Alternate chapter title: Crowley Tries Yoga

Our two favorite supernatural-beings-turned-human have lunch together in the book shop, and talk about stuff. A few new (and entertaining!) creature comforts come to light, along with at least one inconvenience about being human.

No smut in this chapter... just flirting, innuendo, and some sweet domesticity. And humor.

GYROS FOR ZIRA

"Anathema, hello, my dear, this is Aziraphale," the owner of a rare and antique bookshop whispered into an old-fashioned telephone, as two customers milled about. "I need to ask you a question."

Blast it, he knew he shouldn't have opened up today – he'd been waiting all morning for a chance to be alone in the shop for a few minutes, but bloody customers kept inconsiderately coming in and wanting things. So he gave up, and made his phone call clandestinely. When her voice mail had answered, he was surprised to find himself relieved.

"I'll try to be brief. Oh, my… this is a bit embarrassing, now that I'm here, and I'm on the phone, and you can hear me. Well, not hear me, exactly, but you will hear me. Later, that is, when you listen to this message. The thought of you hearing what I have to say is… well, I won't lie to you, it's a bit terrifying, but you see, I lost the coin toss, so…" he tittered. He took a deep breath, and let it out noisily, then said, "All right. No time like the present, eh? Here it is, my dear. I want to ask you about when the human body – specifically the human skin – seems, er… dry. And I don't mean dry, as in the opposite of wet. I mean dry, as in… not supple. Human skin, apparently, needs to be maintained, just like everything else on these bizarre bodies. Especially the hands and face, I find. But, in addition, there are, erm, other parts that feel, well, shall we say… rough. More intimate parts. Delicate, if you like. Oh good grief, this is mortifying! I'm going to hang up now, Anathema. Bye!"

His heart was beating a thousand miles per hour as he slammed the phone back into its ornate cradle, and leant back in his chair, panting a bit. He sat, wide-eyed, fidgety, recovering from the trauma for a few minutes, then heard the door of the bookshop open. He leaned to see who it was, and was pleasantly surprised to find his tall, handsome, human partner sauntering in amongst the tomes. It was a sunny day, and he was wearing sunglasses, which was something he hadn't done much since becoming human. He tore them off his face coolly, just like he used to, and Aziraphale's heart skipped a beat.

"Hello," Aziraphale said sprightly, immediately calming, as he stood up and strode out to meet Crowley halfway. Crowley gave a little salute and an eyebrow flutter, and headed to the sofa. Aziraphale noticed then that Crowley was carrying a bag from his favourite Greek restaurant, around the corner. "Did you bring lunch?" he asked, with affected excitement and greed in his voice.

"Indeed I did, angel," Crowley answered digging into the bag, and extracting a box for each of them. "I'm famished. As are you, I assume?"

Aziraphale chuckled. "How did you guess?"

He dearly wished they were alone, and in the old days, he could snap his fingers and make the sign on the door change, to read that opening hours were as he fancied them at that moment. But as things were, the sign said the shop was open for business until 3:00 p.m. today, plain as you like.

As if reading his mind, Crowley asked, voice low and secretive, "Can't we get rid of these people?"

"I can't kick them out, the sign says we're open until three," Aziraphale argued, whining a bit.

"So?" Crowley asked, with a grunt. He stood up and walked the three steps out onto the sales floor. "Ladies and gents, I must inform you, the shop is closing for the lunch hour. New policy as of today."

"All right," said the lady standing nearby, inspecting a hundred-year-old copy of 'The Aeneid.' She placed it back on the shelf. "Will you reopen later this afternoon?"

"Yes, at one o'clock," Aziraphale answered. "Feel free to return and make your purchase then."

"As I'm sure it's quite urgent that you acquire today this ancient book, which you've lived without quite well for the past hundred years," Crowley muttered, shooing her to the door. He followed as she left and locked it behind her.

"Crowley, is this really just lunch? Because I'm not really in any shape for… I mean, I'm still a bit sensitive…"

"Relax, angel, it's just lunch," Crowley said. "Which reminds me, did you call Anathema?"

"I left a message," Aziraphale said, curtly. "A highly ridiculous message full of me hemming and hawing, and sounding like a total English dandy, or a blushing schoolboy, or a lecherous middle-aged man… or all three!"

Crowley burst out laughing, and said, "I'm sorry I missed it."

"Now, belt up, you! Next time, you're making the embarrassing call, I don't care what the bloody coin says!" Aziraphale scolded.

"Hm. Human Aziraphale is cantankerous when he's peckish," Crowley said, sitting back down on the sofa and setting one of the takeaway boxes on the far side of the coffee table for Aziraphale.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and moved his chair over to the coffee table, and had a seat himself.

Crowley said, "Well, I think I worked out what's causing part of the, er… you know, the dryness problem."

"Oh yes?" The box sat open for the moment, as Aziraphale waited for whatever information Crowley could impart.

"It occurred to me that we might both be allergic now to the soap we used this morning – that happens to humans, I think. So I looked into it on the internet. Turns out, you're actually not supposed to use soap for… what we used it for."

Aziraphale's eyes grew very big. "You're not?"

"I guess not."

"So, you're only supposed to use… well, the substance that comes in that little tube, that you can buy at the... well, the 'advanced flying' store?"

"I suppose," Crowley said. "I guess we'd better buy a backup tube for the shower."

Aziraphale frowned. "Oh, Crowley, don't be so vulgar."

Crowley laughed. "Really? You're going all prim and proper on me now? Not five hours ago, you soaped up my…"

"I know! Shh! Just… all right, so…" Aziraphale clicked his tongue. "How did people manage before that stuff was invented?"

Crowley shrugged. "Olive oil."

Aziraphale made a face, then said, sardonically, "Well, at least we won't need to buy a backup for the kitchen."

Crowley hadn't really heard. "Angel, I'm really sorry – I didn't know. It's never been an issue for me before. All part of that automatic body maintenance thing we used to have."

"Don't apologise, love, we're both learning," Aziraphale said, picking up his lamb gyro with extra tzatziki sauce, and taking a bite. He moaned with his usual sensory delight, and a little of the sauce was left on his lips. He chewed a bit, then stuck his tongue out to lick it away. He said, rather sensually, "Oh Crowley, thank you. This is, as usual, divine."

This entire procedure nearly drove Crowley to distraction.

He shook it off, and took a bite of his own gyro (chicken, extra tomatoes), reminded once again of how hungry he was. Hunger was a new feeling, and it was much more unpleasant than he had ever anticipated. Unfortunately, he was finding that he cared, on the whole, much more about making it go away, than about eating good foods. Aziraphale, thankfully, remained a fussy gourmet, so in living together, Crowley hoped they could balance each other a bit.

They ate in silence for a moment or two, and then Aziraphale, while chewing, said, "Honestly, Crowley, this is a lovely surprise. And you managed to choose the very thing I was craving today. Well, the very food I was craving." He batted his eyelashes almost unknowingly, then averted his gaze and blushed.

Crowley nodded. "It's my pleasure."

"Are you enjoying food more, or less, since becoming human?"

"Hard to say," Crowley told him, inspecting his gyro (for what, he did not know) before taking another bite. "I have an unexpected relationship with food at the moment, which I imagine will change over time."

Aziraphale picked up two pieces of grilled broccoli out of the container and popped them in his mouth. "Well, me, I love Greek food."

"Name a type of food you don't love," said Crowley, affectionately.

"Well, American fast food comes to mind," answered his companion. "But even that can have its place from time to time."

"Really?"

"From time to very long increment of time, yes," Aziraphale qualified. "I suppose you've always been right: this is my favourite creature comfort. Apart from you."

With a smile Crowley said, "For me, sleep is the one you know about. But actually, it's always been my second favourite."

"Second?"

"Well, not always – just since Rome, when we had oysters."

"Oh?"

"I adore watching you, enjoy your favourite creature comfort."

This wasn't a particular surprise to Aziraphale. He'd have to have been living behind a forcefield with one-way tinted windows not to notice the way Crowley concentrated on him while he partook of well-prepared foods. He smiled, and said, "Your greatest enjoyment is watching me… enjoy?"

"Yep. Love is love, angel."

"That's very moving, Crowley," Aziraphale said seriously, but sweetly.

Crowley fluttered a naughty eyebrow at him. "Oh, you have no idea just how moving."

"So, watching me with food, for you is… erm…"

The pause went on so long that Crowley just finished the sentence. "…a huge, torturous turn-on? Fuck, yes."

"Right," Aziraphale said with that tight, adorable smile. "Just… checking."

"Shocked?"

"No, no, not shocked."

"Good, because if you hadn't noticed by now…"

"I'd noticed. It's not as though you've been subtle."

"Nope, not a whit," Crowley agreed. "So, I've got you and your food, then there's sleep, showers, and… oh, cars. I do love cars."

"Hm," Aziraphale said, resting his hands in his lap, still holding the gyro. He barely made any nose, and he stared at his knees.

"What? What's the matter?"

"It's just… it's funny you should mention cars, because… I have, well, you. Plus my culinary delights, books, obviously, but… erm…"

Again, the pause went on so long, Crowley had to do something. "Yes?" he asked, with a burgeoning, wicked smile. "Angel, do you have a fetish I don't know about?"

"No, not a fetish. It's just, well, you say that my enjoyment of food brings arousal for you. I must admit there's something that you love that… well…"

After another pause, "Oh, Aziraphale, I'm champing at the bit to hear what's going to come out of that mouth of yours." If Crowley had still had any snake left in him, it would have come out as more of a hiss than as a voiced thought.

"For me, it's always been just a little bit titillating being in your car." Aziraphale spoke barely audibly, but it was enough.

"What? Really?" Crowley practically shouted, truly surprised, and quite delighted.

"I wouldn't call it a 'huge, torturous turn-on,' as you said a moment ago. But… Crowley, the love and dedication you've shown that car, and how it's an extension of your personality, and how meticulously you keep it and care for it… well, that's quite moving, as well. It's something that makes you feel good, feel cool, and powerful and sexy… isn't it?"

"I suppose it is, yes."

"Of course it is. And being surrounded by that has always made me feel… well, if I'm honest, just a bit jealous. But also, quite warm. Quite reassured. And a bit…"

"…randy?"

"Just a bit, yes."

Crowley said, "Oh, the Bentley, angel. Who would've guessed?"

"It's really more about you, and what the Bentley means to you. If that car were owned by anyone else, it would just be a hunk of metal to me."

"Understood," Crowley said, with a smile.

They stayed in the throes of some really intense eye-contact for a few moments, and both felt a surge of lust. But they didn't have much time before the shop was to reopen, and neither of them felt fully up to getting naked and sweaty just now, due to some really annoying skin irritations, so Crowley changed the subject.

"Well, I guess I meant to tell you this earlier, when it was relevant, and I got side-tracked," he said. "I listened to Anathema's message this morning after you left. The one about keeping in-shape."

"And?" asked his partner, taking another bite, and groaning mildly, "Mm." He was not unaware of the effect this had, but he was in fact, reacting with honesty toward the food, and he'd be damned if he'd stop himself just to keep Crowley's libido in check.

"She said she'd meet up with one or both of us, and show us the sort of things she does, fitness-wise," Crowley answered. "She jogs, of course, which is going to be absolute fucking torment – and mind you, I've been to Hell. A lot."

"Oh, it won't be that bad. I jogged in the park with Gabriel, and I didn't die. Of course, at the time , I wasn't capable of dying…"

"And she says she does a variety of calisthenics and resistance exercises," Crowley finished.

"What does that mean?"

"No idea."

"Well, since you brought up a physical regime again, it occurs to me that there's another sort of creature comfort that I've been fond of, and haven't told you about."

"Sounds intriguing."

"Yes. Yoga."

"Yoga?"

"It builds muscle strength, or so I'm told, plus flexibility. But I've always gone as a way of relaxing, and refreshing myself and centering my thoughts."

"I've got sleep and showers for that."

"And I've slept with you and showered with you. Only fair if you yoga with me."

"Yeah, but sleeping together and showering together leads to sex. Yoga is… prayerful. All inner-peacekeeping, not so much with the sexy. And 'yoga' is not a verb," Crowley pouted.

"But it could help you get a better handle on your muscle groups, and what your human body can do. You might also learn to breathe… not so as to survive by converting oxygen into carbon dioxide, but as a way of cleansing and purging the body. It's metaphorical, of course, or psychological, or whatever. But coupled with stretching the muscles and concentrating on balance and guided inner focus, it is quite effective."

"Ugh, I don't know, angel," Crowley whined. "I used to give yoga studios leaky roofs and make rabbits chew on unattended mats, just to fuck with them."

"That was then. You're human now. There's a class at four o'clock this afternoon, at the studio where I go sometimes. It's not far."

"It just seems like such…"

"Okay, what would work faster?" Aziraphale interrupted, groaning with tedium. "Would that be me, getting all professorial and forceful and deciding for you, and saying things like 'you're in a relationship now, and you don't get to say no to me after I've categorically said yes to you so many times, you horny old demon'? Or would that be the doe eyes that have worked so well in the past?"

Crowley was utterly charmed by the question itself. He smiled. "Do both, and we'll see where we land."

At 3:55 that day, Aziraphale and a grumbly Crowley walked through a standard-issue commercial foyer with a desk and waiting area and signed in. The girl at the front desk gestured for them to go through the door behind her, and when they did, they found themselves outside again, in a small Japanese-style garden. When they looked up, they could see a couple of trendy buildings, a rooftop terrace just now welcoming patrons, and the back of an art house cinema – the trappings of the stylish Soho of the environs.

"Oh, angel, this is so pretentious," Crowley whispered.

"Then you'll feel right at home," Aziraphale countered.

"Zira," said a petite blonde woman, coming toward them, across a little wooden bridge. She wore a blue sleeveless top, and white leggings, all in all, looking as though her clothing had been painted on. She had a chirpy American accent and seemed as though she had been handcrafted as a walking, talking Californian stereotype. "So good to see you again! It's been ages!"

"Madeline! Yes – eight weeks," he said, nervously, remembering it had been since before the Apocalypse since he'd last dipped his toe in the pool of yogic life. "Practically an eternity."

"You brought a guest?"

"Yes, Madeline, this is Crowley. Please excuse him - he's a bit out of sorts because he's never done this before. He's my… well…"

"Ah, no need to explain," she chirped. "Although, Zira, you know we only do first names here. None of that English formality for us!"

"Well then," Crowley said, sighing, but nevertheless holding out a hand to her. "I suppose that means you'd better call me Anthony."

"Anthony, it is," she said, shaking his hand with both of hers. The way she spoke somehow made her already bright blue shirt an even brighter hue of blue. And she pronounced 'Anthony' in the American way, with the voiceless dental fricative 'th,' as in 'thruppence,' or 'throbbing,' or 'thumbscrew.' Crowley found that immensely annoying.

From there, Madeline excused herself and went along to irritate others who were also milling around in the garden area.

"Zira?" Crowley asked, his voice a bit mocking.

"Well, I had to say something," Aziraphale whispered. "I've got used to answering to Mr. Fell, but when she said she wouldn't call me that, I panicked. I thought Zira would be more likely to get my attention than anything I could make up. I told her it was a nickname, and she seemed pleased."

"It's horrible. Remind me why we're here again, angel."

"Oh, shut it," Aziraphale scolded. "Quit being a misery just because you're not getting your way."

They proceeded through the sound-proofed doors into the main studio, which really reminded Crowley of the Japanese-style bedroom he'd had decorated for Aziraphale, in his own flat. They stripped off the top layers of clothing, and committed it all to a cubby, leaving them both in a tee-shirt (ivory for Zira, black for Anthony), and a pair of loose-fitting trousers (which Crowley had had to buy, as he wasn't a loose-fitting clothes sort of bloke). They extracted two mats, founds spots next to one another, said a few hellos, then began.

Madeline led the class from a slightly raised pedestal at the front of the room. They all began in Lotus pose, which she demonstrated, then walked around the room correcting the beginners. She then guided them through a couple minutes of breathing, then said, "Namaste, everyone. At this time, I would like you to let go of your fears, and what is troubling you – just for now. We don't run from our troubles here, we just set them aside. If it helps, you can think of your worries as a hat, and you can join me as we concentrate all of our negative energy into that hat, and mime removing it, and putting it onto the floor beside our mats."

A few people did it, and Crowley whispered, "Really?"

"Hush," his partner scolded.

"I know that sometimes it seems you have the metaphorical weight of the world on your shoulders," she continued.

"Or the literal weight of the world," Crowley muttered. "That happens, too."

"Shush!"

"But in our practise today, we will absorb that weight, so that it doesn't pull us down. We cannot ignore our problems, but we can learn to carry them more gracefully."

And then, through a series of visualisation techniques, Madeline taught the room, including Crowley, how to incorporate their worries into their muscles, stretch them out, and feel the oneness.

More importantly, Crowley learned whether his calves could extend beyond the average length (they can), and whether he can hold cobra position for longer than five seconds (he can't).

"Well, damn it," he murmured. "If there was any pose you'd think I could do…"

He learned whether he could touch his toes (not at first, but he got there before the end). He noticed muscles he'd never realised he had. He felt his hamstrings stretch for the first time, and was disturbed by it. He discovered how difficult it is to hold one's own weight in the downward-dog position for an extended period (causing muscle fatigue in his shoulders), and how amazing it can feel when the joints pop, and a muscle is kneaded into relaxed submission via its own elasticity.

In the end, he had to admit that it had been more difficult that he had anticipated, and also, more effective.

"I did learn quite a bit about my body," he said. "I don't know if I could articulate any of it, but I'm feeling things I've never felt. However, it was just as woo-wooey as I'd feared."

"Woo-wooey?" Aziraphale asked, in a properly stilted manner.

"Yeah, all that spiritual stuff, and the cutesy phrases, and the oneness, and the general linguistic bullshit."

"That's just guidance. Visualisation. It's words, nothing more, and it's part of the package. It's psychological. The creature part of the creature comfort, if you will. It acknowledges that we're all thinking beings, and we have to get out of our heads for a while."

"Yeah well… fair dues on this one, overall," Crowley conceded. "The stretching and breathing are really good when combined – a little bit intoxicating."

"Intoxicating? Interesting."

"What's interesting is how if you breath into a stretch, you can go further. Did you know that, before you started yoga?"

"No," Aziraphale said, with a smile. "Oh, it's splendid to see you enthusiastic about something."

"I'm not enthusiastic," Crowley corrected quickly. "I'm fascinated, is all. It's so clever, and so simple. How ingenious to teach you the nooks and crannies of a human body by doing an activity that the human body finds totally unnatural."

"Well, yes – unnatural for a time. You might get used to it, like I did. Honestly, Crowley, I don't know why you thought you wouldn't fancy it. Everyone knows that physical exertion puts one in touch with one's body, and if ever there was anyone who was in touch with his body…"

"You're not wrong. I quite enjoyed feeling it respond to… well, stimuli, for the first time. That's rather intoxicating, as well."

"Again with the intoxicating? And responding to stimuli? So, it's all about hedonism still?" Aziraphale asked, with mock exasperation, stifling a smile (not very well).

"Of course," Crowley shrugged with a smile. "Isn't everything?"

-
Just after ten that evening, Crowley snuck off to make a call.

"Anathema. Crowley," he said to her voice mail, sounding supremely irritated. "What does a human do when the body hurts… literally everywhere?"

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