A nice tea party

Four years ago

Crowley avoided Aziraphale for a while by the simple expedient of staying indoors and going nowhere near the saved gardener. It was a pain tottering around the garden in snakeskin stilettos anyway.

The problem was that staying in character as Nanny Astolat all the time was tiring. Crowley had never really prided himself on his work ethic. The role of disciplinarian nanny had certain possibilities, but he couldn't even tempt his employers too much without risking losing his job. He wasn't keen on having to explain to Hell why he was no longer Influencing Warlock for the bad. Worst of all, no matter how many unsavoury implications he made or how many sinister giggles passed his lips, the household insisted on treating him as if he was just a nice lady.

Sometimes he needed to be with someone who recognised a serpent when he met one.

Champion sulker that Crowley was, he was beginning to realise he needed to concede for his own good, or at least comfort. So, his tender feelings had been bruised. He wasn't technically supposed to have tender feelings, anyway. And over the millennia, surely he should have realised that baiting an angel could be dangerous. Aziraphale could be ridiculously kind and ludicrously fussy, but he wasn't harmless.

Besides, ever since that conversation with Aziraphale, Warlock had been concerning Crowley.

"You have Starscream, sweetheart, and I'll have Optimus Prime. Now, Optimus has established what he thinks is a utopia for all machinekind, but it doesn't have true free will, because everyone is forced to be good. What do you want to do about it?"

"I don't want to be Starscream, Nanny. I don't like his dumb voice. Hey, what does this one turn into?"

"A gun, darling."

"No, that's Megatron."

"Is it? Shall we play with Megatron, then?" Crowley asked hopefully. "Look, here's some sweet little teddies. Oh, no, they're not keeping their tea party very tidy, are they? I think Megatron should shoot them all and start over with new teddies, don't you?"

"A police car! Cool! Vroom, vroom..."

Yes, Crowley was beginning to worry. And there was only one being he was accustomed to worrying at.

He made a point of digging his stiletto heels into the velvety emerald lawn all the way down to the gardener's hut.

"I do have some things to do on my afternoon off, dear b--lady," Aziraphale said. "Reports to write." It was clearly only a token protest. He had positively beamed when Crowley suggested afternoon tea. He had almost, well, almost looked relieved for a moment, and then rays of sunshine had exploded out of his expression. It was almost too much for a demon to look at, even with the terrible disguise.

"Come, Francis," Crowley said. "What's the fun of working here without a little fraternising between the staff?" He stressed it maliciously, and the sunlight in the angel's expression faded a little. To his own annoyance, Crowley felt regret, as well as a little vindictive pleasure.

"I am a man of the cloth, you know, temptress."

"You're no more a man than I am. Come have lunch, idiot."

They climbed to the empty top of a bus together. They glances around for witnesses and then, with sighs of relief, settled back into what were, if not their true forms, at least ones they had been accustomed to wearing for thousands of years.

"That's better." Crowley stretched his shoulders. "Bless, women's clothes this century are uncomfortable." He wriggled his feet, the heels withdrawing back into them.

"They don't have to be. You're the one who chose the tight skirts and stockings."

"I have a certain image to keep up."

"Vanity is a deception. True beauty shines from goodness within."

"I'm a demon, Aziraphale."

"I apologise. Inconsiderate of me."

"It doesn't matter. I like this form of yours better than the monk, anyway." Crowley risked a sideways glance at him, as plump and golden as an angel by Verrochio. He wasn't entirely convinced vanity had no part in Aziraphale's choice of earthly habitation. He felt scrawny and insignificant beside his companion, although he was rather fancying himself in a man bun these days.

"I must admit I am more used to you in this form, too."

Crowley looked quickly away, trying not to react to the warmth in Aziraphale's voice. It wasn't fair of Aziraphale to speak and look so fondly, not after their last disastrous encounter.

They disembarked near a hotel which offered the better sort of high tea, although Aziraphale always argued that high tea should not involve dainty treats but plain solid food, the main meal of the day for working men. He always ate the delicacies with relish, anyway. Crowley was aware of, and filed away in the part of his brain for things he didn't want to think about much, that he spent quite a lot of time thinking of things the angel would relish. It was for easing the Arrangement, not because he liked watching Aziraphale enjoy things and ran the memories over in his brain again late at night.

He didn't raise any awkward subjects until the sandwiches had been followed by scones, and Aziraphale, eyes gleaming, was helping himself to the cakes on the top tier.

"I don't have any beauty at all?"

Aziraphale's raised eyebrows said all too clearly, Really, Crowley? and the demon bit into a slice of devil's food cake.

"Forget I asked," he said around the crumbs. "So, do you have any plans for when the shit hits the fan?"

"I don't see why it should. It's an excellent plan."

"Yeah, I know. It was mine. Warlock wouldn't kill his teddy bears with his Transformers."

"I should hope not! We had a little talk about the endangered animals of the world only yesterday."

"I hope that's it," Crowley said, glumly.

He looked across the room. There were a couple of middle-aged women sitting at an outdoor table, despite the cold. They were frumpily dressed, wrapped in scarves, and laughing as if they were the happiest humans in the world. The one with short hair had tinted pink glasses on, and as Crowley watched, the fatter woman reached across and pulled the glasses off, to kiss her companion lightly on the lips. She replaced the glasses, the ring on her finger catching the sunlight for a moment, and Crowley found the exact subject he had been determined not to broach coming out of his mouth.

"About what I said last time--"

"Crowley." Aziraphale templed his fingers and sighed. "I'm a creature of love. It's my job description. But you--you're in a special position. You're my Adversary."

"Sure. A creature of love," Crowley mumbled, staring at the couple. Stupid humans. They only lived a century at best, but look at them, as if they had all the time in the world. It made him want to slither across and bite them.

"You were too, once."

"I hardly remember it."

"Y-you could be again?"

Crowley looked back. Aziraphale was sitting very straight, hands folded primly, shoulders back, and a strangely frightened expression on his face, as if he was doing something he had been rehearsing for days--no, years--maybe centuries, and was terrified but determined.

"Now, angel? After all this time?" Crowley felt rage building in his heart. "You're trying to save me now?"

"I know, I just know, that deep down there is still some goodness in you." Aziraphale's voice came out in a rush. "I could help you. Forgiveness is for everyone."

"Not without repentance," Crowley said harshly.

"You're not at all sorry? Not after all this time?"

"Not enough, and I won't ever be. And you know She could tell if I was sincere." Crowley pushed his plate back. "Can we not fucking talk about this?"

"I'm sorry." Aziraphale looked completely downcast. There were--yes, surely there were tears on those golden lashes. For a moment, just a moment, Crowley asked himself whether he could. To stop Aziraphale from looking so blessedly heartbroken. So he could stop being the Adversary, and be Aziraphale's brother in wings.

Brother? Was that really what he wanted? He glanced across to the couple outside, but they had left, and his heart writhed and hurt in his chest.

"Look, angel," he said, more gently. "A harp and a trumpet never suited me. And besides, you don't want that."

"When have you ever known or cared what I wanted?" It was strange, hearing such bitterness from Aziraphale. Crowley shook his head to clear it.

"Say I was hit by a bout of repentence, and was taken back. Well, I wouldn't be needed on Earth. That's a Principality's duty. I'd be back in the ranks of the bloody boring Seraphim,flying around singing glory, glory, glory all day, and you'd be down here. Alone. Or with whoever was sent to replace me. Can you imagine trying to get drunk with Mestama?"

Aziraphale shuddered.

"Right. So, angel, don't mess with what works. Keep your eye on the Antichrist, keep this world alive, and neither of us have to worry about Heaven or Dys."

There was an unhappy silence. Crowley ached and felt hot, on every level, as if he had just run a marathon and stupidly hadn't stripped naked first. Sweat trickled down his neck.

Aziraphale's smooth hand was curled on the table, the perfectly filed nails hidden, as if they were clenched into his palm. Crowley hesitated a moment.

This was more terrifying than Falling. This was worse than facing a witch burning with a priest holding holy water, and even then, he had kind of known Aziraphale would turn up to help him. This was the most terrifying thing he'd ever done in his life.

He gently laid his hand beside Aziraphale's. He had intended to cover Aziraphale's hand with his own, to communicate all the things he was incapable of saying, but his courage failed him at the last moment. Instead just put his hand on the tablecloth next to the angel's hand, close enough that their skin brushed together.

It hurt, again. The holiness burning him even with that little contact. A clean pain, though, almost a pleasurable one, and then his senses adjusted and he could feel their skin, that tiny amount of contact, an angel and a demon touching each other and neither combusting--well, at least in any outward way.

Aziraphale turned his hand over, and his fingers very gently curled over and between Crowley's, just the first joints. His fingertips were slightly greasy with butter.

Okay, maybe Crowley really was going to combust.

He sat frozen, terrified of disturbing Aziraphale and making him withdraw his hand, terrified of saying something and making this stop happening, terrified of--

He was a demon. A fucking demon. And maybe fucking was the word, because he was incapable of sitting there almost holding hands and not having all kinds of impure desires welling up inside of him, desires that would send the angel running in a second if he knew all the suddenly explicit thoughts in his head.

He pulled his hand away and said "Right, we should be heading back to servitude," as if nothing unusual had happened.

"Right," said Aziraphale, and Crowley didn't dare look to see what his expression was like.

00000000

The bus pulled over in front of the block of flats where Crowley lived. There was no stop there, and in fact a few minutes ago there had been no space at the side of the road for a bus, but it pulled over anyway, to the confusion of the driver.

Aziraphale removed his hand from Crowley's thigh and said brightly, "Is this your place? Right, then."

"Right," said Crowley, and they disembarked, as if nothing unusual had happened.

Notes:

1) I remember reading Good Omens and thinking that the Transformers references were already dated, like something from my childhood. Now it's 2019, and I have a son about Warlock's age in this scene who plays complicated private games with Transformers. Some things are apparently eternal.

2) I am specifically thinking of "Tobias and the Angel" by Verocchio, included as a header to this chapter, with its satisfyingly solid angel thighs and soft face. Maybe Aziraphale modeled for it.

3) Most of this fanfic is written in a beautiful minimalist app called Calmly Writer, but for this chapter I switched to Typora, which is also beautiful and minimalist. Not sure why I am sharing this except that I am obsessed with writing software--my all time favourites are Ulysses and Bibisco, but I am always experimenting. A writing angel loses his wings every time you use Word or Pages, just saying.