#v0litioncheck

Crowley had been a fixture at the Ritz for months, even more so than before Aziraphale ascended to his new station in Heaven. In fact he was renting a room because money was easy to get, even when he was using minimal miracles in order to keep his paper trail scant in Hell. All he wanted was to be left alone to brood, because what else was there to do now? He’d turned his back on Hell and while he didn’t regret it one bit, it was a lot more lonely without Aziraphale’s companionship. 

And for what? The romantic ideal of setting things right? Whatever that meant.

He knew it was petty, haunting this place, bitter and tired where once it had held happier memories, but a demon had to find his kicks somewhere. There were worse places to call purgatory. It was a week night and the dining room was relatively quiet; he was considering retiring for the evening with a bottle of whiskey and head full of ghosts. Brooding was best done with witnesses, otherwise it was just sulking.

And then it happened. A host lead an achingly familiar figure to sit at a table across the room. Aziraphale. Lord knows how he found the time off after all this time, probably quite literally. He was struck dumb for a moment, unused to seeing the angel anywhere outside his dreams these days. How anyone could possibly mistake him for human was quite beyond Crowley, but the real question was if he should acknowledge the angel at all. Who would blame him if he didn't? For a long moment he considered leaving out the back and doing something reckless. 

But at the end of every day, it was Aziraphale and he’d loved him since before humans started recording time. So he got up and went him after the host left to get a server. 

The bottle of whiskey landed heavily on top of the table, followed by Crowley slouching into the chair across from the angel.

John snorted softly. He bit his tongue because he wanted to be a petty prick about the other man usually wanting out of his presence rather than otherwise. Their relationship was usually more or less transactional, but the problem was no matter how much they used each other, there were still quiet moments, companionable conversation. John wasn't in love, but he was in the general vicinity of the feeling. Instead, he favoured him with a bland expression.

He stretched a long leg that was draped over Aziraphale's thighs. They'd just gotten back from a dinner out and continued drinking. Their brains had been pickled in liquor and lust since they'd reunited, and if Crowley were to be perfectly honest, he hadn't been thinking that much.

"Wot if...wot if we...I dunno. Got involved in his upbringing?" Crowley drawled. "I could be his nanny and you could be...." He looked at the other demon thoughtfully. "Do you still play music sometimes?"

"Course I do," Crowley replied with an easy, nearly dismissive shrug. They really shouldn't be drinking when in the weeds on some endless philosophical debate that they probably started around the turn of the first millennium. "I just think you're wrong."

Liquor tended to rob them some veneer of civility. It would take another solid hour of drinking before they got downright rude, but for now they were just getting annoyed with one another. The demon stretched his long legs on the couch, and pointed at him with the finger of the hand wrapped around the wine glass.

Things for Richard: ALWAYS ACCEPTING

II @v0litioncheck

John snorts. It probably would be true for anyone else, but he isn't just anyone. Oliver hadn't been spared John's strange comments, stories, or his eeriness for that matter. The man didn't seem to give two shits about the broad implications that John could do fantastical things like step into Hell like he was walking into a corner store for a pack of fags or that he doesn't simply believe in angels, gods, and fairies on superstition or faith but because of plain certainty. He'd roll his eyes, grunt with disinterest, or seduce him to shut him up. (The latter being the method John prefers by far.)

Maybe that's why he likes him despite Oliver being a more than a bit of a twat. Even if they're true, he's less impressed with anecdotes than he is with the quiet way John's hunches are usually correct or the coincidences, synchronicity, and high strangeness that follows him around like a loyal dog. So John just shrugs and lights a fresh cigarette. It'd be nice to have back up for this particular con job, anyway.

"Wot?"

Of the many combinations of three little words he liked hearing from Aziraphale 'I made coffee' was not one of them. The last time he'd tried to make coffee at Crowley's flat, it was only a literal miracle that had stopped him from blowing up his sleek, complicated espresso machine.

He rubbed his eyes. Honestly, he was relieved to have the distraction after staring at a computer monitor for the past half hour. Crowley wasn't sure how real teachers did it. He supposed he could just miracle teaching materials out of thin air, but to be honest, he was having a rather good time playing tutor. Anyway, when it came to creative or intellectual endeavors production from miracles could be a bit of a mixed bag.

John gave him a sidelong look. That was quite the answer to John's mild question of 'do you know why I rang you?' Arrogant prick, he thought with something close to fondness. It was hard to be fond of Oliver Sampson. Not only because he could be a twat but because he really didn't want anyone to be. It really was such a pity that he was an excellent shag.