Chapter Text
The pub was bathed in that welcoming twilight that Aziraphale so appreciated. The smell of polished wood and craft beer was comforting, and the jazz music in the background was low enough not to disturb his thoughts. Or rather, not to disturb his silent observation of
Crowley.
Crowley was at the bar, a few feet away. Even with his back turned, he was a sight: his lean silhouette hunched over the wood, his impeccable leather jacket, his hip tilted in a way that Aziraphale tried—and miserably failed—to ignore far too often. He was gesturing to the bartender, probably demanding that the wine be from a specific vintage the establishment barely knew existed.
Aziraphale smiled to himself, adjusting his bow tie. He felt safe there.
"Good evening." An unfamiliar voice interrupted his reverie.
Aziraphale blinked, coming out of his trance, and looked up. A human man, perhaps in his thirties, with an overly confident smile and a glass of whiskey in his hand, was standing beside the table.
"Oh, hello," Aziraphale replied, his automatic politeness taking over. "Can I help you?"
"I couldn't help but notice you're sitting alone," the man said, leaning forward slightly. "It's a waste for someone so... charming. May I buy you a drink? Or perhaps we could find a more private place?"
Panic began to bubble in Aziraphale's chest. It wasn't the first time in six thousand years that a human had tried to flirt with him, but Crowley was always around to scare them away with a grim look or a minor miracle. Alone, Aziraphale felt like a rare book without its protective cover.
"Oh, I..." Aziraphale stammered, his hands nervously fidgeting with the paper napkin. "That's very kind, really, but I'm not alone. I'm with a... a friend."
The man took another step into Aziraphale's personal space, ignoring the cue.
"A friend? I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you made a new friend. Someone like you shouldn't be waiting around."
Aziraphale's mind raced. He needed a way out. Something definitive. Something that humans would instantly understand as an insurmountable barrier. He looked desperately at the counter and saw Crowley picking up the two glasses, about to turn around.
"Actually!" Aziraphale exclaimed, a little too loudly, his voice rising an octave. "I can't. I'm sorry. It's just... I'm married!"
The stranger raised an eyebrow, looking at Aziraphale's hands.
"Married? You're not wearing a wedding ring."
Aziraphale felt his face heat up until it turned a shade of pink.
"It's just that... she's being polished!" he lied shamelessly, the first absurd excuse that came to mind. "And my... my husband is a very jealous man. A very, very big man. And dangerous."
At that exact moment, a long, slender shadow fell across the table.
"Any trouble here, angel?" Crowley's voice was like honey, drawling and dangerously calm.
Aziraphale looked up and saw Crowley standing there, holding the drinks, the dark lenses of his glasses hiding his eyes, but the tilt of his head making it clear that he was assessing the intruder.
The man glanced at Crowley — who, though not "big" in the muscular sense, exuded an aura of imminent danger and predatory elegance — and then returned to Aziraphale.
"Is this your... husband?" the man asked skeptically.
Aziraphale felt his heart leap. He glanced at Crowley, who had one eyebrow raised behind his glasses, clearly having overheard the last part of the conversation.
“Yes,” said Aziraphale, regaining a sudden dignity and gripping Crowley’s arm as if it were an anchor. “Yes, he is. My dear, this gentleman was just… leaving. Wasn’t he?”