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Crowley was behaving abnormally. Aziraphale watched his friend pace around the bookshop, shoulders drawn up tight to his ears. It was concerning, to say the least, and clearly something had rattled the poor thing.
Aziraphale had tried to give him a comforting hug, as he normally would, but all Crowley did was push him away.
“Leave me alone,” Crowley had hissed, sounding more like a snake than a human. Aziraphale had backed off, more for fear of Crowley’s fangs than anything else.
Crowley had never been inherently violent, especially not towards Aziraphale, but he was also a demon. They were, by nature, unpredictable.
Crowley had always been rather touch averse. He didn’t much like the feelings of hands on him, or the entrapment of a hug, but he knew Aziraphale did, and Crowley let Aziraphale get away with almost anything.
Now, though, after the brief days during which Crowley was not on Earth, something was different. Something was wrong.
“Are you alright?” Aziraphale asked one night when they were at one of their favorite restaurants. It wasn’t the Ritz, instead a quaint little Italian joint Aziraphale had grown quite fond of. Crowley was sitting lightly, a stark contrast to his normal posture.
“Quite,” Crowley replied, taking a sip of wine. “You?”
“I'm fine,” Aziraphale said.
“Sell any books?” Crowley asked, smirking. Aziraphale smiled, sipping his own champagne.
“As a matter of fact, I did not.” He said. Crowley nodded as if this were a surprise. On the contrary, this had been the expected answer. “But that is hardly relevant.”
“I think it is perfectly relevant,” Crowley nodded again. Aziraphale scowled just a little bit. Having existed around Crowley for upwards of six thousand years, he had become quite familiar with him.
He could tell when the demon was deflecting conversation, although usually anyone could as Crowley’s favorite method of avoidance was to walk out of any conversation he didn’t want to be a part of, and that was definitely what Crowley was doing now.
“No, I think something is bothering you,” Aziraphale waved his finger at Crowley like a scolding parent. “I want to know what it is.”
“There is nothing bothering me, I assure you.” Crowley replied, and Aziraphale could see the tension in his jaw and the way his fist was clenched around his wine glass. “Now, I think we-”
“I can see something is bothering you,” Aziraphale insisted, regardless of Crowley’s protests. “You must tell me.”
“I mustn’t tell you anything,” Crowley said, affronted. “You are no one to tell me what to do. Would you like to have a civil conversation, or not?”
“But-” Aziraphale sighed heavily. “Crowley, all I want is to help you. If something is upsetting you-”
“You’re upsetting me right now!” Crowley pushed his chair out and stood up. He tossed a few pound bills on the table, grabbed the wineglass, and stalked out of the restaurant. Aziraphale watched him leave disappointedly.
“Well that went absolutely tickety-boo.”
Aziraphale settled for milling around his bookshop after dinner. He, unlike Crowley, didn’t have much taste for sleep. He preferred to stay awake into the late hours of the night, reading beside an miraculously lit lamp.
Tonight, he didn’t feel much like reading. Instead, he paced around the lower floor of his bookshop, weaving between the bookshelves in rhythmic patterns.
He was analyzing every interaction he’d had with Crowley for the past few weeks, trying to figure when the changes began. Sometime after he had vanished from Earth, clearly.
He sighed through his nose frustratedly. Why couldn’t anything with Crowley be straight forward?
He picked up his little rotary phone, sitting on a desk in the backroom. Next to it was a little yellow Post-It note with Crowley’s phone number written on it. There was a little heart on either side of the number.
It wasn’t that Aziraphale couldn’t remember Crowley’s phone number, because he absolutely could, it was that Crowley had written that number down for him. Aziraphale had added the hearts at a later date.
He dialed the number and held the phone to his ear. More than likely, Crowley was already asleep and would not be awake for hours, in which case, Aziraphale would leave a message.
To his surprise, and he did jump in alarm, the phone was answered.
“You’ve reached Anthony Crowley.” Crowley’s gravely and clearly freshly awoken voice said.
“No J?” Aziraphale joked, swallowing anxiously. He sincerely hoped Crowley wasn’t too angry with him. “Anyway, I was just calling to apologize for earlier.”
“No problem,” Crowley said. “Don’t give it another thought. I was just as abrasive as you were invasive.” Though he sounded annoyed, Aziraphale could tell he was being sincere. He smiled.
“Well, I am still sorry for being too ‘invasive’.” He replied. “Would you like to come by for tea later today?” A glance at the clock revealed it was nearing four in the morning, making it today instead of tomorrow.
“Er,” said Crowley, and Aziraphale could hear the shuffling of papers. “Sure. How’s about three o’clock?” Aziraphale had the oddest, most irregular operating hours of any store, changing not only from day to day, but also from week to week. Crowley somehow always knew them by heart, and three o’clock was smack in the middle of the day’s closing hours.
“Perfect,” replied Aziraphale. “I will see you then, my friend.” And the line went dead.
Aziraphale was an angel. By nature they were kind and non-curious. But, Crowley was clearly upset about something, and he was still Aziraphale’s best friend. Aziraphale had no need to physically clean the bookshop, as he could do it instantly with a snap of his fingers, but he did it anyway.
Three o’clock rolled around painfully slowly, and, just at the very last second, Crowley’s Bently pulled up outside the shop at an unreasonable pace.
When he entered, Aziraphale moved to pat him on the shoulder, a common gesture between the two, but Crowley flinched away from him.
“Let’s have some tea, shall we?” And the pair settled into the sitting room in awkward silence.