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“Look,” Crowley said, when they’d been sitting together at the Ritz for some time, staring at their drinks and talking about anything and nothing in particular. “That thing you said, back at the air base…”
“About the Great Plan?”
“...No.”
“About remembering how to use the sword?”
“Huh? Oh, that.” Crowley snorted. “No, no, I’m not talking about the sword.”
“What are you talking about, then?” The angel looked honestly perplexed. “We said plenty of things. It was a busy day.”
Crowley ground his teeth. (That was easier said than done with fangs, so you could tell he was really serious when he went through the trouble of doing it.) He didn’t want to say it.
But Aziraphale still seemed to have no idea what he was referring to. Crowley sighed and leaned over, cupping his hand to whisper into the angel’s ear. “About me. About the, the…” He hesitated. “The spark.”
He saw the flash of memory in the angel’s eyes. “Oh! The spark of—”
Crowley reached out hastily and put a hand over Aziraphale’s mouth. (The diners at the next table looked at them oddly, then shrugged and continued eating.)
“Yes,” he said, wearily, “that.” He took his hand away. “You’re right, obviously. But… don’t rub it in, okay? I have a reputation to uphold. It’s not the kind of thing I want thrown around in public.”
Aziraphale looked at him, eyebrows up, and nodded amicably. “Of course, dear boy. I entirely understand. Wouldn’t dream of putting your reputation at risk.”
“Thanks,” Crowley said, relaxing.
Then he caught the glint in those not-wholly-angelic eyes and realized he might have relaxed a bit too soon.
“Never fear,” said Aziraphale, and — deep-down, infuriatingly likeable bastard that he was — smirked. “I’ll be sure to save it for throwing around in private.”