Work Text:
"Come now, angel," Crowley says. His nose wrinkles up in distaste. "Do we really have to do it this way?"
Aziraphale brushes an absentminded hand down his waistcoat, thumb and forefinger tugging the hem while his eyes flit off to a bookshelf past Crowley's shoulder. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."
"You do," Crowley accuses. "You absolutely do, and you do this every time."
"I do not."
"Look, you can wax all you want about 'opposite sides' but we're friends, yeah? We have the same goals here, and you're just… you're just being pigheaded."
Aziraphale sniffs. "I prefer 'dogmatic.'"
Behind his dark glasses, Crowley's eyes roll. Their momentum fluidly transfers to his hands, which dart up to grab Aziraphale's lapels and drive him the half-dozen steps backward to the armchair tucked between bookshelves. Aziraphale lets out a small "oof" as he's shoved into the dusty cushions with Crowley's face looming just inches away.
"You're going to tell me where the Antichrist is," Crowley growls.
Aziraphale's throat bobs. "I most certainly will not. Your side will–"
"To Heaven with sides," Crowley says with a hiss. "This is about the world, you holy nitwit. You will tell me, and then we will go take care of it."
Aziraphale only tips his chin upwards, a quiet, soft signature of defiance that Crowley's gotten far too accustomed to.
"It's the end of the world, angel," he spits. "If you think I'm above torture, you're sorely mistaken."
There's a slight widening of Aziraphale's eyes. A bit of a sparkle, too.
Crowley tightens his fists in Aziraphale's coat, not losing an ounce of menacing tone. "I'll bite your toes."
Aziraphale blanches. "You wouldn't!"
"I will. Lick and nibble and everything."
"Oh, but…" Aziraphale loses some of the tension in his shoulders, his head tipping to one side. "You know how that makes me scream." He sighs. "That gets ever so uncomfortable for any patrons that might happen to walk in. People should still be able to peruse books without being so bothered, even if they won't get around to reading them – impending Apocalypse and all."
Crowley huffs. "Fine. I'll just gently tickle your heels, then."
"That will do."
—
"A-aah, oh you fiend, you– you– ah ha! I won't! I– I won't tell, you plague of darkness, you evil p–ppfffff!"
Crowley adjusts the crisscross of his legs and leans back against the padded leg of the armchair. He re-hefts the ankles caught in the crook of his elbow and switches to tickling the other socked foot. One of Aziraphale's shoes lays discarded an arm's length away. The other is clear across the room, in suspicious proximity to an overturned mug on the floor.
"Where's the boy?" Crowley asks boredly. "All this nasty business can end if you'll just give him up.”
“You c–can’t make me! May I be struck down if I ever yield to– oh no no no, please not there, you know how terrible that is!” Aziraphale breaks into a fresh fit of giggles that threaten to bubble the whole shop over with angelic laughter.
“I know you've worked out where he is, do-gooder.” Crowley’s deft fingers redouble their efforts. “Spill it.”
Aziraphale slumps further down in the armchair, chin digging into his chest as he snorts and squirms. “Never! Foul scourge!”
Crowley hums and pulls at one tan-colored sock. “You leave me no choice, Aziraphale. Enjoy your last moment of sanity whilst I miracle up a dreadfully soft feather…”
Aziraphale’s eyes snap open. “No! No, wait!” He swallows reflexively, hands clawing at the armrests to pull himself back upright. “Tadfield! He’s– he’s in Tadfield.”
“Aww, see, that wasn’t so awful, was it? Just sharing a tiny smidgen of information with a friend! Nothing worth any fuss.” Crowley unfolds himself from the floor and brushes a bit of tan sock fuzz off his jacket.
Aziraphale flops back in the chair, hands cupped over his face as he pants for breath. There’s a flush set into the visible parts of his cheeks. A small, thin noise of defeat, or perhaps just exhaustion, filters out from between his fingers.
“If anybody asks,” Crowley says, “I’ll say you were a very tough nut to crack. The toughest. It took all the hellish best practices and then some. Almost had to outright kill you for it.”
“I did withstand quite the onslaught, didn’t I?” Aziraphale drops his hands, a gentle hint of pride tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Nobody could blame me for cracking under that.”
Crowley frowns decisively, drawling, “No, absolutely not.”
With a few sounds of effort, Aziraphale rights himself and pats his coat into place. His steps are ginger as he shuffles around to retrieve his shoes. “Shall we be off, then? I can direct you to the address. We’ll need to stop off at a café, though; you owe me a fresh cup of coffee.”
Crowley fights a smile. “Anything you want, angel.”