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“I do hope we’ll see a potato cod,” said Aziraphale.
They were going to see a potato cod if Crowley had to miracle one from raw firmament. He didn’t expect such lengths would be necessary, though. The Great Barrier Reef had plenty of the buggers hanging around, and relocating even a giant fish was easily accomplished with a quick snap of his toes. (Not his fingers. Aziraphale could see that, and the whole point of the angel not miracling fish in position himself was that he liked to think it might have been happenstance that he got what he wanted. That was fine. Crowley liked making Aziraphale happy without it becoming a Big Deal.)
Having no work and enjoying the perks of their own side, Crowley and Aziraphale were making their way around the world on an extended holiday which currently saw them on a boat headed out to the Great Barrier Reef. Humans, inventive bunch that they were, had really worked out the kinks in this whole breathing underwater business. Crowley wanted to appreciate their ingenuity as much as he wanted to see the reef.
“I’m more interested in the sharks,” he said. Though he’d never admit it, Crowley felt a kinship with unfairly maligned creatures the world over.
Plus, sharks were good for inducing terror and there was a wanker in the group who really needed to be taken down a few pegs. Crowley was going to have fun with that.
“Yes,” said Aziraphale, “I know of your fondness for fanged predators. This says potato cod allow divers to get quite close.”
‘This’ was Fish Species of the Great Barrier Reef. Aziraphale had yet to find an overpriced tourist book he could resist, and had resorted to miracling them back to his bookshop weeks ago when he couldn’t close his suitcase anymore.
Crowley rolled his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug he would never admit to having practiced with a mirror. “We can get close to anything we want.”
“Well, yes. I meant… oh, you know very well what I meant.”
He did. Just because Aziraphale wasn’t used to deploying as many miracles as he wanted didn’t mean Crowley had the same problem. Mostly because Hell never cared and he never worried about what Hell thought, but still.
“And I see no need to intrude on the personal space of any sharks,” added Aziraphale.
“I think personal space is a human concept.”
“You haven’t spent much time with cats, have you?”
“Have you?” countered Crowley.
“Enough to know they have personal space. Oh, look at this one. It’s called a butterfly fish and they mate for life. How charming.”
Crowley dutifully admired the photograph of a bright yellow fish. Very cheery thing. “Looks dumb,” he pronounced. “Like a shark could come swallow it whole and it’d keep smiling all the way down the shark’s mouth.”
“Really, Crowley. There is no need to insult perfectly lovely species of fish.” But Aziraphale’s mouth turned up the slightest bit, all the same.
In deference to being on a scuba diving trip, he was wearing khaki shorts, a t-shirt Crowley had bought for him as a joke in Sydney, and only slightly outdated sandals. It was downright weird to see him looking like he belonged in this century.[1] He used to be fashionable but had abandoned his efforts sometime in the late 1800s, and had only gotten worse over time. Crowley still hadn’t figured out how that was endearing, chiefly because he tried not to examine his feelings too closely.
“Excuse me,” said a woman in a thick German accent. Her voice was unfortunately squeaky. “Would you mind taking a photo of my fiancé and I?”
“Sure, why not?” Crowley took the proffered phone. “Smile.”
He gave the phone back without draining the battery, because he could do that now. Before he could settle in for more idle discussion of fish – and by extension, the world which still existed – the woman looked at Aziraphale and asked, “Do you want me to take one of you and your partner?”
Bless it. This was hardly the first time over the years he and Aziraphale had been mistaken for a couple, and every time Aziraphale got all flustered and insisted on more distance for days, weeks, or in one memorable case years afterwards, so Crowley was none too happy about this turn of events. If he was very lucky, Aziraphale hadn’t yet realized ‘partner’ had romantic connotations these days.
Crowley was therefore poleaxed when Aziraphale set down Fish Species of the Great Barrier Reef with a smile. “Oh, yes, please.”
This was new.
“You do have your mobile, don’t you, dear?”
“Er, yeah.”
He did not. It was in the hotel room, since the only person he wanted to speak to was right beside him. One quick demonic miracle later, Crowley produced the mobile from his pocket.[2]
Busy trying to reorient himself in this new world where Aziraphale didn’t object to people assuming they were a couple, Crowley forgot that humans typically smiled for their holiday pictures. It’d been easier back when photography was new and everyone looked very serious. Crowley had amused himself ruining pictures back in those days, when sitting for a portrait took several minutes and startling someone mucked the whole thing up.
“Smile,” said the German woman. Crowley tried, but evidently did a terrible impression of a grinning human, because she tutted. “Smile like you mean it!”
That got both of them amused enough to satisfy her, and the shutter sound went off twice in quick succession.
“Thanks,” Crowley said, and then, because he was in a good mood, he snapped and covered the spot on her back her fiancé had missed with the sun cream.
Aziraphale peered at the mobile’s screen. “You will print it out for me, won’t you?”
“Sure,” croaked Crowley.
“Excellent. There’s no reason not to, anymore.”
“Nope. No reason.”
Aziraphale turned a concerned gaze his way. “Are you quite alright, dear?”
“Me? I’m great. Never been better.” Which, confusion aside, was basically true.
“That’s what you say when something’s wrong.”
Crowley sent his phone back to the hotel room and stuck his hand in that pocket just for something to do. “Nothing’s wrong, angel. Really.”
“You’re not as good a liar as you think you are.”
That was just offensive. “Nothing. Is. Wrong.”
“If you’d prefer to correct anyone who assumes…”
Crowley hastened to interrupt. “No. No, s’fine with me.”
“I think,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully, “it’s as good a word as any.”
“You do? I mean, right. Good word, that. Close as people can get to understanding us, yeah?” In such uncharted territory, Crowley was trying his best not to misstep. It was harder than anticipated when dealing with a sometimes-touchy angel.
Aziraphale, however, was not in a touchy mood. “Precisely,” he said, settling back down on the bench and reaching for his book.
The safety lecture started soon thereafter, and Crowley didn’t absorb a word of it. He was far too busy trying to work out exactly what was going on in Aziraphale’s head. Fortunately, Crowley’s scuba equipment would work perfectly because he expected it to, so he didn’t really need to know the ins and outs.
Crowley had fully intended to play it cool. He could make sense of Aziraphale’s about-face later, he’d reasoned. Instead, what happened was, while everyone else lined up for their flippers, he turned to Aziraphale and bleated, “How do you mean, precisely?”
“The way I see it, people use the term ‘partner’ for the one who is dearest to them. That can only be you.”
“Ngh. Uh, yeah. Makes sense. Very… sensible.” By ‘sensible’ he meant ‘this is more than any demon ever expected since the Fall.’
Long familiar with Crowley’s difficulty handling positive emotions or indeed compliments of any kind, Aziraphale simply led the way over to the end of the flipper line with a gentle smile and steered the conversation to safer ground. “Did you know there’s a species of fish known as monocle bream? I never did like monocles as well as a good pair of spectacles.”
“Which you don’t need.”
“You have your aesthetic, I have mine.”
“Angel, you know you… I…” The words stuck in Crowley’s throat. Surely Aziraphale knew, right? He had to know there was no one else in creation who mattered a fraction as much to Crowley.
“I know, dear.” He reached out to squeeze Crowley’s hand very briefly. “Is there a particular species of shark you hope to spot?”
It took Crowley a few seconds to remember what sharks were. “Any of them,” he said finally, entirely overwhelmed, looking at this angel for whom he would fight all of Heaven and Hell. Demons weren’t supposed to have this. They weren’t supposed to care or be happy or have an angel look at them so sweetly, but here he was, and he could get used to it.
Right. He had an angel to delight. Where was the nearest potato cod?
[1] He hadn’t quite managed the decade, but Crowley supposed that might be asking a bit much.
[2] As much as these shorts (in his customary black, of course) weren’t up to his usual fashion standards, he had to admit the deeper pockets had their uses. He was still going back to his trousers after this day tour. Demons didn’t need pockets.