Comments - Just a little quick drabble that I wrote while musing on our duo. After all, it stands to reason that either one of them might have to go on business trips occasionally... stir up trouble away from home.
He didn't notice the first time.
He'd been trying to get to sleep – trying so hard because it was almost impossible to sleep now without Crowley's ridiculous tongue hissing in his ear and for some reason sleeping made him feel closer to the demon. Maybe it was all that sinful laziness.
Anyway, he'd been trying to get to sleep, when all of a sudden he'd caught a whiff of cigarette smoke – tar and nicotine with a touch of smoky paper. He must've been on the edge of sleep because it hadn't felt alarming. After all, he relished the scent – so sinfully evil that it was, like it was curling around his heart and tightening his chest – because it was Crowley. Of course, it missed the spicy cinnamon that was Crowley and that edge of expensive cologne, but it was essentially him, and the scent made him smile ever so slightly.
When he woke up in the morning, he found the burned-out match lying tastefully on the edge of a clear crystal ashtray. He'd smiled then, recognising the crucifixes engraved delicately in the edge, and miracled them both away in a moment's thought.
That night, he gave in to temptation (well, it was only a little one) and miracled a specialised incense burner. It made him feel a lot better.
Then of course came the alcohol. Crowley preferred a dash of whisky in his cocoa – said it improved the flavour. Without realising it as he prepared himself a cup, his hand automatically reached for the bottle, pouring in just a drop. The subsequent taste was just like him – all rich and chocolatey but with that edge, that kick. He had to close his eyes briefly against the memory of a tongue that tasted like this, and licked his lips.
After that, he always added a dash – just a dash mind you – to his cocoa. He didn't think he could bear it otherwise.
If anyone noticed that he stopped wearing tartan so often, that he occasionally – only occasionally mind, it wasn't really his image – wore a battered leather jacket. If anyone noticed that he was looking a little less plump around the middle than usual, they didn't mention it.
He still kept the bookshop running, ticking over in its pleasant little way. He didn't call Crowley's flat every night to see if he was back, nor did he use the special number the demon had left in case of emergencies. He didn't sit at the desk, spiked cocoa in one hand, the steam tickling his nose while he stared into the distance, sighing…
OK, maybe just the once. He always felt more lonely in cold weather anyway.
When Crowley returned, breezing through the door at about half past three one Tuesday afternoon, Aziraphale didn't jump to his feet to embrace him or anything else dramatic. Calmly, he invited the demon round the back for cocoa, took his travel bag and noted his tired eyes.
If he noticed that the demon asked for unspiked cocoa, he didn't remark on it. Nor too did he remark on the slightly lemony scent that followed the demon that was similar to his fabric conditioner, or the tartan socks. They drank their cocoa in companionable small talk before going out to dinner at the Ritz and then a quiet evening afterwards.
A few weeks later, Aziraphale started drinking unspiked cocoa again.
After all, who needed whisky when you had an in-house demon?