Work Text:
When his phone rang, he honestly could say he didn’t know what the Angel would have on his mind. The talk of the pandemic almost catching him by surprise. The sincere tone in the Angel’s voice as he asked Crowley how he was. And his response of a long-winded spiel and invention of a new word just to convey the very fact he was, for a lack of better words, tradigentally bored. Well they, or rather now, Hell had Charles Dickens for a reason. The events of the switch had left both departments quite shaken and Crowley had not had the displeasure of running into Hastur or Ligur since.
There was a beat of silence, “Look if this isn’t a silly question, oughtn’t you to be out and about, doing things?” the Angel's voice hilted slightly, as if he didn’t want to voice the silly question for fear of hearing an unwanted response that would no doubt settle uncomfortably in the pit of Aziraphale’s fabricated stomach. Once again, they had Dicken’s for many reasons.
“Out and about?” Crowley couldn’t help but be appalled by Aziraphale's mere insinuation of evil doing on his part. Sure he was a demon for hell’s sake, but even that was taking his job description a tad too far. Wasn’t it? “When we’re all meant to be staying home?” he asked the Angel.
“Well, yes. You’re a demon, you’ve got a job to do. Obviously, you’re not actually going to get ill, or even spread a disease, but you could set a bad example. Get ominously close to people. Tell everyone there’s a party going on or… something.” Aziraphale responded, his voice drifting off as if he hated the very thought of Crowley doing something wicked. And Crowley would never admit aloud that the insinuation from the Angel hurt him in places he wasn’t sure even truly existed. There was no heart to be seized. No soul to be crushed. No neurons firing off in excess that would cause him to engage in a flight or fight response. So why did he feel like the Angel didn’t really know him at all? Maybe he would still just always be the demon that followed Aziraphale from Eden. The unholy abomination that priest’s parade around and blame for sin.
“I… I could do that.” Crowley stuttered out, quick to regain any semblance of bleeding confidence that the demon normally brandished with more brilliance than Azirpahale’s flaming sword. “I mean I could. But if I did… well… people might follow my bad example and get ill.” a pause, “Or even die. And I know I ought to be making people’s lives even worse but everyone’s so miserable cooped up anyway I just… don’t have the heart for it.” Crowley continued, surprising himself at how sincere he sounded. Aziraphale had a funny way of bringing out the side of him that longed to just exist. That longed to be loved in ways no demon had ever been shown. Aziraphale truly was the one good thing he had left on this planet. And running away together to Alpha Centauri was the one good idea he ever had.
“I’m not miserable!” Aziraphale’s outlandish tone catching Crowley by surprise that he almost jumped from where he sat perched on his throne. His elbow sliding and knocking against the aged wood hard enough that Crowley was worried of the evidence it might have been left behind. Arthur wouldn’t mind if his throne was a bit scuffed and worn upon his return, right? Crowley was sure it was fine.
What part of his response had led Aziraphale to behave defensively “Really?” He asked, a smirk forming on his lips. If Aziraphale could assume such devious activities from him, then perhaps he was the one who was breaking the rules. He ignored the part of himself that was giddy at the prospect of his Angel breaking the rules. “Oh, I suppose you’re off nipping around London doing miracles for people, from a socially approved distance.” he continued, enjoying the opportunity to tease Aziraphale.
“Oh no, I can’t do that.” Aziraphale responded, and Crowley could practically see the way the Angel wiggling at the very notion of being accused of wrong doing. Aziraphale continued, “We’re all meant to stay at home. I put up the closed sign on the window, and I’ve been catching up on my reading.” Crowley didn’t hold back the smile, of course Aziraphale would be catching up on his reading. He could picture the Angel lounging on his sofa in front of the fireplace. The Angel winged mug Crowley had given him years ago sitting on the antique end table. His face bathed in magnificent sunset hues as the fire crackled in the quiet of the shop. He shook the image from his mind, lest it stay there forever.
“Do you know,” Aziraphale continued on, his voice bubbly and Crowley just knew he had done that endearingly silly wiggle just from the excitement that resonated in his voice. “I’ve never had so few customers, not in 200 years. Although, there were a few young lads a couple of nights ago. Broke in through the back and tried to steal the cash box. But they soon saw the error of their ways.”
Crowley couldn’t help but chuckle, “Did you smite them with your wroth?” he asked.
“Well,” Aziraphale began, “I certainly gave them a good talking to. And I sent each of them home with cake.”
Crowley paused, his brain momentarily short circuiting at the ultimumbler of Aziraphale’s sentence. Two new words in the span of five minutes. Old Will had nothing on him.
“...Cake.” Crowley spoke, slowly repeating the last word of the sentence, or as he dubbed it, the ultimumbler, of Aziraphale’s sentence. Almost as if he was unsure himself if he heard the Angel correctly.
Aziraphale responded, “Quite a lot of cake, actually.” He heard him correctly then, alright.
Crowley sighed, his lips twitching as he struggled to process where this conversation had turned into, well, this. “I… I’m going to regret asking but… uh…” he drifted off. Yup, he was totally lost.
Aziraphale was accustomed to Crowley’s bout of spluttering, and maybe in this instance, it was a good thing that the Angel knew him so well. “Well, all the restaurants and cafés are closed, but it turns out I have a whole cookbook section here in the bookshop.” Aziraphale began. Of course this would be the route that Aziraphale had taken. It seems the whole world had suddenly gone back to the art of baking. “And I got peckish. I’ve now made bundt cake, sponge cake, Angel’s food cake, four different kinds of sourdough loaf, Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte, although I had to miracle in the cherries. And then, once I’ve baked them, I have to eat them all myself. Which was why I was so delighted…” Aziraphale drifted off, almost embarrassed
Crowley interjected, “To send your burglars home laden with baked goods. Yes. Yeah, yeah, I thought…” He drifted off, the thoughts running rampant in his mind of how he simply missed Aziraphale. Missed their evenings filled with vintage wine and laughter. Missed the gentle, accidental brushes of fingers. And he couldn’t stop himself from continuing, “You know, I could hunker down at your place. Slither over and watch you eat cake. I could bring a bottle, a case, of something drinkable.” He cringed, what in hell’s blazes was that? That was too fast. He was always too fast.
“No, I… I… I…” Azirphale stuttered out. Of course, he had blown it. “I’m afraid that would be breaking all the rules.” The rules. Of course. As if they hadn’t been breaking the rules for millennia. “Out of the question! I’ll see you… when… this is over?” He asked his voice sounding hopeful, and for a moment, Crowley was at peace. Aziraphale still wanted to see him.
“Right. Um…” Crowley drifted, “I’m setting the alarm clock for July. Goodnight, Angel.” He said, hanging the phone up before Aziraphale could respond.
He sighed, reaching over for a bottle of whatever he had next to him and drank.
Aziraphale’s words seemed to echo in his mind long after their
conversation on the phone was terminated by the demon himself. “Get ominously close to people.” The way he said it, as if Crowley wasn’t fighting every urge to be next to the one person he wanted the most at that moment. The demon was well past the phase where he denied any desire of proximity to the Angel other than for strictly business has long since vanished from his itenary for the day. They were more than friends now, weren’t they? After all the two of them have been through? From the garden to now, weren’t they at least friends? And even then, there was a closeness between them that Crowley valued more than the stars he had placed in the sky.
He thought they were at that stage in whatever kind of tentative relationship they shared. Crowley had been more than comfortable when he was still waiting for Aziraphale to catch up to him. “You go too fast for me, Crowley.” More words spoken from the Angel's lips that seemed to be nothing more than holy water on an open wound, festering and blistering in the sun.
And then, on that bus ride back from Tadfield. Aziraphale had sat down beside him, and placed his hand on Crowley’s. He still remembers the way his breath hitched in his throat, the warmth that spread across the cold appendage like a blanket, heating him from the inside out. He had become frozen, limbs unmoving as Aziraphale squeezed his hand just so. A smile on the Angel’s lips as he had leaned into Crowley’s side, slotting perfectly into place as if Crowley had been molded to fit him. It was a feeling that Crowley was determined to remember for the rest of his life. He relaxed against Aziraphale, and he allowed his face to turn just slightly, soft curly blonde hair tickled his nose and he could smell the shampoo he used. Raspberries. Aziraphale smelled of raspberries. Things were looking up, weren’t they?
And things were looking up, Armageddon had been avoided, heaven and hell had backed off them. It was as if they were truly able to breathe in peace without worrying about lurking eyes and shifty gazes. And maybe, just maybe, they could find some form of happiness together. Maybe. Crowley didn’t mind happiness as long as Aziraphale was with him.
Then the lockdown happened.
Whatever steps that had been taken and the carefully constructed foundation they had created had been erased seemingly overnight. The thought jarring enough to shake up even Crowley if he dwelled too much upon it.
Aziraphale had been right. He couldn’t get sick. Couldn’t pass it on to anyone else. So why was he allowing himself to still be cooped up in the apartment like it was the 1300’s all over again? Aziraphale was right, he could be out there, causing mischief and the likes, but there was something just so humanly selfish of the thought of being outside. And he was telling the truth, it would set a bad example for others around him.
Perhaps, once again, he had gone too fast for his Angel. Offering to make the trek to his place and watch him eat cake. He grimaced as his words echoed in his mind. Who even says that, besides killer queens of course. It wouldn’t have been the first time he had watched Aziraphale eat, but it was a different thing entirely to say it aloud. Watching him enjoy a slice of angel food cake at the Ritz while Crowley nursed the wine that the Angel had chosen for the occasion. He wondered if they would ever have another meal at the restaurant before the year was over.
Then why had Aziraphale phoned him in the first place? Surely not entirely to check up upon his well-being. Aziraphale had a history of non-verbal suggestions throughout the millennia they had known each other. From the moment just a few months ago when he used a demonic miracle to remove the paint stain from his favorite jacket. Or when he removed the shackles that bound him during The Great Terror. Maybe Aziraphale’s original reason for calling was to invite him over? No, that couldn’t be right, could it? The thought bouncing around his head so much that it gave him a phantom feeling of what he’d classify as a headache.
Crowley looked off to the side, his gaze all but burning a hole into his front door. He told Aziraphael he’d set his alarm for July. That he’d sleep the lockdown away. But he couldn’t ignore the pull he felt to strut down to SoHo and see the Angel before he took his slumber. The thought alone of seeing him sent a shiver down his spine and not unforeign thoughts of admiration and attraction. Far from the amicable feelings from their first 10 seconds of meeting. Aziraphale gave away his flaming sword. How could Crowley not fall in love with him at that moment?
“Achk.” He mumbled, making his mind up as he stood up from his throne, looking around and grabbing his sunglasses from his desk and made his way out of the room. Passing by his plants, stopping in front of them all and glaring at them “I’ll be back.” He told them, his voice firm, as if they concerned themselves with his comings and goings. And they did.
The plants shook in response, Crowley nodded his head before turning on his heel and walking out of his flat. Stepping out into the annoyingly sunny day in London almost made him turn right back around and sleep off the onslaught of Vitamin D.
But the quietness of the streets before him set him on edge. Like Armageddon had happened after all and the world was truly gone. Save for a lone car driving along the street before him, it was the only true sign of life in his surroundings. Shops darkened and bare, closed signs all but screamed out into the emptiness of the once bustling area. And Crowley, the sole occupant at center stage as the world all but froze in time around him.
The Bentley sat on the edge of the street, pristine as ever as it roared to life at Crowley's unspoken command. He approached, letting his fingers glide along the edgings of the roof before climbing in. “Let’s go for a ride.” He spoke aloud, shifting the gear and peeling off down the street in the familiar commute to Aziraphale’s bookshop, Freddie’s voice crackling through the stereo system that didn’t even exist. The opening chords of “Love of my Life” filling the space and Crowley scowled, hoping it was enough to cover the tint of red that colored his cheeks.
“Really, Freddie?” Crowley asked into the emptiness as he turned off the street. The radio cut out for a moment before the song changed. Bicycle. Crowley sighed in defeat. He’d take it. He was just grateful it wasn’t Killer Queen. There were worse songs Freddie could play on his way to Aziraphale’s bookshop.
If it could even be classified as a store since he ran off anyone so much as attempting a purchase from the vast collection he’s accumulated over the thousands of years. Crowley couldn’t blame him, they were all first editions and the Angel had a hoarding problem worse than a dragon when it came to original prints.
Briefly, Crowley wondered if he should call the Angel back. To give him a heads-up that he was on his way. He ultimately decided against it, lest he let the Angel talk him out of the journey. Should he stop by a store? Bring some form of a peace offering to his Angel, something to validate the reason for the visit. To smooth over any rough edges that might form as a result from his presence. But the thought of stepping into a store, if he could find one open in the first place, left him feeling on edge for a reason he couldn’t place.
“Just a little demonic miracle.” He whispered to himself, surprising himself at how soft the words were spoken in the privacy of the Bentley. Wine bottles appeared out of thin air in the passenger seat next to him. A neatly wrapped loaf of French bread appeared as well; Aziraphale’s favorite kind. Other treats and things that Crowley knew the Angel would enjoy. If he was going to rudely barge into Azirpahale’s quiet moments to himself he had better bring offerings so as to not be smote by his wroth.
The drive to SoHo takes a considerably less amount of time, a fact that sticks to the back of Crowley’s mind with a sickly sweet sense of abnormalcy. The streets were far too barren for Crowley’s liking. No bustle, no humans scurrying about making their way through their lives while time moves on around them. Crowley can’t help but hope that this pandemic business would be well over come July. But Crowley knew humans were selfish creatures, and he had a sinking feeling deep in his gut that it wouldn’t be over that quickly.
He has a moment to himself when he parks on the street next to the bookshop. He wonders if Aziraphale will be happy to see him, a notion that makes the demon inside of him curl and snarl. It’s not in a demon nature to seek out happiness and the likes, but over the centuries, he’s found it comes quite naturally with the Angel by his side. “Nghk.” he says to himself, tongue poking out and mouth convulsing, almost as if he was trying to expel the very taste of it from his mouth. (He notes later, that happiness tastes sweet, like a fine wine that courses through his fabricated blood stream. Pumping into a heart that has never felt more real than when it beats erratically in Aziraphale’s presence. Much different from any wine he’s ever had, a specific blend of emotions that combine together and produce something… Angelic. And secretly, he wishes to drink it for the rest of eternity.) His tongue smacks against the roof of his mouth, and it's enough to get him going again as he reaches for the bags and climbs out of the Bentley.
He takes one quick glance at the main entrance, the closed sign firmly in place, and debates whether he should saunter in through the front door or the back entrance like the scoundrel’s that had broken in the other night. He stands there for longer than he realized, debating himself on the etiquette involved in entrances and the doors one would walk through given a circumstance. Which had delved into recalling the history of entryways; from the wooden ones used in Europe, the stone ones used in Asia, and even the clever little Romans who had established sliding doors. (And if he had to choose a favorite non-modern door it would be the one Solomon created for his temple out of olive tree wood with gold overlaid. But that was back in 587, before all the hubbub with Jesus. His favorite modern door would be his very own invention of the revolving doors. Truly monstrous little contraptions that he never could get enough of.)
He shook his head, an action that had no true purpose other than to be a feeble attempt to stop the winding, spiraling thoughts of his mind. Front door it is . He thought to himself, much preferred the front. He’d have to go through the alley way out back and this was much more convenient for the demon. The fact that simply entering the shop made him nervous was not something Crowley wanted to dwell upon too long, lest he think himself nothing less than the demon he was.
But here, standing in front of the door, the interior scarcely lit and the fireplace barren, he couldn’t help but feel nervous. Nervous of walking in and lovingly annoying the Angel like he had done for centuries now. He was a demon, for hell’s sake, he didn’t slither all the way from Eden just to hide outside the Angel’s door. His hand connecting with the intricately carved handle, solid oak from a master craftsman who had designed the doors all those hundreds of years ago when Aziraphale had first opened his ‘shop’. He willed the mechanisms to unlock and with a loud click he let himself in.
“Angel!” He shouted upon crossing the threshold, the familiar scent of old paper and the Angel himself filled his nose. Pressed flowers in the anthology book collection that Aziraphale had begun to curate in the last hundred years. His nose crinkled slightly, and his eyes squinted behind his glasses. The smell of chaga tea all but assaulted his senses and had him wanting to curl into himself and slither out of the bookshop in snake form. Why couldn’t the Angel just stick to black and earl instead of branching out to different blends.
There was a crash from further into the building and for a brief moment Crowley was wondering if he should have called ahead, just in case Aziraphale had any company from the head office. The last thing he wanted to do today was run into Gabriel. Michael, perhaps, but only to see her reaction to seeing him after the whole fiasco when him and Aziraphale had switched bodies. Perhaps he’d ask her if she found him a rubber duck yet.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale called out, and the demon almost hated the way his voice dipped and rose when saying his name. Sending shivers down his spine while his heart beat out a samba-like rhythm.
“Were you by chance expecting the queen?” He asked, turning away from Aziraphale’s Angelic voice to stride to the seating area in the shop. Placing the bags down on the table while looking at the barren fireplace. He snapped his fingers and a brilliant flame erupted inside the firebox, casting Crowley in shades of reds and oranges.
He turned around as footsteps neared and smiled as he gazed upon Aziraphale, curly blonde hair framing pale blue eyes, his favorite tartan sweater on with equally hideous brown slacks. He really had to take the Angel shopping, he had no excuse to look like he got stuck in the 1800’s. Gabriel might have been a complete asshole, but at least the archangel knew how to dress and blend in with the rest of the 21st century.
“No, we had to cancel our monthly brunch on behalf of the pandemic.” Aziraphale replied bubbly, and Crowley couldn’t help the way the corner of his lip twitched up. Aziraphale’s face tilted, his gaze bore into Crowley's very being, “But,” Aziraphale continued on, approaching him. He can almost see the frazzled shake of his wings as his shoulders danced. “that doesn’t explain why you are here, my dear.” He almost demanded, and Crowley bit his tongue instead of pointing out that the Angel had used a conjunction to begin his sentence. A grammatical error that would have sent the Angel into a tizzy had he pointed it out. But, Crowley couldn’t help the smile that curled along his lips.
“Well,” he began, his hands digging into the pockets of his leather jacket, his fingers rubbing against the fabric as if it were a genie able to grant a wish. Not that he would ever want to come across a genie. Tricky bastards. “I know you said not to come and that I was just going to take a nap for the next few months, but well…” he faltered gesturing to the bags he had set down upon his arrival, “I thought we could make the most of the evening.” He finished, watching as Aziraphale wiggled excitedly as he bounded over to the table with all the annoyingly enchanting grace of an Angel. “And well, you know what they say, there’s no rest for the wicked.”
A beat of silence as the Angel’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, “I don’t believe you to be wicked, my dear.” Aziraphale replied, looking up at him for just a moment of sincerity. Blue eyes unwavering as he spoke to him, like the calm ocean before the heavy rains flooded the earth. “I think you’re quite good.” His voice soft, his lips turned up at the side. Their gazes met and Crowley couldn’t help but notice the way his Angel’s face turned pink.
Aziraphale diverted his gaze, instead looking upon the bags that Crowley had sat down on the table. A memory of a particular teenager who had wandered into the shop for refuge from the snow and had made a comment that said the table looked “so old Jesus might have made it himself.” A comment that Aziraphale burst with giddiness and going into a long spiel on how carpentry in those days was not exactly furnishing, but instead more along the lines of construction in the modern sense. The poor teenager had gone home with more knowledge of social classes and history than he ever thought he would know.
“You didn’t go to a store, did you?” Aziraphale asked, a strange mix of hopefulness and apprehension. On one hand, the demon going into the shops must be good, but on the other side, Crowley had just expressed he wished to be as moral and upstanding as a demon could possibly be. And Aziraphale always held Crowley in high regard for ultimately always doing the, well, the good thing.
“Ah, well. I uh….” Crowley faltered, his tongue tripping over words. He wasn’t one to lie to his Angel, but somehow the truth of the matter was far more intense than lying. “You know…” he drifted off, his knees going weak as Aziraphale smiled at him, blue eyes shining as he closed the distance between them. “I uh…” He sounded like a broken record, and he hated it.
“Thank you, Crowley.” Aziraphale spoke, mercifully cutting the demon off from any further embarrassment. At least, he would have if he hadn’t leaned in closer. Blue eyes hidden by his eyelids as his lips made contact with the skin of Crowley’s cheek, his hand coming out to rest on Crowley’s arm, as if anchoring him in place. His lips, hotter than hell fire and softer than Angel hair. He could feel his face turn red and a tingle traveled up his spine as if he would turn into snake form. Aziraphale’s lips lingered for a moment, cool breath ghosting over hot flesh. Crowley’s eyes fluttered shut, intent to memorize this moment for the rest of eternity. Wanted to never forget the way his heart pounded in his chest and his artificial blood coursing through his miracled veins.
And just as quickly as it happened, Aziraphale pulled away from him, blue eyes wide and face pink in embarrassment, “Sorry,” He spoke, voice strained, “That must have been too fast. My apologies, my de… Crowley.” he stuttered, changing to his name instead of his normal term of endearment. His gaze shifted from one object to another, looking anywhere but directly at Crowley. Crowley missed being called my dear .
“No, no.” Crowley found himself saying, “No need to be sorry.” His voice sounded foreign to him. “It’s okay.” He continued, “Just great, absolutely fantastic.” His hand reaching out before he could stop himself, softly covering Aziraphale’s hand that still rested on his arm. “It’s just right, Angel.” Crowley wanted to lean forward, to brush their lips together like he longed to do for centuries. To feel the way Aziraphale did against him as they kissed. He wanted to know if his lips were as sweet as the treats he indulged in. If his hair were as soft as the clouds above them. There were a lot of things Crowley thought of in that moment, but the way Aziraphale beamed at him made the world stop turning and his heart hammer in his chest. Aziraphale burned brighter than the sun.
“It’s just right.” Aziraphale echoed his words back, his body relaxing under Crowley’s fingers.
“Under normal circumstances I’d ask if you’d want to take a stroll through Hyde Park. Perhaps a picnic? But with this whole lockdown business. Perhaps we could have it here?” Crowley asked, shifting his weight to his other foot as he desperately fought to make eye contact with Aziraphale. “Lay the blankets out by the fire and eat cake.” he grimaced at the use of those words again. “It’ll be like the old times.” He added, and his throat felt heavy as Aziraphale looked up at him with bright eyes.
“The old times?” Aziraphale asked, a glint of wonder and mischief danced in his features. Crowley’s mouth had gone dry as Aziraphale stepped towards him once more, “It’ll be better than the old times.”
“You sound confident in your answer.” Crowley whispered back, eyes darting towards subtle pink lips. Scared that if he dared to speak any louder he would shatter whatever tranquil dream or pocket dimension he had fallen into.
“I am.” Aziraphale responded, his free hand cupping Crowley’s cheek as he shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, pushing himself up just slightly as he pressed his lips against Crowley’s.
And Crowley finally had his answer.
His Angel tasted like cake.