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When Crowley returned to London, he was unsurprisingly greeted by a downpour. Unsurprised, but also unprepared; he made his way from the airport to the nearest cab (cutting the long line, of course) with only a newspaper to shield him from the rainwater. Once inside the cab he rattled off his address. He set the soggy newspaper down on the seat beside him before he stared out the water-streaked window.
He’d been abroad for a little over a year. The demons assigned to the United States had been frazzled by the task put before them: plotting the Y2K panic. Most demons were not too keen on technology, and it was difficult to spread panic about an issue you didn’t fully grasp the significance of yourself. And so Beelzebub, recalling Crowley’s all-encompassing knowledge of powerpoints, ordered him to pop on over and give them a pointer or three. Their general incompetence, however, led to Crowley overseeing the project to its fruition in 2000.
The Y2K tech scare was exactly the sort of irksome, mischievous work that he enjoyed, but there’d been a lone snag: it meant being apart from Aziraphale for a year. He had no legitimate excuse to make a return trip to Britain until the job was done. It wasn’t as if Crowley could say, “Hey Bee, mind if I swing back to London for a weekend to snog my angel silly?”
Crowley had been apart from Aziraphale for years, decades, in the past. But that was before a night of carousing in the 80’s ended with drunken confessions and cuddles and kisses on the back couch in Aziraphale’s office. Aziraphale had overcome the majority of his trepidation about them being caught (after numerous powerpoint presentations from Crowley providing detailed proof that Hell and Heaven really weren’t scrutinizing them that closely) and they’d just begun dipping their toes into making an Effort when Crowley had been called away, which made each month, each minute apart a torture of its own.
They’d called each other often (though to Crowley’s chagrin, his angelic counterpart failed to grasp exactly how phone sex was supposed to work and often hung up mid-call) but it couldn’t compare to the two of them sharing a room together, their essences melding together at the corners.
Amusingly, cults had formed up around the turn of the millennium. There’d been panicked cries about the end of the world, the day of reckoning. Crowley hadn’t been concerned himself; if the AntiChrist had been born, Hell at the very least would have done him the courtesy of a memo.
Once he was dropped off at his flat, the first thing he did was check on the state of his plants. Aziraphale had stopped by to water them in Crowley’s absence—and spoil the blasted things. They barely quivered as he stalked through the room; trees had long memories, but ferns, it seemed, did not. He eyed a drooping fiddle leaf and vowed to dole out appropriate punishment when he was less pressed for time.
He grabbed his keys and headed down into the nearby garage where he’d stored his car. He located it quickly, and tugged off the dust cover (the cloth had been warded with every protection available to avoid any humans or demons from tampering with the car while he was away). He ran a reverential hand over the gleaming black hood. He walked a lap around the Bentley, scrutinizing her, but she hadn’t dared to gather even a spot of rust on her chrome in his absence.
“Good girl.”
He slid into the leather driver’s seat and switched on the ignition. The Bentley’s engine was a rumbling purr. He switched on the CD player, which launched into a blaring rendition of Mozart's I’m in Love with my Car.
~*~
The rain was lightening to a spotty drizzle as Crowley pulled up in front of Aziraphale’s bookshop. He made sure to park in such a way that he hogged two potential parking spots on the busy, traffic-choked street. The angel would actually approve, had he seen Crowley’s deliberately annoying park job. The less people able to park near his store, the less potential customers he had to contend with.
Crowley tucked the box of newly-acquired chocolates under his arm, grabbed the freshly-cut bouquet, and sauntered towards the shop.
As he was about to enter, he encountered someone leaving. Crowley glanced at them absently, then did a double-take. The woman was carrying a book. Out of Aziraphale’s bookshop.
For any other bookseller, this would be an everyday and most welcome occurrence. But Aziraphale’s books were his treasures. Each and every book was, if not a first edition (and frequently hand-signed), some way deeply important to him. He’d never part with a single piece of his carefully curated collection without a fuss.
“What’s that you’ve got there?” Crowley demanded, blocking the woman’s path. For Hell’s sake, she didn’t even have a plastic bag wrapped around the book to protect it from the lingering rain.
She startled—Crowley was a rather good loomer, comes with the territory—and clutched the novel to her chest. A copy of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. Not Aziraphale’s coveted first edition, in which Jane had written him a personal note of thanks for his editorial input, but still. Aziraphale had quite admired the cover on the second printing; that’d been his excuse to himself for justifying the purchase of a second copy.
“It’s—It’s a book?” She paused, then seemed to realize she should be annoyed to be accosted like this by a stranger. “What’s it to you?”
“Stole it, didn’t you?”
“What? No!”
“I’m undercover police,” Crowley lied smoothly, despite the flowers and chocolates hinting his purpose here was purely, 100% social. “And I don’t see any evident proof of purchase. Just a lady who thinks she can make off with a rare book while the seller’s away from the counter.”
“That’s ridiculous! Look here—I have a receipt.” She fumbled through her purse, and produced a folded slip of paper.
Crowley’s brows knit with confusion. Aziraphale’s tidy copperplate handwriting stared back at him, confirming the purchase of one Pride and Prejudice by Susan Conifer on this date of 25/1/2000.
The woman—Susan—mistook his stunned silence for disbelief. “I know it’s only handwritten, but the proprietor wrote it himself. We can go back in and ask—”
“No.” He handed the receipt back to her. “It’s fine.”
He stood aside, giving her the room to brush past him. She threw one last puzzled look his way before she turned the street corner.
Aziraphale had opened his bookshop in 1800, and had prided himself on making, at maximum, one sale per year. Maybe this was that sale? Right...at the start of the year? Maybe there was some extraordinary reason. Maybe Aziraphale actually owned two copies of the second printing, and was willing to relinquish one of them. The angel was able to crack open humans and look inside them in a way Crowley couldn’t. Maybe he’d sensed the human had somehow needed the book, more than he did.
Crowley realized he’d been standing stock still on the bookshop’s front stoop for a minute too long, and pushed inside.
As he looked around, his confusion was quickly supplanted by alarm. Aziraphale’s bookshop was typically stuffed to the brim with books. He crammed volumes into the shelves so tightly, it was nigh impossible to pry one out. After running out of shelf space, he’d taken to stacking books in teetering towers on furniture and floors.
But now, there was actual space in the shop—some shelves were even bare. The Austen novel hadn’t been a freak occurrence. While he’d been away, Aziraphale had sold off a visible chunk of his collection.
“Oh! Crowley.”
Aziraphale emerged from the back room of his shop, his smile one of shocked delight.
“I didn’t realize you’d gotten home today.”
During his drive over, Crowley had envisioned sweeping Aziraphale into a fierce embrace, then pressing him up against the nearest bookshelf and showing just how deeply Crowley had missed him. But the salacious edge to his thoughts dulled as he caught sight of his angel. They’d been apart hardly a year, but the difference in Aziraphale was drastic and startling. He hadn’t altered his hair or clothing, nothing like that. But the happy glow that was always about him was greatly diminished. He looked careworn, and weary, and thin. His perfectly tailored clothes were hanging off his frame, his usual cherubic roundness absent.
“Wanted to surprise you,” Crowley answered, belatedly. Sharper, he asked, “Are you alright?”
He wanted nothing more than to march Aziraphale upstairs, push him into bed, and make him sleep until the circles underneath his eyes vanished.
There was a brief flicker of panic that skirted across Aziraphale’s wan face, before his beatific smile came back stronger and fake. “Hm? Yes. Yes, of course I am, dear boy. What a thing to say! Why wouldn’t I be?”
Crowley had had the pleasure of knowing Aziraphale for nearly 6,000 years (and the pleasure of knowing him biblically for the last handful of them). He knew that if he tried to push Aziraphale now, when he was stressed and defensive, the angel would only clam up further and shut Crowley out entirely. If Crowley wanted to weasel (snake?) the truth out of him, he’d have to be patient, and let Aziraphale work up to it on his own time.
So for now, despite the worry fizzling in his chest, he let it go.
“Right. Got you these.” He proffered the bouquet first. Red carnations and tulips, to symbolize their secret but strong love.
(Crowley had never been the best at vocalizing his feelings, preferring instead to demonstrate them. He’d been quite taken with the secret language of flowers during the Victorian era. Aziraphale, on the other hand, was entirely ignorant on the matter, sending flowers to Crowley purely upon his preferences of scent and color. Crowley had sulked a good many months after receiving a bouquet of striped carnations and candy tufts from him.)
Aziraphale’s smile softened to something more genuine, and grateful—he was thankful that Crowley was letting the issue remain unspoken. Aziraphale accepted the flowers and gave them a delicate sniff.
“Oh, quite lovely.” He eyed the chocolates. “And those?”
Crowley presented the box with a dramatic flourish.
Aziraphale gasped with delight. “Crowley, you shouldn’t have.”
The chocolates in question had been obtained from Alice Moxie’s London sweets shop. Moxie had opened in February of last year, to near instant acclaim. Samplers like the box in Crowley’s hands were highly coveted and in short supply. The spike of envy that’d flared Crowley’s way as he’d left the shop had put him in a very good mood indeed.
“Would’ve picked you up something from the States while I was there, but all they had was processed rubbish.”
Aziraphale hunted down a vase for the flowers before returning to take first pick of the chocolates. He dithered until Crowley, half-fond, half-exasperated, demanded he pick one or Crowley would eat them all himself.
Aziraphale settled on a milk chocolate square, filled with caramel. His eyes fluttered shut as he let it melt on his tongue.
“Mmm. Oh. I can see why she’s been so successful.”
“You mean you haven’t been, yet?” Crowley asked, incredulous. He’d heard of the chocolatier all the way over in the States when she’d opened, she was that well-known. He couldn’t believe that Aziraphale, who ferreted out new culinary delights like it was his second job, hadn’t gone to sample her sweets yet.
“Ah, well. I’ve been quite preoccupied with work and such, you see. Hadn’t the time to pop on over.”
Again they skirted dangerously close to Talking About It. Crowley changed tack.
“Well, hopefully you can free up some time in that busy schedule of yours for a late lunch at the Ritz? I believe a table for two has just been made available.”
Aziraphale wrung his hands, gaze darting about.
“Erm, well. I’d quite like to, but I’ve begun keeping more regular hours in the shop as of late. Would—Can we push to this evening?”
“Sure, angel.” Crowley said, softly. “Whatever you want.”
Aziraphale smiled. He raised up on his toes to bestow upon Crowley a quick kiss. He tasted of chocolate and caramel. Strangely, there wasn’t so much as a lingering hint of Earl Grey. Perhaps he hadn’t taken tea this morning.
“I really am glad to see you again.” Aziraphale admitted. “I missed you.”
“Hell’s pleased as punch with the work I put in. They won’t pester me again for help on a big project for a few years, at least. I’m all yours.”
“Indeed,” Aziraphale giggled, and pressed one last kiss to the corner of Crowley’s mouth before he drifted off to make some minute adjustments to the front window display.
Crowley sprawled out on one of the shop’s leather chairs, accessible now that the books that’d once been piled atop it were either sold or shelved. He watched as Aziraphale puttered around his shop, greeting the occasional customers with uncharacteristic warmth. During lapses of activity, Aziraphale circled around to Crowley, pressing him for details of his trip to America. Crowley regaled him with hand-picked highlights, including his experiences with one of the doomsday cults. Aziraphale had found the idea humorous, but then added, “I suppose it’s harder for humans, this Apocalypse business. I’ll get at least a memo informing me it’s come about, but humans can only guess.”
“Probably won’t be for another 6,000 years, at least.” Crowley tried not to make his hope too obvious. Their long relationship had just crossed into the romantic only recently—he wanted the time to luxuriate in it before the world went to pot.
After four hours had passed and seven more books had been sold, Aziraphale locked up his store and let Crowley whisk him away to dinner.
Dinner turned out to be just as strange as the afternoon proceeding it. They didn’t frequent the Ritz too often, to preserve the charm of it, so when they did go, Aziraphale tended to order myriad plates to sample. Tonight, Aziraphale barely glanced at the menu before asking the waiter for a mushroom risotto, and nothing else. He didn’t touch the complementary rolls, either, even though they were fresh and warm.
Crowley’s skeptical arch of an eyebrow got a sheepish “I’m just not especially hungry, my dear.”
Crowley ordered a larger meal than his typical fare, including some of the angel’s favorites, in the hopes Aziraphale might be tempted to pick off his plate. He ate slowly, and watched Aziraphale poke at his own dish.
Was this a diet thing? In the shop earlier, Aziraphale had only sampled two chocolates before he replaced the lid. Aziraphale had confessed to him before the callous words the Archangels had leveled at him in years prior, regarding his corporation’s softness. At the time, he’d seemed hurt more by their attitudes than the words themselves. Aziraphale had quite enjoyed his somewhat plush corporation, and Crowley had, too. Of course, it was Aziraphale’s body, so if he wanted to slim down a bit, that was up to him. But why now? What’d changed? If this was indeed his choice, why did he look so weary and despondent? Not for the first time today, he cursed Hell’s temporary reassignment. Maybe if he’d been here, Aziraphale would still be as he always would.
Aziraphale got a little less than halfway through his risotto before his complexion changed alarmingly. He sprang up, his chair scraping back. Several people nearby turned to look at the sudden noise.
“Aziraphale?”
“I have to—restroom.”
Aziraphale stumbled out of the room, bumping shoulders with the waitstaff in his haste to leave. Crowley followed after, and found Aziraphale curled around a toilet in the men’s loo, heaving.
Crowley crouched at his side, and rubbed a soothing hand along his back. He winced as he felt the knobs of the angel’s spine, the sharp planes of his shoulder blades.
“Angel, what’s wrong?” Aziraphale whimpered, and turned his head away. Crowley persisted. “Are you sick?”
Aziraphale pulled out an embroidered handkerchief from his breast pocket and dotted at his mouth with it.
“I’m fine.”
“Aziraphale.”
“I’m not ill, dear, stop fretting. It was only a bit of richer fare than I’m used to these days.” At Crowley’s uncomprehending stare, he hunched in on himself. The handkerchief crumpled in his hand. His nails were bitten down—when was the last time he’d had a manicure? Why was he not taking care of himself? “Can we not do this here?”
“...Alright.” Crowley coaxed him upright. He rubbed his hand down Aziraphale’s arm. “Let me get you home, yeah?”
Crowley snapped his fingers, and their paid bill and a generous tip were left behind on their abandoned table.
The ride in the Bentley was dreadfully quiet, as Crowley was far from the mood for music, and Aziraphale stared mutely, miserably out the window the entire drive. Crowley drove slower than usual, his desire to spirit Aziraphale home as fast as possible checked by his worry that his typical speed would stir up further nausea.
Once they arrived, Crowley steered Aziraphale straight up to the second floor of the shop. It’d once been used as surplus book storage, but had been converted some time ago into a livable flat they shared.
Crowley went to flick the lights on, but Aziraphale stayed his hand. At Crowley’s confused quirk of his brows, Aziraphale just shook his head. Alright then. No lights. Fine. Crowley didn’t need light to see anyway, though there were dying rays of sunlight poking through the window shade slats to throw the room in feeble illumination.
Crowley settled Aziraphale on the living room couch. His posture was perfectly rigid, his demeanor downcast.
Crowley swallowed, feeling out of his depth. He glanced around, and his gaze was arrested by the kitchen. Tea. Tea would go great lengths in calming his angel’s nerves. Tea he could do. Crowley checked the tin on the kitchen counter, and found it bereft of any loose leaf or sachets. The pantry and kitchen cabinets were also distressingly barren, and the fridge was unplugged and had no milk or anything else inside it. Fuck it, Crowley thought, and miracled a pot of chamomile tea into existence. Miracled food and drink didn’t taste quite the same as the authentic stuff, but needs must. He poured out a cup of tea into the angel’s favorite mug—which he had to clean dust out of—and joined him on the couch. Aziraphale accepted the mug with a very soft word of thanks.
“Please, angel. Talk to me. What is going on?” I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me.
He waited with barely leashed concern. After two careful, small swallows of tea, Aziraphale began to speak.
“Soon after you left on your assignment, Gabriel called me upstairs for a surprise performance review. He was...disappointed, to say the least. Too many minor miracles. He even considered revoking my station here on Earth.”
Crowley drew in a sharp breath. The thought of Aziraphale being snatched away, without so much as a word…
“For any other angel, the punishment would be an assignment on Earth. But they know how I so like it here—one of my many “quirks”, as they say.” His self-deprecating smile was painful to see. “Gabriel permitted me to remain on Earth, on the conditions that my miracles henceforth would be monitored, and my wages frozen for the next five years. And, well.” An embarrassed flush was creeping its way up his face. “The Archangels don’t quite see the need for me to miracle up money. They think it superfluous. So I found myself abruptly in the position of paying property taxes, bills, and a mortgage on a rather expensive slab of land in Soho, with no actual money in my pockets to speak of. Hence why I’ve had to sell some of my books, you see.”
“They cut you off? Entirely?” Crowley croaked in horror.
Aziraphale’s blush of mortification deepened.
“I’m afraid I’d never thought of any clever stopgap measures for such a circumstance. I know you have separate accounts and investments, stockpiles of actual human currency—but I’d never wanted to bother myself with all of that. I never thought I’d need to, not when I could just miracle up the appropriate coinage when needed. But I should have suspected, I should have prepared. They’d scolded me before for overuse of miracles, I just hadn’t...well, I hadn’t thought they’d ever go quite this far.”
Crowley saw red. How dare they, how dare they, do this to someone as undeserving of their ire as Aziraphale. He’d seen how the angel worked. His miracles were at times minor, yes, but only seemingly insignificant. An unwanted kitten miraculously found itself straying near the home of a man who’d just lost his childhood pet. A struggling single mother who scored an interview for a job that could change her lifestyle, let her relocate to somewhere with better schools for her child. A granddaughter swayed to call up her grandfather, who was horribly lonely in the twilight years of his life. Aziraphale’s small acts generated ripples of goodwill and kindness that made things overall better. It was almost sickeningly sweet, sometimes.
But the Archangels, looking down from on high, couldn’t see the small but steady spread of goodness. Either that, or they just didn’t care. But to go so far—they had to know what they were doing. They were tormenting Aziraphale for their personal amusement. Because they could. Crowley wanted nothing more than to yank open the pearly gates of Heaven and sock Gabriel in the jaw.
Aziraphale eyed him.
“I don’t think it was as wholly malicious as you’re no doubt imagining.”
Crowley ground his teeth. His hands tightened on his knees. Even now, Aziraphale was defending them. It sickened him, knowing that Heaven still had such a tight hold of Aziraphale despite everything. Knowing he could do nothing to break their grasp, even if he tried. Fearing if he succeeded, somehow, it would lead to a Fall.
Aziraphale continued, and he sounded as if he pitied them.“They just don’t understand, you see. What it is to live here, like a human. They don’t eat. They don’t pay electric bills. If I went without food for a time—if I sold books, or, or even if the bookshop was foreclosed on, Heaven forbid—that wouldn’t discorporate me. I’d still be capable of performing my duties to Heaven. And that’s all that matters to them, really.” Aziraphale’s happiness and well-being were immaterial to them.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Crowley snarled. “All those calls, and you never said—I could’ve wired you the money. Anything you needed.”
He was furious at the Archangels for doing this, at Aziraphale for hiding it, and at himself for not noticing. He ran through his memories of their scattered phone calls throughout the year. Had there ever been a strained snap to Aziraphale’s tone? If so, how had he possibly missed it? How could he have brushed the oddity aside?
Aziraphale set down the barely-drunk tea on an end table before turning to him fully.
“You didn’t need to do anything. I’m handling it.”
That wrestled a startled burst of laughter from Crowley. Snidely, he said,“Oh, yes, leaving off all your lights to save a few pennies, and starving yourself to the point where you’re sick after three bites of something. Definitely doing just fine.”
Aziraphale flinched, but then his expression hardened.
“Angels don’t need to eat. I’ll be through with this in under four years, now, and then things will go back just to how they were before. There’s no need for you to get involved.”
“Why are you being like this?” Crowley hissed. Behind his roaring anger was true hurt. They were together now, closer than ever before. And yet Aziraphale still lied, still withheld things, important things, from him. What more did Crowley have to do to make him understand that he didn’t have to hide from him? “Do you think I’m stupid? Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Wouldn’t care? Why won’t you just let me help you?”
“Because I don’t deserve it!” Aziraphale’s face crumpled, and he cradled his head in his hands. “Oh, what kind of an angel am I? I’ve been justly punished, and should bear it with dignity. My miserableness is just further proof of my failings. I can’t—how many times, Crowley, have you come to my rescue? I’d have been discorporated a thousand times over if not for you. What does that say about me?”
Aziraphale trembled, his body wracked with guilt and shame and self-loathing. Crowley’s rage evaporated, and his heart ached. He slid over the space between them to wrap Aziraphale into a firm hug. Aziraphale shivered, and buried his head against Crowley’s chest.
“You sell yourself short, angel.” Aziraphale muttered a denial against his shirt. Crowley ignored him. “Normandy, 1944. I would’ve drowned to death if not for you. Rome, 32 AD. Some bloke knocked off my glasses, they saw my eyes, and were going to stone me to death in the streets before you intervened. Was it three, no, four times, you prevented me from being burnt at the stake during the whole witch trial business. There’s a thousand more such instances scattered across the ages.” Crowley stroked Aziraphale’s curls, remembering a wing raised aloft to shield him from the rain. “My point is, it’s not as one-sided as you’re making it out to be. We’ve both helped each other, because we’re the only two who’ve been here since the beginning, and stayed here. Demons don’t get me, angels don’t understand you. It’s just us. Our side. So let me take care of you, angel.” Crowley begged him. “Please.”
After a long moment, Aziraphale let loose a shuddering sigh, and nodded.
~*~
Aziraphale didn’t quite snore in his sleep. It was more of a snuffle. He was snuffling right now, and it was very—Crowley couldn’t think the word cute, even to himself—very Aziraphale of him. Crowley had awoken about an hour ago, and had had zero inclination to uncurl from around Aziraphale. He occupied himself watching every minute shift of the angel’s features, every slight furrow of his brow and scrunch of his nose. He was still watching as Aziraphale at last stirred into wakefulness, blinking up at him.
“Hullo, dearest.”
Crowley pressed a kiss to Aziraphale’s brow. “Have a nice kip?”
After their draining conversation, Crowley had steered the angel straight into bed. Aziraphale had protested, insisting he hardly ever slept, and still he sank into a deep slumber almost instantly. The rest had done him well. His aura was brighter and stronger, his features more relaxed.
“I suppose there is some merit in the occasional night’s rest.”
Crowley chuckled. “Angel, you’ve been asleep for 15 days.”
Aziraphale’s eyes widened, and he jolted upright.
“Oh, the shop!”
“Don’t worry your pretty little head. I handled it.” Meaning he paid all the bills in advance for the next year, and refused to sell a single book more.
Aziraphale’s stomach growled. He flushed, winding a hand around his stomach. Crowley linked his fingers with Aziraphale’s, and pulled his hand away.
“None of that now. Let’s get some breakfast.”
Crowley led him to the kitchen and adjoining dining area. He’d restocked Aziraphale’s fridge and pantry with every possible favorite (the food would not spoil if it knew what was good for it) but for now he settled on a simple breakfast of weak tea and buttered toast.
Aziraphale nibbled his way through two slices, and to Crowley’s satisfaction and relief, he kept it down. Perhaps later they could add jams into the mix of butter and toasted bread.
“Really, Crowley,” Aziraphale tutted, as he brushed off a shower of crumbs from Crowley’s shirt. “Must you always make such a mess?”
“Oh, I must.” Crowley teased.
“You’ve even got some there, too.” Aziraphale’s thumb grazed the corner of his mouth. Crowley assumed he’d brush it away, but instead Aziraphale leaned over and licked it off.
“There. All clean.” Not true. Crowley’s thoughts were, momentarily, quite filthy.
After getting dressed, Aziraphale insisted on going downstairs to see the potential mess Crowley’d made of his bookshop in his absence.
He stopped short before his desk. There were piles of books atop it, covering every inch of it. They had not been there half a month ago. A first edition Gulliver’s Travels, collected volumes of Lord Byron’s poetry. The second edition of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice.
“I know it’s not all of them,” Crowley spoke in the ringing silence. “These were just the ones I remember seeing around here. You’ll have to make a list of the others.” He was certain Aziraphale remembered each and every book he’d sold off in his desperation to keep the shop afloat.
Aziraphale laid a reverent hand on the topmost book of a pile, an old Dickens classic.
“Oh, Crowley, this is…” Aziraphale struggled to master himself. Then, he tried (and failed) to sound reproving. “You didn’t steal these back, did you?”
“What does it matter?”
“Crowley—”
“Yes, yes, alright. No, I didn’t steal them. I obtained them all proper-like, I swear.” A few had required some demonic persuasion, but they’d all crumbled to his tempting monetary offers quite easily enough. Spoke to their weak characters, really. Showed they’d never love the books as deeply as Aziraphale did.
Aziraphale’s eyes were wet and shiny. He sniffled.
Crowley rolled his eyes, doing his best not to appear gratified by the display. “Come on, don’t make a scene of it.”
“Crowley, dear. You really are too kind to me.”
“Shut it,” Crowley growled, but with no real heat. “I’m a demon, I’m not kind.”
Aziraphale’s smile was growing. There was a teasing lilt to his voice. “Oh, but you are. You’re kind, and sweet, and caring—”
Crowley crowded Aziraphale up against the nearest bookshelf.
“Stop it. Stop talking.”
“Why don’t you make me?” Aziraphale challenged.
Crowley needed no further invitation. He quieted Aziraphale’s mouth by covering it with his own.