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When it's all over, when the world hasn't ended and they haven't died, and they're happily ensconced once more in the back room of his bookshop, full of wine and nibbles and the strange, giddy feeling of freedom, after they've laughed for the fifth time over their exploits in Heaven and Hell and failed for the fourth time to think up any sensible plans for the future and are at last casting around for new topics of conversation, Aziraphale finally thinks to mention something that's been rattling around in the back of his mind for a while.
"Did you know," he says, "that Heaven seems to think we're... That is, they seem to somehow have the impression that we're..." Oh dear. Perhaps he's imbibed a little too much already, because he can't quite seem to think of a delicate way to phrase it. He waves a hand suggestively, instead.
Crowley observes the gesture with what appears to be interest, but little comprehension. "That we're what?" he says. "Wankers?"
"Oh, well, I'm sure they think that, too," Aziraphale says. He waits for the pang of shame that Heaven's poor opinion of him normally elicits, and is delighted when it utterly fails to appear. "But, no, I meant..." He waves his hand about again. Crowley's forehead wrinkles as he gamely makes another attempt to decode it. This may, in fact, require a direct quote. "My... boyfriend."
Crowley blinks. And then smiles at him, a slow, easy grin that, when he's finished, seems to take up a surprisingly large percentage of his face.
It's distracting enough that Aziraphale nearly loses his train of thought. What was he saying? Ah. Yes. "That's what they called you. My 'boyfriend in the dark glasses.' Isn't that ridiculous? Boyfriend! Where could they possibly have come up with an idea like that?"
Crowley's smile freezes. The lines around his eyes – which are bare now, and a lovely shade of amber in this light – tighten oddly. Is he upset? Offended by the idea? Something flutters unhappily in Aziraphale's chest. Rather more than seems entirely justified, he thinks, but then perhaps the same could be said of whatever that reaction of Crowley's is, too.
Only, no, wait, now the lines in question are passing right on through "tight," and have seemingly decided to aim for "crinkly" instead. Although somehow through it all the demon's eyes stay locked, calm and unblinking, on his own. "Really, angel?" Crowley says, his voice full of a familiar, long-suffering affection. "No idea?" A small smile plays across his lips, but his gaze doesn't waver.
Familiar, Aziraphale thinks. Long-suffering. Affection. Six thousand years long, really. Amazing to think of it. Six millennia of entertaining encounters and shared meals and rambling conversations and being essentially the most important person in each other's life, and... "Oh." He thinks for a moment that he can feel himself blushing, but, no, he's quite certain that's only the wine. "Oh. I see."
Crowley nods. His mouth has drawn up into a tight little knot. He's obviously trying not to laugh.
"Oh, don't look at me like that! It's the... the ridiculous human word that confused me. I mean 'boyfriend.' Really! What sort of description is that for... for..." He waves both hands, this time, and he can see that Crowley understands him perfectly, because everything he's trying to communicate is reflected right back in the look that Crowley's giving him now. Which covers a great deal that may or may not be ineffable, but that certainly can't be properly expressed by so pedestrian a term as "boyfriend."
"Right, right. What do humans know about it, anyway? With all their... words. For things." Crowley grabs a bottle and sloshes more wine into Aziraphale's nearly empty glass.
"Oh, thank you." He hadn't expected Crowley to let it go this easily. It's something of a relief. "'I'm so glad you understand."
"You're welcome," Crowley says. He rests his chin on his hand, and the smile on his face could only be described as "fiendish" now. Although one could probably apply an adjective or two, as well. Is it possible for someone to be sappily fiendish? Fiendishly sappy? "Boyfriend." He pronounces every phoneme of the word distinctly, with a great deal of relish.
"No, no," Aziraphale says. He shakes his head. Very firmly. "I'm sorry. We are absolutely going to have to think of something else."
"My angel boyfriend." Goodness, Crowley's really quite drunk, isn't he? Well, all right. So is Aziraphale, clearly, or the positively besotted way he says it wouldn't have nearly this much of an effect on him.
A moment passes. Crowley doesn't blink.
Aziraphale picks up the glass, and sips, and considers. And sighs. "Well," he says. "I suppose with practice I'll get used to it."