Not Quite Satisfactory

"I feel," Aziraphale, "that despite my best influences, Warlock is growing up to be a tad disrespectful."

Crowley grinned at him, slouching against the pub wall where he was pretending to take a smoking break. He had carefully chosen a position just inside the No Smoking boundary, although the smoke curling between his lips had nothing to do with the (unlit) cigarette between his hands. The smoke had a more sulphurous scent to it.

Aziraphale, with a disapproving glare, had set himself up just outside the line, and was reluctantly pretending to smoke himself. He hadn't been able to argue that this was not a convenient setup for an accidental chat. Smokers crowded in sad huddled groups outside this even in horrible weather like this. Crowley guessed Aziraphale was still worried that they were tempting people into smoking. Which was precisely why he had chosen it as a rendevous, not so much for the temptation as to be annoying. Annoying Aziraphale had become a habit.

"Disrepectful, rebellious–that's my influence," Crowley said, proudly. "Or that he takes after his Dad. Rebelling is what fallen angels do. Only to be expected."

"Well, yes," Aziraphale said, unhappily. He blew out a puff of smoke that smelled of incense and roses, and it formed, just for a moment, a heart. Crowley sent a more serpentine swirl out to coil around it before both vanished. "I suppose you of all people would know that. But my influence should be cancelling that out a little."

"Don't worry about it," Crowley said, although he was worried himself. Warlock, currently seven years old, had been taken on a holiday to Washington, and had whinged quite a lot rather than doing anything about it. What age was he supposed to show his powers? "Look, kidhasn't killed anyone yet. We're doing fine. He's rather..." His face scrunched up with embarrassment at the word. "Sweet. In a sulky way."

"I think he's a little obnoxious," Aziraphale confided.

"Well, you like obnoxiousness in people, don't you? Or is it just me?" He leered despite himself. Aziraphale spluttered, a delicate flush rising up from his neck, and Crowley laughed, suddenly feeling quite happy for no clear reason. "Come inside in the warm and have a drink."

"I'm not sure we should be spending time together so openly. What if we're recognised?"

Crowley shrugged. He was pretty sure he, at least, wasn't recognisable as Nanny, at least not in these trousers. "All right, then, suit yourself." He leaned back on the cold stone wall and glared at the black frost on the road. There was a roaring fire inside, he knew. He still made no attempt to leave the angel. "I hate the cold," he muttered.

"Of course you do, you old snake," Aziraphale said, genially. "Here." He pulled off a pristine glove, and curled his fingers loosely around Crowley's wrist.

The feeling was extraordinary. It prickled, like consecrated ground, and then the pain eased and warmth flooded up his arm, suffused him, surrounded him in a rosy glow. As the pins and needles faded, he noticed vaguely how very soft Aziraphale's skin was.

When Aziraphale withdrew his hand, Crowley felt bereft, and slightly dizzy, but still warm. His breath–he decided that, actually, it might be for the best to consider breathing optional for a while, to minimise how much of a fool he felt. "Thankssss." His voice hissed more than he meant it to. Something about feeling like he had more joints in his knees than usual for his humanoid form. Angelic influence smashing against demonic, he supposed. "Are you sure that was wise? You're already getting censured for over-miracling without being a hot water borrle for a demon."

"Oh, dear, I really didn't think that through, did I?" Aziraphale looked distressed.

"The thought was apprecsssiated." Maybe he would hiss less if he breathed more, after all. Why was this suddenly so complicated?

"Are you quite all right?"

"Fine." Crowley crushed his unsmoked cigarette and threw in on the ground. Aziraphale gave him a reproachful look and picked it up. One point to each side. As usual.

"We should probably go our separate ways, though. It wouldn't do to bring suspicion onto ourselves."

"It's fine. Look, we're in a back alley next to a pub. If anyone spots us, just drop to your knees and they'll be too embarrassed to look closely," Crowley said, in pure revenge for how unsettled he was feeling.

Aziraphale's back straightened even further, and his eyelashes fluttered. "I have no idea what you are implying."

"Lying is a sin, angel." The grin crept across his face.

"You'd know more about that than me."

"Lying? Or the other?" The grin increased.

"Both," Aziraphale said firmly. "They're more in your line."

Crowley thought for a moment that he should point out that he knew less than Aziraphale might think about the... other. Not nothing, but it was more effective to tempt humans into doing things to and with each other–the fact that any sin was with a wily demon might tend to weigh the balance in favour of their innocence. And on a personal level, humans died too fast to get too attached to, Crowley had no idea if he could get them pregnant, and wasn't keen on finding out. Besides, there was too much chance of them noticing too much about his tongue, or trying to get him to take off his shoes and dark glasses in bed. That could lead to all kinds of unwanted complications.

He looked at Aziraphale's pursed lips and the rapid rise and fall of his chest, and decided against saying anything. Crowley was confused, oddly hopeful and depressed, which was an uncomfortable combination even without the weird angelic heat making him feel lightheaded.

Funny. He'd always remembered Heaven as a cold place.

"Just joking," he said, letting the grin slip off his face. "Please come into the warm and have a drink. The tea and coffee here tastes like slime from Pandemonium, but they sell pretty good home made cakes, or so I've been told."

This time, the angel acceded, the set of his back prim and offended. It might take a bit of cajoling to get him to soften up again. As they went through the door, Crowley placed a hand on the back of Aziraphale's jacket, to guide him through the door, and not at all to feel another prickle of heat.

He was a serpent, okay. He was allowed to seek warmth.

The coffee was, in fact, very bad indeed. Crowley thought about exchanging it for gin, then decided to keep his head clear. At least it was warm in his mouth. Aziraphale looked disapprovingly at the sad greyish tea bag in his teapot, and out of pure shame it turned itself gently uncurling Darjeeling leaves.

"Haven't you been having fun, anyway?" Crowley asked, abruptly. "Digging around in the dirt, playing godfather."

Azirphale brightened a little. "I do like plants. You're right, it helps to talk to them."

"You're too soft on them," Crowley grumbled. "No discipline." He had to admit the garden just bloomed and bloomed around Arizaphale, and the strawberries grown there in were almost sinfully sweet, with just the right hint of bracing tartness. Also, they were still fruiting now, in the freezing cold of late spring.

"It's nice being godfathers, too," Aziraphale said, ignoring him. "Even if–well. I do find the child a little difficult to like. I suppose that makes sense. Even if I love everyone, naturally, it's not unusual to find the Antichrist a little, well, challenging."

Crowley arched an eyebrow above his glasses. It was the first time Aziraphale had admitted to less than an affection for Warlock. It felt a bit wrong, that Crowley had more fondness for the kid than Aziraphale did. Or was it? After all, Warlock was his own Master's son. Still, Crowley suspected he was going soft. Something about the way the boy's eyelashes fell on his cheeks when he snuggled off to sleep. He didn't want to think about it, especially if Warlock would have to be killed someday.

"You can't possibly love everyone," he said, instead.

Aziraphale templed his fingertips. "I can, and I do," he said smugly.

"You do not," Crowley said disbelievingly.

"I assure you, it's part of my job."

"So you love Warlock, even if he's obnoxious?"

"Yes. He is just an innocent child. Well, partly a child."

"You love Gabriel?"

"Of course! He means the best. He's only–a little conscientious."

"You loved Caligula?"

"He just tragically lost his way. Thanks to the evil temptations of you and your ilk."

"Hey, don't give me too much credit. Humans are good at coming up with this stuff themselves. Okay, then." Crowley was oddly unwilling to admit defeat. "You love that... man over there vomiting in the corner and screaming that all women are cunts?"

Aziraphale's fastidious brow crinkled, but he didn't falter. "I do. He's the Almighty's creation. I just don't love his behaviour."

Crowley leaned back in his seat. "You're lying, you know."

"I am not." Aziraphale took a sip of tea. "Oh, that's so much better."

Crowley suddenly felt he would do anything to disturb Aziraphale's complacency. "You love people who break the spine of books to make them easier to open? And then fold the corners of the pages down to keep their place?"

The angel didn't even falter, clearly thinking he was on a roll. "I do."

In for a penny... Crowley turned his head and stared hard at the vomiting man.

"You love me?" he asked casually.

The tea cup was set down, with far more of a clatter than Aziraphale usually made. Crowley risked a glance. Aziraphale's face was–Crowley couldn't read it. Definitely not his usual expression. It was as if a storm had brewed up over the usual sunshine of his countenance.

"I g-guess that was too much." Why was Crowley stammering? "Forget I asked."

"I don't know how you could possibly ask that in the first place," Aziraphale said, very quietly.

Crowley wished a pit would open up beneath him. Even Dagon would be less painful company right now. He got up, moving less gracefully than usual. "Right. Well, you know. Awkward questions are my job. See you back in the garden, angel."

He had no idea what to think, and his cheeks were flaming so hard that he barely felt the cold of the wind.

Notes:

1) Me: I'm going to write hot Aziraphale/Crowley. They should be making out by chapter two.

2) Four chapters in, and we have a wrist touch.

3) They'll get there.