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“This was a mistake,” Crowley said aloud, after some minutes of thinking it in silence.
Turning another page with carefully gloved hands, Aziraphale gave no sign of having heard the statement — thus proving its accuracy.
“Definitely a mistake,” Crowley repeated, louder.
Still, no recognition. The angel leaned forward, studying a particular line, face rapt.
“Hmm.” Crowley cleared his throat. “Do you think it was a mistake, angel?”
Silence, but for the gentle rustle of another delicately turned page.
Crowley sighed, and gave up. It was his fault, anyway. He should have thought this one through. You didn’t give Aziraphale a one-of-a-kind manuscript of an antique book — especially one thought lost beyond retrieval for the past three hundred years — and then expect the angel to remember that you (or, for that matter, anything else) existed anytime in the next week.
But then again, the fact that the book had had such an immediate, all-engrossing effect meant Aziraphale liked the gift that Crowley had gone to some lengths to procure. In fact, it meant he liked it a lot… which, in turn, meant Crowley couldn’t really manage to be unhappy about anything right now.
Especially seeing as it also meant that, once Aziraphale did eventually recall his existence (however long that took), Crowley would probably get one of those smiles in payback. Those smiles. The wide, grateful, happy smiles that left him weak at the knees without fail.
It was just a matter of waiting until Aziraphale finished reading.
“Next time,” Crowley said, trying to sound petulant for the principle of the thing despite knowing there was no one to hear him, “I’m not giving you a present ‘til after we have dinner.”
He stretched out on the sofa. It was a thick book, so this was going to take a while.