Chapter Text
Crowley knew it wasn’t wise for a human, or a human-shared creature, to be outdoors right now. Luckily, the lockdown rules didn’t apply to intelligent reptiles.
When he told Aziraphale he could slither on over to the bookshop, he really did mean slither. How else was he going to get there without being stopped on the street and questioned by everyone from a local copper to a busybody mum venturing out to do some essential shopping, and taking it upon herself to tell off everyone else she thought to be loitering around? Not to mention, the Bentley was conspicuous. It made noise. And Crowley...did not want to be seen at all.
Especially not by his angel.
The point, he told himself as he snuck into a gutter and up the roof of an old greengrocer’s, the point is to watch Aziraphale. Just because he was going to watch Aziraphale didn’t mean Aziraphale had to see him— he had, after all, just told Crowley to stay at home. That was what his angel did, he stuck by the rules and kept Crowley at an arms’ length and expected him to keep busy in some other way. But I can’t keep busy, Crowley thought irritably, his tongue flicking out as he snaked along the downpipe just above the front bookshop window. Not right now when there aren’t many people to bother. And taking down the phone signal at a time like this, when so many humans relied on the contact for their work, or to check up on loved ones, or to stay updated with news...come on. Crowley was a demon, but even he had standards.
He wasn’t going to deny that he’d adopted the concept of standards in the first place from a certain fussy angel.
Right. Down the pipe, through the slightly-open window, into the shop. Smooth scales sliding along the dusty surface of an old desk, slipping between worn old bookcovers. Crowley dropped onto the carpet and, taking care to crawl beneath armchairs and shelves, made his way to the kitchen.
The bookshop smelled distinct and comforting. Crowley flicked his tongue in and out to taste the scents mingling— old paper and dust mites, wood and leather, different kinds of tea. Different kinds of baking ingredients, too, the closer he got to the kitchen. Never without anything to nibble, that angel. With all their favourite places closed for the time being, he’d taken matters into his own hands and actually taught himself how to bake. Crowley tasted flour and cinnamon in the air, sugar and vanilla and chocolate. Soon enough Aziraphale came into view, carrying a fresh confection from the oven. He found a warm spot behind the refrigerator— funny how something meant to keep things cold generated so much heat in the back— and stuck his head out, in shadow, to watch the angel.
This was exactly what he wanted, a hidden place from which to observe Aziraphale. Just for a little while, he told himself. Just to show himself that it was okay, here he was, no harm had come to him when those boys broke into the back of the shop, and of course Aziraphale knew what he was doing, baking all these cakes. Crowley was pleased to see he’d become rather expert at it. The cake looked lovely, cooling golden-brown and perfect on the kitchen counter, and he watched as Aziraphale iced it carefully with a layer of strawberry icing. His plump, sturdy hands turned the cake gently to spread the icing around evenly and smoothly. Crowley watched, transfixed. He remembered Aziraphale rebuilding the broken section of wall around Eden. He remembered the angel pushing heavy equipment and parts away from crushing unsuspecting workers, everywhere from the site of the Tower of Babel to the completion of the Pyramids to the building of the Big Ben itself. Aziraphale was strong, no doubt about it, much stronger than he looked, and those hands were trained to use a sword in battle. But instead he chose to use them to mend books, and hold chopsticks for sushi, and bake cakes. To create, not destroy.
Aziraphale, Crowley thought fondly, is really something else.
He watched Aziraphale lick icing off the tips of his fingers, the tiny pink tongue darting out daintily to scrape off the sweetness. Crowley’s jaw dropped. He managed to catch himself before it unhinged entirely. Now why was the sight of a little harmless angel tongue suddenly flustering him so, sending a rush of heat through his cold-blooded veins? Aziraphale had finished icing the cake, and was now clearing up— practically, not with the convenient snap of a finger, and those hands were at work again, applying themselves to the delicate and domestic. He moved around and hummed a song; Crowley strained to catch the tune. He loved the way flour had found its way onto Aziraphale’s blond curls, little puffs of it falling off when Aziraphale moved his head. He loved the way it streaked carelessly on the light blue apron he wore, among all the marks of oil and chocolate and— was that oven grease?
Why was this so endearing? It meant Aziraphale was a sloppy cook, that was all. And yet, as Crowley eyed the cake with interest, you couldn’t deny it paid off...
He stretched out just a little bit, angling his head in Aziraphale’s direction. What was that he was humming?
Oh, dear Someone.
It was Queen’s ‘Radio Ga Ga.’
So all those car rides in the Bentley had rubbed off on Aziraphale, after all! Crowley just about died. Not literally, of course, but metaphorically enough to slide off his perch and tumble in a slithering heap onto the counter below—
The soft thump made Aziraphale look up. When he turned around he caught sight of the tip of a tail vanishing into a cupboard. Crowley slipped into the musty darkness, curled around the single stack of bowls kept therein (oh, he remembered these ones, he and Aziraphale used to eat ice cream out of them) and waited for Aziraphale to leave.
There was no describing his terror when the cupboard door opened.
“What the— Crowley!”
Crowley reared up and hissed. Any other being would have jumped backward at least three feet and screamed. Not the Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, though. In fact he glared, and rather glarefully at that, and physically yanked Crowley out of the cupboard without upsetting a single bowl.
Crowley writhed in protest as he was deposited in a coil on the kitchen counter. Aziraphale stepped back to give him room as he shifted back into his human form. Soon a lanky red-haired male figure was sitting on the edge of the counter, and he hopped off with a little bounce.
“Hi, Angel.”
Aziraphale put his hands on his hips sternly. “Crowley, what on Earth are you doing here? I thought I told you not to leave your flat, you know there are rules in place!”
“Oh, come on Aziraphale, nobody saw me! And it’s like you said, I can’t get ill or— or infect anyone else— I was a snake the whole time, it was fine!”
“I thought you were going to take a nap.” Despite the clear annoyance in his voice, there was a hint of relief. Of fondness, maybe.
“I...” Crowley ran a hand through his hair. He shrugged, “I wanted to check up on you, first.”
“Check up on me?” wailed Aziraphale. “You looked like you were spying on me.”
“Well, checking up, spying, same thing, innit?”
Aziraphale looked him up and down. He pursed his lips, but not in a disappointed way— more like, in the way he did when he got far enough into a mystery novel to surmise who the killer might be. And Crowley paused, waiting, for the inevitable, because that’s what Aziraphale did, he stuck by the rules and kept Crowley at an arms’ length and sent him off to keep busy in some other way.
But Aziraphale just sighed, and said “You don’t want to be alone, do you?”
Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets. “Nope.” Damn, his hands really did not fit in those pockets, did they? That’s what he got for wearing jeans found in the women’s section.
“Well,” said Aziraphale. “Neither do I, really.”
Crowley looked up at him, peering over the top of his glasses.
“Oh, but this is against the rules.”
“You and I aren’t in any actual risk,” Crowley replied. “It’s like I always say. Nobody has to know.”
Now this felt more familiar. Sometimes Aziraphale could be steadfast to the point of stubbornness, but all it took was a little gentle nudging from Crowley, a glimpse at a perspective Aziraphale hadn’t considered before, and he’d unravel.
“Well, I suppose,” he finally ventured, “since you’re here, you might as well...”
“Yeah?” Crowley said, perhaps too eagerly.
“Stay,” Aziraphale finished. He gestured at the freshly-iced cake. “As you can see, there’s plenty for me to share.”
Crowley noticed the plates of half-sliced cake stacked on every surface of the sitting room beyond the kitchen, as if Aziraphale had gotten through each one before getting bored and making another. Only a miracle could keep them all from going stale. And they still looked delicious, Crowley was not a big eater, but he had meant to stuff himself before taking that long nap, you know, as snakes did...
He turned back to Aziraphale, who was blinking those pretty (pretty? Seriously?) eyes expectantly at him.
Crowley shrugged. “Sure.”