Old-Fashioned Loverboy: Hum Drum

Lockdown: Day 3,168

That's what it felt like, anyway.

Alright, it wasn't that bad.

Mostly, he missed tearing down the London streets in his Bentley—how was his beauty holding up, he often wondered, parked faithfully at his flat, waiting for him to return? The rest of it, life outside the bookshop . . . well, come to find out, he could take it or leave it. He'd happily spend eternity like this—so long as Aziraphale was with him.

Obviously.

Two full months it had been so far.

Some days were more exiting than others, but the majority—his favorites—consisted of Crowley fondly watching as his darling angel bustled about from one mundane household chore to the next.

Today's task: take a feather duster to every bookcase.

The fact that the angel owned a great number of them did not discourage him in the slightest. It, did, however, provide ample distraction.

"How did you get over here?" Aziraphale asked a worn volume he had pulled from its fellows. He inspected the spine, brow furrowed. "Oh," he groaned. "This is exactly why I can't abide customers. Alphabetically arranged, but entirely wrong section. Humans have no head for cross-referencing . . ."

Crowley smirked as Aziraphale scurried across the shop, grumbling all the while.

"Oh! But this will free up space for my latest auction acquisitions! Theoretically, anyway . . . unless I have to sort everything from scratch . . ."

"If you're out of room, maybe that's a sign you have too many books, angel," Crowley suggested, treading lightly. He wanted to see how far he could take this.

"Nonsense, Crowley! One can never . . . have . . ." Aziraphale paused to shift a listing pile of tomes more securely into his arms. ". . . too many books," he grunted through a satisfied grin.

Crowley bit down on a smile.

"What's the largest number of editions that you have for a single book?"

Aziraphale blanched—an accomplishment, for one so fair.

"I-I'd rather not say."

Crowley's gut split with repressed laughter.

"There's a word for that."

"Of course there is. I'm a collector, Crowley."

"I was gonna say 'hoarder,' but whatever ya like . . ."

Aziraphale puffed out his chest, decidedly cross. Crowley turned to hide the wide grin playing across his lips. He loved ruffling the angel's wings—he was far too adorable when rattled.

"There's something for everyone, Crowley. You have your plants, I have my books."

"And your records." Crowley rolled his shoulders. "Ahh . . . and your snuffboxes . . . all those antiques . . . your cadre of restauranteurs . . ."

Aziraphale bristled. Indignant, he swiveled on his heel, still cradling the stack of books.

"Don't you listen to the nasty demon," he cooed to an aged leather cover, before tucking it safely back into its proper place upon the shelf.

Crowley snorted, spritzing another fine layer of water droplets onto the spread of leaves before him.

He'd had a bit of a panicked breakdown a few days after he'd slithered over to the bookshop to spend the remainder of lockdown with Aziraphale, having had completely forgotten to form any sort of contingency plan for the health and wellbeing of his plants in his absence. The angel had woken in the middle of the night to find Crowley snapping his fingers like, well, like a man possessed, miracling each houseplant into the bedroom, in rapid succession. They had all lived downstairs in the shop ever since.

"And if you fail for a millisecond to brighten up this dusty, old hovel, you'll soon find I won't be so merciful!" he softly snarled.

"Is there a draft in here?" Aziraphale inquired, in response to the faint rustling of leaves. He didn't dwell on Crowley's lack of reply. "Well, I think . . ." He wriggled the last book into place. "That'll do it! Yes, jolly good!" Aziraphale clapped his hands, looking pleased with his job well done. "On to the dishes, then!"

"Oh, s'no need," Crowley drawled, setting the mister back in its rightful place. "Taken care of."

"Taken care of? How? Did you already do them?"

Something warm stirred within him at the sheer wattage of Aziraphale's smile.

"Couldn't stand to watch you scrub them by hand one more time."

The angel's face fell.

"Oh, Crowley."

"Wot?" A frown creased the demon's brow. "What's happened? Go back to the happy."

"Really. Another miracle."

Crowley threw out his arms. "Beats the Heaven out of what you do, standing there, getting your sleeves soaked and your fingers all prune-ish. You're an angel, Aziraphale, you might as well take advantage of it!"

"But I enjoy it," Aziraphale countered. "And, quite frankly, I was looking forward to having something else to keep me occupied."

Crowley recoiled. Oh, he didn't like that. His head tilted to better catch the angel's inflection.

"You're really upset," he mumbled. "And it's not cuz I miracled some residue off your china, is it?"

Aziraphale avoided his eye, abashed at having been found out. Crowley's heart lurched. He was personally going to slug the blessed daylight out of whatever had brought that wretched look to his angel's face. His muscles contracted, ready to spring.

"So silly, really. That I'm keeping myself busy just to make all this easier."

"All this?"

Aziraphale swept a hand round the bookshop, toward the front doors and the world that lay beyond.

"But I thought you were doing just fine? You sounded so delighted on the phone, it nearly made me sick. All your reading, and baking, and scolding the delinquent neighbors—was all that, what, just a . . . a front?"

"No, oh goodness, no!" Aziraphale rushed to clarify. "I never lied to you. You're absolutely right. I have thrived during this pandemic. But, every so often, something creeps up on me, Crowley. I get this . . . yawning pit of utter despair inside me, and I start to wonder—is this ever going to get better? Are we coming to a new kind of end? And I worry, about all of those poor, underserving humans out there whom this is affecting, hurting . . . and I . . ."

Crowley pounced. Within a second, the angel was bundled in his arms, crushed against his body.

He planted a series of kisses upon Aziraphale's hair, soothing and hushing while the angel held him tight.

"Having you here has made all the difference, Crowley darling," Aziraphale whispered into his shoulder. "I-I-I'm not at all sure what I would do without you here. Thank you, thank you for not heeding me."

"Careful, angel—you might come to rue those words," Crowley purred, heartened to hear Aziraphale's weak chuckle. "And are ya sure that whole 'yawning pit' business isn't just that insatiable appetite of yours?"

Crowley laughed, feigning shock as the angel lightly slapped his chest.

"Did you see that?" he called to the room at large. "I've been struck! By an angel, no less! On my life! Never thought I'd live to see the day!"

Aziraphale wiped aside a few tears of mirth.

"You are ridiculous."

"I resemble that remark. And I think you'll also find, my dear Aziraphale, that I am a terrible slob, as evidenced by the mountain of dishes moldering in the sink."

He clicked his fingers—Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder, before turning a shrewd grin on Crowley.

"You didn't need to do that."

"I did." Crowley brought his mouth to Aziraphale's lips.

Anything to see that smile again.