Work Text:
“What’s this?”
“What’s what?”
“That.” Anthony J. Crowley gestures with the hand not currently hanging onto his groceries for dear life as the wind buffets both him and the stranger standing on his doorstep. Though, judging by the bold font declaring Eviction across the top of the paper now being taped to his door it’s not going to be his door for much longer.
“Just the messenger,” The man says somewhat apologetically while he continues affixing the notice with enough tape to take half the door’s paint off later.
Crowley has half a mind to tell him just to hand the paper over but it's looking less likely he’ll be the one who has to repaint the thing anyway.
“Still got thirty days to catch up on what’s owed before the bank comes in.” The man dutifully informs him.
“Could give me thirty weeks and I still wouldn’t have it.” Crowley says and wonders if he might convince the man to part with his roll of tape since he’ll be needing it soon. Probably the sort of thing the company would make a man buy himself.
He decides against it as the stranger turns to exit the yard. “Tough luck lad.”
“Mm.” Crowley agrees. “Story of my life.”
—
Dinner consists of fried rice and a half glass of scotch he’s been saving for just such an occasion.
It would be nice, he thinks during a commercial for a chain thrift store he’s never been to, if he could find some happy occasions to drink to.
It’s not like he hasn’t tried getting a proper job (or three) to make ends meet, it just never seems to be enough.
He might have made rent this month if the Bentley hadn’t gotten a flat, which coincidentally also cost him his shitty part time position at the liquor shop. He can’t bring himself to feel too much remorse over that one as it means significantly less drunks in his life.
He might have made rent last month except he had spent it getting the fridge repaired.
The month before that it was the water heater.
It was always something.
“Maybe this dress for less place is hiring.” He makes conversation with his bowl of rice and peas before heaving a sigh. “More retail. Probably less drunks.”
Even if he did scrounge up another part time gig it probably would be a couple of weeks for the interviews and callbacks, and then more delays between his start date and the first paycheck. It was too late to save this place from repossession.
Which was a shame really, he liked this place a lot more than the last few he’d hermit crabbed himself in and out of. He’d mostly been drawn to the backyard. Having always lived in places with balconies or little cement patios, having access to an actual lawn felt like a luxury.
Too bad he’d never actually gotten enough funds together to do more than some terra cotta pots lined up in a row, sporting an alphabetical display of herbs if the alphabet started at O and ended at T.
At least he’d be able to take them with him if he happened to find a new place. Otherwise they’d be lined up by the roadside while he slept in the backseat of the Bentley.
Wouldn’t be the first time he’d done that, unfortunately.
After he’s washed his dish and set it to dry for tomorrow’s oatmeal he takes his living room slash dining room chair out into the yard with the rest of the scotch to break the news to his plants.
He means to do that, but somewhere between his third and fourth glass he gives up the stiff-lipped speech and starts pointing out objects in the sky instead.
“There’s Mars, see, reddish ball right there. That’s the iron that does that. Jupiter will be out later and we’ll be able to see that one just with our eyes. If I had a telescope I could show you all sorts of things.”
He’s got a pair of binoculars inside but he’s not much in the mood to look for them. He’ll no doubt come across them as he packs.
“Mars was a Roman god, see. Started out with a bit of agriculture and moved onto war. He was a protector. Sort of a guard-dog I guess you could say. Now Jupiter,” he pauses his lecture to see if the plants are listening, satisfied they are. “Big sky god Jupiter. Bookish. Oversaw the business end of things, paperwork, bit of a nerd. I think. Been a minute since I studied that.”
Sounded like the characters for every mismatched roommate sitcom ever made.
He purses his lips as a thought resurfaces that he’s been dutifully avoiding for months.
He did have an extra bedroom in this place he could rent out. A roommate meant only having to contribute half the rent and utilities. Of course you also ran the risk of moving a complete dickhead into your house.
Right now he wasn’t really in a position to be picky, but still, he’s heard the horror stories.
He grunts softly as he rocks the ice cubes in his glass side to side and dismisses the notion as quickly as it comes. That might have been a good thought to have when he’d first moved in. Now, three months behind on rent? A roommate wouldn’t fix that.
He might not be opposed to one in the future though, if he could ever rebuild his finances enough to qualify for another downpayment.
Too bad his savings and credit score were currently fighting for last place.
“Guess we’re going to be roughing it for a while.” He says conversationally to the plants. “Going to miss this place but it would take a miracle to stay here.”
No sooner do the words leave his mouth than a glowing ball of blue and white goes streaking across the sky.
“Oh now that’s lovely,” he stands up to get a better look and wishes he remembered where his binoculars were hiding. “Didn’t know we were having shooting stars tonight.”
He watches as the light burns brighter and brighter, growing bigger as it makes its final descent to Earth until finally dropping out of sight past the tree line.
He stays outside for a while but after another hour or so of nothing decides it was likely a one-and-done event.
He’s out of booze and ready to call it a night anyway.
—
The next thing he knows it’s morning and his head is aching so much he can hear it pounding against his temples.
It isn’t until his headache also rings the doorbell that he realizes he’s not as hungover as he thought.
Whoever it is, (and he has a sneaking suspicion it’s someone who wants money) they don’t seem intent on going away, but he’s slept under worse conditions and simply pulls the pillow over his head.
Later, after he’s gotten up to have a piss, drink a glass of water, swallow some pain killers, he takes his oatmeal to the front window to have a look at the day that he realizes the person who was at the door earlier never left.
There’s a patch of snow-white hair attached to a man outside, just meandering around the sidewalk in front of his home. The man the hair belongs to is dressed like a sort of cross between an antique store and the KFC mascot. He’s a bit potato shaped, and as he rocks up on his toes with his hands loosely clasped behind his back it becomes apparent he’s just out there waiting for something.
For him to come out, Crowley assumes with a disgruntled wrinkle of his nose.
“Can’t even let a man have his breakfast,” he mutters as he pulls the door open. He must look a sight in his house robe and fuzzy slipper ensemble judging by the way the man turns to him and does a startled up and down of his body. “I’ve got thirty days, you know.”
“...I’m sorry?”
“Well twenty nine now, but still. They’re mine and I’ll thank you for letting me have them in peace.”
The man opens his mouth once or twice before he manages to produce a sound. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m here about the room.”
Crowley feels his irritation climbing far too high this early in the day. “What room?”
“The room for rent?” The man seems not to share his confusion. If anything his smile turns more polite. “This is 137 Lakefield Way isn’t it?”
Purely for dramatics Crowley leans out the door to peer at the large numbering anchored into the front of the house before confirming, “It is.”
“Then I’m here for the room.” The man says again with an air of finality.
Crowley narrows his gaze which only seems to exasperate the posh little man in his yard. He then brandishes a newspaper Crowley didn’t notice was tucked beneath one of his arms and unfolds it, a bright red circle around one of the classified ads.
Roommate desperately needed to avoid eviction. 137 Lakefield Way. Please inquire right away.
“So,” The man tries again, a little more pointedly. “The room?”
—
He does not, in fact, show the man the room.
What he does do is invite him in for a cup of coffee because at this point he thinks he’s due an explanation.
Unfortunately the man doesn’t offer him much of one, blinking innocently as Crowley re-reads the short advert. “I didn’t put this in the paper. I only got the notice for eviction last night.”
“That is rather fast.” The man–Mr. Fell, Crowley was informed moments ago–agrees, holding his cup of coffee with too many fingers.
Crowley feels his jaw starting to ache as he runs through his short list of suspects. He doubts anyone at the bank would pull a stunt like this but he wouldn’t put it past one of the neighbors.
“Who even reads the paper anymore?” He grumbles and folds it into some shape vaguely resembling a rectangle before sliding it back across the table. “Look, fella–”
“Fell.”
“What? Oh. No. Look,” he waves his hand to start dismissing all this absurdity away. “I’m not advertising for a roommate, sorry to disappoint you.”
“You don’t need one?” Mr. Fell sets his coffee down, his caterpillar brows pinching together. “I thought you were having trouble with the mortgage?”
Crowley huffs and gets to his feet to try and signal the end of this conversation. He’s got work in a few hours and if he’s late to this one he’ll be out yet another job. “Not that it's yours or anyone else’s business but yes I am.”
“Then wouldn’t having a roommate help?” Infuriatingly Mr. Fell doesn’t take the hint and remains seated, blending in well with the threadbare sofa.
“Unless that roommate is going to front three months of payment, no. Now if you wouldn’t mind getting lost–”
“I wouldn’t mind at all.” Mr. Fell interjects before he can finish that thought. “Paying, I mean. Not the … what you were about to suggest.”
Crowley stops just shy of the door and does an about-face, sure he heard him wrong. “What?”
—
It might be the strangest partnership he’s ever started, least of all because he was in his bathrobe for the entire arrangement.
Mr. Fell agrees to pay the debt as well as fifty percent of the mortgage and utilities going forward. He even pulls a stack of bills the width of two fingers out of his jacket to prove he was serious.
His only stipulation was that he be allowed to move in immediately.
Crowey can’t help but feel he may have invited disaster to his door when he hands his spare set of keys over and leaves for the day, wallet considerably heavier.
He stops at the bank on the way to work and speaks with the staff until he gets the eviction halted. He goes into the astere building expecting an uphill battle but the whole process barely takes more than a ten minutes and consists mainly of watching the cheery brunette in accounting tap away on her computer.
He ends up killing time before his shift by sitting at one of the benches at the pond. Despite the recent turnaround in his luck he can’t shake the nervous feeling settling in the back of his head.
For all Crowley’s efforts to be wholly irresponsible it’s not lost on him that he’s invited a perfect stranger to move in, and a strange stranger at that. He can’t remember ever seeing a pocket watch that wasn’t attached to a train attendant before.
It occurs to him he doesn’t even know the man’s first name to do a proper background check.
By the time he gets home that evening he’s only mildly surprised to find the place still standing.
He is arguably more surprised to find Mr. Fell has cleaned the place up from top to bottom. He spends a few moments staring at the spotless floors and baseboards when the man himself pokes his head out of the spare bedroom.
“Oh you’re home. Get the bank all sorted?”
“Myeah…wasn’t bad at all…” Crowley pulls himself out of his reverie. “Sorry I couldn’t stay and help out earlier. Anything you need now?” He can imagine Mr. Fell’s got furniture stashed in storage somewhere that he’s going to need help moving but the other man waves him off.
“Oh no that’s all done with. Would you like to see?” He asks and Crowley notes the excited gleam in his eyes as he opens the guest room door wider.
Giving a mental shrug he shirks off his shoes and pads down to the room that served as random storage space until now.
What greets him looks like the bedroom of Albert Einstein.
A desk sits beneath the window and a queen size sleigh bed is parked on the opposite wall, shelves and shelves of books between them. Crowley blinks and with a glance at Mr. Fell to ensure he isn’t trespassing, takes a few steps inside for a closer look.
The first thing he notices is soft carpeting beneath his feet that turns out to be a maroon and gold rug that looks like it was cut to the exact size of the room. The bedding is a creamy white but the intricately carved wooden frame itself is what draws his attention. “This is antique isn’t it?”
“Well spotted.” Mr. Fell preens, proud as a peacock when he looks over again.
“Looks it,” Crowley muses, “Not the kind of thing you’ll find at IKEA.”
“Where is that?”
Crowley doesn’t hear him. Standing in front of the bookshelves feels like he’s been transported to the private collections of some esteemed university. He’s no scholar but they look like they’ve been around for centuries and nary a one of them is out of alphabetical order.
As full as the bookshelves are there’s still more books piled up here and there. Upon closer inspection the desk is antique too, carved in the same fashion as the bed.
Crowley’s never been in a room and simultaneously been the youngest and cheapest thing inside before.
He expects Mr. Fell had a team of movers to carry and assemble the furniture, and maybe someone else to come in and do a cleaning while he was gone.
Either way it confirms his growing suspicion that his new roommate is in fact, filthy rich.
—
Scratch that.
His new roommate is, in fact, an extraterrestrial.
Or, he would be, if Crowley had any real evidence to speak of, but as the weeks go by he’s become convinced something is very much off with Mr. Fell.
Or, Aziraphale, as he came to discover only about a week ago after insisting he couldn’t go around calling his own roommate mister anything without the neighbors raising eyebrows.
He’s still not figured out which neighbor put the ad in the paper, but now that he’s reasonably convinced he’s residing with an alien that particular question seems less pressing.
The very first thing he notices is that Aziraphale never sleeps.
Or more accurately, Crowley has never once seen him sleep.
More than once he’s walked past Aziraphale’s bedroom in the morning only to find the man in the exact same spot he was in when Crowley wished him goodnight.
The man does too much around the house for him to sleep during the day, either. The place has been neat as a pin since day one.
Now, it's possible that Aziraphale simply goes to bed after him and wakes up before him, Crowley reasons. Which is why one night he does an experiment because he’s nothing if not curious.
He places a few small but intentional wrinkles in Aziraphale’s bedding and takes a picture with his phone just in case he forgets the pattern.
Sure enough, the next morning he has his proof the bed has been left untouched all night. The next night, and the night after that all remain the same too.
If Aziraphale is sleeping, and that’s a very big if in his mind, it’s definitely not in his own bed.
Another weird thing about Aziraphale is that he doesn’t know any music.
Or–to be more precise–he doesn’t know any music more recent than 1860.
He’d set up an honest to god phonograph in a corner of the living room keeping with his antique aesthetic and had a small collection of records sitting beside it.
Crowley had taken to leafing through the vinyls of Claussmann and Taneyev one day and asked jokingly if he had any Queen, to which Aziraphale had politely inquired as to which queen he was referring to.
It was very much the same story whenever Aziraphale rode along in the Bentley, and it didn’t matter who was playing–The Beatles, The Smiths, The Who, Sex Pistols (Aziraphale looked aghast at the mention of the last, but agreed to give Genesis a listen. He lasted exactly 52 seconds into Invisible Touch ).
There was also the odd little fact that he wore the exact same outfit every day, down to the creases and worn spots on his vest.
Frankly Crowley’s a little repulsed by this one because he never sees or hears Aziraphale in the shower or running the laundry either, and again while it is absolutely possible he’s doing that while home alone during the day Crowley doesn’t think so in light of everything else odd about him.
It's not as though his new roommate is unhygienic–if anything the opposite is true. He’s never seen Aziraphale so much as break a sweat. His hair and clothing is immaculate, his nails short and tidy, and there’s a sweet, woodsy musk that follows him around that Crowley’s grown fond of.
The man is a walking bottle of furniture polish, and yet Crowley’s water bill has suspiciously stayed the same.
But by far, the oddest–and most intrusive–thing he’s found suspicious about his new roommate’s origins is the fact that the man is fascinated by nearly every activity Crowley does. Even the mundane things.
When he mows the lawn or rakes up the trimmings Aziraphale watches from the safety of the patio with a slight tilt of his head like he can’t understand the why of it.
More than once Crowley has caught him inspecting something completely ordinary and for the life of him Crowley can’t think of a reason any person should be captivated by a whisk unless they’ve never seen one before.
Crowley had slid up against the kitchen door frame and observed him that time, feeling as though he were watching a cheesy sci-fi movie.
As he stood there Aziraphale turned the whisk around in his hand as if deciding which was the appropriate way to hold it. The beater side started in the air, slowly making its way into the correct position as he tried different poses. Aziraphale’s other hand eventually came up to mimik holding a bowl and it looked as though the lightbulb went off.
Eureka. It mixes.
“Never seen one of those before?” Crowley asked, feeling a little emboldened to do so by the fact his roommate didn’t seem the warmongering, take-me-to-your-leader type of alien.
Aziraphale startled, glancing between him and the object of note in a way that suggested a child caught with a forbidden sweet.
Crowley just raised his brows and waited patiently.
“I’ve… just never seen one this …nice.” Aziraphale said and looked back at him with baited breath.
“Ah.” Crowley nodded in agreement after a long moment of watching him squirm. “Yeah it’s a nice one.”
He’d have to be blind to miss the look of relief that crossed over his face.
Whisks and lawn care aside, Crowley also notices Aziraphale never asks questions despite his obvious curiosity about literally every damned thing.
He’ll take the information, of course, if Crowley is feeling charitable with sharing it, but he has a feeling the man doesn’t want to risk blowing his cover by asking unnecessary things.
It’s as though he doesn’t realize how obvious he’s being.
Sometimes it’s cute.
Sometimes it's downright mortifying.
The worst offense is Aziraphale doesn’t realize closed doors are often closed for a reason.
Crowley swiftly rectified that after the first few times he was barged in on and the number of people he’s punched in the loo remains zero, if only by a narrow margin.
At least he hadn’t been alone in his embarrassment that time.
“I’m so sorry Anthony, you have my most sincere apology, I keep forgetting you have facilities inside,” And so on, so forth, muffled through the bathroom door while Crowley kept one hand on the lock and the other beneath his chin while he took the most stressful shit of his life so far.
“...Anthony?” The little voice hedges and Crowley can just picture him fretting away, wringing his fingers. “While I do understand and of course respect the need for privacy it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“‘Zira.” Crowley says with a patience he didn’t know he had but thinks might be reserved solely for fatherhood, “Do you remember the other day we talked about knocking before you come into a room when the door is closed?”
“When I walked in and you were practicing onanism.” Aziraphale sounds a little meeker now unless he’s imagining it. “I remember. B-But I did knock this time.”
“Yes and I am so very proud, but did you wait for the person behind the door to say come in?” He deadpans.
“...I forgot that part.”
“You forgot that part.” Crowley agrees.
“I’ll get it next time.” Aziraphale promises and he can just picture the chipper smile he’s wearing as he gives another apology before bidding him a pleasant evening. Not that he’ll sleep, Crowley suspects.
He reminds himself, daily, that he would be sleeping in the Bentley right now if Aziraphale wasn’t here.
And it isn’t as though every odd thing his roommate gets up to is bothersome.
In addition to paying the bills and keeping the place cleaner than an operating room, the man cooks.
It had been a little jarring his first time arriving home to find every available surface in the kitchen looking like a patisserie shop but since Aziraphale always bought the ingredients, cleaned up after himself, and shared with anyone he could corner with a tray, Crowley can’t really complain.
Besides that, what he makes is delicious so Crowley doesn’t mind working around the cookbooks that have taken up residency in the kitchen.
“How is it?” Aziraphale askes from the opposite side of the breakfast table with a hopeful look in his eyes. It’s a rare day off for Crowley and they finally have some time to eat together.
Or they would be, except in addition to not sleeping, Aziraphale doesn’t eat, either.
“‘s good,” Crowley says around a mouthful of something tart and crumbly, vaguely wondering when they got a breakfast table. “Did you have some?”
He knows the answer is no before he even asks and rolls his eyes through Aziraphale’s usual excuses.
Nearly six months of living together now and he’s not seen a single crumb pass through his lips. Massive time-saver, he supposes, not having to worry about eating to stay alive all the time, but he finds it sad in a way.
He’s reasonably convinced they’re friends by now. He knows Aziraphale wants certain things despite all his pious dismissals, food being one of them. He can’t think of another reason why he would do so much cooking and baking if he wasn’t attracted to the notion of eating.
“Is it because you can’t?” Crowley interrupts the train of excuses, a little sick of the whole polite ignorance routine they have going.
Aziraphale blinks at him, expression starting to shutter. “What do you mean by that? I eat.”
“Can’t.” Crowley repeats, feeling eyes on him as he gets up and goes to the counter, cutting a fat slice of tart and plating it. “Can you not eat?” He asks again, setting the plate and a fork in front of Aziraphale before returning to his seat.
“But I do eat.” Aziraphale protests, although his leaning away from the table suggests the opposite is more true.
“Really? I’ve never seen you.” He says and pointedly takes a bite from what’s left of his own slice, growing more firm in his conviction. “Humans share meals all the time.”
“I know they do.” It’s clear Aziraphale doesn’t want to keep arguing by the way he’s starting to deflate. He glances up at Crowley on the off chance the man might have forgotten about this conversation in the span of two seconds.
“You don’t eat.” Crowley says instead, the obvious implication hanging in the air between them.
Aziraphale works his mouth for a long while, picking and discarding thoughts as they come all while looking like he’d rather be anywhere else doing anything else. “I can’t.” he finally says.
“Why?” Crowley shifts forward in his seat, determined to strike while the iron is hot.
Aziraphale seems to notice he’s just let something big slip by the way his lips press in a tight line and his ocean eyes go wide, searching for some sign that this conversation is surely about to end and finding no sign of mercy on Crowley’s face.
“‘Zira.” He presses on determinedly, patience dwindling down to coals. “You’ve not been subtle and I couldn't care less who you actually are. Just tell me.”
He can see the argument taking place behind his friend’s eyes.
Then Aziraphale does the unthinkable and scoops a hasty bit of tart into his mouth with a triumphant look at having foiled Crowley’s interrogation.
Crowley’s disappointment only lasts as long as it takes Aziraphale to actually chew and taste the treat on his tongue, and despite what happens next Crowley can’t bring himself to feel bad about it.
Aziraphale–prim, proper, polite–Aziraphale, goes on what Crowley would lovingly refer to for years to come, a food bender.
The culinary world would never fully recover from the utter destruction Crowley just released on it.
He watches with a mix of astonishment, horror, and an intriguing bit of arousal he’ll analyze later as Aziraphale demolishes his way through the baked goods he’d spent all night preparing, showing no signs of slowing even after his third whole cake.
Without barely a moment to swallow he then turns his attention then to the fridge, shredding through the fruits and assorted lunch meats inside.
It's when he starts grabbing at the raw eggs that Crowley realizes he may have to intervene.
Unfortunately for all life involved Aziraphale is built like a goddamn bus wrapped in pillows and despite all of his efforts Crowley’s pool noodle physique is no match, simply dragging behind Aziraphale when he moves onto the pantry.
He can’t get him to stop but neither can he look away from a man devouring raw rice and boxed stuffing. No amount of warning or pleading seems to reach his ears either, lost in some kind of food trance.
It’s only after he reaches the black pepper and attempts to knock it back like a shot does Aziraphale seem to come back to his senses, convulsing into a sneezing fit that leaves him with tear streaked cheeks and a runny nose.
Feeling at least somewhat responsible Crowley leads him to the sink, the room suddenly silent save for the sound of Aziraphale splashing water onto his face and drinking glass after glass.
He stays bowed over the sink after turning the water off, a lone droplet clinging to the tip of his nose. Despite no longer acting like a living version of a trash compactor he’s still lost in thought enough to startle when Crowley offers him a dish towel.
“I…thank you,” he murmurs, taking it but doing nothing with it. “I shouldn’t have done that.” He turns his eyes to his companion and Crowley can’t tell if the gleam in his eye is from the faucet or something more.
“I allowed myself to be tempted.” Aziraphale says pitifully, shoulders dropping in defeat. “We’re not supposed to indulge in earthly delights, we’re not permitted.” He brings the dish towel to his face and goes silent then, hunched over the sink in shame.
The rapid shift leaves Crowley feeling flat footed. In the months they’d known each other he’d never seen Aziraphale get emotional over… anything, really.
And he’d done it because Crowley had baited him.
Standing in the graveyard of half eaten foodstuffs that could once be called their kitchen he takes quick stock and has an apology on his tongue, reaching for Aziraphale’s shoulder but the man spins around the second he’s touched and squares up.
“I have a confession to make.”
“Er, yeah okay,” Crowley’s still got his hand up between them but lets it find a new home on the back of his neck. “‘spose I already know what you’re going to say but if you insist.”
Aziraphale nods tightly. “I do insist. I’ve been lying to you.”
“S’alright,” Crowley gives himself a scruffing, his earlier conviction drained out of him. “Like I said I knew.”
“Oh, my dear boy I don’t think you do.” Aziraphale smiles wirely, hands fisting in the dishtowel.
Crowley doesn’t possess the self control necessary to not roll his eyes. “You could give me a little credit at least. I know you’re an alien.”
“I’m an angel.” Aziraphale completes the sentence for him, then stops and stares. “I beg your pardon?”
“A what?” Crowley squints back, sure he misheard. “What do you mean, angel?”
“I mean an angel,” Aziraphale all but snaps, drawing himself up to his full height which isn’t intimidating even when he doesn’t have raw flour on his shirt. “Heavenly ethereal attendants of the Almighty, not some little green man from Neptune.”
It takes Crowley a moment to reconcile what he knows so far with this new theory Aziraphale is proposing, mouth on autopilot and defaulting to contrary, “They come from Mars, not Neptune.” He holds his hands up in defense when the other man gives him a look like he’s considering where to stuff the dish towel. “Hang on, I don’t even believe in God, much less angels. I didn’t believe in aliens either until you showed up.”
“I’d just like to see some evidence, is all.” He finishes lamely, slowly putting his hands down.
Aziraphale cocks his head, considering. “...You’re sure you want to see?”
“Yes?” He replies meekly, unsure what it is he’s asked to see, exactly.
Aziraphale gives the dish towel two folds and puts it on the counter with a sort of ‘don’t blame me’ sway of his neck and goes to stand on the other side of the kitchen.
There’s a flash of light that catches him off guard and the next thing Crowley knows he’s on the floor, wedged in the corner behind the kitchen table with Aziraphale sitting beside him, serene as a water lily.
“What happened?” He croaks, realizing he’s got one hand on the cupboard and another on the wall behind him.
“You saw my real form.”
Crowley blinks at him, getting a creeping recollection of a multitude of eyes all staring squarely through his soul. He suppresses a shudder. “Myeah, right. Thanks for that.”
He shifts his long legs beneath him when he remembers how to move again, trying to match Aziraphale’s posture whether he realizes it or not. There was comfort in uniformity sometimes.
“I was sent here in answer to your prayer.” Aziraphale says, apropos of nothing. “Just before we met you were about to be evicted and lose everything, so they sent me.”
“I don’t pray.” Crowley hears himself scoff. “Don’t even believe in God, remember?”
“Well she heard your wishes anyway.” Aziraphale says primly. “The Almighty’s plan for her children isn’t for us to question or understand. You were meant to stay here for a purpose, so I was sent to ensure that purpose was met. Whether or not you actually addressed your concerns to her specifically is a moot point.”
“...Her?”
“Lately The Almighty has been using the feminine.”
Crowley needs a moment to digest that.
“What do we do now?” The not-alien looks his way again after a beat of silence. Crowley wonders how he didn’t make the connection to a cherub before with that puffy white hair of his.
“Was gonna ask you that.” He admits. “You going back now that your cover’s blown? There?” he gestures vaguely at the ceiling.
“No, I wasn’t planning on it anyway. Do you… should I leave?” Crowley can only describe the look he’s being given as a hangdog expression, Aziraphle’s voice wavering with the uncertainty of a man certain his welcome has been overstayed.
“Nah.” He waves a hand to dismiss the notion immediately and doesn’t miss the look of relief washing over Aziraphale’s face. “Gotten used to you now. Be a pain to find a new roommate anyway.”
“Just no more… whatever the hell this was.” He nods to the devastation of food particles and wrappings surrounding them. No sooner than he says it the floor is instantly clean, Aziraphale making a little pull motion with his fingers.
“Oh no, I’ve quite gotten it out of my system.” The angel assures him very firmly. “I doubt very much I’ll try eating again.”
“You know, I don’t think I believe you.”