Chapter Text
Nothing Much Changes
by Lucius Complex
1
From the outside, Aziraphale’s bookshop is so well restored that one cant tell the difference between the old one and new. It must have taken a damned number of Miracles, possibly a migraine or three, so Crowley takes a moment to appreciate the angel’s painstaking efforts – seeing as nobody else can – before gently pushing open the door. In the late afternoon the interior is dimmer than usual, curtains filtering in one last burst of dying daylight that seems to concentrate upon the sunken velvet couch that Aziraphale favours and is currently ensconced in, squinting into his mobile phone.
Crowley leans cross-legged against the doorjamb and watches the light playing off the angel’s absurd hair, dust motes shining in the air, much as he’s done for the last millennia... and the last. And the one before that. Nothing much changes between them, even after end times comes and goes. And Crowley’s not sure if that’s the comfort, or the rub.
But then Aziraphale finally looks up, eyes crinkling with startled pleasure. ‘Dear Crowley,’ he says, and there’s enough fondness there, enough welcome, to make him take that last step through the periphery.
Dear Crowley, the angel always says, and that too never changes; is as immutable, as ineffable – as the warmth that never fails to suffuse him, basking briefly in such positive regard.
Crowley knows he craves this knowing; this certainty that Dear Crowley will always fall from Aziraphale’s lips. That he would always have this:
But can he today? After all that’s happened between them, to them? Can Crowley bear the knowledge that nothing’s changed?
‘Angel. Good job with the place.’ Crowley waves a hand at the interior. ‘I see you’ve.. redecorated.’
The angel’s face had a tendency to light up with pleasure at the barest of compliments. ‘Well, I made a few changes, the curtains used to be blue you know, and I thought how about a bottled green velvet –‘
‘How terribly risk taking of you,’
‘I even got rid of the tassels you hated so much.’
The demon tries not to roll his eyes at this reference of the fossilised tassels that the angel picked up back in the 17th century, likely from the Passementier’s Guild. ‘Very contemporary,’ Crowley praises, and smiles slyly. ‘I’m awed by your increasingly bold forays into modern life.’
‘Well actually; speaking of bold. I’ve just found this new delightful new application called Ubereats and it’s a bit like watching humans Miracle food for themselves-’ Aziraphale launches up from his couch enthusiastically, almost bouncing on the balls of his feet with nervous energy. ‘You just pick a restaurant and everything you want and give it your address, and it even arrives piping hot!’
‘Like a real miracle.’ Crowley mummers, el-sotto.
‘Precisely! Except with a lot more typing... But we can’t have everything.’ Aziraphale brightens as Crowley raises an eyebrow; ‘So anyways. Instead of picking a restaurant, I took the liberty of ordering in for both of us tonight. Something to go with the nice red Chianti I’ve been saving-’
‘Angel, I thought you love going out.’
‘Of course I do my dear, it’s just that – well its been a bit overwhelming hasn’t it? Besides, I’ve discovered that with this mobile method we can try several restaurants all at once, and of course, nobody to overhear any, ah, unsuitable bits of conversation between us.’ Aziraphale says all this very earnestly, as if presenting an appeal at one of his Heavenly meetings. ‘I do hope you won’t object to a night of staying in together, Crowley.’
What’s a demon to say? It is absolutely everything he wants; it has nothing he wants in it.
‘I don’t object to an evening in your home,’ Crowley drawls, even as he wonders how after all this time Aziraphale still manages that effortless combination of holding out the world to him, yet offering nothing.
‘Splendid, splendid.‘ He watches Aziraphale make a nervous, abortive gesture with his hand. ‘Do you want a different drink? Or brighter lights? I’m not sure what’s more.. your thing,’ the angel breathes.
Crowley quirks his lip, allowing his eyes to warm in degrees as reward. Your thing. His angel hadn’t been so brazenly colloquial before the Event: look at him now, saying things like Ubereats and your thing. Such strange creatures freedom makes of all of us.
‘Relax, Angel,’ he says. ‘You already know I’ll eat anything you put in front of me.’
‘Wonderful!’ The angel clapses his hands together and bustles for the kitchen. ‘I’ll just get us an early start into the Chianti, shall I?’
Waving a hand in the face of his angel’s determined merry making, Crowley sinks down on the new-old couch, which greets him in the customary way; by raising a cloud of dust. It clearly hates him just as much as its predecessor did.
He looks around the bookstore, each item as familiar as their history together. He catches sight of the dog eared copy of Herodotus’ Histories he’d shelved upside down in a temper after an argument about geography – which Aziraphale has now actually recreated upside down. He remembers the day the angel unearthed the brass dog head walking stick at a horribly rainy car boot sale he’d dragged Crowley to, which had lied beside the poker ever since.
Perhaps this is as much change as creatures like them can expect. A demon can’t help but want to push for more, but perhaps-
Perhaps this is it.
Besides, he’s been sitting on his own hands for six thousand years. What’s another thousand? Or ten?
*