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Aziraphale stiffened as if slapped. Crowley stared at him; his face was unreadable behind the darkened lenses of his glasses. He sat in a chair—well, draped is the word that Aziraphale would use for it, displayed as he always did when he wanted someone to not really read his body language.
It was like a sliver of ice in his spine that Crowley had shut him out the way he had.
The demon looked positively ill. Deep lines bowed his mouth downward; while he’d never been a smiley demon, these looked cut there. Carved from obsidian and knapped until they were deep and sharp. His hands and face had been peppered with scales, black to match his serpent form, as though Crowley had given up on looking entirely human, on blending in. Claws traced Crowley’s chin idly.
A new habit.
Looking like that, there was hardly a place on Earth Crowley would be safe.
Thankfully, the Bentley had been parked in a lot near the bookshop—what had once been his home was now home to the demon, it seemed. Muriel wasn’t at all keen on booting Crowley out to live in the vehicle, which…also hurt quite keenly, now that Aziraphale thought of it. Because he hadn’t, before. Even though he’d had plenty of room, he’d had the capability, he’d had—
He’d had Crowley. He’d always had him. He’d just never been brave enough to ask.
“Crowley—”
“No, I rather think you’d better stew in it a little more, archangel.” Where once the nomenclature was soft, now it was clipped and all but dripped with the sneer Crowley put on it. He turned his head away from Aziraphale as he spoke, as though he couldn’t bear to look at him anymore. “There’s not an apology dance in the world that can make up for this one. Go back upstairs.”
With the low hum of power in the room, Crowley’s shape shifted, massive ropy serpent coils shrinking to what would be normal snake-sized as he moved, dropping to the frowsy carpet and disappearing among the stacks. The last Aziraphale saw of him was his tail, gliding past a copy of Keats that had been misfiled.
No, not misfiled. You don’t own these things anymore. This isn’t yours.
You have work to do.
“I’m sorry about that, sir,” said a voice near his shoulder. He nearly jumped from his skin, but turned to see Muriel standing there, prim and pressed in their best bookseller outfit. Something that almost matched what he used to wear, save the tartan. Maybe to make Crowley feel at home?
“It’s…not your fault,” he murmured, automatically.
“No, but that’s the most I’ve seen him…not snakey, as it were, in a while,” they replied. “He really doesn’t come out most times. He sleeps a lot. Hard to think of him as your mortal enemy.”
“Mm,” Aziraphale said.
“Begging your pardon, your archangel-ness, sir,” they said. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”
Aziraphale swallowed around the lump forming in his throat.
“No, no. It’s quite all right,” he said, managing his stiff upper lip. “Well, I’ve work to do. Thank you for meeting with me.”
“Of course, sir,” they chirped. “I wouldn’t dream of saying no.”
Of course you wouldn’t, Aziraphale thought to himself as he left the shop. Neither would I, when I was your age.
“I trust you see that any more interruptions in the work ahead will derail our plans quite a bit,” the Metatron said, his voice smooth and genial as he led Aziraphale back to his office space. “Please put Earthly matters out of your mind, we’ve got it covered.”
“Of course,” Aziraphale agreed, hands splaying over his desk as he sat down. The files before him were stacking up, and needed his attention. He didn’t need to be flitting to Earth.
“Excellent,” Metatron said, tilting his head in agreement. “I’ll let you get cracking on these. Do let me know if you need anything.”
“…mhm.” Aziraphale reached for the first file, to delay any pity or condescension. The Metatron made his own exit, and Aziraphale put up walls so he could work uninterrupted. A peculiarity of his, he could say. A snap of his fingers produced mahogany walls with rows upon rows of books, a crackling fireplace, a worn, tatty rug and…
…a couch, where Crowley could sit.
He frowned, and waved it away. No.
But the space by the fire would be perfect for it. A good place to doze, warm enough for Crowley in the chilly confines of Heaven—and Aziraphale himself liked the warmth, too, having been on Earth for many millennia.
It was bare without it.
Lonely.
He sighed to himself and miracled it back, with a warm tartan blanket draped haphazardly over it. He knew Crowley would have complained about it, he could almost hear it.
His office, however, was silent, save for the crackling flames of the fire.
He put on his spectacles and got to work.