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The wind bustles through the town, leaves coated in the shades of autumn kiss the road with the breeze and leave as fast as they came. It’s a lukewarm evening and Aziraphale was appreciative of the cooling air. He has always been so fond of September nights.
Unfortunately for him, he hadn’t been able to spot a chance to delight in it as much as he would’ve preferred.
Instead, much to Crowley’s delight, they’d stopped by a nearby pub instead. Not necessarily his ideal version of a night, but he wasn’t opposed enough to not attend such an outing.
Now, having been amongst too many strangers for far too long, Aziraphale follows closely behind Crowley in hopes of the back exit. His eyes have been locked onto his figure so as to not lose sight of him within the crowds. Silently, and not for the first time, a part of Aziraphale is thankful to Crowley’s red locks. It makes it far less difficult to follow in between the bustle of bodies taking part in ‘group intoxication’. However, it seems Crowley forgets Aziraphale is more than capable of making his way on his own as he continues to steal small glances back as they make their way towards the back exit.
Something similar to the word kindness fits itself to the front of Aziraphale’s head, loosely sitting on the tip of his tongue. He supposes it may be a thought he should rather keep to his tongue, after all it’s more of a private matter between himself and his heart. He pretends it hadn’t softened with each concerned look he would catch.
The door comes into sight and they make their way through it, though not without a swift grab of the forearm on Crowley's part.
Aziraphale pretends that it feels normal just as well.
The outside air hits him fast, his lungs quickly coated in the shiver. It’s refreshing, just as he’d hoped, from the sweat and the sweltering heat. Finally finding his chance, he stands and welcomes the night as the door heavily shuts behind him. Aziraphale takes comfort in the newfound cold, eyes fallen closed as the wind faintly kisses his eyelashes. It’s lovely.
As doing so, Crowley stalks to the right of the exit and leans back against the brick wall. Aziraphale opens his eyes for a moment to glance over and his ever so demonic companion makes a gesture to his right.
Aziraphale takes notice of the signal and moves off of the steps to Crowley's side, finding that basking in September is a tad more comforting in the hands of two.
The door to the pub is safely shut, allowing chatter and life to flourish in the walls. This is to only leave the two to stare at the sky, taking pleasure in the sweet creation of cold whiskeys.
Aziraphale relishes in the quiet; not that he minds chatter but he’s always preferred the peacefulness of solitude amongst humanity. He felt more at home, more secure. It was nice.
Until a repugnant puff of cigarette smoke defiles his senses.
Aziraphale doesn’t dare to hide his disgust when he peers to his left. It was evident in the scrunch of his nose and fussy tone, “Such a nasty, repulsive habit to participate in.”
Crowley was lowering his finger down from the tip of the cigarette when Aziraphale looked his way. The once flickering flame sparking from the top of his finger died out— only leaving behind wisps of smoke.
Crowley shrugged as he took a hot drag, puffing out the smoke as he spoke, “You ever thought ‘bout what it may be like if we were like them?”
Aziraphale glances to his side with a raised brow, a bit unsure what Crowley means by this. The question was interruptive to the bubble of solitude they’d formed. Aziraphale can only hope his friend is not too daring—if he’s insinuating what he believes he is.
“By them…” Aziraphale tests, swallowing a lodge in his throat. “Do you mean human?”
Crowley gives a small nod, eyes still far focused on the road. He seems lost somewhere else, something Aziraphale has noticed he does from time to time. Crowley was quite the day dreamer, though he’d never admit to such a thing.
“Yeah.” he says gently, then peeks back at Aziraphale.
Suddenly, it's far too cold and his stomach is far too tight. Must be his drink.
A laugh cracks out of his squeezed chest, shaky and choked as he breaks their sudden contact. Far too much. “Certainly not, I do appreciate their creations and the way they are.. well, people, but I do not fancy them much,” he concludes.
Aziraphale steals another glimpse to his left, only to find dark glasses that have yet to stray. He finds that his body feels too small for this and Aziraphale looks away as fast as he’d indulged in himself.
To his right, he hears a thoughtful hum. Aziraphale does not risk looking this time.
“Would be simpler though.” Crowley follows after, his tone was shallow and soft.
The words are heavy and Aziraphale sinks with their weight. Crowley often did things as such, asking fool questions about themselves in regard to humanity. He’d become used to this, but it never seems to grow easier with the fantasies. Aziraphale has almost found himself playing with the thoughts as well, but never tended them for long. He couldn’t.
They weren’t like that.
Aziraphale exhales, his chest doesn’t loosen as he had so dearly wished it would. “One could argue it would be more difficult.” He disagrees instead.
If asked, he has always believed that to be true no matter how much love he has ever carried for them. This deflection only eases so much as the implications still hang above both of their heads.
They both know. They won’t tell.
In expected fashion, Crowley doesn’t say anything.
Aziraphale continues in spite of this, “Humans are awfully complex, and make their simplicities troublesome.”
The rolls of silence carry on, only objected by muffled conversations caught inside. Aziraphale, however, cannot take it and indulges despite promising himself he wouldn’t.
He turns sharply toward Crowley. A drink seems to have miraculously replaced a once lit cigarette, he hopes the bartender is not too startled by the unclaimed one left inside. In his nature, the demon is found to be staring far out once more. Daydreaming, Aziraphale thinks.
“I don’t believe there would be much change.” He adds, far more delicately than he had intended to. He supposes the comfort may prove to be fruitless, but they don’t discuss it. Boundaries he’d reminded himself; yes, boundaries.
Crowley tilts his head to the side, peering at him once more. They stare for a moment and Aziraphale suddenly understands the human term of ‘feeling naked’— as they say.
“Perhaps.” Crowley says, still soft. Still ever so gentle, ever so shallow. It wraps him tightly like a glove and Aziraphale is certain it shouldn’t.
He nods anyway, not knowing what more he could offer. “Furthermore, I must say it’s silly to desire their mortality.”
“If you say so, Angel.”
Aziraphale finds himself muddled by the foolish discussion. How wonderful it had all been and how he felt it was so poorly ruined. Upset Crowley has created once more an awkward situation of playing pretend when they both know the requirements of their duties.
As if perfectly timed to their lumbering, the back door to the pub opens. Neither can help both looking to their left as a group stumbles out, so blindly sloshed they cannot see two feet in front of themselves.
Crowley raises a brow and the two watch as the group wander off.
As they disappear, Aziraphale lets out a shaky sigh, “I suppose that’s our sign to end the evening.” He fixes his eyes on Crowley and gives a small, practiced smile and notes the glass in his hand. “I should return this as well.”
Crowley glances at the cup when Aziraphale had signaled to it with the hand holding the glass, he nods.
“That you should. Can’t have an angel going around stealing, can we?”
Aziraphale quickly looks back up at him with a moment of surprise, but smiles when he realizes Crowley is grinning in return and… being sarcastic.
“No, no we cannot. Must leave that act to you, Dear.”
Crowley, falsely horrified by this accusation, gasps, “I would never! Much more demonic things to be up to than robbing a lousy pub.”
Aziraphale cannot help his amusement and raises a brow, “Indeed you do?”
It’s an incredibly veiled offer as they often return to his bookshop for some time to themselves, but he presumes this night doesn’t entail such pleasantries anymore.
Unbeknownst to this request, Crowley nods again and takes a final swing off of his drink. “Indeed I do,” he agrees, copying Aziraphale's tone of voice.
Aziraphale simply watches, allowing himself room for his own wordless reply. He stays silent.
“Righto.” Crowley leans down and sets his glass by the stairs. “Off I am, then.” He struts past and begins his way out onto the road.
Too caught up in his own observations, Aziraphale realizes his companion has no plan of returning their borrowed items and he yells out as Crowley strolls further away. “You can’t just leave this here!” He draws attention surely, but points to said cup for emphasis anyway.
Crowley turns, with zero intention of stopping as he maintains a steady pace of walking backwards and swings both arms outwards in dramatic flare.
“Demonic things to do, Angel!” Crowley spins back on his heel and trails off.
Aziraphale watches as he grows smaller and smaller into the city and finally shakes his head as he tuts, “Horrible boy.”
He finishes the sip from his own drink, concluding it has been fairly deserved. He then reaches to grab Crowley’s glass off of the ground, finds his way back inside to drop them off, and then wanders his way back home.
Of course, the bartender will find an atrociously gracious tip that he will surely fluster over, however accept it with thanks. Aziraphale, when back with his books, decides he will always love September nights.