Chapter Text
Crowley downs the last of his champagne and tosses enough cash on the table to cover their bill plus a very generous tip. Why not? It’s not like he had to actually earn it anyway.
Aziraphale, sufficiently plump with lunch only the Ritz could provide, broadly grins.
“So, my friend, what do you plan to do with the rest of your eternity?” he inquires and dabs at his mouth with his napkin.
“Hmm?”
“Eternity- any plans?”
Plans? It was only a few days ago they were staring into utter oblivion. He didn’t think he really had time to do much of anything- let alone make plans for a future that was hanging by a fraying thread. Not to mention right after that he was facing extinction by holy water. If not for a 300-year old book, he would have been nothing more than a wisp of demon smoke dissipating into the stale stench of Hell. Plans? Plans?
“Uhum, no, not particularly,” he answers.
“In that case, I have a remarkable bottle of 1947 Cheval Blanc if you’d care to join me back at mine,” Aziraphale offers; the hope in his voice is unmistakable.
Crowley shrugs.
“Sure, why not.”
Aziraphale claps his hands excitedly together.
“Splendid!”
Crowley ignores the odd feeling blooming in his chest at his joy. He hasn’t felt quite himself since they swapped bodies to thwart the wiles of Heaven and Hell- it’s similar to the sensation of having one shoe tied just slightly tighter than the other. Nothing more alcohol can’t fix he concludes and follows the angel out of the restaurant.
The bookshop even seems different now. Brighter, maybe? The stale smell of decaying paper remains, but the books themselves are impeccably clean for their age. The antichrist was just a boy, after all- can’t expect him to get everything exactly the way it was. Either way, it makes him want to come out of his skin.
“Here we are,” Aziraphale announces and hands him a glass generously filled with rich Bordeaux.
“Thanks,” Crowley takes it and downs a large gulp.
“So? What do you think?” the angel asks.
It’s alcoholic- that’s all he needs right now. He actually would’ve preferred a glass of something brewed in the washtub of a backwoods cabin- much higher proof- but this will do.
“S’good,” he says instead, and the angel beams.
Crowley ignores the way his blush pink lips stretch softly around the row of glistening teeth. The angel dives into the history of the wine- something about bad weather and technical failures and the taste could never be replicated or whatever. He’s not listening, or rather, he can’t listen- not with all this ringing in his ears. Why are his hands all tingly? Is he having a stroke? Can demons have those? And why are his feet shifting around like he’s at the damn disco? Think about something else, anything else. He glances back at the angel.
Aziraphale is the same. Not just his body, though that is something young Adam got spot on. He still has his platinum curls and ridiculous bowtie. His round cheeks are still forever tinted the same shade as his lips and his blue eyes still hold a hint of grey- and then there’s that adorably subtle curve to his tummy beneath his vest-
Crowley shakes his head. Anyway- his behavior is the same, as well. He’s as bubbly and giddy as ever- like the world hadn’t almost come to an end.
“What about you?” Crowley asks after emptying his glass.
Aziraphale pauses his story with a quizzical look.
“What about me what?”
“Plans? Have you got any plans?”
The angel releases a puff of air as he thinks for a moment.
“I have been meaning to pop over to Egypt for a bit. I have sources who say there’s a man there with original scrolls from the lost Library of Alexandria-“
Crowley growls in frustration.
“Books?!” he snaps. “Is that all you care about- books?”
The wrinkle in Aziraphale’s brow deepens.
“Is it so deplorable to enjoy books?”
Crowley huffs and sets down his glass before he sends it across the room.
“Haven’t you ever wanted anything, you know, more?” he tries.
Aziraphale gives a small shrug.
“I suppose I could travel more around France. I haven’t been since the -um- incident - and it’s been centuries since I visited Marseille. Oh! I wonder if that lovely little cafe is still there-“
“Zira! No- I mean more with -er- people,” Crowley clarifies.
“People? What do y-“
It’s now or never.
He lunges forward and grabs the angel’s startled face with both hands, smashing his mouth forcefully against those taunting lips. It’s only a brief, blissful moment before he’s shove away with surprising strength.
“What the hell are you doing?” Aziraphale shouts.
He barely catches his breath.
“I want something more with you, you daft angel! I have for so long,” Crowley confesses. “I just thought we’d have more time, but then the whole business happened with the baby-switching and Armageddon-“
For the first time he watches as Aziraphale’s cheeks drain of their color.
“Crowley, what on Earth are you saying?” he breathes, his eyes wide.
“I’m saying l love you, Aziraphale,” Crowley’s voice cracks on his name.
There’s a long silence- neither one daring to move, risking to breathe. Finally, the angel says,
“Get out.”
It’s as if Crowley has been splashed with holy water.
“What?”
“Get out,” Aziraphale repeats.
Crowley steps forward, hands outstretched and grasping at the invisible thread unraveling between them.
“Zira-“
“Don’t,” the angel warns and takes a step back.
He pounds a fist on the cover of a book.
“How dare you!” Aziraphale seethes, his eyes glossing over. “How dare you do this to me!”
Crowley’s mind swirls frantically- around and around the drain to the ninth circle of Hell. A strangled sob escapes the angel’s throat.
“Please just go.”
His words pierce through Crowley’s chest, leaving a gaping, ragged wound. Unsure, or rather- unable- to do much else, he spins around and snaps his fingers. The door to the bookshop flies open. When, he’s through, he snaps again, and the door slams behind him.