For a Larke
"Angel."
Aziraphale didn't move.
"Angel, you alright in there?" Crowley snapped his fingers. Down the
street, a small tree exploded, but no one noticed (except for a little girl,
and no one believed her), and Aziraphale still didn't move.
"Look, if it's all that awful, I'll take it back, maybe exchange it for a
book of Queen lyrics-" Crowley laid his hand on the tome lying on the
table- and then nearly turned into a snake in shock when a lily-white, nicely
manicured hand clamped down on his wrist.
"Crowley," Aziraphale whispered, his voice gone husky with emotion.
"It's...amazing."
The demon blushed and scuffed his foot on the dusty floor.
"Wasn't sure if you'd like it," he said softly. "It's, y'know,
not old."
A pause.
Then, quite suddenly, Aziraphale stood up, grabbed Crowley by the collar of his
snakeskin jacket, pulled him in close, and showed him in a most human
fashion just how much he liked his gift.
"Happy 6000th," Crowley murmured against angelic lips, and then did a
very weird thing with his tongue that nearly made Aziraphale forget
about the copy of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix lying
abandoned among typo-filled Bibles.
Nearly.