Chapter Text
“Oh, Aziraphale you are too much,” Tracy trilled and squeezed her shoulders. She threw the check patterned scarf around her neck with a playful flare.
“Just something I had lying around.” He lifted up his tea by the saucer. Tracy plucked at the Burberry label and gave him a sly grin. Aziraphale cleared his throat, “I actually find myself with a surplus of favours if you will.”
“I’m always honoured to be re-gifted couture. Have a few admirers, do we?”
Aziraphale took a long sip of earl grey. He swished it around his mouth in contemplation.
“More like one very persistent gadfly.” It felt ungenerous to use such a descriptor, however said gadfly had inspired him to leave his very comfortable armchair and travel halfway across the city for a brief reprieve. It was early winter in London so the wind was biting, and he must have used two dozen miracles to keep frisky puddles from splashing his trouser legs. Dreadfully tiresome.
Tracy lifted her own teacup. Her crystal ball made for a garish table centrepiece between them. They didn’t have much secret from each other after their brief cohabitation. Aziraphale was in such a state of distress at the time he could hardly be expected to discipline his thoughts. On the other hand, Tracy had been liberal with her own musings about discipline. Mostly in relation to Sergeant Shadwell as he clung tight to her waist during their celestial Vespa ride.
Well, at least she had good taste in fashion.
“My good friend Crowley has been displaying troubling behaviour.”
“Isn’t it his job to be troublesome?” A very reasonable observation. Further elaboration, as humiliating as it might be, was required.
“In more ways than one. Now, I don’t mind the spots of tomfoolery he performs. Even without the compensation provided by our previous employers after we retired--”
“Were sacked,” she cheekily interjected.
“Retired, Crowley would whittle away any given afternoon doling minor inconveniences to the human race. But he’s turned his attentions on me.” He hoped he punctuated the pronoun with pronounced vexation.
“The nerve,” she commiserated with a chuckle, “been playing pranks, then?”
“Hardly! When I say ‘attentions,’ I do not mean glueing a 10p to the pavement and snickering as I attempt to pry it from the ground. I mean," he glanced around for any eager ears and leaned in to whisper, "amorous attentions."
"And that's a problem? I thought you were keen."
Aziraphale rolled his shoulders and settled back into his seat. His own desires were not relevant to the current disastrous situation. Clearly, Tracy didn't grasp the gravity. Perhaps they weren't as connected as he assumed.
“You should see him,” he continued without admission, “just this morning he left me a box of artisanal heart-shaped chocolates, a teddy bear, and a poem by Byron handwritten in calligraphy. Yesterday he would not stop gazing into my eyes and calling them limpid pools while we were at the park. He is a man, well, demon possessed.”
Tracy clasped her hands together and squeezed. “That sounds sweet.”
“Byron, my dear. I suspect it's some kind of love spell. The Crowley I know and l—well, know would never be so insipid, not even for a temptation. Why it's like he's been shot through with Cupid's arrow. He must have run afoul of a witch, he had all manner of curses put upon him back in the 15th century.”
“Oh, I'm sure it's nothing of the sort. Just lovesick it sounds.”
“He confirmed it,” Aziraphale told her pointedly. He was no fool, as soon as the behaviour began he had confronted Crowley.
The demon had responded by sauntering into his personal bubble to say in a low tone "Yes, I'm under your spell," which caused Aziraphale to tumble back against a very unstable bookcase.
“Trouble is, these human based hexes are always so tricky to remove. Divine and infernal influence generally only exacerbate the problem. I would need a mortal's hand to fend off this enchantment. Which is why I bring it up.”
The woman took a moment to consider and dipped a Hobnob in her tea. “I fancy myself more of a spiritualist. I know someone more familiar with witchy things, I could pass your information along? Although, I think you have a problem a lot of people would love to have.” She tagged on a wink of all things. Truly wasn't the time for levity.
He'd been in such misery contemplating the future with a cursed Crowley; him reciting sonnets in the moonlight and crowding the bookshop with vases of elaborate bouquets, all against his will. The worst was that if the behaviour had been sincere, Aziraphale could see himself rather enjoying the attention. After that kerfuffle with Armageddon, Aziraphale had made an effort to court the demon to no avail. Given the lack of reception, he knew for a fact these acts had to be torture for his friend.
It was lucky that Aziraphale had thousands of years of thwarting experience under his belt, especially when it came to his former foe. Plus, his own holy moral code forbade him from taking advantage of the situation. While the demon was obviously under the thrall of a spell that compelled him to make blatant overtures to Aziraphale at every turn, he couldn't be in safer, more considerate hands.
After a visit to the barber, the manicurist, and a masseuse, Aziraphale was thoroughly pampered and was forced to return to his bookshop. He groaned in horror as he was greeted by no less than a 1001 LED candles illuminating the space. There was an old jazz record playing and the scent of spiced roses in the air. Crowley was going to be so embarrassed when he came back to himself. Aziraphale would just have to do his best to save what dignity the demon had left.
“Ah, there you are.” Speak of the devil. Crowley swaggered from the back of the shop towards Aziraphale. He came up to the angel and wafted through the air with his hand. “Back to the old cologne?”
“Crowley, I'm not soup,” he said irritably, “what have you done to my shop?”
“Redecorated, it being a special night and all.” He waggled an eyebrow. Aziraphale had no idea what on earth he was implying. They had no anniversaries. There was no first kiss, no first date, no engagement, no wedding, no honeymoon to celebrate. Aziraphale certainly wasn't bitter about any of that, merely reviewing the facts.
“What's so special about it? Each week still has a Friday last I checked.”
The spell made Crowley cast himself as some type of deluded Casanova. Not only had it emboldened him to hover inappropriately in Aziraphale's personal space, but he'd been making physical contact of the deliberate kind. Like right at that moment, he took Aziraphale's hand between both his palms.
“We're going to make it special.”
It was worse than Aziraphale thought. He was absolutely mortified on Crowley's behalf.
Aziraphale extracted his hand from the gentle grip. He had to keep the air as platonic as possible. With a snap of his fingers the music changed to brassy trumpet marches by John Philip Sousa. There was a flicker of confusion in his friend's being. The true Crowley was still under there somewhere.
“Indeed. I have a very special night ahead of me taking inventory, if you don't mind.”
“I'll, uh,” Crowley kept looking back at the gramophone with a furrowed brow, “keep you company.”
“Just don't get in my way,” he huffed. Now Aziraphale was going to have to actually do inventory instead of drinking cognac and reading a recently acquired Dumas novel. This spell was ruining his whole day.
They could still drink cognac he supposed, just as long as he monitored the demon's intake. He didn't want to imagine the nightmare of handling an enchanted and inebriated Crowley. Probably be all over Aziraphale like a clumsy octopus, murmuring nonsense about marine life warmly into his ear.
He resisted the urge to literally slap himself back to reality. Such disrespectful musings when his best friend was in distress.
“So, how do we do this,” Crowley asked, Aziraphale gave him a blank look. “Take inventory?”
It had been a good century since the last one and Aziraphale just had his clerk at the time do the task. That woman got married or died or something and he'd never bothered to hire someone new. It involved counting though, that much he was certain.
“I’ll fetch my abacus and we can get started.”
For a few shining moments, Crowley was himself again. He became cross at Aziraphale's stubborn refusal to adapt to modern technology and railed about how he'd never bothered to turn on that confounded computing device in his back room. Aziraphale rather lost count as he clacked the beads on his abacus and had to start inventory on the British Celebrity Autobiography section all over. Crowley had probably added that pulpy genre to his shelves for his puerile amusement at some point. Aziraphale disappeared the LED lights as well and turned on the regular ones so he could actually see what he was doing.
It didn’t last as the spell gained sway once again over its subject. Crowley waited on him hand and foot as he knelt by the shelves.
“Crowley, you fluffed that pillow not two minutes ago.”
“Think of your knees, angel. A fresh one will do them good. Did you want a top up?” He reached for the half-full snifter resting on a bookshelf.
“I really must insist that you occupy yourself otherwise.” He batted Crowley away from his glass with a copy of Being Jordan by Katie Price. “Why don’t you…Oh, I don’t know, sit quietly on the sofa until I need you.”
“And you will? Need me, I mean.”
Aziraphale detected just enough of a lewd implication to fix Crowley with a hard stare. The demon held his hands up and backed away slowly.
It was exhausting to come up with new little chores to occupy his friend. Eventually, Crowley fell asleep on a sofa with limbs haphazardly thrown about.
Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief and went upstairs to finally read his book. In the morning, the starfish had crawled off somewhere and left behind a very concerning note.
Candlelit dinner on me tonight at La Mer, wear something nice -xx
There were crudely drawn hearts all around the cursive words. Aziraphale dropped the paper with a distressed cry and collapsed onto the sofa with his arm thrown over his eyes. La Mer offered the most delectable Basque inspired haute cuisine in an unmistakably intimate setting. He'd nearly fainted the first time he'd tried their sea bass and would have been ecstatic to accompany Crowley there under normal circumstances.
This whole ordeal was truly a terrible burden and he must find a way to release his friend before it became all too much.
Anathema held out a string with a large crystal tied at the end and chanted ancient sounding words. Not any definite language Aziraphale could identify, but it was undoubtedly mystical.
“Anything at all?”
“I’m sorry, if there are any residual traces of a spell in the store it’s too weak for me to pick up.”
Aziraphale clutched at his cheeks and groaned.
“I could burn some sage? Might help whenever he comes back.”
He gently reminded the woman that regardless of cursed status, Crowley was still a demon who had very violent reactions to cleansing rituals. He’d been laid up for a week after a disastrous serving of sage and thyme sausage at an Oktoberfest. Although, that may have been due more to the dodgy food handling practices than herbs.
“He’s besotted to the worst degree. Crowley prides himself so much on his effortless, detached demeanour. I can only imagine what torture he’s suffering deep within. Look at this note he left, not in character at all.”
Anathema studied the letter with intensity, probably gazing deep into the veil.
“Geez, La Mer, been trying to get a table there for months,” she mumbled and then handed it back to him. “It doesn’t seem charmed either. Do you recall any special or strange event that triggered this behaviour?”
Last time Crowley had behaved like himself was a few days prior. The weather grew gloomier and Crowley's mood had followed. He’d become distant and downhearted; Aziraphale took it upon himself to cheer up the old boy. It wouldn’t do to have his closest companion wilting about like undernourished flora.
“He kept going on about this show with a harlequin, so I found a nice historically accurate Commedia dell’arte performance to attend. Turns out he was talking about some film, but it was still a good time. Afterwards we went to this dubious café that played jazz piano and only served appetisers and drinks. They make his favourite espresso, but the building reeks of damp.”
“Sorry to interrupt, was there anything specific that happened on your date?”
“Oh, it wasn’t a date. Just like most of our friendly evenings together,” Aziraphale clarified, and Anathema gave him a strange look he didn’t understand. “Let’s see, we went to the park for a bit. I gave him a wristwatch, one of those you have to wind up or some nonsense. Something to replace that offensive electronic one he wears. It was so difficult to find one with a colour palette that compliments that drab aesthetic he has going on, I never buy him gifts really--”
“Could that have been it?” Anathema interrupted again, without an apology that time. Although, she had a point.
Aziraphale gasped. Crowley’s mood had completely shifted after he put on the watch. His shoulders relaxed and he even smiled at Aziraphale like a lovestruck fool. It had seemed like such an innocent thing. As evidenced by the piles of boxes on the bookshop’s antique tables, Crowley often showered him with trinkets, (and then insinuated that Aziraphale was a hoarder, whose fault was that exactly!) What horrible luck that the one time Aziraphale returned the gesture that the gift had been cursed.
“The jeweller is a friend of mine, I doubt he would’ve sold me a cursed item on purpose.” He’d cured the man’s arthritis several years prior and received a rather passive-aggressive memo from Gabriel for it.
“If I got close enough, I could confirm if that’s the cause for this...” Anathema conspicuously paused, “spell. Maybe tonight at La Mer, if there was another table open nearby, I could bring Newt and--”
Aziraphale decided to give interrupting her a try, “Splendid idea! I’ll have our reservation changed to include four.”
Anathema frowned, but agreed. Aziraphale was asking her to potentially tangle with dark forces, hesitancy was expected. He grabbed a random gift bag covered in glittery hearts from nearby and gave it to her as a thank you.
It completely slipped Aziraphale’s mind that Anathema and Crowley were acquainted due to a collision with his vehicle. The demon however, had a vivid and inaccurate recollection of the incident and was immediately hostile when she joined their table. Aziraphale was a storm of mixed emotions; he was ashamed to be associated with an unseemly row at such a reputable establishment, but it was quite comforting to see Crowley in his old, cantankerous form.
Newt was a variable no one had counted on, probably for his entire life Aziraphale suspected. The man possessed a placid, vacuous energy that absorbed the heightened emotions like a sponge. He merely tapped Anathema on the arm and made an inane comment about the menu and she settled down. Without a target for his huffing and puffing, Crowley followed suit.
“Not a lot of choice, huh,” Newt contributed.
“It’s prix fixe, meant more for information than selection,” Aziraphale told him. Judging from the fact he was clearly wearing a dinner jacket the maître d ’ gave him, he might need the education.
“So, what brings you kids to town,” Crowley asked tightly. The forced politeness must have been putting pressure on his already taxed mind. Before they could answer, he had the waiter bring a red wine for the table. Further evidence of the strain on the demon since their first course would have scallops in it.
“Doing some sight-seeing. Annie wants a selfie with a Beefeater,” Newt answered pleasantly, either unable or unwilling to read the energy at the table.
“Actually, I wanted to visit the Tower of London to see if I could sense any paranormal vibes, lots of super haunted places this side of the pond.” She gave her boyfriend a pointed look. “Unavoidable if a Beefeater just happens to be in any of my photos. Have you guys been here before?”
Aziraphale nodded and spared a grin to the confused waiter who began pouring glasses of the now white wine. “A few times. The sea bass is divine, and I would know,” he couldn’t help but chuckle, he cracked himself up, “Crowley enjoys it here as well, isn’t that right?”
Crowley was sunk low in his chair with arms crossed. Aziraphale cleared his throat and he jack-in-the-boxed into the best posture that could be expected of him; crooked, but not in danger of sliding onto the floor.
“Yeah, s’great. The two of us love it,” he grumbled. There was a long, awkward silence while everyone took strategic sips of their wine.
Then, Aziraphale felt a nudge against his ankle. That better not be what he thought it was. He’d grown complacent and managed to forget Crowley’s awful spellbound condition. The demon fought off the effects so bravely just so he could be rude to their guests at the restaurant.
Aziraphale peered to his left, but Crowley gave no indication of any untoward playfulness. Anathema was busy photographing the first course from different angles with her mobile and he honestly forgot that Newt was there.
He could do what most people did to escape uncomfortable situations, which was excuse themselves to the toilet, but that made no sense for him. What would he even do in there? If he had been a woman or an 18th century man, he could powder his nose perhaps. Pulling his leg away was no deterrent for its tenacious pursuer. Aziraphale took a deep breath and reminded himself that it was for Crowley’s own good. So, he kicked him.
The yelp from his left confirmed his suspicions. Aziraphale spoke up to cover the commotion.
“Oh Crowley, why don’t you show the young couple the gift I bought you?” A fine act of subtlety in his opinion.
Crowley gave him what he must have thought was a very threatening scowl but did as Aziraphale requested anyway.
“Wow, Mr. Crowley. Rolex, pretty posh.” Newt beamed and used the wrong fork to stab at his scallop. Anathema reached out to touch the watch, but Crowley hissed at her and pulled his arm back. Aziraphale rolled his eyes.
“I have to powder my nose,” Anathema announced, “Aziraphale, could you, uh, escort me?”
Considering himself a gentleman, Aziraphale agreed. He even offered the young woman his arm for their short stroll to the toilet. The cuttlefish steaks were in full bloom and wait staff scampered to and fro. Once they arrived at their destination, Aziraphale bowed and made to leave.
“Where are you going?” Anathema grabbed his sleeve and moved them behind a convnient potted plant. Aziraphale felt like he was in a scene right out of an Ian Fleming novel. He'd always considered himself a bit of a spy in addition to being a gentleman. “I just wanted to tell you that the watch isn’t cursed. In fact, I don’t think there’s a spell at all. Other than his attitude, he seems just fine.”
“That can’t be true, he told me there was one himself. While he’s had these periods where he seems normal, for him at least, he still goes into these alarming states. Why, he tried to make footsie with me not a few minutes ago.”
Anathema was puzzled. “'Make footsie'? Never mind. If you insist, I can cook up a counter-spell or you can try breaking it yourself. A kiss usually works.”
Aziraphale put a hand on his chest, Americans were so forward. “What a thing to suggest! I would never subject my compromised friend to something so unwelcomed.”
“You sure it’s unwelcomed,” she intoned suggestively. Heat climbed up his neck. Aziraphale would have none of that and told his expanding blood vessels they better right themselves or else. Surely, the woman was just teasing him in his fragile state.
“I’ll take that counter-spell if you please,” he told her stern as a headmaster, much recovered from his brief fluster. She shrugged and agreed to work on it.
He returned to the table where Crowley and Newt were having an animated discussion about aliens of all things.
“Trust me, I'd know if there were little green men out there. I fashioned half the blessed universe.”
“They weren't little, had duck-like faces,” Newt insisted. Crowley waved a dismissive hand at him and took a deep swig of his wine. Quite a spectacle early on in the night.
Aziraphale tapped his friend on the shoulder and whispered that he should do his best to control himself the rest of the evening.
“What do I get if I do,” he asked with unabashed flirtation. Newt was deeply focused on his plate and Aziraphale had to go scolding his blood vessels again.
“You get to take me home,” there was a cough as the scallops went down wrong for the young human, putting the oesophagus next to the windpipe was a serious design flaw, “and then you get to go home, alone. In one piece.”
The threat didn't appear to intimidate the tipsy demon in the slightest as he cooed mockingly at the angel. Aziraphale needed to practice more in the mirror so he could achieve some level of menace. At least his bewitched friend kept his hands and feet to himself the rest of the night. Crowley graduated to being rather soused, but that did mean he started getting on with their guests. A drunken Crowley did love an audience.
He told rolling anecdotes from the ages past and the young couple listened in awe; Newt especially liked the one about Dick Turpin. Aziraphale interjected here and there with a correction. There was something charming about the demon like that; stumbling over words and laughing in open delight. It was only when he had a drink too many that he became an unbearable wobbly beast.
Crowley didn't eat much and had little to soak up the alcohol as they began the final course. Aziraphale never savoured pudding quicker in his life and did his best to get his friend out the door without completely tripping over each other. Aziraphale had willed away most of the wine in his own system and supported the majority of Crowley’s weight as they meandered down the pavement.
“Are you planning on sobering up?”
“Nah, gonna keep it for a bit,” he mumbled.
“I suppose that means I have to drive us?” He'd only done it a couple times before. The car was possessed to some degree and it mostly operated on autopilot with someone behind the wheel. It was still entirely possible that they would be discorporated in a terrible accident.
“Baby you can drive my car,” Crowley caterwauled into the night, “beep, beep, beep, beep, yeeeeah.”
“A free concert, lucky me.”
Crowley had regained some clarity by the time they reached the bookshop, (in one piece thankfully.) Aziraphale sat in the driver seat and watched him with wariness. It had been nearly two hours without some form of overture. Perhaps there had been an innocuous event that neutralised the spell. Anathema could have covertly cured him somewhere between the final entrée and the gâteau basque.
“Wanna come 'round for brunch tomorrow? I'll make you the Anthony Special.” His lascivious tone snuffed out that candle.
“You don't cook.”
Crowley faked offence, “I'm practically Julia Child. Been told I make a brilliant beans on toast.”
Aziraphale was not fond of the implications of that sentence for reasons he wasn't going to examine. However, his mouth was perfectly fine with getting it out there.
“Made breakfast for a lot of people, then?”
“Made omelettes for an entire rugby team once back in '85.”
To say Aziraphale was shocked and scandalised was an understatement. Demons were certainly meant to get up to all sorts of vile temptations, but that seemed excessive. Crowley appeared just as surprised at his words.
“That's not what I-I meant literally. I was trying to convince the coach into taking a bribe and... Someone’s sake. I'm no good at innuendo when I'm pissed.”
He certainly wasn't.
“I think this is where we say good night.”
“Brunch, mine, eleven,” he shouted after Aziraphale as he exited the vehicle. He hoped that Anathema came up with a solution soon or he would face the same fate as an entire rugby team. He was only one angel.
He arrived precisely five minutes early and Crowley, sans shades, opened the door before he could knock.
“Angel, fancy meeting you here,” he was perky in a way Aziraphale had never seen. He was deep in the clutches of the enchantment. “Entrez-vous.” He held the door open as Aziraphale walked on pins and needles into the flat.
There was a delicious scent of eggs in the air. It was the only pleasant thing about Crowley's place. It was perhaps the most offensive piece of architecture Aziraphale had ever seen. The walls, floors, and ceiling were concrete and made the space feel both hostile and austere. Not to mention the abysmal taste in décor. Aziraphale's least favourite was that wrestling angel statue Crowley had picked up from Sotheby's just for a laugh. Such outrageously homoerotic imagery should be reserved for the bed chamber.
Crowley had conjured up an incongruous dining set that could've belonged outside a French café. It was right next to his plants, the only thing not a complete eyesore in the flat. In an act of chivalry bordering on factitious, the demon pulled out a chair and Aziraphale took a seat at the small table.
The brunch itself was decent although charred. Uncertain if it were owing to the skill level of the chef or a side effect of his infernal nature. Crowley insisted that he cooked it all the native way and then proceeded to make a very unfunny joke about deviled eggs.
“I’m sure you could just poof up a perfect angel food cake if you were inclined.”
“Poof up, how reductive,” Aziraphale chided and sliced into his crêpe, “is that term even ‘PC’ anymore? Aren’t you going to get ‘cancelled’?”
“Please stop using those words,” Crowley cringed.
“Anyway, I wouldn’t need to. I could bake a near perfect one, I’m certain. It’s just a recipe after all and I’m an expert at following rules to the letter.”
Crowley gave him an expression that suggested he was holding back some very ungenerous words. Aziraphale put down his knife and fork and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. The demon was still gazing at him with a concerning mixture of sickly-sweet affection and scepticism.
“As good as Paris?” He asked. It took Aziraphale a moment to catch up. Right, when Crowley had Scarlet Pimpernel-ed him in that horrendous outfit.
“Not even the current crêpes in Paris are as good as they used to be. Probably has to do with the chemicals they’re pumping into farm animals nowadays. I could do it, you know. Add some strawberries and it would be quite,” Aziraphale grinned, “heavenly.”
“Prove it then.”
Aziraphale was taken aback. It had been a passing fancy, not an opening for a challenge. Without being on opposing sides, they were really only ever competitive anymore when it came to Uno. And the less said about that the better.
“We can make a day of it,” Crowley continued, “pick some things up from the supermarket, you can use my kitchen, and we can watch a film while it bakes.”
“A film?” was Aziraphale's automatic response. He needed to mull over the offer, it was suspiciously cosy and human. Perhaps the spell had evolved into a more subtle form. Also, there was an implication that he would be required to spend all day in this ghoulish cement tomb.
Crowley flapped his hand about like a frightened bird. “Or you can read, and I’ll take a nap or whatever. Nice lazy Sunday, how about it?”
Now, the practical side of Aziraphale knew that a daylong exposure to Crowley in his current state could only lead to trouble and further mortification for his friend. The less rational side, however, was intrigued. If Crowley would allow him to add a few rugs or curtains to soften the severity of his flat, then Aziraphale could easily see himself spending the day there relaxing. Whenever he cured Crowley of his supernatural ailment, there might not be any further opportunities to indulge in simple domesticity.
He somewhat reluctantly agreed to the invitation. He excused himself to his shop to pick up a cookbook and other light reading. Crowley was annoyingly resolute about driving him, but Aziraphale insisted that he wanted to let his meal settle and he needed the time to conjure up the best plan of thwarting if the spell should make itself more aggressive.
The solution presented itself when he arrived at his bookshop. He found a large envelope from Anathema slipped through the post slot. Inside was a plastic bag full of a mysterious and glittery tan powder. Her enclosed letter explained that it was for the counter-spell. It was truly auspicious timing. There weren’t instructions on application, but since he was about to bake a cake it seemed pretty obvious how to best put it to use.
He was overjoyed about having an end in sight. Aziraphale was distracted enough by his elation that he didn’t register Crowley’s hand on his back guiding him through the market aisles. Didn’t notice a little light finger brushing while queuing up either.
“This cake is going to cure all your ills,” Aziraphale told him in earnestness. Crowley was clearly pleased to learn that the awful enchantment would soon be lifted.
“I look forward to it.”
Crowley’s kitchen was not so much that as it was a spare room with a collection of appliances shoved in it. There was barely space to navigate, especially when the demon insisted on being an audience because, "you look cute in that apron."
The condescension! His bespoke tartan apron was rather dashing, not cute. He wasn't a fuzzy duckling. It was after Crowley stepped in his way for the twentieth time that he chased him out. Aziraphale did not consider himself a spectator sport.
As he mixed the dry ingredients together, he poured in about half the bag of Anathema's powder. That seemed like enough and it couldn’t hurt to have some extra tucked away. It had a coarse, familiar quality to it and the glittery part would make the cake rather attractive. Otherwise, Aziraphale followed the recipe exactly and finally slipped the dessert into the oven.
He emerged from the cupboard masquerading as a kitchen to find Crowley fast asleep on a tacky modern sofa he’d summoned up. He was sprawled in a gangly heap. Aziraphale was no expert on napping, but that position couldn’t be comfortable. Also, unless he was going to do something undignified like perch on the sofa arm or sit in the demon's throne monstrosity, Aziraphale couldn’t very well relax and read his Confucius translation. Perhaps he could redecorate, there were an excessive number of oriental rugs rolled up in his shop’s storage.
Aziraphale took a moment to watch his slumbering friend in a normal, platonic way, then noticed his black jacket thrown over the back of the sofa. He tutted and shook his head. A satin lined hanger materialised in his hand as he grabbed the mistreated garment. Something plopped out of a pocket and bounced off Aziraphale’s shoe.
The item had gone under the sofa. Aziraphale hung the jacket on a newly appeared coat rack and cautiously kneeled to fetch whatever loose rubbish demons felt the need to carry on their person. As if they couldn’t just summon anything at any time.
His fingers brushed something unmistakably velvet. A velvet box shaped something. A velvet box shaped something with a hinge. Shakily, he pulled out the object, which turned out to be exactly what he feared it to be. Aziraphale’s eyes darted to Crowley on the sofa, he was still sound asleep, his breathing even. Steady breathing sounded like a real dream to Aziraphale at that moment.
Might just be cufflinks. Or earrings. It could be a practical joke, like one of those jars Crowley had him open and springs popped out. He inhaled deeply and then quickly opened and closed it with a clack. The spell, no, the curse had really done it. It had driven Crowley to madness and now sought to cruelly toy with Aziraphale’s deepest—
Crowley shifted on the cushions, rousing. Aziraphale swiftly tucked the contemptuous little box into his apron lap pocket.
“Hello there,” Crowley said as he regarded the angel with a coy expression, “what are you up to?”
He stood in a rush and straightened every bit of clothing his jittery fingers could reach, “Just, well, tying my shoe. Excuse me, I must check in the kitchen.”
Internally, he scolded his amygdala and heart for working in tandem to make him look like a fool. Once in the kitchen, he found there was still half an hour left to bake. He could wash the strawberries. That should give him a little time to get his corporation and thoughts back in line.
There was a yawn behind him and the unmistakable click of boots on tile. Crowley came right up and peered over his shoulder to watch him rinse the fruit in the sink.
“You know,” he spoke in a warm rumble very close to Aziraphale’s ear, “I think I have a brandy somewhere that would go with this.”
Aziraphale scooched forward determinedly. He felt the jewellery box in his pocket sandwich between the counter and his stomach. Such a terrible situation.
What began as a light, almost innocent shoulder pat by the bewitched demon morphed into an unmistakable massaging motion. Aziraphale did have a slight knot at the base of his cervical spine. That absolutely was the only reason he allowed it to continue for more than 30 seconds.
“Stop distracting me, I'm trying to concentrate.”
Crowley pulled back his hand, but still needed to be cheeky, “Excuse me, didn’t realise I was such a distraction.”
He continued to hover behind Aziraphale. Spell or not, it was becoming quite irritating. He turned around to confront Crowley.
“Need something?”
The sheer audacity as Crowley leaned forward and placed his hands either side of Aziraphale's hips on the countertop, trapping him in. The demon had a wolfish look that the angel met with wide eyes and reflexively tilted away. He desperately wiped his mind of any errant thoughts and ceased all blood flow. Their lower bodies were thankfully far enough apart to avoid any indecent misunderstandings, (something along the lines of, "is that the jewellery box you pinched or are you just happy to see me?")
They were in this awkward tableau for a few beats until something broke through Crowley's spellbound mind. He regarded Aziraphale with increased confusion and then perhaps embarrassment.
He stepped back. “I'm just going to—yeah, get that thing. The brandy, I mean.”
That was a close call. In less than an hour Aziraphale could relax again. It was becoming incrementally more difficult with each encounter to resist temptation. He strengthened his resolve; if Aziraphale were to have things like flirtatious kitchen encounters and a proposal with a beautiful gold ring, it would be the honest way.
“Think I drank the bottle a few decades back.” Crowley stood in the doorway and put his jacket on. “Popping out to the shop.” He then patted at his breast pocket and made a face.
“You're leaving me here?” Aziraphale tried to sound as unaffected as possible. Part of him was genuinely annoyed that he was being left to flat sit. The demon better not expect him to tidy up as well. Crowley continued to pat and dig through his pockets and answered him distractedly.
“Won't be gone long. Not like you're going to steal anything while I'm out.”
Aziraphale firmly reminded any excessive rushing blood that it was not welcome on his face or neck area. Crowley seemed to remember that he was a powerful being with semi-infinite abilities and snapped his fingers. An albatross weight left Aziraphale's apron pocket. With that, Crowley bid him a quick farewell and Aziraphale let out a deep exhale.
The cake was in a sad state when it was done. It was too dense and flopped to one side. The counter-spell powder didn't agree with it. Aziraphale would never cheat, never! But, Crowley wasn't around and it was simply a minor cosmetic adjustment to please his friend aesthetically. He put the near perfect white loaf on a china plate and garnished it artfully with his thoroughly washed strawberries. It could have been in a magazine and the sparkling substance gave the cake a twinkle when the light hit it right.
Aziraphale set it on the dining table and anxiously waited for the demon's return. Everything would be back to normal soon. No more Crowley fawning over him like a smitten fool. The real Crowley was crabby, guarded, and not at all in love with Aziraphale. He clutched his hands together tightly and forced a stiff upper lip. That was how it should be.
“Looks good,” Crowley crooned as he walked back in with a bottle and slid off his shades, “and the cake isn't bad either.” He winked at Aziraphale.
What an idiot. But, for a few more minutes he would still be Aziraphale's idiot.
The demon began to pour the brandy into two snifters that appeared on the table. Aziraphale straightened his posture and cleared his throat.
“Told you I could do it, wasn't hard at all.” He clinked glasses with Crowley and then took a sip. Crowley cut a couple slices and eyed his plate curiously.
“What's this shiny stuff in it?”
“It's a special mystery ingredient. My own little addition.” Aziraphale had a passing moment of weakness and wanted to snatch the dessert plate out of Crowley's hand. But, he had to stay strong for his friend's sake. It was for the best.
“You rebel, if Heaven could see you now.” He then took a bite.