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You’re something else completely. Damn, let's take our chances.
Father John Misty, “Chateau Lobby #4 (In C for Two Virgins)”
Normally, Crowley reviled mess and confinement, but he had always felt at home in the cramped backroom of Aziraphael’s bookshop. After their dinner at the Ritz they had stumbled back here, both glowing with champagne and desirous that the night not end yet. The fact that Crowley, drunk as he was, had not rammed the Bently into any unfortunate fire hydrants had been a minor demonic miracle.
The demon was sprawled over a fluffy beige armchair, covertly watching the angel pour another round. One of his long legs was draped over the armrest.
With the wine flowing, both were just inebriated enough to give them plausible deniability later. A silence had fallen, but not an unpleasant one.
“Why do you have the Mona Lisa in your flat? Is it original?,” Aziraphael asked, wanting Crowley to say something instead of just lounging suggestively.
“Not the original, but an original.”
“I never knew you liked paintings.” Crowley was an aesthete in his own way, but Aziraphael had always thought he preferred the natural world. He loved the patterns there, from the swirls of vast nebulae to the fractals of tiny green cells.
“I don’t, particularly.”
“Why hang one in your apartment then?”
“I met her once. Lovely girl.”
Generally speaking, Renaissance Italy had frustrated Crowley. For every person uncovering the secrets of the natural world there were a thousand struggling through their lives, unaware of the momentous change that was happening. Also, most of the paintings that defined the era were pious in subject. Crowley thought trying to flatter the Almighty was pointless, especially since everyone insisted on drawing her with a beard. Lisa, with her bright eyes and knowing smile, had been a notable exception. She was the second most well read person Crowley had ever met, and had a fascination with astronomy only rivaled by his own.
He didn’t mention any of this to Aziraphael though. Tempting the angel to the edge of a conversation was different than starting one himself.
“It sounds like you were… fond of her?” Temptation accomplished.
“I was, as it so happens.” Crowley had never learned to control whatever mysterious mechanism made him blush.
“Funny. I’d have thought you would have preferred…”
“The artist himself? DaVinci was a bit of a bastard, actually, and he always smelled like turpentine. Besides, it was never like that with Lisa. One time, we almost, but-”
“Oh.”
“Yeh.”
“Why didn’t you?” Aziraphael assumed correctly that this was the question Crowley wanted him to ask.
“It always seemed so… messy.” Orgies in Hell were like company team building exercises, only twice as perfunctory and half as pleasant. Fortunately, they were also calamitously loud, so Crowley always knew when to avoid the office.
“You know, it doesn’t have to be that way.” Aziraphael’s voice was suddenly hushed.
“I wouldn’t know, actually.” The fact that curious, irreverent Crowley was a virgin should have surprised Aziraphael, but it didn’t.
“It’s not like I never wanted to,” Crowley added hurriedly, feeling the need to defend his dishonour, “but I never found someone I wanted enough to bother.” Except for you, idiot, he added mentally.
“It doesn’t have to be with the right person, if it’s for the right reasons. And if it’s done well.”
“Sounds like you know.”
“I’ve… strayed, yes.” The admission didn’t startle Crowley, but the fact that Aziraphael had admitted it did.
“When?”
“The first time was in, well, it’s a little ironic in hindsight, actually.”
“No…?”
Aziraphael didn’t deny it, only nodded.
“Sodom and bloody Gamora?” Crowley was flabbergasted.
“It’s synonymous with the place now, but back then it was just a city. I was young, I didn’t know.”
“So what did you do when they burned the place to the ground?”
“I became suddenly and inescapably compelled to attend to some business in Xianyang,” Aziraphael said primly.
“The heavenly host is raining down fire and brimstone, and you just nip off to China for a spot of the good deeds?”
“It was not my proudest moment,” Aziraphael admitted.
Crowley, who had been outraged at the angel’s complacency moments before, softened. He too had been guilty of turning a blind eye in the past.
“It wasn’t your fault, not really. The blasted Creator, and her plan.”
“That’s the worst part. In the end, that directive might not have even come from head office.”
“Bloody- whatever.”
“Heaven, we -er- they weren’t so tolerant back then.”
“Gabriel and the rest have improved? I must have missed the memo.”
“Don’t be flip. It was a terrible tragedy. All those people… I did learn my lesson though. I’ve been much more prudent since then.”
“Which means the next time you, what?”
“Looked for a time and place where my -erm- eccentric taste was considered harmless.”
“Rome.”
“Togas really are too enticing. All that fabric held together at a single point.”
Crowley laughed despite himself.
“It’s a good thing humans invented zippers then, or no one would be safe from you.” As Crowley said it, Aziraphael’s gaze darted between his splayed legs before he could stop himself. He sits like that on purpose, the angel thought.
“After the Empire fell, I took care not to trespass for a long while.”
“That’s what you call it, trespassing? I thought you said it had to be done right.”
“It does. At its best, it’s like an invitation. You’re telling the other person they can share your warmth, if only for the night.”
Crowley, who was sometimes overwhelmed by the angel’s warmth just from being in the same room as him, felt a sudden stab of longing.
“I’m cold.”
“You left your jacket in the Bently, I think, but I have some spare blankets in the cupboards.” Aziraphael knew that wasn’t the answer Crowley wanted, but saying anything else felt too momentous.
“Of course you do.”
“No need to be peevish, dear boy.”
As little as he was enjoying the night now, Crowley didn’t want it to end, so he searched frantically for a new topic of conversation.
“Another glass?” He had the bottle in one hand and a tartan blanket in the other.
“I rather think we should sober up, before something regrettable happens.”
“I should get going anyway. It’s late.” Clearly, there was nothing salvageable left in this conversation. Crowley had thought for a moment that Aziraphael might say more, might even offer...
“Wait,” Aziraphael said. There was a warm hand around Crowley’s wrist.
“I never loved any of them,” the angel continued with a deep breath, “in that way, I’m as new to this as you are.”
“This,” Crowley echoed.
It was such a small word, but it meant so much. Aziraphael’s thumb was tracing patterns on his skin, making it hard to think straight. When he finally met the angel’s eyes, they were solemn and dark under pale gold lashes. He sometimes forgot that Aziraphael was as old as he was, and had been through just as much.
“We can talk more later. Have a good night.”
It should have felt like a dismissal, but instead it felt like a promise. After all the years he’d spent wondering if the angel would ever admit there was something between them, the ‘this’ was more than he had dared hope for. Crowley didn’t look back as Aziraphael released his arm and he headed into the street. He felt curiously light, as though his snakeskin boots were floating just above the pavement. Maybe they were. Stranger things had happened that week. Overhead, the six stars that were brave enough to shine in downtown London seemed to be winking cheerfully. He threw himself into the Bently with characteristic swagger, floored the gas pedal, and drove into the night.