A/N: This was waaaay overdue. Lol.
Crowley looked into his hall mirror and straightened his tie, which for some unfathomable reason refused to lie straight. His mobile buzzed in his pocket. "Yes, yes, on my way now. Yes, I'm getting in my car as I speak... No, I'm not lying through my teeth. Yes alright." He slipped his car keys into his pocket and strode out the door.
...
"Are you ready to order, sirs?"
"Yes, I''d like to have the goose liver pate with a g-"
"Crawly?"
Crowley turned to look at the sun-glassed newcomer, chills running down his scales with faint recognition. His expression soured immediately.
"It's Crowley , actually," he said stiffly. "Richard, wasn't it? Unless you've decided to change in the last millennia or so."
"I decided Richard was too old. Going with Reinard for now. Ha! Ha! "
And that irritating, booming laugh.
"Still the same old Creepy Crawly," he smirked, slapping his fellow demon on the back. He glared at the waiter who scuttled away accordingly.
"Ahem."
Crowley lifted his face out of his hand and looked across the table at his dinner date.
"Well, aren't you going to introduce us, my dear?"
Reinard quirked an elegant eyebrow (something Crowley never managed to do as well) and smirked pushing Crowley out of the way where he couldn't interfere. "I do believe we've never had the pleasure of meeting," he purred. "Reinard Lionheart, at your service."
Aziraphale blushed from the man-like-creature's sudden proximity. "Oh," he said.
Bastard.
Crowley stood up. "That's it. We're leaving."
Frog-marching a very confused Aziraphale out of the restaurant and muttering a quick apologies to the waiters Crowley bundled Aziraphale into the bentley and drove off, swearing under his breath. Stupid Prick. Turning up out of nowhere and ruing a perfectly good lunch. Why if I- mumble mumble mumble...
"You're grinding your teeth, dear," said Aziraphale quietly, staring out of the window.
"Sorry."
"Old acquaintance?"
"Yeah." Crowley declined to say anything. Aziraphale waited. Crowley declined the invitation.
But he was never good with children and seeing as this silence was getting more pregnant by the minute- "Hewassmybrzs," he mumbled.
"Hmm?"
"He. Was. My. Brother." He repeated through gritted teeth.
"Oh."
Crowley had an older brother. It was not a very widely known fact and he'd rather keep it that way. You see, Crowley was not overly fond of his brother. Or moderately fond, or even vaguely fond for that matter. In fact it would probably be more accurate to say that he could hardly stomach the sight of him. And that was on a good day.
It was a classic, chronic, cliched case of over-achieving-older-brother-induced-jealousy syndrome; if Crowley tempted a priest (one had to start with the basics after all) then Reinard got the old codger to turn it into a brothel. If Crowley went and devised the Spanish Armada (or took credit for it- which was more devious) then Reinard had to go off and start the crusades.* It was sickening.
Still, he had made the effort of showing his mug this century. Crowley smiled like a snake and pushed down on the accelerator. The bugger did like perfumes; perhaps he'd send him a bottle of Parfum d'L'eau Sainte** for his next birthday.
*This is actually a fact; Richard the Lionheart did carry out the crusades.
**Translated into English: Perfume of Holy Water. Yes, Crowley hated him that much.