Chapter Text
Despite what Crowley might think, Aziraphale is actually quite comfortable using a computer and the internet, he even has a smartphone. It’s just that he prefers the feeling of paper under his fingers and ink on his hands. And they live in London, so it’s not hard to find everything one might need, even the most esoteric of ingredients if he feels like cooking (which is rarely).
Lately, however, he’s taken up a new hobby, and there’s little choice in where to get the pieces, so he turns to the internet. Making miniatures, mostly of scenes from his own life, gives him just the right amount of tactile input and easily-achieved results to satisfy him. And keeping them in the window of the shop seems to have turned off even more perspective customers lately, a bonus he wasn’t expecting.
It’s late winter, and Crowley’s spent the last week or so slithering around the bookshop as a snake while Aziraphale does his yearly (ish) inventory. He seems to prefer being slung around Aziraphale’s shoulders like some kind of demented scarf, but today Aziraphale has been up and down ladders, and he isn’t taking the chance that he might drop or step on Crowley.
In lieu of his lover’s shoulders, Crowley is curled up in a basket in the sunny window, just next to Aziraphale’s latest project. He’s sleeping, or at least something close to it, and his head keeps sliding off his coils further toward the figurines.
There’s one that definitely does not resemble Crowley (Aziraphale knows lots of gingers in sunglasses, he does!). Aziraphale’s inhuman hearing picks up the susurration of Crowley’s scales sliding against each other, and he turns his head just in time to see the demon bump into the display.
He upsets the miniature version of himself, knocking it over. In a move Aziraphale will later swear is a miracle, the tiny sunglasses fall off the miniature and onto Crowley’s snake face.
The snake comes awake, his head snapping up to look around, tongue flicking out. The sunglasses are balanced perfectly on his nose, and Aziraphale can’t help but laugh. He prefers Crowley without his glasses, something to hide behind, but just now the demon is downright adorable.
“What are thessse?” Crowley hisses.
“Sunglasses,” Aziraphale says, coming over to the window to straighten them on the scaly nose.
“I’m the mossst fashhhhhionable sssnake in London?” Crowley asks.
“Always, my dear,” Aziraphale says. “Would you like me to take them off?”
“No,” Crowley drawls, and looks at his reflection in the window. “They sssuit me.” The motion upsets the glasses and they begin to fall off again.
“Hold still a moment,” Aziraphale says, and waves his hand, summoning a bottle of glue from his office. “This is scale safe, if you’re interested?” Crowley’s, well, they’ve both been rather committed to their chosen aesthetics since the dawn of time, and Aziraphale is more than willing to help Crowley achieve his Look™ in this form.
“Angel, have I ever mentioned I love you?” Crowley asks after the glasses are lightly tacked in place.
“Once or twice,” Aziraphale says. “But it’s always nice to hear.”
“Angel, I love you,” Crowley says.
“And I, you.”