Work Text:
“I really do need the car,” Aziraphale insisted.
It was their second conversation on the topic.
“My car,” Crowley grumbled, then sipped his wine.
Aziraphale sighed and nibbled his Eccles cake. “I simply don’t see why I should take the train to Edinburgh when we have a car!”
“We don’t! I do,” he reminded him, growling to reinforce the importance of this boundary.
Aziraphale looked out the coffee shop window at the Bentley for a few moments, stirred his tea, then looked towards Crowley.
Head tilted down, eyes mischievous through barely fluttering eyelashes, he asked: “What if we were… friends with benefits?”
Crowley nearly did a spit-take at the proposition.
He raised his eyebrows to peer over his sunglasses. As they slid down his nose, he offered a crooked smile.
“…with benefits, angel?”
“Well, yes!” Aziraphale beamed.
In a low, posh voice, Crowley asked, “And what do we know about ‘friends with benefits’?”
“Oh, I’ve heard that they are a lovely way for two trusting friends to share their passions,” Aziraphale enthused. “Humans have apparently enjoyed friendships with benefits for a while now, but you know me, always behind the times!”
Hm.
“When I first heard the concept, I thought of you right away,” he added, sotto voce.
Crowley felt a familiar ache ignite and expand. It mingled with an unexpected lilt of hope.
He tried to contain it. To not give it too much oxygen. To not be consumed by it.
“Angel,” he said slowly, longingly, then trailed off and closed his eyes for a moment. Did Aziraphale know what he was saying — what he was doing to him?
“Yes?” came the bright reply.
Any hope Crowley felt was tempered by 6,000 or so years of experience with this creature, his only friend, this angel whose company was inexplicably the very best thing in all of God’s green creation, and who was so often unintentionally hilarious.
This likely misspoken turn of phrase would have prompted a quick, humorous retort if it weren’t so damned close to what Crowley had desired over the past millennium or so.
…What if the proposition was real?
Speak slowly, he thought. Precisely. Don’t scare him away. But sound open, with a saucy hint of suggestiveness, just in case.
“What kinds of benefits do you have in mind, angel?” Crowley smiled and gave his lips a quick, hopefully suggestive lick.
“Well,” Aziraphale breathed, excited by Crowley’s not-a-no response. “You remember the arrangement?”
As if he could forget the arrangement. The arrangement whose purpose had never been business efficiency, but time with the principality — a kindred spirit whose company had, surprisingly, nourished him. Through repeated contact, they had eventually become friends—so unlikely! Crowley felt it a hard-won achievement.
“Yeah,” he said quietly, “yes, I do.”
“You would do things for me,” Aziraphale said conspiratorially, “and I would do things for you.”
Crowley leaned further towards his friend, whom he could never get close enough to. Eyes flashing, covetous, Crowley murmured, “…do things, yes. We…might like that.”
Aziraphale’s cheeks pinked a little, and raising an eyebrow he said, “I know I would. And I think you would too.”
Deep breath. Steady. Don’t sound too hopeful, but don’t sound dismissive either.
“Maybe so.”
Aziraphale beamed. “So then it’s settled! I use the car as I like, and you find enjoyment in the bookshop as you like. As the young people say: It’s ‘ace’ that we each bring such a wonderful benefit to our friendship! Isn’t it?”
Crowley exhaled. The earth was back on its axis. Nothing new here.
“I suppose it is, angel.” Crowley smiled, lifted his glass towards his best friend and took a long sip. And, he worried about boundaries: Wasn’t good at setting them, or keeping them, and now, this. Would he need to come up with a list of car rules? Sigh.
Then a grin played upon Crowley’s lips as he enjoyed a realization: He may not have gotten what he really wanted from this transaction, but by Satan, would he ever enjoy hearing Aziraphale tell humans they were “friends with benefits” now.
Especially those pesky ones that assumed they were partners. He had always worried they’d spook his angel.
But if Crowley played along just so, the humans’ reactions to hearing Aziraphale’s prim little bow of a mouth call them “friends with benefits” could help meet his innate demonic need for chaos. It sounded almost fun!
Noticing Crowley smile, Aziraphale giggled. “I’m pleased you’re so pleased!” he said, and nibbled his Eccles cake triumphantly. “Perhaps we should have become friends with benefits long ago.”
Yes, yes — as long as Aziraphale didn’t do anything too blastedly heavenly with the Bentley, letting him describe them as “friends with benefits” without correction could prove entertaining, indeed.
Still smiling, Crowley folded that modicum of hope for something more into the world’s tiniest bit of origami and shoved it into the hidden recesses of his demonic soul. It was unspeakable. But it would keep.