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"Crowley?"
Aziraphale walks the narrow granite hallways of Crowley's house with a wariness he cannot quite dispel despite the dozens of times he has visited. Even though he knows that Crowley would never hurt him, and most of the traps are designed to ward off visitors with decidedly more... devilish appearances.
"Crowley?" he calls again, anxiety sticking the word in his throat.
Aziraphale finds his demon at the center of the maze. Crowley is lounging on his throne in a configuration that could only be called "sitting" in the loosest of senses, with one leg draped over the arm of the throne and the other cocked at an angle that somehow leaves his heel hooked on the top corner of the back of the chair.
Aziraphale studies him for a moment. Then, buoyed by relief and a dash of irrepressible fondness, he says, "That doesn't look terribly comfortable."
From his mostly upside-down position, Crowley shrugs. Like most of Crowley's shrugs, it carries an entire sentence in its execution.
Aziraphale frowns. "Is something wrong, my dear?"
"I should be the one asking that," Crowley says. He waves a hand in Aziraphale's direction. "What's brought you all this way into my lair?"
Aziraphale notices Crowley's eyes are entirely yellow, with no sclera or human appearance to them at all. His sunglasses are nowhere to be seen.
"Looking for you," Aziraphale says after a moment. "I should think that much was obvious."
"You've found me," Crowley points out.
"Yes."
Aziraphale hesitates.
"Well?" demands Crowley. Irritated, he swings his legs back in front of him and slumps over the desk, propping his head up on one hand. He glares at Aziraphale. "Out with it, angel."
"I suppose..." Aziraphale considers his words for a second, then says, tentatively, "I was worried about you."
Crowley stares at him. "Why?"
"I hadn't seen you for a few days," Aziraphale says.
When he says it aloud, it sounds rather ludicrous. He shuffles backward, eyeing the enormous slab of granite that rotates to allow access to this inner sanctum. Wondering if he should back away farther, swing it shut, and make a hasty retreat out of the flat. Crowley does not seem to be in a good mood, and that can lead to... disagreements.
Crowley's slit-pupils are fixed on Aziraphale, watching him without blinking. "We've gone centuries without seeing each other before."
"That was before the world didn't end," Aziraphale responds. His own reply steadies him, reminds him — things are different now. He stands a little straighter. "We're friends now. We... have lunch."
"Lunch." When Crowley says it, it sounds like a swear word.
"Lunch," Aziraphale says firmly. "Or, if you'd like to stay home..." He looks around the room, concealing a grimace at its brutal minimalism. "Perhaps a spot of tea?"
From the expression on Crowley's face, Aziraphale expects him to snarl something hostile, or command Aziraphale to leave him in solitude and not return for a decade. But then Crowley mutters under his breath — Aziraphale only catches the word "meddling" — and yanks open a desk drawer. He sets two teacups on the desktop with a clatter, then follows them with a teapot, all made of the same dark stone as the walls and doors of the flat.
"Chair's in the corner," Crowley says.
Aziraphale brightens, summoning the other chair with a flick of his finger. It scrapes across to rest in front of the desk, and he scurries over to take a seat. Its gold embellishments and red velvet are not really Aziraphale's style — in design, it is slightly less ostentatious than Crowley's throne, but not by much. He wonders if he could convince Crowley that an armchair would be much more comfortable for lounging. Something upholstered in corduroy, perhaps, and dyed a rich green to match the plants in the hall beyond.
Crowley instructs the teapot to provide tea, which Aziraphale scolds him for, simply because the conjured kind never tastes quite as richly flavorful.
"The steeping is part of the process," he insists, frowning down at the tea. "And there are all sorts of lovely varieties, and—"
"It's tea," Crowley says shortly. He hasn't touched his own cup. "Drink up."
"Hmph." Aziraphale puts his lecture on hold and takes a sip. It is more bitter than he would prefer, but he doesn't complain further. Instead, he peers at Crowley through the steam. "Won't you tell me what's wrong?"
Crowley blinks a few times, which strikes Aziraphale as odd. Then he says, in a voice that struggles to stay casual, "I took a nap yesterday."
"You like naps," Aziraphale says. "Don't you?"
"I love naps. This was supposed to be a good one, a week at the shortest." Crowley stares at the teapot as if it has personally offended him. It trembles a little. "But I had... a dream."
"A dream?"
"That's what I said."
Aziraphale drinks his tea and contemplates this. "What was the dream about?"
He is expecting Crowley to evade the question. He is expecting Crowley to eventually mention his recent visit to Heaven, or perhaps the confrontation at the airstrip, or even something about his fall.
Crowley says, "Fire."
"Hellfire?" Aziraphale says, pinching the handle of his cup a little more tightly. "The Bentley?"
"The bookshop."
It takes Aziraphale a few moments to remember how to breathe — not that he technically needs to, but he's practiced it often enough that it should be a habit by now. He sets the teacup down.
"Oh, Crowley," he says, very softly.
"It's stupid." Crowley won't look at him. "It happened ages ago."
"It's only been a few years."
Aziraphale reaches across the wide expanse of the desk and lays his hand over Crowley's, squeezing gently. A simple gesture, but one he wouldn't have dared to make before Armageddon. Things are indeed different now.
"I'm still here," he murmurs. "I'm not going anywhere, and neither is the bookshop. We both went to a lot of trouble to keep it that way."
Crowley makes a wordless noise of some kind that Aziraphale cannot fully interpret. It seems to be more acknowledgement than distress, however, so he pats the top of Crowley's hand and reaches again for his teacup.
"Nightmares," Crowley says after a minute or two of silence, "are a lot more fun to give to humans than to experience for oneself."
"I'm sure." Aziraphale sips at his tea. He has observed that it seems to be slowly refilling itself when he isn't looking. "If you'd like, I could try to do something about yours. Nothing major, mind you — we wouldn't want to draw any untoward attention. But I could probably find a trick or two up my sleeve."
Crowley regards him with an expression that is trying for disdain but landing somewhere closer to ill-concealed affection. "All right," he says. And then, more begrudgingly and with a great deal of effort, he adds, "Thank you, angel."
Aziraphale beams. "Any time, my dear," he says, and means it wholeheartedly.