A dim light was emanating from the small London shop even though the sign out front clearly read "Closed" in the sort of penmanship that was associated with high-ranking aristocrats or church officials. The latter would certainly be the more appropriate comparison in this situation seeing as the words were crafted by none other than one of God's angels himself. It certainly took some sort of heavenly skill to make such a wonderfully perfect rendition of Olde English lettering, though it took the angel a good four tries to get it perfect by hand. If only Heaven had allowed Word Processors…
Aziraphale sat in the rear room of his antique book shop. He was lighting the few lamps that hung lazily in the corners of the room even though the room had been rigged with electricity for the last thirty years. The lamp lighting was more of a ritual than anything and if anyone should know about outdated rituals, it was an angel. Aziraphale sighed as he tried to strike a match on the side of the box. He carefully followed the instructions time and time again but tonight the matches seemed to have their own wills in mind.
On the last strike, Aziraphale shook his head slowly, on the verge of muttering a curse but the overwhelming guilt that it would be detected by his higher-ups was too much to risk it. He looked at the match in the dim light and nearly shouted when it suddenly ignited.
"Ever stop to consider that maybe the box got wet?" A familiar voice chided from behind him. Aziraphale turned and found himself face-to-face with his oldest adversity who also happened to be his closest friend.
"Well, it occurred to me actually. But I would certainly have thought that humans would have anticipated that their matches could get wet and be rendered useless and had guarded against it somehow." Aziraphale replied as he bent down to light the final lamp on the small table near the center of the small room.
Crowley leaned against the wall and crossed his arms, giving the angel a cynical look. "You really give the humans too much credit. They're not as clever as they make themselves out to be, take it from me."
The angel merely nodded and then busied himself on the other side of the room. Well he didn't so much busy himself as reach behind a bookshelf and unearth a bottle of wine and a couple glasses. He didn't like to keep them in plain sight not out of paranoid fears that his customers might see them, and this could be owed to the fact that he didn't have any customers or at least he tried his hardest not to have any. There was always that stray bugger that wandered in and looked around the shop despite the death glares he'd receive from the shop owner perched behind the counter like some blond-headed, overweight bird of prey.
No, Aziraphale kept his alcohol hidden because it gave him the sense that he was doing something not all that virtuous when he took it out. He supposed that it must not be all that good a thing to do considering the only time he ever drank was when there was a demon in his midst, and also because of all of those human alcohol prevention groups. They were downright damning when it came to those who used alcohol, even more so than the Big Man in charge.
He gently blew on the label of the bottle. A layer of dust was removed and he stood straight up once again and gently placed the bottle in the center of the table. Crowley had already helped himself to a seat at and was leaning back in the chair, peering at Aziraphale over the rim of his sunglasses. The startling yellow of those eyes would've frightened anyone else who hadn't spent the better part of six-thousand years traipsing about on Earth with the demon.
"Thirsty, dear boy?" He asked as he poured the contents of the bottle into a glass and slid it gingerly in the demon's direction.
Crowley took the glass with a nod and brought it to his lips. It was a good year, he could tell by the subtle undertones of nutty aroma that were present in the wine. Crowley knew a great deal about wine, a great deal more than you'd ever guess by looking at him in fact. What could be said? He'd been on Earth for a long time and for most of that time, wine was readily available. Having a friend with a formidable fortress of reading material didn't do much to damage his knowledge either. There was many a time that he'd let himself into the shop while Aziraphale was out to the bakery for scones or the like and he'd simply pluck a book off the shelf and leave with it. It wouldn't be until weeks later with Aziraphale still worriedly searching for the misplaced volume that he'd saunter back in and return it, receiving a good scolding that he would ignore and then grab another book once Aziraphale had his back turned and so the cycle continued.
"Eighteenth century, huh? How'd you manage to keep it around all this time? Really, Aziraphale, I'm surprised we haven't drunk it by now." Crowley mused as he drained the cup in two big gulps. He really was thirsty, after all, it'd been a hell of day and that pun was completely intended, mind you.
Aziraphale shrugged and took a sip from his own cup and then swirled the remnants and watched them closely as if he could find some sort of mystical meaning in the orbits of the tiny bubbles present in their glassy dome universe "I don't always serve my finest wines, there's no use in wasting them needlessly."
"You can say that again. Last week it felt like I was drinking bloody shoe polish with a sprig of...whatever sort of plant you stuck in there…" Crowley grumbled and refilled his glass.
"For your information, the Rosemary adds to the richness of the flavor. Though I do admit that 1734 was a rather terrible year for wine." Aziraphale shrugged and swirled the rich liquid in his goblet with the tip of his finger. The usual conversation began slow enough as it always did, not out of awkwardness seeing as it was very difficult to be nervous around someone you'd been thwarting for over six-thousand years, it was mainly out of sheer tiredness.
Believe it or not, demons and angels can experience fatigue. It was all a matter of their will to succumb to their fatigue or simply ignore it and remain ever-vigilant. Aziraphale went with the latter on the sheer principle that he believed that virtue never rests, meanwhile Crowley was a demon who'd taken a liking to the human custom of sleep. It was an escape from the rather humdrum life of tempting people, sabotaging attempts at goodness, confusing shoppers by switching the "SALE!" signs around in the grocery and all sorts of other evil-doings.
In fact, it had been an especially busy day for Crowley, he'd managed to craftily jam the traffic lights at rush hour and cause a two-hour delay for all the frustrated office slaves meandering their ways back to their bitterly unsatisfied wives and rowdy gaggle of children playing their overly violent video games. With the promise of a nice room temperature meat loaf and mashed potato substance dinner waiting for them on the table when they finally arrived home from work, it was a wonder that they got angry at all over the traffic incident. What with all their leaning out of windows cursing one-another, you'd think they were heading home for a frisky night with a dazzling young specimen when instead most of them would be heading home for an awkward dinner alone listening to their wife nag about Johnny's algebra grades and how Susan doesn't even take care of the parakeet she spent so many hours begging for as a gift for her eleventh birthday. All things considered, Crowley believed that doing what he did was serving a noble purpose but at the same time causing a bit of chaos and wasn't that basically his job description as a demon on Earth?
Crowley grabbed for the bottle once again and tipped it generously into his glass, he really seemed to have a reason to get drunk tonight as he took a long drink and once again settled himself back into his chair, willing the alcohol in his stomach to absorb into his bloodstream just a little faster. Aziraphale noticed Crowley's tension and narrowed his eyes, removing the gold-rimmed reading glasses from the bridge of his nose and setting them aside next to him and looked at his counterpart.
"Is there something bothering you, dear boy? You're drinking heavier than usual and knowing you, that could be a dangerous move…"
Crowley shrugged his shoulders, his eyes not moving from their position gazing deeply into his cup into the swirling deep rogue-colored liquid. The pleasure toxin was beginning to take hold of his senses and he loosened his tie as he also loosened his tongue.
"We known each other a long time. Damn long time. I mean we been through everythin'." Crowley didn't look up from his cup and rocked uneasily in his chair.
Aziraphale took another small sip from his glass and nodded slowly, "Of course we have, but I don't see what that's got to do with--"
"I mean everythin', you know? We were there when Eden went down, 'f we done anything differ'nt I mean anything at all, you see, the world---the world, the whole world I mean---it would be totally differ'nt!"
"I realize that, but it's all a part of the plan. You do your tempting and I do my part to thwart your efforts." Aziraphale didn't like the look on Crowley's face. It was almost a pained expression, or as pained an expression a drunken deity of Hell could manage. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, watching as Crowley once again refilled his glass, his hands on the verge of trembling.
"Crowley, really! What's wrong with you? This isn't like you!" Aziraphale stammered, taking the bottle from his partner in the same way an outraged mother swipes a half-eaten bag of sweets from her over zealous child when it was specifically stated that supper would be served in half an hour. Of course there after would occur the killer of a stomachache and a slightly green and sweaty tinge around the ears for the remainder of the evening and the chorus of 'I told you so!'s would of course be next to follow. Though Crowley's complexion retained its pallid nature, he seemed despondent that the wine bottle had been so rudely snatched from him. Standing up slowly, his weight shifting dangerously from one leg to the other and vice versa. He leaned forward into the table, holding himself up with his hands as they skidded slightly on the surface before stopping him from falling face first into the corner of the table.
" 'm fine", his tone was less than convincing and Aziraphale began to get worried when he started to climb on top of the table, the creaking of the table's legs did nothing to alleviate his mounting nerves.
Crowley had made it to all fours on the table when he peered across at Aziraphale and grinned madly. What happened next was enough to put the angel in such a state of disbelief and horror that it could be compared only to what the citizens of that small Spanish town must have felt when they realized that their sacred shroud of St. Augustine had been eaten by a goat named Madeline.
Crowley stood shakily atop the table and swayed dangerously, nevertheless he began to sing in a loud voice that was reminiscent of everyone's first late night karaoke experience when the crowd clears out and yet that one man who'd been drinking since noon finally mustered up the courage to give it a go, "Oooooh, yer makin' me live! Wha'ever 'is world can give at meeee, is you yer all I seeeee! Ooooh, yer makin' me live now honey…!"
"Crowley, for God's sake! Sober up, please!" Aziraphale made a grab for Crowley's flailing limbs and managed to catch his sunglasses as they slipped off his nose and nearly shattered on the floor.
"Yer the bess frien' that I ebver haaad! I been wiff you sush a long tiiime, yer mah sunshiiine n I wuntcha to know tha' mah feeeeelingz are troo! I rully lurrrrve yoooou!" As he drunkenly belted the final note of the line, Crowley lost his footing and crash landed back into his chair, though this time the chair was in several pieces beneath him. He finished off the note with a groan that sounded painfully pathetic. Aziraphale calmly made his way around the table and helped Crowley to his feet.
Immediately, the demon sensed Aziraphale's tension and concern and he quickly drew the alcohol from his bloodstream in an undetectable technique that many a hung over college frat boy would've gladly given his right arm for. Then again since these are college age males, we're discussing they'd more than likely rather part with the money their parents gave them for school than to part with their right arms…
"Are you alright? Oh dear, you've destroyed my chair! What got into you?" the angel asked in a half scolding, half concerned voice. Crowley stood up slowly, his yellow eyes glinting in the candlelight. With the alcohol dissipated from his system, he felt strangely exposed and very ill at ease in what would be such a typical situation, normally. He carefully plucked his salvaged shades from Aziraphale's hand and replaced them upon the bridge of his nose before wordlessly reassembling the splintered chair with a wave of his hand and the sudden but faint smell of brimstone.
He turned to his counterpart and without a moment's hesitation, took Aziraphale by the unsuspecting chin and kissed him firmly on the mouth. The angel's eyes widened and a splash of heat exploded in his chest. Crowley pulled away after a moment that could've been an eternity and smiled.
"Same time next week, angel?" He said coolly and made his way to the door leading back into the darkened bookshop.
Aziraphale nodded curtly, blushing madly and praying a mile a minute that no one Up There had seen anything. As Crowley left, Aziraphale took another drink from his still full glass and softly sang to himself in a nearly inaudible voice, "Ah, you're my best friend…"