Work Text:
The diner was dingy and greasy, their coffee watery, and the boy at the grill in way over his head and left alone to deal with the frankly excessive number of eggs the patrons seemed to be ordering. Crowley couldn't believe he had managed to convince Aziraphale to come here with him. Aziraphale, to his credit, didn't seem put off at all by the atmosphere and was apparently enjoying his eggs and toast with the same aplomb as any five star meal he'd ever had while Crowley griped about the soul he was meant to be damning being lost to some virtue or another.
"Dear boy," Aziraphale says as he dabs daintily at the corner of his mouth with a napkin that certainly was not made of cloth when he picked it up. "You know as well as I do that the humans are exactly as inclined to salvation as they are to sin. In fact, I'd rather say you started it." Here he raises a smug eyebrow. It does not have the desired effect of launching Crowley into a defensive sputter.
Crowley groans. "That doesn't help much when Hell's bent on securing a particular soul, does it?" He drags a hand down his face, stares into his mug and lets his glasses steam up as he thinks about how much trouble he's going to get into over this. He almost wishes he could blame Aziraphale for this failure, in spirit if not in the official report, but he doesn't have the luxury of passing on the blame this time. "I had him. I know I had him. I don't understand."
Aziraphale watches Crowley mope and fidgets his hands beneath the table where Crowley can't see. No sense in exacerbating the already sour mood with the worrying that led him to join the demon in this greasy spoon in the first place, although he is inclined to tip the poor cook well. He truly has a culinary gift that is being squandered on fried eggs. Perhaps a blessing to steer him toward a more suitable kitchen.
He wonders if Crowley is aware that he's visibly trembling.
"Are you going to be, er-"
Crowley interrupts with a rough bark of bitter laughter. "Yeah. Might.. be a while before I'm back topside, angel." He takes a long drink of too hot coffee to avoid looking across the table, pretends the contents don't slosh over the edge of his cup with his hands shaking the way they are.
Aziraphale sighs.
"Is there anything I can do?" The angel's voice is softer than it has any right to be in this grimy diner. Crowley fantasizes a moment about lacing their fingers before clearing the thought with a shake of the head.
"Wait for me?" It's hardly above a mutter, words shuddering out, as Crowley finally lifts his face from what must be a truly fascinating cup of coffee.
Aziraphale's answering smile is sad at the corners, but gentle and genuine. "Of course."