Chapter Text
They left the Ritz several hours after they first sat down. Somehow, the waitstaff never appeared to genteelly usher them out of the restaurant until nearly everyone else had gone.
The walk to Aziraphale’s shop was well-worn and familiar under Crowley’s shoes. Aziraphale was telling him a story about a man who outbid him at a recent auction for a first edition John Locke tome, and Crowley was strolling along next to him, hands in his pockets. Not for the first time, Crowley found himself wishing that Aziraphale’s shop was just a little further away.
There were two customers waiting outside his door when they turned the corner. One of them, a young woman in a green coat, was a regular; she gave Crowley a little wave when she looked over and saw them approaching.
“Ah, customers,” Aziraphale said. It was lacking his usual note of despondency on the topic.
Crowley looked over at him. “You sound excited. Are you going to actually sell them something?”
“Who knows?” Aziraphale smiled at him. “It is, after all, a brave new world we’re in.”
The Bentley was parked in its usual spot on the corner; after bidding Aziraphale farewell and nodding to the woman in the green coat, Crowley unlocked it and slid behind the wheel. The drive back to his apartment was as familiar as the walk from the Ritz to the shop, and he let his mind wander.
It had been fun, to be Aziraphale. It was one thing to mockingly imitate him to his face, which Crowley had done many times, but he had managed to fool four archangels and win Aziraphale’s freedom from Heaven’s dominance. Looking down at his bound wrists and seeing the backs of Aziraphale’s hands had felt good. Aziraphale kept his hands in better condition than Crowley did.
The houseplants had come back, if it were possible, even more lustrous than they had been before. Crowley gave them a spritz and a stern pep talk before pouring himself a glass of wine. He wandered into his office to find his ansaphone in pieces, seemingly burned from the inside out. Fucking Hastur. Crowley would have to get a new one, and they were hard to find these days. He’d had that one from new.
Slinging himself down into his chair, Crowley wondered if Aziraphale had given up on his new customer-friendly philosophy yet, if he’d driven the customers from his shop with overbearing politeness or if they were still there, browsing through the angel’s beloved collection. Over lunch, Aziraphale had told him about the small collection of boys’ adventure books Adam had inserted above his desk; Crowley would have to flip through them next time he was there. Maybe they would hold his attention better than Aziraphale’s usual fare, which Crowley had given their fare shake but had been unable to appreciate the way the angel did.
It was not the first time Crowley had been alone in his apartment since the world had failed to end, but never had it seemed so cavernous. The bucket he’d used to kill Ligur was still on the floor, deadly drops of holy water clinging to the rim. He should have had Aziraphale help him clean it up when the angel had spent the night at his flat, but they had both been too tired. Under normal circumstances, getting Aziraphale over to his flat was like pulling teeth. He seemed to find it too impersonal, too modern, as he would say. Still, if Crowley told him part of the flat was now actively life-threatening to him, the angel would come. He had such a hard time saying no to Crowley.
Now that he had noticed it, the bucket was practically throbbing in the back of his mind. He should go get Aziraphale now, bring him back to clean it up. He could have waited with Aziraphale until the customers left, it wouldn’t have meant losing a sale if the angel was serious about his change of heart. And now that Crowley thought about it, he wasn’t sure if holy water was dangerous once it’d evaporated; if he breathed in holy water vapor, would it burn his lungs? He shouldn’t have come back here without Aziraphale.
He shouldn’t have left Aziraphale.
To his horror, Crowley could feel a particular thought inching its way out of the back of his brain, where he’d carefully locked it thousands of years ago. A particular secret, one he’d been keeping from Aziraphale for a long, long time, but now it was coming out to play. Had been ever since he’d walked into Aziraphale’s burning shop and failed to find Aziraphale there.
Maybe he should tell Aziraphale. The angel would understand, wouldn’t be mad at Crowley for keeping it schtum. Sometimes Crowley wondered what it would take to make Aziraphale stop looking at him the way he did, affection and longing and exasperation all mixed together; wondered how demonic he could really get before the angel stopped loving him. On his worst days, he almost resolved to try, just to find out.
Without thinking about it, Crowley fetched his car keys and found himself back behind the wheel of the Bentley. The road back to Aziraphale’s shop unspooled before him, a miraculous lack of traffic, his usual parking spot still open by the front door.
The customers were still inside, one browsing, one sat at a table with three books spread out in front of her. Aziraphale was in the back somewhere, but he came out at the sound of the door. “Ah, Crowley,” he said, eyebrows raising in surprise. “Back so soon?”
Crowley walked up to him and put one hand on either side of his face. “Brave new world,” he said, and kissed him.