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Crowley steps into the bookshop and immediately it hits him. Something is… not wrong but… there’s something in the air.
He moves carefully further into the shop. There’s no sign of Aziraphale. He isn’t reading in his chair, he isn’t puttering about and sorting books that don’t need to be resorted. But Crowley can sense him as well as the difference he can’t quite define.
He can’t sense Heaven or Hell, any of their employees or anything else supernatural. But he can’t smell tea either — neither fresh nor gone cold — nor wine or anything sweet. And no music is playing.
“Angel?” he calls out tentatively. There’s no immediate answer, no sound of footsteps hastening closer. He tries again, raising his voice a bit more. “Angel?”
This time there is an answer. “Oh, one minute, darling. I’ll be right with you.”
The voice is muffled, must be coming from that room in the back Aziraphale calls an office and that has a desk, but is really just another storage place for more books, trinkets and whatnots.
What the Heaven is Aziraphale doing in there?
Since he apparently never learns from past mistakes, the need to know gets the better of him and he doesn’t wait, but walks over to the back room instead. With every step that sense of something in the air increases. He can taste energy now. Excited energy like something that’s long been planned finally coming to fruition. And a little mischievousness, maybe. And Aziraphale’s familiar etherealness interwoven with it. What is the angel up to now?
Whatever it is, even forewarned by his senses, Crowley knows he would still play the surprised demon to perfection. He wouldn’t want to spoil Aziraphale’s fun.
He opens the door — and stops dead in his tracks, mouth hanging open in surprise he doesn’t need to feign, eyebrows climbing continuously higher.
Aziraphale stands with his back towards him and that might have been for the better just this once. Crowley is not sure he would have survived if he’d seen any more of him. And there was a lot to see.
The angel is wearing angelic robes, but not like the ones either of them ever wore. These are of such fine material that they are practically translucent and Crowley can see golden chains underneath wrapping decoratively around the angel’s torso and waist and down to his legs and the golden sandals. His wings are out — which must cause some issues in the cluttered space — and both of those and his hair sparkle in gold. There’s nothing else covering him and Crowley has a perfect view of his magnificent—
Wait. Something about this is oddly familiar.
“Oh, there you are,” Aziraphale says and turns. He’s clutching books to his chest and not strategically lower which makes it kind of difficult for Crowley to take anything else in but the angel’s very visible—
“I found this wonderful and imaginative book series and thought I’d try a bit of ‘Cosplay’ as the humans call it,” Aziraphale says, wiggling excitedly which in turn excites Crowley — who still hasn’t managed to lift his gaze — though not in the same way.
“I can see that,” Crowley mumbles and vaguely wonders again why this getup seems familiar. His brain — ever the ally — is more interested to think about the mostly naked skin in front of him.
“Do you like it? I tried to be as accurate as possible.”
“You’re always gorgeous, angel.” Crowley suddenly feels hungry. Or thirsty. Something to do with his mouth in any case.
The angel holds the books out, covers facing Crowley.
Right. He should probably look at those. Or really at anything else to get his brain functioning again.
He drags his gaze up until it meets garishly colourful book covers.
And stares while his brain reboots and processes.
“Ohhh, fuck.”
Antonia Jay Carolee’s ‘Dream’ series displaying both the sleeping angel and dream demon.
Smirking, Aziraphale lifts the hem of his robe, showing his thigh. “Autograph for a fan?”