Chapter Text
What was the point in a clandestine rendezvous when you had to be reminded, over the phone, of where your secret meeting was taking place? It wasn’t enough for Crowley to say “the fourth rendezvous” or “the second alternate rendezvous”, no, he had to hiss down the phone the location as well, thus negating the need to have a code anyway. Not that he minded that much.
He didn’t have the words to express how happy he was that they no longer had to do that. No code words, no being inconspicuous, now, the two of them could take a leisurely stroll through London’s many “green” areas; Aziraphale loved the ducks. And the pigeons. And the field mice. But then, what didn’t he love?
Oh yeah, Crowley thought, me. He was being dramatic, of course, Aziraphale loved him, cared deeply for him, he showed it in every sweet smile, every soft word. But the love Crowley desired, craved with every nerve in his body, was inaccessible to him. And if Aziraphale did eventually develop those sort of feelings, it would probably take another six thousand-bloody-years to act on them. No, he wasn’t going to be ungrateful. They were fine, they were safe, He should be thankful for what he had, a lunch date with the angel. A lunch date, not a... date date. He sighed. They’d arranged this one in advance a few weeks ago, and he couldn’t even admit to himself how much he was looking forward to hearing Aziraphale’s voice again.
He spotted him as he was driving, sitting on an unsteady looking metal chair, outside the cafe he’d picked. Crowley stopped and parked. God, why was he so nervous?
Aziraphale. There he was, drinking a - lemonade? Cream soda? And reading a newspaper. Probably some fluff piece about a dog that could rollerskate or something. Something glowed in Crowley’s chest.
He waved to get his attention and Aziraphale smiled up at him.
He was expecting a greeting, perhaps a reproachful remark about Crowley parking on the double lines but instead what he got was “Did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?”
Crowley frowned. Aziraphale had never asked him what Falling was like. Perhaps out of respect for Crowley’s experience or perhaps because he was genuinely afraid of the answer. When Crowley referred to his Fall (which wasn’t often) he was so careful to speak nonchalantly, oh yeah, I sauntered vaguely downwards, Heaven is so stuffy, they didn’t appreciate my ideas, who needs them, anyway? When the reality was thrashing in a river of sulphur, feathers falling from the bone, screaming to a God who had turned Her back on him. He took a seat next to him, his own rickety chair rocking as he plonked himself down.
How to answer Aziraphale’s question? That was tricky. He formulated a response, with enough truthful to satiate his curious friend, ( yes it hurt, yes it’s supposed to hurt) but just bland enough to keep things light. There was no need to worry about Falling. They were safe, Hell and Heaven weren't concerned with them anymore. He thought of the reply and opened his mouth to say it, but what came out was “That shirt on you is very becoming. But if I was on you, I’d be coming too!” Shit. Why the hell did he say that?
Strangely, Aziraphale didn’t look surprised, or revolted, more like disappointed. As if Crowley’s bizarre statement had confirmed some truth to him. Oh fuck. Crowley could sense another rejection, he could almost taste it in the air. An image of Aziraphale sitting in his car, saying words so soft and apologetic, beautiful eyes almost pleading with Crowley. You go too fast for me, Crowley. After all they’d been through, fighting at each others side, he didn't think he could handle another rejection now. He wanted to scream I didn’t mean to say that! But of course, Aziraphale wouldn’t believe him. He’d think Crowley, just another degenerate demon, was...putting the moves to him. And yes, if Crowley had been granted some sort of guarantee that the aforementioned “moves” would be appreciated and reciprocated, he would have made a move. But.
The rejection didn't come. Aziraphale opened his mouth, (almost reluctantly, Crowley thought) and said: “If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?”
Okay, that was new. Crowley wrinkled his brow, trying valiantly to beat down the fledgeling fragment of hope rising in his chest. Was this… Aziraphale’s idea of flirting? Had he finally realised that they were meant to be together, that they fit together like fish and chips, shiver and shake, Aziraphale & Crowley, since before BC became a measurement of time? No way.
Did Aziraphale really think his body was beautiful? Crowley glanced down, trying to make it casual (failing miserably, but he didn’t know that). Yes, he was tall and clothes fit him well. But he was skinny, he was all hard angles and bone, Aziraphale was soft and round, something that promised warm hugs and curling up by the fireside with an Aran knitted blanket.
What should he say? Sincerely return the compliment? Shrug it off as a joke? Agree?
“You’re so sweet, you’d put Cadbury’s out of business.”
Okay, that wasn’t what he meant to say, but he supposed it worked.
Aziraphale seemed to be struggling with something, Crowley had never seen him go this long without ordering food. When the waiter made an appearance, Aziraphale almost seemed unwilling to speak to the human. When he finally was forced to acknowledge the man’s question (Are you ready to order?”) he answered with “My name is Aziraphale but you can call me-” He clamped his own hands over his mouth but Crowley and even the waiter could hear the muffled wolf whistle. The waiter hurriedly left. Good. If he’d stayed, Crowley would have had to jinx him with uncontrollable itching or something.
What was Aziraphale thinking, saying his true name to a human? And for that matter, why was he fucking flirting with a human in the first place?
Crowley glowered at the flowers hanging in a basket over Aziraphale’s head. They withered, which was impressive, considering they were made of plastic. Well that was typical, wasn’t it? Aziraphale finally makes the realisation that his existence could be enhanced by romantic company, but he decides to go for a human instead. A human, instead of his own best friend. Then why did you say I had a beautiful body?
“Crowley...” Aziraphale said sheepishly.
Crowley was suddenly aware of a presence behind him, and he turned to see a traffic warden ticketing his car. Great, this day was shaping up nicely. Seeing as how he was currently cross with Aziraphale, he saw no need to censor himself, so instead let loose with a string of curse words, some of which he’d invented, to the traffic warden. How dare she lean on his car? Instead, what came out was a bizarre jumble of pick up lines, wolf whistles and compliments. He rattled it off so quickly he was barely aware of what he was saying, although he did recall he’d referred to her as a “Fineapple.”
It was only when she was walking away, leaving him with a little yellow slip that he was going to yeet into nonexistence as soon as she was gone, that he realised. They weren’t his words. Something was compelling him and Aziraphale to communicate solely through pick up lines.