crowley doesnât know what the fuck that even means. ok, yes, heâs familiar with the deluge of terms humans have concocted to define the complexity of their relations to each other.
side piece. sneaky link. friends with benefits. fuck buddies. situationship.
crowley knows what it means. he does. but when nina speaks the phrase to him, crowley canât seem to recognize a single language, alive or otherwise dead, in which the words she says make sense. he briefly wonders if this is his version of aziraphaleâs french.
because sheâs talking about aziraphale.
aziraphale, the angel. the angel who likes his tea without sugar, but his wine with company. the angel who claims to have a distaste for âbebop,â yet crowley has caught him mouthing the words to queenâs âgood old-fashioned lover boyâ more than once in the bentley. the angel (bastard) who enjoys subjecting crowley to his magic act antics that under no circumstances would crowley ever admit to finding amusing or, satan forbid, endearing. the angel who popped into paris during the reign of terror because he got peckish for crepes, and even the threat of guillotine in that damp bastille cell could not deter him from baked goods in the end. the angel who still insists on dragging crowley to see productions of shakespeare, despite both being present for the original opening nights of almost every play the man wrote. the angel who is what heaven is supposed to be incarnateâpure and kind and too good for his own good, really.
he doesnât think any of the typical labels apply. theyâre not human, after all; it couldnât be that simple. crowley canât pinpoint exactly when it started or when it changed. 6,000 years is a long history to comb through. it was more than the acquiescence of two immortal beings to the familiarity of each other in a world full of temporary creations. it was more than a bloody arrangement at this point. crowley doesnât know how it can be more than whatever it means to inhabit the otherâs body and walk right into fatal danger, but they are. heâs inclined to cut his losses and say he knewâbecause deep down, he did knowâheâs been fucked since eden and the damn wall and the damn rain he canât help but associate with revelation.
other peopleâs love lives, nina had said. love lives. sheâs projecting, crowley knows that. whateverâs going on with her andâŚlydia? linda? they say love makes you blind, but crowley would argue you see plenty of things. every passing glance between sips of champagne; every smile at the crisp sarcasm rolling off a forked tongue; every brush of fingers over the exchange of a briefcase full of books, the shaky grip on a tartan thermos, the drunken grab for another glass of wine across the table. silly things. things that arenât there. for all the times aziraphale has implored him to read more, crowley swallows the urge to say he already reads into things more than he should.
heâs imagined it before; what it would be like to have more. a fair share of people have made assumptions about them in the past, though heâs not sure whether aziraphale has picked up on it, but thatâs not why crowley suddenly feels as though armageddon is upon them once again. never has someone alluded to anything asâŚintimate as âhooking up.â crowley can brush away the implication that theyâre together, but something screeches to a burning halt the moment nina insinuates what crowleyâs only ever allowed himself to think about when heâs laudanum-level drunk and lonely because he has a greater chance of not remembering in the morning.
he remembers though. thatâs usually when the guilt kicks in, when heâs hungover because he forgot to miracle the alcohol out of his system before passing out, and the headache pulses with the constant reminder that aziraphale is pure, pure, PURE. nothing he imagines on those nights is pure.
what gave him away? and if nina can see it, can aziraphale?
