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“If I get told one more time,” Crowley grumbled as she stomped down the street, “that someone is sorry for my loss, I’m going to spit in their drink.”
Aziraphale gave a noncommittal hum, hands folded behind their back as they gave the demon’s black, lacey dress, black veil, and black shawl a pointed look. “I haven’t the slightest why anyone might come to that conclusion. I’m sure it has nothing to do with your mourning attire.”
“It’s not – ugh.” Crowley sighed dramatically and pouted behind her veil. “You know this is just…my thing! Then – then some lady is allowed to come along and actively steal my look, but guess who gets the accolades and influence? Her! Of course!”
“Queen Victoria is actually in mourning, you complete and utter fool. Ever since her husband passed.”
“Whatever,” Crowley replied as she dodged some other fast-walking pedestrians and a newspaper peddler. “But it’s still my thing, the all-black. Been doing it since the literal, actual Beginning. Point is, she’s obviously ripping off my style.”
“She is decidedly not.” Aziraphale summoned every ounce of their ability to cope with demonic shenanigans and annoyances, which was to say all the patience they contained. “Black is not your color, Crowley,” Aziraphale responded primly. “It’s just a color you’ve adopted that has symbolized a million things before now. Humans have worn all black before for lots of reasons. Queen Victoria is simply one of them.”
“But she wears black all the time, even though it’s been years,” Crowley complained. “Isn’t the standard two or something? And I wear black, which means she’s clearly copying me and taking all the credit!”
Aziraphale was quiet as they approached their destination. The bookshop, naturally, following their meeting to Arrange some work in Greece. “Come in for a drink?” they offered.
Crowley’s puffed-up, righteous (or, perhaps not) anger flickered. “Sure, if you like.”
“After you.”
Once safely inside, Crowley immediately draped herself across the sofa and continued her diatribe. “You can’t deny it, angel. That woman is sneaky as Heaven. I just know she’s doing it on purpose, just to make people bother me all the time with their condolences.”
“Most people consider those a good thing,” Aziraphale commented idly as they uncapped the bottle they’d prepared and filled the two glasses.
“I used to be cool, though. Mysterious. Now it’s just depressing.”
Aziraphale pursed their lips as they handed her a drink. “Shouldn’t you want to spread sorrow, as a demon?”
Crowley made some noises that weren’t quite agreement. “Theoretically, I guess,” she mumbled. “But it’s no fun.”
Trying and failing to hide a smirk, Aziraphale settled in their armchair. “That’s such a shame for you. In fact, I’m quite compelled to say I’m sorry for your loss of it.”
Crowley glared. “The only reason I’m not spitting in your cup is that your chair’s too far away.”
Aziraphale shrugged lightly, a wide smile across their face. They tipped their glass in the demon’s direction. “Cheers, your highness.”
