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Aziraphale was so focused on the stage and on Burbage's fantastic performance, that he didn't at first notice that Crowley had entered the Globe Theater. That was, of course until Crowley sauntered past him, behind him, like a slinky black shadow in his dark britches and black tunic, his long copper hair curling fetchingly about his narrow shoulders.
Oh good lord Thought Aziraphale, internally kicking himself a little for not being able to stifle the absolutely love sick little smile that threatened to split his face wide open upon seeing his friend. No... not his friend. NOT his friend. He struggled to remind himself that they were enemies as his eyes played greedily over Crowley's lovely face. The grape (quite scrummy really) he'd been eating when Crowley walked up, slowly reducing itself to pulpy juice that slid down the back of his throat as he looked briefly, oh so briefly at Crowley's soft lips and thought of tasting him there. *stop it!*
"This isn't one of Shakespeare's gloomy ones is it?" Crowley was being dramatic as usual, and Aziraphale was torn between trying to shut him up and in delighting in his irreverent attitude.. one Aziraphale would never hope to emulate... being an angel and all.
Shakespeare himself had trotted over to ask them for a bit more audience participation and Aziraphale had gladly agreed. He was nothing if not supportive of the arts. He reassured Burbage that he was not all "wasting his time up there", that he was very good indeed. Burbage then, with a glint in his eye that Aziraphale wasn't sure he liked, looked pointedly at Crowley and asked
"And what does your friend think?"
Aziraphale who reflexively turned his lovesick face in Crowley's direction, quickly reined himself in as the word "friend" registered in his brain, and small alarm bells started going off. No! not friends! NOT MY FRIEND. He ripped his eyes from Crowley's face to look forward, struggling to remain neutral and to stifle the small thrill of panic he felt curling inside his belly at being clocked by a third party as being associated pleasantly with his demonic enemy... in public no less!
"Oh.. he's not my friend. We've never met before. We don't know each other" pull back old chap he silently admonished himself for his far from believable string of very fervent denials. Burbage however barely seemed to notice. He was looking at Crowley like some sort of delicious meat pie that he couldn't wait to get in his mouth, and then Aziraphale heard Crowley's voice, languid and deep and oh-so-flirty say back...
"I think you should get on with the play".
What's this now? He darted a quick glance at his demonic companion to see a huge, lascivious smile spreading across Crowley's handsome face as he looked up at Burgage on stage. Burbage who was young, and pretty and *thin*.
Quickly though, Crowley returned his attention to Aziraphale, and they chatted about the Arrangement. It was a subject that always left Aziraphale feeling flushed and confused and a little like he'd been taken advantage of, but also like he'd won an award of some kind... perhaps Crowley's approval was the reward?
Later that night, they met for a mug of ale in a pub near the theater. A farewell drink before Aziraphale headed off to Edinburgh on that blasted horse. Aziraphale, who'd been simmering in a pot of jealousy all day, finally got up the nerve to broach the subject to Crowley.
"So.. that actor today. Burbage?"
"hmm?" Crowley raised his eyebrows over the rim of his mug, looking expectantly at Aziraphale.
"Do you.. I don't know.. Have any interest in seeing him again?"
"Come on angel. You know I hate Shakespeare's gloomy ones. Why would I want to sit through three hours of that schlock?"
Aziraphale took a deep breath. His palms were sweaty, and he absently wiped them dry on the tops of his brocade covered thighs. "I didn't mean in the play Crowley. I meant... outside of the theater.... I meant personally".
Crowley looked confused. "do you mean.. do I plan on shagging him?". The demon was never subtle.
"Oh don't say it like that Crowley!" Aziraphale blushed at Crowley's indelicate vocabulary. "But... yes. Were you planning on... I don't know.. seeing him while I'm in Edinburgh?"
"That's a strange question, coming from you." Crowley evaded answering Aziraphale's inquiry and this only made Aziraphale's jealousy sharpen to a fevered pitch.
"Never mind!" he spat out irritably. "Forget I asked. It was silly of me really". He buried his face in his mug and drank deeply to hide his burning cheeks.
They sat in silence for a few moments. Crowley also drank deeply from his mug, keeping his eyes trained on Aziraphale's face. Aziraphale pointedly looked away from him, at the wooden beams of the pub's ceiling, at the straw strewn floor. He knew his face was probably bright pink and he could feel Crowley's bright yellow eyes on him, even behind his dark shades.
Eventually though, Crowley spoke. "No" he said simply.
It took Aziraphale a brief moment to gather his wits and respond, being that he'd been lost in agonizing fantasies of Crowley, naked, his pale skin gleaming in the candle lit bedroom where he would most decidedly be worshiping young master Burbage with his eager mouth.
"What was that?" he asked, snapping back to reality at the sound of Crowley's voice.
Crowley didn't respond right away. Instead, he turned on his stool until his long legs, bent at the knee, were framing Aziraphale where the angel sat, facing forwards, towards the bar. He boldly reached out and took the hand closest to him, the one Aziraphale didn't have wrapped around his mug and gently stroked the back of Aziraphale's hand with his thumb. Aziraphale thought he might dicorporate from the feel of the demon's thumb, tenderly dragging back and forth across the soft skin of his hand, but he doubled down on his surprise and his joy at the rare physical contact and turned his head to look at Crowley with shy eyes.
Crowley grinned. But it wasn't his usual, sly, wicked grin (although Aziraphale loved those kinds of grins as well). This grin was soft and oh so affectionate. "I said no angel. No, I am not planning to see the young master Burbage while you're away in Scotland. He's not my type."
Aziraphale, struggling to keep his voice steady, his conscience screaming silently at him to keep his mouth shut, replied, "Oh.. Oh I see. And what pray tell is your type?" stupid, stupid angel. shut up you idiot!, his brain berated him for the words before they were even out of his mouth.
Crowley stood then, and much to Aziraphale's shock, the demon brought a hand up to rest it against the angel's cheek. His hand felt cool and soft, a nice contrast to Aziraphale's flaming hot skin.
"Honestly" The demon said, voice low and rough. "He's a few thousand years too young for me". He smiled indulgently at Aziraphale's shocked look, then released the angel's hand and cheek, making Aziraphale lean towards him a little bit involuntarily, as if to follow him.. to keep him sustaining the touch. "I'll see what I can do to increase attendance for boring bloody Hamlet. Good luck in Edinburgh." And with that, he sauntered away and was gone.
Aziraphale breathed out all the air in his lungs in one, long rush, then buried his burning face in his hands and took a long, shaky breath back in. No doubt about it. The memory of Crowley's thumb, dragging with a tickling, velvet friction across the back of his hand, the feel of Crowley's cool touch to his cheek would haunt him all the way up to Edinburgh and back.