Chapter Text
Crowley had been bamboozled.
He would not, of course, ever give voice to the actual word “bamboozled,” as unlike a certain angelic being of his close acquaintance, he was cool, sophisticated, and not a living relic of the early 20th century. But other words, such as “manipulated” or “tricked” felt too…harsh for what had been occurring over the several months since the Apocawasn’t. Besides, the same angelic being would absolutely pout if he was ever accused of being manipulative (even though he absolutely was, to the point that he even manipulated his pretty eye colors for maximum effect, the bastard), and Crowley’s hard, black heart couldn’t take it.
A demon (retired but still a demon, he assumed, given the dark miracles he continued to use for things like not killing pedestrians and moving slow cars out of his way) he may be, but he wasn’t the sort of demon who could stand up to the blue end of grey-blue eyes and a quivering lower lip, hell help him.
Crowley had made the leap, after the world didn’t end, to invite Aziraphale to his place. And Aziraphale had said yes, and climbed up on the bus after him, and shared a seat without a murmur of argument. Admittedly, he’d had absolutely nowhere else to go and they’d been so exhausted they did little more than lean against each other and breathe all the way back to London (after dropping off the bus’s other occupants, at Aziraphale’s quiet insistence), but still.
The night hadn’t improved a great deal, since Crowley’s longed-for sleep was offset by Agnes’ last prophecy and long hours of coming up with, practicing, and finalizing a plan for survival. Then in the day there’d been the shock of the bookshop, the park, heaven and all the levels of fury that came with it, the Ritz, the walk to feed the ducks (“Need to make sure they’re there,” he’d teased, not at all because he knew the moment they parted the angel would return to his beloved bookshop, and it would be up to Crowley to think of some excuse for them to see each other again; he was so very tired of making excuses).
But evening fell, and Crowley was a big demon who could take his licks. When they came to the traditional road where they went their separate ways when walking and not in the Bentley, Crowley had taken the low road, leaving Aziraphale the high. So to speak.
And yet.
The soft sound of footfalls in ancient shoes continued, unabated.
And they continued to continue all the way to Mayfair, into Crowley’s building, up the sleek elevator to the empty hall and right up to the door of his flat.
Crowley hadn’t quite known what to do. Aziraphale was given to be distracted, of course, but enough to follow Crowley all the way home? Without a book in sight? Surely not!
He was just opening his mouth with no idea what words would be popping out when Aziraphale beat him to it.
“It’s quite drafty standing out here in the hallway, my dear boy,” he’d said, posh as ever and a dash censorious, “and it’s been quite a long day.”
Crowley’s mouth closed with a light click. His door opened with a slightly louder one, and he stepped aside to motion Aziraphale into his flat for the second time.
The angel, for his part, seemed perfectly at home. He slipped off his shoes by the door and gently laid his coat over the back of Crowley’s throne before padding off to the kitchen and the box of expensive teas Crowley had bought in a burst of optimism during their third year at the Dowling estate. (Thankfully, Crowley had no real concept that tea ever lost its kick, so it was as fresh as the day he’d bought it, if not a little more so. The tea was too close to the plants to do anything less than its best.) The kettle was whistling in less than two minutes.
“Oh, you’ve some chamomile! Lovely. You’ll want to sleep, I expect? You’ve certainly earned it.” Aziraphale beamed, sleek black kettle in hand, as Crowley walked into his streamlined, unused kitchen. “Humans swear by chamomile for sleep.”
Crowley made a confused, monosyllabic noise that he managed to mostly convert into, “Tastes like grass.”
Aziraphale frowned a bit at that. “True,” he agreed. “Perhaps rabbits and hedgehogs sleep well?”
Crowley had laughed. Not too loud, not with too many teeth, just…a tired, confused, but very pleased laugh at this ridiculous angel in his kitchen, ruminating on the sleeping habits of small herbivores. Aziraphale had looked quite pleased himself at the reaction, gray blue eyes shining and cheeks the palest of pinks.
When Crowley went to bed, stomach warm with a cup of hot grass, it was to the sound of Aziraphale fussing about the flat, pom pomming quietly under his breath as if this sleepover at a demon’s place wasn’t the most outrageously bizarre thing he had done in several centuries.
And this, Crowley considered from his nest of comfortable blankets before a crackling fire, had been the first step of the great bamboozling of his life and living arrangements.