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It was early evening, and Crowley and Aziraphale were drinking.
“What I can't understand,” Aziraphale was saying, a pinched look about his face, “is why there are so many people involved in this foolishness.” He drummed his fingers on the armrest of the settee. Beside him, curled up in an armchair with a glass of wine raised to his lips, Crowley snickered.
“Really?” the demon said. “I thought it was quite clever. Whoever came up with the whole thing must be a genius.”
Aziraphale's eyes narrowed and then widened almost instantly.
“It was you. You started it.”
Crowley attempted to arrange his face into something innocent (it didn't work; Crowley’s face wasn’t really made for innocent—or perhaps it was just that Aziraphale knew him too well).
“What?” he said. And then, when that wasn’t emphatic enough: “What, me? Of course not. I mean, I'm not nearly clever enough to think up something like that.”
“Oh, now you're just being ludicrous,” Aziraphale scoffed. “Please. I know you. You were definitely behind this; don't you lie to me.”
“All right, all right,” said Crowley peevishly. “Don't be cross. I was just having a bit of fun. And honestly, those people could use the loosening up.” He cracked a wicked looking grin. “Besides, you can’t tell me that you’re actually upset about old Mr. Reeves’s peace being disturbed. It was only last week that you were telling me how ‘frightfully rude and downright inappropriate’ he is.” Crowley pitched his voice to sound like Aziraphale’s.
Aziraphale’s expression gained a tinge of wry humor.
“I did say that, didn’t I?” he said. And then, slowly: “Why Crowley, if I didn’t know better, I’d say that you did this for me.”
Crowley’s high cheeks flushed and he busied himself with his wineglass. Aziraphale’s eyes crinkled behind his reading glasses and he was smirking, the smug bastard. Laughing at Crowley, undoubtedly, and Crowley couldn’t say he didn’t deserve it either. He had gone ridiculously soft since he and Aziraphale had moved out of London.
...And besides, smug wasn’t a bad look on the angel; not at all, although Crowley wouldn't admit it (or at least he wouldn't admit it yet. Give him time, though—give both of them enough time—and who knew what things they’d eventually admit).
Crowley cleared his throat and ignored the heat in his cheeks; tactfully, Aziraphale did as well. Less tactfully, he didn’t let the subject drop.
“My dear boy,” the angel went on, “you’ve become generous in your old age. Kind. Compassionate. Loyal.”
“Oh, shut up,” Crowley muttered into his glass. “I am not. You know I’m only like that around—” You, he didn’t say. But he didn’t need to. He knew Aziraphale heard it anyway, from the stupidly soft expression that came over his face.
“Soft bastard,” the demon thought fondly. “Soft bastards, the both of us.”
That was all right, though. There were worse things to be.