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“Would you please just take it with you?” Crowley said.
Aziraphale, he’d discovered on his arrival to the bookshop, was about to go and see some miserable tragedy at the opera. The angel was gathering up the things[1] he always took with him on such occasions—opera glasses that he didn’t actually need, a walking stick that would be anachronistic no matter how posh the theatre, a cream-colored top hat Crowley had hated for more than a century, and pointedly not the one item Crowley had repeatedly asked him to bring.
“I really don’t see the point,” Aziraphale said over his shoulder as he rummaged through his collection of hats. “People would only bother me on it.”
“I didn’t miracle it, you know,” said Crowley. “It’s an actual mobile phone from 1992. I got it on E—on the computer.[2]”
“Oh.” Aziraphale looked touched, though he made no move to retrieve the phone from wherever he’d stashed it. Hat in hand, he had moved over to his desk and was brushing papers aside in search of, Crowley assumed, the opera glasses. “You needn’t have gone to the trouble.”
“It’s not like mine. It doesn’t have apps, if that’s what you’re worried about. It just takes calls, like your rotary phone,” Crowley said desperately. “And it wasn’t easy to find. I—for Hell’s sake, I had the case custom made.[3]”
Aziraphale tucked the opera glasses into his coat pocket. “And I appreciate it, I promise. Look!” He opened the desk drawer, smiling uncertainly. The phone was inside. “I put it right here with my nicest snuffbox and that electronic book you gave me last year. Mint in the box. I’m treasuring it, Crowley.”
“I—it’s—you—” Crowley clutched his forehead with both hands. “You’re not supposed to treasure it! The whole point is to carry it around with you!”
Aziraphale closed the drawer again, despite Crowley’s groan of frustration. “Perhaps another time. To be quite honest, I don’t think these devices are even allowed in the theatre.” He peered at Crowley, brow furrowed. “Was that really all you came over to talk about?”
“I came over because I wanted to see you,” Crowley said. It was as close to the truth as he was willing to get. “What, I need a reason?”
“My dear, you nearly took the door off its hinges coming in.” Aziraphale radiated concern, much in the same way that he radiated everything he ever felt. “I assumed it was urgent. Was it? You could have called.”
“I did,” Crowley said. “Both phones. You, uh, you didn’t pick up.”
“Oh...Yes, I suppose I did nip out for a minute.” Aziraphale now radiated embarrassment. “I had a customer coming by appointment, you see, and I thought the shop ought to be closed when they arrived. I’m terribly sorry I missed you.”
“Mm. Don’t worry about it.” Crowley had felt stupid the moment he entered the bookshop, and he felt stupid now. He couldn’t even remember what he’d been calling about. “Wasn’t important. You’d better get going, you’re late.”
Aziraphale turned to look at the grandfather clock. “Oh, Lord, you’re right. Well, I’m relieved it wasn’t anything serious.” His eyes flicked toward the desk drawer. “You, ah, you’re sure you don’t mind…?”
Crowley shook his head. He was glad he had his sunglasses on. “Forget it. Go on. I’ll keep an eye on the place.”
The angel’s face broke into a smile.[4] “Would you really? That’s so kind of you. I would have been worrying about it the whole time.” He picked up the walking stick and headed for the door, briefly clasping Crowley’s shoulder as he passed. “Drinks after, yes? I won’t be long.”
Crowley was alone in the bookshop. He sat, heavily, in Aziraphale’s desk chair. He stretched his upper body over the desk, leaning on his elbows, and fixed his eyes on the door. He waited.
His tongue flicked out, once, tasting the air. It smelled like old books and old clothes and cocoa and Aziraphale. It didn’t smell like smoke, not even a little. As far as reality was concerned, Crowley supposed it never had.