Cowritten by Arthur Albion
Crowley had woken up early in the afternoon and had to unstick himself from the wall where he had apparently decided to sleep when he went to bed a few days before. His back cracked when he was standing on the floor once more. It was best to sleep in the bed, but sometimes that simply was not an option for the paranoid serpent. Clicking his fingers, he glanced down as his outfit changed into something more appropriate for going out. Crowley made a face. It was time to update his wardrobe. And arrange a meeting for some very human assistance.
He was less than enthusiastic about the neon and psychedelic colours the humans favoured, and the shopkeep had seemed put out by his request for everything to be black. In the end, though, he left the shop in his usual black. More importantly, however, he also had a meeting for that evening with some humans to arrange a very particular theft.
Crowley didn't like dealing with extra liabilities, but there was no way around it this time. He had tried. He had examined the situation from every angle until he had been forced to concede he would need help. Human help, since angelic help had long been out of the question. That which was to be stolen could not be nicked by a demon, or he would have done it himself already. Real bugger of a problem since the whole point was to use the weapon on a demon if the situation arose. Which Crowley expected it eventually would do.
It had been an eventful evening with too many surprises after his careful planning. Sitting in his flat, he had been able to call off the robbery. What he had been planning to steal had instead been given to him by an angel. His angel. His angel had handed him a thermos of Holy Water. A tartan thermos at that. Crowley was positive it was the same tartan pattern as Aziraphale's bowtie. Admittedly, it looked better around Aziraphale's beautiful neck, but tartan was never stylish.
The tartan thermos sat in front of him on his otherwise empty office desk save the ansaphone. The demon was sat in his throne absently staring at the seemingly innocent thermos. As if it didn't contain ultimate destruction within itself. Cheeky little thermos. Just like Aziraphale, how fitting.
Crowley stayed like that for a few hours until sometime after midnight he came out of his thoughts. The thermos made him very uncomfortable. Contrary to what Aziraphale had jumped to assume a century ago, the reality of death had never crossed Crowley's mind. Not really. He had seen plenty of death over the many centuries, but it wasn't something an immortal creature worried about. Usually.
Glancing around the room, his eyes landed on the cartoon of the Mona Lisa. He had bought it from Leonardo centuries ago in Florence. It was better than the finished painting, in his opinion, and Leonardo had agreed. Best fifteen florins he had spent. Crowley clicked his fingers as he stood then crossed the room. The frame was now discreetly hinged on one side that swung forward to reveal a safe set into the wall behind it.
Crowley set the date as the lock combination before he glared at the thermos again, still sitting innocently on his desk. He had unthinkingly accepted the tumbler from Aziraphale with bare hands, but the thought of touching it again unnerved him now. Another click of his fingers summoned a pair of very long, rubber gloves. The demon slipped them on up to his shoulders before he, extremely carefully and excessively slowly, moved the Holy Water into the chamber of the safe.
It was good Crowley did not require air as he had forgotten to breathe. Removing the gloves, he considered them for a moment before tossing them inside as well to sit next to the thermos. He would need them next time he had to open this door after all. Whenever that day came. Looking over the sparse contents of the safe, he clicked his fingers again and added a full-length rubber apron as well as some tongs. Closing the thick door, he spun the dial then swung the sketch back into place to sit flush with the wall as if nothing was there.
A shiver slid involuntarily down his spine before Crowley dropped into his ornate chair. His thoughts immediately drifted back to Aziraphale and their encounter earlier that evening. It was good they had been on speaking terms again after nearly eighty years of silence. Not that they had been in contact much since 1941. Not like the centuries before. Crowley had missed sitting in the bookshop or across a table with the angel as they talked and laughed and debated over drinks and meals. The occasional moments when he hadn't been asleep had been plagued with worry for Aziraphale as well as annoyance with the angel after their fight. Most of all though, Crowley had simply missed Aziraphale. Missed his company and conversation and the comfort that was just him. Not that he could admit this to anyone. Certainly not to Aziraphale.
Thoughts replayed those brief words in the car for what was probably at least the hundredth time that night. His momentary surprise and delight to see the angel had been banished by the mention of their previous disagreement over Holy Water. It wasn't a moment Crowley liked to think about, the moment that had driven a wedge between them greater than even their opposing sides had ever managed. Their hereditary differences. His annoyance had been obvious the instant it was mentioned. Debating with the angel was fun, but arguing was a different matter entirely. Crowley did not want or need a lecture about the dangers of Holy Water. He, like any demon, knew exactly how dangerous that stuff was. Probably more so than any angel.
Crowley should have known better. Aziraphale had been surprising him since they met on the wall of Eden and that hadn't changed in nearly six millennia. Annoyance had been replaced with disbelief and a slight hope as he accepted the thermos. Aziraphale finally got it. Finally understood just how dangerous things were becoming. How dangerous things had always been since they began working under the Arrangement nine centuries ago. How he, Crowley, wanted to protect himself from Hell so they could keep meeting for drinks and dinner.
No.
Aziraphale still seemed to be under the impression that Crowley intended to use the Holy Water for his own ultimate self-destruction. How the angel could be so clever and so dense in the same moment was baffling.
It was infuriating and almost insulting how little the angel seemed to trust Crowley in this.
Yet, Crowley still appreciated the gesture. Anger ebbed away as he tried to understand Aziraphale's side of things. Aziraphale, worried over the death of a demon, worried about getting into trouble with Heaven, worried about being left alone on this miserably amazing planet they had come to call home, had still given Crowley this weapon. Freely given. Unconditionally given.
Crowley knew how hard this must have been for Aziraphale. To defy Heaven. It wasn't insulting, it was endearing.
They had been on speaking terms again, for a couple of decades now, but the easiness they used to enjoy was still missing. It was almost like being catapulted back over a millennia ago, back before the Arrangement, back when they had always been very cordial yet also very cautious with each other. Crowley hated it. Centuries of progress destroyed with one request. His fault. Evil seeds of self-destruction and all that.
Aziraphale, the Enemy, was the only face he saw regularly over the millennia since Time was invented. They were something more like friends. At least, Crowley preferred to think they were. He knew better than to delude himself entirely; trusting a demon was liable to get you killed.
Crowley could see how upset handing over Holy Water had made the angel, and he had wanted to reassure Aziraphale the weapon was not for his own use. He could and would make Aziraphale understand. The thought of leaving his angel forever had never even been on the table. Not to mention, Crowley wanted to spend time with Aziraphale. He had suggested they go somewhere, probably back to the bookshop.
Aziraphale shot him down.
Twice.
Well, not truly.
Crowley understood his angel. He understood their conversation had been Aziraphale's reply. The angel's own returned confession after his open declaration in 1941. He had been reckless then. Waltzing right into a church. Or hopping rather. Too excited to see Aziraphale and too worried about the angel's safety to even care about the damage he was causing himself. Not just a wound of his corporation, Holy wounds went deeper to his core. Crowley had forgotten himself and drastically overstepped the boundaries. Aziraphale's boundaries. He had forgotten to play his role. The dashing hero rather than the painfully honest, secretly pining, best friend. Not so secretly anymore.
Aziraphale hadn't told him 'no', but the 'not yet' had still stung.
Crowley had been waiting for millennia, but he would wait however long it took. Waiting for Aziraphale would be worth it. Still, this did not stop his anger with himself. It was easier to be angry with himself than to be disappointed. He had been so careful, for so many years. Worried constantly about the angel's safety, and his own safety. Worried he would scare off the only being that made living fun. He knew the angel was powerful and could smite him at any moment, but he liked to think they were beyond all that nasty business.
They might be past the smiting, but they were a long way off from unconditional companionship and trust. Trust that didn't require coded communication and more layers than a bloody onion with thin lies and even thinner truths laced throughout. If that could really be called trust.
Growling at nothing and everything, Crowley left his office around four that morning. He didn't want to think anymore. He was tired and ready to sleep for the rest of the week.
He did exactly that, though the rest of the week ended up being most of the next month. When he did wake up again, his mind almost immediately returned to Aziraphale with the same longing.
He had it bad. Had for well over two millennia, at least. Probably longer.
Not that he realised it, but Crowley then spent another month or so just curled up in bed, thinking. Thinking about Aziraphale and that conversation in the Bentley. He looked at it again and again from every angle he could, but the results were always the same. Madness, some might call it. Romantic sops would call it love. Crowley just called it Thursday. But a very long Thursday. He could never get the hang of Thursdays.
Coming back to himself after a while, he decided he was being stupid. They were on speaking terms. Aziraphale hadn't outright rejected him. Just asked him to wait. He could wait. He was used to waiting, but that didn't mean they couldn't have lunch. What time was it? Whatever, it was lunchtime somewhere.
Crowley pulled himself out of bed and shuffled across the flat to his office. Picking up the phone, he rang the bookshop.
The number you have dialled is not in service. Please hang up and try your call again.
Crowley frowned at the phone as he returned it to the cradle. Aziraphale ran a business, sort of, and he wasn't the type to not have a proper telephone. Yellow eyes flicked to the ansaphone which was not blinking with any missed messages. Worry flooded his entire being. With a click of his fingers, he changed clothes as he was already crossing the flat to leave.
If Heaven had found out about the Holy Water and punished Aziraphale he, well, he didn't know what he would do. But he would take down a few Archangels with him.
The Bentley raced down Oxford Street. It knew the way and was careful not to hit anything or anyone.
Crowley parked across the street rather than in his usual parking spot. Turning off the car, he glared across the street. Luckily, it was daytime. He had given no thought to if the shop would be open or not. It never crossed his mind. The shop was always open to him, day or night.
The shop looked all right, from the outside. Trying to calm down, Crowley focused as he pushed his senses out. He deflated in relief when he felt Aziraphale inside the bookshop. The only angelic presence in the shop. The only supernatural entity present in the shop.
Flopping back into the seat, Crowley stayed in the car and just watched the shop for a while. Must not be open, or no one wanted to attempt to buy a book. Not even humans seemed to be inside, and no one was entering either. This wasn't too strange. Sometimes, Aziraphale just couldn't be bothered to pretend to be a shop owner.
It wasn't until night began to fall that the demon managed to convince himself nothing was wrong, and nothing bad had happened. Pointing at the ignition, he took himself and the Bentley back to Mayfair.
If asked, Crowley would not have been able to explain why he had not simply gone into the bookshop when he was sitting across the street. So close, yet still so far away. So much distance between himself and his angel. His subconscious knew better, reminding his paranoia that it would be too fast. The demon should wait for Aziraphale to make the next move.