Chapter Text
As it would turn out, when the world didn’t end as expected, it took very little time before Crowley found himself bored. Well, relatively little time. After six thousand years, three months was hardly enough time for a decent nap.
Actually, come to think of it…
“A nap sounds swell,” Crowley decides on a Tuesday afternoon. “I haven’t got anything on for the, erm, chilly months, do I?”
His question is met with silence, and he allows his legs to swing over the arm of Aziraphale’s sofa for a few beats longer before he launches himself into a proper sitting position. A cursory glance around the back of the bookshop comes up empty; it occurs to Crowley that he has no idea how long he’s been dangling about, contemplative, by himself. He could swear Aziraphale had been right there, just a moment ago.
The slight bit of concern that had started to build disappears in a snap the moment the air fills with music. The crackle of Aziraphale’s record player can be heard, overlaying a deep orchestral cello melody with a hymnal, graceful voice added in for extra kick .
“Least I won’t find him Gavotting around to the likes of this,” Crowley mutters offhandedly to himself, slinking from the couch and heading toward the record player, which he knows is a few bookshelves back. He can’t find it within himself to feel too put out by the angel’s stuffy choice in music; at least he’d been able to talk him into a record player, and mere months after the old gramophone had gone kaput.
Crowley had thought Aziraphale was going to grieve for perhaps a decade or so. Had teased him a touch, too, which in hindsight seemed perhaps a bit of a bastard thing to do, considering how Crowley had been a step away from throwing himself on top of the burning remains of his Bentley a few months prior.
Ah, well. You live and learn, and all that.
When Crowley turns the corner behind the very last bookshelf (the one with the shelves that are nearly completely bowed beneath the weight of tome after tome of French poetry that Aziraphale refuses to part with, regardless of how absolute shite his French is, which Crowley should find outrageously ridiculous but instead finds rather charming), he’s opening his mouth to make an absurd song request for something that he knows the angel wouldn’t have among his collection in a million years, but the words sap from his mouth in an instant.
And it’s not as though Aziraphale is doing anything. He isn’t, not really, unless bopping his shoulders up and down to the...Beat? Rhythm?...of classical music while thumbing through a small stack of records counts as doing something. It’s just that there’s a smile on his face, and it’s that small bit of a thing that happens when Aziraphale is carefree. Crowley’s seen it now and again throughout time; feeding the ducks, indulging in one more bite of cheesecake, throwing caution to the wind to miracle a little thing here and there with an air of ‘fuck you’ to the head office. Which, come to think of it, that little uptick at the corner of the angel’s mouth has been almost a daily thing ever since the Apocalypse That Wasn’t.
A lovely thing, that smile. Lovely and maddening, in the way that it makes Crowley’s stomach go all wobbly and warm; makes his breath catch somewhere painful; makes his fingers twitch and ache with the effort it takes to keep them, his hands that is, at his sides when all he wants to do is feel that smile spread beneath the pads of his fingertips.
“Are you quite alright? You’re looking a bit green around the gills.”
Aziraphale’s voice snaps Crowley to, and he realizes that he’d been too busy watching those shimmying shoulders to notice Aziraphale noticing him , and what the angel must have noticed is Crowley leaning against the end of the bookshelf, staring stupidly, or creepily, or a likely combination of both.
“Naw, m’alright. Was trying to keep myself awake, what with all of this exciting bebop in the air,” Crowley teases, pushing himself from the bookcase and striding over to Aziraphale’s side. “Honestly, Angel, a little on-the-nose to make the shop feel like a Sunday church service, don’t you think?”
Aziraphale doesn’t play into the teasing, simply tuts and lets the short stack of records fall. He motions toward them, his brow furrowing in adorable frustration.
“Do you have any idea how overwhelming it is to step into a record shop? They’re loud, and there are thousands of options, and for some awful reason the floor of the one the next street over was sticky when I ventured inside, and suffice it to say that I haven’t gone back.” He straightens his shoulders and spine. “I bought what was on top of the clearance bin, so it’s not as though I left empty handed. If you’re going to complain, then perhaps you should bring your own records next time.”
Crowley scoffs, affronted. “You know very well that I don’t have records. I keep with the times, you old coot. I’m cool. Hip, as human adolescents say.”
Aziraphale shoots him a withering glance. “I don’t actually believe they do, dear.”
Crowley waves a hand around, dismissive. “Not the point. The point is, is that I’ve kept up with trends, is the point. You’d be good to try to do the same with some things, you know.”
It’s an argument they’ve had for centuries, about hundreds of things; style of dress, innovations in technology, cultural phenomena. For the most part, it’s Crowley simply trying to get beneath Aziraphale’s skin. He’d not change a thing about him, and in fact had bloody well fought for Aziraphale’s ability to be wholeheartedly himself without shame, spending ages trying to wring Gabriel’s ridiculous programming from his head. There were some things, however, that Crowley was ruthlessly determined about.
Some things, such as music (which Crowley is downright pleased-as-fucking-pie to realize he’s making some headway on). And cinema. And mobile phones.
Aziraphale sighs, sensing where the discussion is going. “If you could give me one reasonable, well, reason why I should have a mobile, then perhaps I would consider it, but you’ve yet to do so. My Bakelite works fine, rings just as yours does, and I’m mostly in the shop anyway when I’m not with you, so I hardly see a need to be available otherwise.”
Crowley ignores the stretch of warmth that spreads through his limbs at the thought that Aziraphale only considers needing to be available to him . He swallows it back to focus on the conversation at hand.
The record skips and scratches, Aziraphale winces, and Crowley grins, hard enough to lift his sunglasses just off his nose a tad.
“You are aware, Aziraphale, that if you had a mobile, you could listen to music whenever you wanted? Could find whatever you wanted, too. No record shops necessary, no icky-stickiness to taint those...those—”
“They’re called ‘pointed-toe shoes,’ and I dare say you’re fully aware and are having me on—”
“—those bright-white pointies, then. Just think of it,” Crowley says, pulling out his own phone from his pocket and opening Spotify through sheer will, not wanting to take the time to thumb through the thing, “a century of music at your disposal.”
He doesn’t know why he does it (he imagines it’s because he’s a demon of Hell, or at least used to be, was a demon of Hell for six millenia and it’s going to take some getting used to, not being one anymore), but Crowley decides that this would be a perfect opportunity to ruffle his angel’s feathers.
The angel’s feathers. Aziraphale’s feath - oh, just leave it alone.
Taylor Swift comes blaring out of Crowley’s mobile, and he’s delighted when Aziraphale startles just enough to make the curls on his head bounce. Aziraphale simply blinks as he looks at Crowley, seeming unsure as to whether Crowley truly enjoys the musical talents of this teenager.
“Not your speed? Alright, alright, how about…”
Crowley feels like he’s won something when Aziraphale’s lips twitch, betraying his amusement when Pantera replaces the lovely girl with the guitar.
“Crowley, please. You’ve put on quite a show, I promise,” Aziraphale says, snapping his fingers and silencing the room. Crowley pouts. “I just - I don’t know that I’d know where to start.”
He’s wringing his hand in front of his belly and he’s looking rather distressed about it all, and that won’t do.
“Well, you know, I could send you some music every now and again if you had a mobile,” Crowley offers, as if it’s something casual, as if he nearly every song doesn’t make him think of Aziraphale in some way, like he hasn’t been tempted to make a century’s worth of mix-tapes for the celestial being in front of him, the one who is starting to look...like he may be considering.
“That’s something you would do?” Aziraphale asks, and is that hope in his voice or is it disbelief? Whatever it is, it digs at Crowley, stabs at something deep inside his corporation because does his angel really believe he wouldn’t be overjoyed to share this with him?
“Oh, yeah, ‘course. I mean, it’s all just the swish of a button, really, a few swipes on the screen and shwoo- your dearest, most handsome and devilish friend Crowley has shared a song with you. A click and a tap and it’s just music to your ears, Angel.” Crowley stretches, his body alight with energy that hadn’t been there just minutes before. “Besides, and I’ve told you this loads of time, texting is one of the greatest inventions this side of the Dark Ages. Imagine, not having to wait for me to decide to amble over on a whim to be able to tell me about your newest antique, uuhmnr, acquisition that you never intend on parting with. You could tell me all about it in real time.”
“Well, you know, that’s what my telephone is for.”
“Yes, but you could also attach a picture for my viewing pleasure.”
“Crowley, I do believe I’ve proven that patience is one virtue that I can most often uphold.”
“Yes, well, maybe I can’t,” Crowley says, tossing his hands in the air. And then he says the thing that he’s always wanted to say, ever since the first time he’d tried to talk Aziraphale into this. Also, it’s the thing that he’d most definitely not wanted to say, which is why he hasn’t said it as the decades have passed. “D’you never consider that I’m so pushy about it because it’d be nice, erm, good, to be able to send you things as well?”
Aziraphale looks properly surprised; his mouth forming a perplexed little ‘o’ that is far too much for Crowley in the moment.
“Yeah, didn’t think so,” Crowley says.
“You want me to have a mobile so that you can send me messages?” Aziraphale asks, because he hasn’t the decency to let the obvious go unspoken. “You would like that?”
Crowley stares. “Yes?” He croaks after a moment. “Sometimes there are things, you know.”
Aziraphale has started to smirk now, the bastard, he looks absolutely delighted to know that Crowley’s reasons have been somewhat selfish, and in what universe does that make any sense? “Oh? Things?”
“Yeah,” Crowley huffs. “If you have to know, you know. Sometimes there’s a, a bird or something that I think maybe you’d like to see, when I’m out and about doing whatever it is that I’m doing. Or the other day I had a plant flower, bloody thing had to be threatened and all but it came around, and it made me think of you.” Crowley tsks. “A beige flower. Why’d She make a beige one, d’you think? Anyway, coulda sent you a photo.”
There’s no other word for it; Aziraphale is beaming.
Which means that Crowley has to leave before he discorporates, because if the small smile from earlier had been nearly enough to knock the air out of him, having those beautiful eyes fixed on him with so much tenderness was bound to turn him into stardust.
“Nng, well. You do please enjoy your hymns, will you? I’m off for a nap,” Crowley says, bowing deep and quick and dramatically. He turns and hurries away, knowing that Aziraphale will pay his rather sudden exit no mind; this isn’t the first time he’s had to bail because Aziraphale had just been too bright to look at, and Crowley too cowardly to risk everything they’d built over six thousand years over a moment of, of...weakness.
“Mind how you go!” Aziraphale calls the words after him, so predictable that Crowley mouths the words as they’re said, so welcome and warming that Crowley barely notices the chill of the night when he steps outside and walks his way to the Bentley, which still sparkles like new.
♫
He’d put himself down for a light nap because, in reality, he didn’t want to sleep for three months, and he’s glad for it when he’s woken by the sound of his text tone sounding off midmorning the next day. There are only a few select people it could be: Anathema is the most likely culprit, as the delightfully strange young witch was brilliant when it came to plants and herbs and the like, and they’d taken to each other rather quickly. Or, of course, it could be Adam, perhaps Mr. Shadwell…
07700 900461
Splendid morning, dear fellow! I hope you’ve slept well and do decide to wake soon, I have so many questions about this device, and the internet is rife with conflicting information.
07700 900461
This, should you not know, is Aziraphale.
Crowley is so stunned that he hits the call button immediately.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale answers in greeting after a few rings.
“Uhh,” Crowley manages.
Aziraphale laughs, and the sound is so much clearer than Crowley is used to hearing over the phone, what with the ancient technology that the angel typically employs.
“You know, I thought the purpose of the mobile was to communicate via text,” Aziraphale teases. “You could have rang me on any old phone, you ridiculous creature.”
“Oh, for the love of—” Crowley bites out, cheeks flushing. He ends the call and pulls up his keyboard.
A.J. Crowley
when did you find time to get a mobile??
07700 900461
Just this morning, when the shops opened. I believe you were right last evening, it’s past due for me to catch up on a few things here and there, now that I know the time is here for me to do so.
0700 900461
And far be it from me to stand in the way of doing something nice, for you.
A.J. Crowley
well, you didnt have to on my account. you do know that?
07700 900461
Oh, of course! It wasn’t entirely selfless of me. I must admit that it sounds rather lovely, being able to have another way to be with you. It’ll be like having you in my pocket :)
And if that doesn’t send the heart that Crowley carries around in his chest beating wildly. “More like another way for you to slowly torture me with your heavenly ways,” he mutters to himself, before returning to their conversation to deflect, as one does.
A.J. Crowley
are you sure you need my help? you’re already using emojis
Aziraphale
I am ‘hip’ to some things, you know.
Aziraphale
Now, I believe I was promised photographs? And a song, if you can be bothered? I am rather excited.
Crowley sighs and sits up in bed. He rubs his chest, trying to rid the blooming ache of sweetness there, before putting his feet to the floor, resigning himself to leaving the house far earlier than he would prefer because he’s fairly positive he’ll be able to catch a snapshot of the nightingale family in the park that he’s taken to strolling through. Aziraphale would like to have photos of them, he thinks.
As he looks for a pair of socks, he types out another quick message.
A.J. Crowley
okay, you needy thing. have you ever heard of spotify?
A.J. Crowley
stupid question, that. I’ll add you to my account. keep your ear out, angel
Aziraphale
How very kind of you ♥
Mmyep. This would be Crowley’s undoing.