#ineffable morons

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The shrubs were covered in frost and the pavement was icy. It was a clear morning but terribly cold. The sun didn't do anything to warm Aziraphale, it just hung lazily in the clear sky.

Aziraphale walked quickly, his round and soft cheeks red from the cold morning air. He had slept in later than usual and was running behind compared to his usual schedule. He would still get to school early, but not early enough for his liking.

He hurried as he checked his watch and the next thing he knew was he was on the ground. Suddenly a pair of boots were staring him in the face.

"You've really got to be more careful, first you're dropping milkshakes and now you're slipping and sliding all over the place." A familiar voice said with a laugh.

Aziraphale recognised as Crowley, much to his chagrin, but deep down he was delighted.

"Oh be quite you, you scoundrel!" Aziraphale huffed as he picked up his books that scattered the pavement.

The blond boy got up quickly and tried to straighten himself as much as he could. He didn't want to be mistaken as a demon, although that was rather impossible.

"What have you done there? I think you've scraped your knee" Crowley said quietly, every shred of teasing gone.

Aziraphale looked down to see his knee cut up and his pant leg speckled with blood.

"Oh darn! These were my favourite pair, I'm already late enough as it is." He huffed in annoyance.

"I haven't seen so much drama since Hastur stole Beelzebub's smokes. Just go to the nurse and wash the blood out of your pants before it dries." Crowley laughed as he towered over his companion.

"Why are you being so nice?" Aziraphale said with a furrow of his bushy brows.

"No I'm not! I'm not nice, I just um, don't want you getting blood anywhere. It's not sanitary." Crowley snarled. Truth be told he didn't like seeing Aziraphale worry, it didn't suit him. Crowley knew a smile suited the angel much better, but he knew his lips on his would be even better.

Anathema stood by the gates and waited for her friend, usually she would have found him in the library, but not today.

"Cool it cool cat, that uh, daddio is probably just running late." Newton said as he tried to put his arm around Anathema.

He had heard some one use those words before, but he wasn't sure how to use them. He hoped it made him seem tough, it did not.

"I should not have taken him into that soda shop, I wouldn't be surprised if Crowley bit his head off." Anathema huffed as she checked her watch. Aziraphale was never running behind, hell was more likely to freeze over than have him skip school either.

"If you've got a problem with this Crowley guy, I can sort it out no can do" Newton laughed as he stretched. He was lying and Anathema knew it, but her mind was else where.

Aziraphale ran towards the gate huffing and puffing, his bright blond curls an unruly mess atop his head.

"Oh deary me, oh dear what a morning." Aziraphale gasped out while hunched over.

"What on earth happened? Are you alright? You're bleeding!" The girl fussed. She knew her best friend wasn't very good at looking after himself. He was naive and quite frankly, too good.

"Oh well I took a bit of a tumble. Icy concrete doesn't go well with loafers I suppose"

"Nothing goes well with loafers angel" Crowley smirked as he watched Aziraphale's face turn even redder.

The bell rang and the three scuttled off leaving Crowley behind.

It was lunch break and Crowley needed a cigarette and to fix his hair. The rest of the demons were planning on vandalising the science room but Crowley didn't feel like it.

His mind was occupied by Aziraphale. Chubby red cheeks, curly blond hair and plump lips filled his head. His heart was skipping beats just thinking about it.

Crowleyis seriously considering a miracle to find out the colours because come on all ready angel! You’re takingforever when Aziraphale does something rather unexpected.

Heremoves his coat.

“Angel?”

“Hmm.”

“Whatare you doing?” Crowley is rather proud of the way his voice doesn’t catch orwaver and is exceptionally thankful he’s still wearing his sunglasses—thanksomeone for the sunshine today—because he is rather shamelessly staring atAziraphale calmly placing his coat on the back of a chair.

“WellI can’t exactly decorate with my coat on now, can I?” Aziraphale gives Crowleythe look one usually receives when the person they’re talking to thinks they’veasked a rather stupid question; one with a clearly obvious answer that doesn’tneed stating aloud. “I’d hate to get paint on it.”

“You’rean angel, you can literally miracle it away,” Crowley points out, shifting onthe sofa he’s claimed as his ever since the bookshop opened.

Aziraphalefrowns at him. “But I’d know the stain was there,” he says and that’s a pout onhis face, the same pout Crowley has seen on Aziraphale’s face when the angelwants something but won’t actually ask Crowley for whatever it is. It’sthe Please Indulge Me pout and Crowley hates loves it fiercely.

Crowleylets his head flop back so he can’t see Aziraphale anymore, the gesturehopefully conveying to Aziraphale that Crowley is done with his behaviourrather than overwhelmed by looking at his angel without his coat. It’s- it’s-it’s obscene really. Aziraphalewithout a coat on. The soft beige tone of his overcoat is something Crowley hasactually found rather pleasant to see and he’s long grown used to Aziraphalealways wearing it.

Withoutit, the angel seems—if Crowley were ever to admit it aloud—rather vulnerable.Meek. Mild. Things that Aziraphale must assuredly is not.

Hestares up at the ceiling, resolutely ignoring the sounds of Aziraphale makinghis way about the bookshop, the noise of the roller in the paint-tray, thescrape of paint-bristles on the wall. They blend together in a gentle sort ofmelody, a calming tune that has Crowley relaxing into the sofa more and moreuntil his body does that thing where it twitches in an awkward way and bringsyou right back to alertness.

Crowleylifts his head, easing the ache in the back of his neck from having his headback for so long, and looks in the direction of the working melody he’s beenlulled by. He’s greeted by the sight of Aziraphale standing on a small set ofladders, the type with only two steps, body stretched as he reaches the edgesof the wall and spreads paint along the top—cutting in, humans call it.Aziraphale is, for an angel, not quite as fit as he probably ought to beaccording to Gabriel the fucking archangel who thinks the perfect form for anangel is himself. Crowley finds Gabriel to be actually quite repulsive. He’s ademon, he can sense sin and Gabriel—oh so mighty and bright and Holy Gabriel—isbrimming with sins both big andsmall. It makes the archangel repugnant for Crowley who is of the opinion thanan angel should be—well—Holy and goodand kind and strong. All the things that Aziraphale just so happens to be[2].

Butback to the view Crowley has of Aziraphale right now. It should be fine—it’s a view Crowley can somewhat appreciate with thesafe distance of being on the sofa away from the object of his gaze, securethat at least he won’t make an utter fool of himself with his gawping—but unfortunatelyfor Crowley, it seems that the universe has decided to both tempt and destroyhim in one swift act. Namely, Aziraphale with his shirtsleeves rolled up to theelbow, wrists and forearms naked for all the world to see, and two top buttonsof his shirt at the neck undone to allow him to breathe better without hisbowtie in the way. It is, Crowley can admit, a mesmerising sight, but it isalso a sight that has Crowley hissing out at the flare of Desire that flashesin his body, making him want to reach out with his long fingers and touch thatlovely revealed skin.

Suchbehaviour is most unbecoming of a demon but very typical for Crowley and,thus, the demon known as Crowley is stuck staring helplessly at a decadent-lookingprincipality who has no idea the affect and effect he has onsaid demon.

Orthat’s what Crowley thinks at least.

Outside of the perspective of Crowley, thedemon from hell who is a serpent and creator of original sin, it is much easierto witness the fact that Aziraphale, principality and guardian of the easterngate of Eden, is very much aware of the effect he’s having on the demonCrowley. It is, to put it bluntly, very entertaining for an all-seeing,all-knowing being to witness. A good way of passing the time that unfortunatelyhad to be made in order for mortality to be a thing.

Theonly thing the omnipotent and omnipresent being is missing is some popcorn butcreating popcorn out of nothing can be a bit hit-or-miss[3].

Dueto the demise of Crowley’s only braincell, it is easy for the demon to miss theway Aziraphale subtly glances at the reflection of said demon in the window tothe angel’s right; a window that provides a fantastic view of Crowley on thesofa at an angle it otherwise shouldn’t be able to provide. But that’s whatmiracles are for, aren’t they?

Aziraphale,meanwhile, is seriously contemplating calling for Crowley’s assistance justmoments before he has to stretch a little further to reach a little higher withthe paintbrush. The principality had considered simply miracling the bookshop paintedbut had, ultimately, decided otherwise after one evening at the Ritz when he’dnoticed Crowley’s rather distracted focus on his wrist when Aziraphale had spilthis wine and fussed over the ruined cuff of his sleeve. Crowley’s eyes,actually on display for once due to Aziraphale’s insistence, had been quitedilated—almost like a cat’s actually—and the golden ember colour bled beyondthe usual limits Crowley allowed it.

Aziraphale,that evening, had come to a series of conclusions regarding Crowley that haveled to this moment in the bookshop wherein his dear friend is currently a uselessheap of feelings on the sofa while Aziraphale steadily redecorates his bookshop.It is, considering everything, a case of “two birds, one stone” consideringAziraphale has been fretting over how to broach this Issue with his long-timefriend and… something else, but has dithered rather typically over the natureof how and when.

Removingseveral layers, rolling up his sleeves, and undoing buttons at his throat hasbeen remarkable effective in leaving Crowley in such a state that Aziraphale iswondering if it was a good idea to possibly rile the demon up so with so littlewarning on his part. But then, of course, the principality turns his head andcatches Crowley’s gaze—even through sunglasses, Aziraphale always knows when heand Crowley are looking each other in the eye—and makes the split-seconddecision that yes, yes it is a good idea and no, no he shan’t stop any timesoon.

Fromthe tertiary perspective here, we can witness the exact moment Aziraphale makesthat decision and the rather lustful tint to those angelic blue eyes that hasCrowley’s body burning even more than it was before although Crowley himselfconsciously misses the lustful tint. The benefit of having a subconscioussmarter than you, apparently, is that it reads cues and responds accordinglylong before your singular braincell is capable of even noticing said cues.

Itis a good thing Crowley is the curious sort by nature lest he be even moredysfunctional than he already is. And it is also a good thing that Aziraphaleis just enough of a bastard to recognise this fact and utilise it at the mostopportune of moments.

“Crowley,you know you could help,” Aziraphalesays, loudly and pointedly, with an arched brow and Crowley—dear, awkwardCrowley—makes a rather amusing sound that has Aziraphale wishing to smile. Hedoesn’t, but he does quite wish to, if only because Crowley has such a look on his face and it’s ever soamusing. Endearing, even.

“I-uh- angel,” Crowley says, as though that is a coherent response although,considering it’s from Crowley, that is acoherent response. Either way, it forces Aziraphale to roll his eyes at Crowleywho seems to find the act something else to make sounds over. “Right.”

“ReallyCrowley, what has gotten into you?”Aziraphale asks innocently. He’s not at all innocent or apologetic but it isentertaining nonetheless to pretend he’s oblivious to the effect he has onCrowley. “You seem all out of sorts dear.”

“Ngk.”

Aziraphaleraises an eyebrow. How fantastically eloquent of Crowley. Truly.

“Asalways, dear, I’m in awe of your commend of the verbal word,” Aziraphale drawlsand he sees the moment Crowley’s brain kicks him, recognising he’s being insulted,and the angel bites the inside of his mouth to avoid smiling. Trust Crowley tocome back from wherever his mind has wandered off because of an insult.

“Oi!I’m- I’m plenty good with words, angel!” Crowley sits forward on the sofa, shoulderblades up, chest arched, head positioned in the way Aziraphale has witnessedsnakes do in the past. Predatory posture. It’s ever so enticing for Crowley to dothat—makes Aziraphale’s own instincts flare a little.

Crowleyhas his tendency for all things serpent but Aziraphale has a certain fondnessfor all things avian. It makes their relationship all the more surprising and endlesslyfascinating. Any omnipresent and omnipotent being would find themselvesnaturally caught up in examining and analysing such a connection even if saidconnection weren’t between an angel and a demon who helped thwart the end ofthe world.

“OldShakespeare wasn’t anywhere near as gifted as them historians like to think!”Crowley scoffs. “Gave him half his bloody sonnets myself.”

“Oh.”Aziraphale gives him a look, purposefully pausing in his painting to lower thepaintbrush and he’s very aware of how Crowley’s eyes follow his arms, the waythe demon’s chest heaves a little harder than it typically does and the angel smiles. “I don’t believe you evermentioned that.”

“Well-uh-” Crowley fumbles. “I- didn’t think you’d be interested,” the demon finisheslamely.

“Iam.”

Aziraphaleplaces the paintbrush on the tray, a minor miracle ensuring it won’t get allpainty on the handle or dry out and descends the little two-step ladder. Theangel crosses the space of the bookshop, intimately aware of how Crowley’smouth opens a little, tongue barely darting out past those teeth of his andAziraphale remembers reading about how snakes smell. They use their tongue.

Witha thud of his heart, Aziraphale sits down primly beside Crowley who shiftsautomatically, instinctively, to accommodate the angel beside him. A snap offingers and they both have a cup of tea each—Aziraphale is uncertain that winewould be a good idea at the moment; though he is tempted.

Crowleygulps the tea while Aziraphale politely sips at it, the angel watching the waythe demon goes at the cup like one would go at water when dying of thirst. Hewaits just long enough for Crowley to gain some measure of control over himselfbefore purposefully reaching out and laying a hand on Crowley’s arm, a little bitvindictively pleased at the way Crowley shudders beneath his hand.

“Shareone of those sonnets that are yours?” He asks though it’s more of a commandbecause Crowley—for all that the demon insists he is a demon and evil and thusobeys no one—has always caved to Aziraphale’s demands; usually with somewhining and complaining but seldom has Crowley refused him. Now is another timewhere Crowley caves to Aziraphale and it probably has more to do with the wayAziraphale’s thumb is stroking lightly on the smooth material of Crowley’ssleeve, his golden-pale skin offset beautifully against the dark black ofCrowley’s clothes.

“’kay.”

Thisis the point, readers, where things Change with a capital C for both angel anddemon. Perhaps it’s the metaphorical dropping of a penny, or some other metaphorthat conveys the sense of realisation, but both Aziraphale and Crowleyrecognise the Shift in their relationship at this very point in time. It is apoint that they will both think back on in years to come and smile rathergoofily. At this precise point however, we have Crowley beginning to blush,fingers fidgeting with the fine bone china cup in his hand, while Aziraphalestares at Crowley’s face and his thumb continues to stroke the soft fabric ofCrowley’s sleeve. It’s an intimate, emotive scene and ever so suited toadmissions through poetry if I do say so myself.

“Devouringtime, blunt tho the lion’s paws,

Andmake the earth devour her own sweet brood;

Pluckthe keen teeth from the fierce tiger’s Jaws,

Andburn the long-lived phoenix in her blood.

Makeglad and sorry seasons as thou fleet'st,

Anddo whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed time.

Tothe wide world and all her fading sweets.

ButI forbid thee one most heinous crime;

O,carve not with thy hours my love’s fair brow,

Nordraw no lines there with thine antique pen.

Himin thy course untainted do allow

Forbeauty’s pattern to succeeding men.

Yet do they worst, old time;despite thy wrong

My love shall in my verse ever liveyoung.”

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[1]Considering how out of date Aziraphale himself happens to be, it’s no stretchof the imagination to assume he means a slight change in the shade on the wallsto update it by a ten year margin or something else equally out-dated in theeyes of the modern world today.

[2]Gabriel’s hypocrisy when it comes to the Ideal Angel Form is no where moreapparent than when you look at Sandalphon who is short, snivelly and lessappealing to look at than a sack of rubble dumped in the Tiber. Crowley hasstated this to Aziraphale before, multiple times and rather directly, over somewine and thus has witnessed the amazing sight of Aziraphale spitting out hiswine and laughing himself silly. Crowley isn’t quite sure what is quite soamusing about his derision of Sandalphon but it amuses Aziraphale and he’s okaywith not quite understanding when Aziraphale is happy.