Aziraphale tidied up the couch and wandered into the shop to see Franz chastising their one customer.
"That's not very polite, you know. You ought to practice a smidgen more decorum." The combover'd head turned back to the register. "Have a good day."
"But—"
"Good day." The customer left, looking irritable. Swiftly Aziraphale strode past Franz and locked the door, briskly flipping the sign to Sorry, we're closed—try tomorrow!. He then rounded on his cousin.
"What was all that about?"
"She asked directions to the nearest Fox Books."
"Well, that is not very polite, is it?"
"I know. I told her. Now—" Franz settled into his psychiatrist face. "What is the matter?"
"I beg your pardon?"
Franz arched his left eyebrow (1). "You've been... mopey." He made quotation marks in the air. "That is what the kids say, isn't it? Yes, mopey."
"Derived from the verb 'to mope,' I take it," Aziraphale presumed.
"Yes, that. Why are you being mopey?"
"I didn't suppose I was."
Franz glanced at the ground. Another difficult one. He saw it all the time at the support group, as people came and left. They refused to admit being upset, even though it was clear something was wrong. He had become a Jedi master of sorts, reading people, and he didn't need the Force to do it either. The only problem was when they refused to talk it out. People were so... obstinate, sometimes. Ah well. Might as well revert to the secret weapon.
"You know how I cheer up?" Franz asked casually.
"Hmm?"
"I simply remember my favorite things, and then I don't feel so bad."
Aziraphale thought about it. "Mm. It sounds like a rather good idea."
"That's because it is. Go on..."
The angel glanced around the bookshop, eyes scanning the various titles. "To begin with... books. Books, Christmas music, Christmas spirit, goodwill, doing good deeds, reading, drinking tea, the Ritz—" There was a hesitation. "Tea at the Ritz with Crowley, books of prophecy—"
Franz's head turned a minuscule amount. A hesitation obviously indicated the problem lay with Crowley. Either that or the quality of tea at the Ritz these days, but that idea was laughable. Crowley must have done something... what would Aziraphale do to hurt anyone? He was an angel, sure, but he wasn't one of those vengeful snobbish angels. He was kind. After all, he had welcomed Franz with open arms, hadn't he, where Up There he had only been gossiped about. Where he had simply been the scandal of the week. Of course, they couldn't blame Zeus for such blasphemy; no, it was Franz and his mother who had been ridiculed. And yet, Aziraphale had bothered to get to know him.
"—magic tricks, the gavotte—"
"Aziraphale?"
"Hmm?"
"Do you feel sufficiently cheerful yet?"
"Oh, yes. Very much so, my dear."
Franz scrutinized Aziraphale with the face of someone who had spent the past five years listening to bad liars. "Then I'm wrong if I guess that something happened with Crowley."
Aziraphale had many talents, but keeping an closed, straight face was not one of them. He appeared to be on the edge of dithering.
"Let me guess: he had a bit too much wine, became a little too honest with you and now neither of you know what to do." That did it. Aziraphale, teetering on the edge, fell off the cliff and into full-on dithering mode.
"How—how?"
"Well, I am half-angelic. I had to inherit something."
"Angelic intelligence..."
"Or wisdom, at any rate, and they seem to be becoming ever more similar. True wisdom, that is, not this cockamamie false wisdom being tossed around in the name of art." Franz paused, glancing at the ceiling. "Sorry, Sir. Love your neighbor and all that—I'm working on it, I promise. Always working on it." He returned his attention back to Aziraphale. "Where exactly was I? Oh yes, Crowley. How did you react?"
"Wisdom... are you attempting to convey that you saw this coming?"
Franz looked him in the eyes. "You hadn't?" Aziraphale's face, ever honest, registered surprise. "Aziraphale, I know you've never thought much of it, but consider the situation for a moment. Why else would a demon choose to spend the majority of his time with a certified Principality?"
Dumbfounded, the angel replied, "We're the only two supernatural entities in Britain... we've known each other since the Beginning."
"Yes, but why? Why spend over six thousand years with one real friend—and even go so far as to save the world together?"
"Well..." It was a good question, one he had not thoroughly thought about before. Before, he'd just figured that they had known each other so long it didn't really matter. "I help him," the angel finished.
"You keep a continuing acquaintance to make him less hellish. Is that correct?"
"I suppose so, yes."
"Okay. Why then, knowing your motive—after all, he can't be stupid—would Crowley keep a continuing acquaintance with you? Theoretically, any demon would avoid an angel like the bubonic plague."
"Except for Crowley," Aziraphale said pensively.
"Exactly, dear."
The sun appeared in the windows of Crowley's flat and was not at all surprised to find him still on the sofa. His hair was mussed and he had morning breath, but all outward appearances aside he had not slept all night. His eyes were wide open, as they had been for hours; occult beings, apparently, did not need to blink. This, coupled with the hair and what were clearly the clothes from the night before, would have made one think he was some kind of heroin addict were it not for the healthful glow he projected. With the healthful glow, he simply appeared to be someone who, after a night of dinner and dancing, is surprised to discover that he is not in his own apartment (2).
"Ngk," muttered Crowley. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gone without sleep. True, he didn't technically need to sleep, but he'd gotten into the habit. He was, to put it bluntly, a sleep addict, suffering from self-imposed withdrawal. That was his punishment: to stay up all night and listen to James Brown on repeat, without even twitching a toe to the beat. Normally, he disagreed with punishment—why should people get in trouble for a little bit of fun?—but this time he knew he had been a royal idiot. This way, he would remember to never be that stupid again.
If only Aziraphale wasn't so frickin' serious. Obviously it had been a joke, but it was clear Aziraphale hadn't gotten the humor. And why was that, anyway? The angel couldn't have honestly believed he had been serious. Crowley could get anyone he wanted, regardless of gender. Why would he choose Aziraphale?
It was actually a very good question.
Crowley shook off his subconscious and, miracling himself the equivalent of an hour's grooming, headed off to return the CD. The sliding doors opened silently and he strode in, sunglasses perfectly placed on his nose. To say it was a far cry from what was on the couch earlier was an understatement.
Amanda, at register two today, brightened considerably. The several screaming children and their temperamental mother twenty minutes before had put her in a bit of a foul mood, but now the day was looking unexpectedly full of promise. He came back! The man was undoubtedly gorgeous—in fact, Amanda extrapolated, he must have been some dark, brooding, disillusioned heir to a rather tidy fortune. With those looks he wasn't suited for anything else—except for maybe a spy, and either way she was thrilled. In any case he was a man of mystery. One with exceptionally good cheekbones, no less.
Images of lighthouses at twilight flashed through her mind as Crowley strode toward the register. Hurriedly she plastered on her most seductive smile.
Crowley tried not to look at the girl. There was something about the wideness of her eyes and the force of her smile that was a little... off-putting, even for him. "Hi!" She sounded identical to the day before.
"I want to return this," the man stated, giving no indication they had met. He pulled the CD out of the bag and plunked it on the counter.
"Oh," said the girl, visibly disappointed. So he wasn't there for her, then. Like anyone ever was. He was just there to return some dumb CD, some dumb—
"James Brown?" she asked, puzzled. "This is the one you bought yesterday, isn't it? What's wrong with it?"
"I hate James Brown. That's what's wrong."
Boys were so dumb, honestly, the lot of them. Amanda, now feeling rejected on top of irritable, fixed on him a look of annoyed condescence. "Why d'you buy this then?"
"Hey, you work for me, remember? Just shut up and do your job."
She immediately glued a smile to her face and did so. "Piss off," she said sweetly. "And have a nice day!"
The irony of these two statements did not pass by Crowley unnoticed, and on any other day he would have grinned.
(1)This moment brought to you by years of practice in the mirror.
(2)Of course, this was Crowley's apartment, but passersby wouldn't know that so it is besides the point.