absolute nightmare

He looked exactly what an angel ought to and yet somehow not. "Mr. Fell" seemed every bit a middle aged, quite likely homosexual, antiques seller. A dime a bloody dozen in this part of London. For as mortal as he appeared between the crow's feet and wild curls (as though combing his hair was a supreme afterthought or someone liked to get their fingers in them), his presence was anything but. He radiated power like the halo on renaissance paintings of the saints.

As John sat across from him, he poured for both of them and gestured at the pots of cream and sugar. "Do help yourself. Ah—" He paused, as if remembering something, and added, "Freely given, of course, no obligation whatsoever." John Constantine was a magician and a lot of them held on to the old customs when toeing the in-between lines. Better be safe than sorry. It was a little unnerving to be under the scrutiny of a human who immediately saw him through.

Shaking the feeling of a pair of electric blue eyes looking at his wings, Aziraphale puttered some more with his own cup, stirring in a good helping of sweetener both for taste and texture. The spoon and saucer made a delicate chime.

David Tennant and Michael Sheen - excerpt from Staged 2 (David has a taxi to catch but Michael wants to discuss books) - as seen in the "Unseen Staged" outtakes paired with Staged 3

Aziraphale was quick to recover, but Crowley saw it for the moment the expression lingered: Stricken. It had not been his expectation to find Crowley here. He felt mildly affronted. Surely the angel knew well that if Crowley could be anything, it was petty. It was also deeply irritating that he wasn’t enjoying Aziraphale’s pain more. 

Instead he just wanted to comfort him, be a sounding board for his frustrations. Crowley couldn’t imagine being a layabout Principality for centuries thrust into Heaven’s bureaucratic hierarchy, nevermind tasked as its overseer. At least Hell’s made sense: Power, duplicity, ruthlessness, and a dash of flattery to the right demons was how to climb the ranks down below. Aziraphale hadn’t looked so stressed since the whole ordeal with Job. 

He glared at him over his shades, however. Crowley still had his pride, and he would be damned if he made it a cakewalk for Aziraphale to get back in his good graces.

Did they? Aziraphale could not quite look at Crowley and he wanted to talk to him even less. But Crowley held his gaze level and began to drink. Almost immediately he knew if he'd stayed quiet they would end up in this limbo forever. (Except the Second Coming would then start on schedule and Aziraphale would lose him. Crowley had many talents but he could only stop so much time.)

Aziraphale let the silence between them linger as he watched Crowley from the corner of his eyes. A selfish part of him had thought hoped Crowley was as miserable as him. (Then he would understand. Then he'd come with to Heaven with him and help.) But he wasn't. He looked good. Then again, Aziraphale reflected briefly, Crowley had never been unkempt. It was something that happened to someone else, just like traffic and this... awful feeling.

It was the first day of Spring. Crowley hadn’t even had to see a calendar, she’d felt it down to her core. If she were truly committed to her shop, Crowley would have woken up early to arrange fresh bouquets of spring wildflowers. She was far more interested in the greenhouse, teeming with life. Flowers bloomed with every footstep, if not where she intended to go, but in the trees lining the boulevard and fields of suburbia miles from London proper. 

By the time she heard his voice, the hothouse was fragrant with fresh greenery and her fingers sticky with pollen and sap. She didn’t remember dressing but became suddenly quite aware of her body and how delicate gossamer silk draped against coppery skin. Crowley’s lips parted when Aziraphale appeared, and she moved toward him. She felt powerful, like she could change the world with a sigh, but the flowering seasons tended to imbue her with such delusions of grandeur.

One look at her and he knew—the barren lands of his soul was not immune to her spring. Things took root and grow. Aziraphale smiled, the sound of his name on her lips buoyed him like dandelion seeds blown by a gentle breeze. His thumb grazed the flower she put on his jacket as he followed her around as though in a trance. A poisonous, beautiful plant—love despite failings.

"It is traditional to offer libation to my goddess of spring," he said, taking in the extraordinary beauty of her curves barely hidden by the silk she wore. In these moods she would be inventing, creating life and splicing genes. Her hands would take the sharp scents of leaves and her smile alone would nourish a withered sap. Aziraphale would watch and hold her, occasionally spending the entire season by her side like the devoted hound he was. The pull was stronger than ever.

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.

And so, as soon as the host left he dropped his smile and sat so still he might as well be another one of the pillars at the restaurant. Wouldn't that be nice? He only wanted to do good, to be a pillar of support and strength. He stared blankly at the silver-white shine of the cutlery until the emotion wrapped around his corporeal throat begin to strangle him, and he let it because yes, this was where Supreme Archangels sneak off to in order to have a little cry.

A dull thud on his table made him jump. The waitstaff knew to leave him alone and he was about to make a pointed remark when all of a sudden he was eye to eye with Crowley. Crowley, who said something that for the life of him he couldn't hear. Who sat himself across from him like it was any other day in what was supposed to be the rest of their lives.

"What?" Oh no, that was all breath, no words. His voice seemed to have left him. Aziraphale blinked the beginning of tears away and tucked his feelings away.