic chair. What he doesn’t say is: missing you. Trying to prove to myself that I don’t miss you.
Aziraphale raises an eyebrow.
“All right, keep your secrets to yourself. But now that I’ve found you, don’t think I’m letting you out of my sight that easily.”
Crowley laughs, finishes his fourth bottle.
“Let’sss see you try.”
iii.
Crowley visits the bookshop. Hangs around and pretends to be an interested customer. He’s the only who gets to slouch on the stuffed armchair that only ever seems to be around when he’s there. He peers over the books, watching the customers, watching Aziraphale. It’s boring, it’s mind-numbing.
(Aziraphale handles a pile of dusty tomes. He doesn’t sneeze— doesn’t have to— but he does wrinkle his nose. It’s reassuring.)
He takes Aziraphale out to eat. Lunch or dinner or anything in between. He doesn’t eat much, just a nibble. Just because Aziraphale insists he tries this dish, with the duck or this dish with the subtle kick of spice in between bites.
“Humor me, won’t you, my dear,” Aziraphale says, requesting they go to this new restaurant that’s opened across town.
When have I ever been yours? Crowley wants to ask. He doesn’t because he knows the answer to that thousands year old question.
iv.
They’re seated on their usual bench, trying to settle about something that needs to be done over in Paris. Neither of them wants to do it but Crowley’s trying his hardest to persuade Aziraphale by appealing to his fascination for the opera and their pastries. The ducks have spotted them and are quacking for attention and bread. They’ve muted the noise to a tolerable level, but Crowley has long stopped paying him any mind.
“I’ll do it,” Aziraphale finally concedes. Aha! Victory! “But only if you come with me.”
“Why?” Crowley demands, eyebrows furrowed.
“Do I really need a reason?” Aziraphale smiles innocently. Crowley hates that he loves it.
“Yes!” No.
v.
“Angel,” Crowley says, a warning in his tone.
“Just ten more minutes.”
“Yes, I believe you’ve already promised that ten minutes ago.”
“Have I? I am sorry for keeping you. Let me just put this down and then we can leave.” Aziraphale tries not to hide his disappointment but Crowley knows what that look means.
“Oh, for heav— bloody hell, all right, ten minutes more. But I swear, if we’re late and lose our place—“ Aziraphale beams at him.
“We won’t. And if we do, I know how to make it up to you, don’t I?”
With a sigh, Crowley settles himself on the other side of the couch. Seconds later, Aziraphale leans against him, already lost in the chapter.
Fine, I suppose. Take all the time you need. Beside him, Aziraphale laughs.