Show a laughing face

English skies were unpleasantly dull and grey after the South of France, the air damp, but a certain Soho bookshop was always in a perfect summer microclimate. the atmosphere the exact crisp dryness to preserve his precious books and scrolls without the risk of mould. Crowley lolled in Aziraphale's favourite armchair in blissful ease, basking in the temperature.

"Sssso warm," he sighed. Aziraphale handed him some hot spiced mead. "So good. What did you think of the show?"

"A little gauche musically, but well-meaning. The moral basis was quite good. A girl's worth depends not in her class and station, but on her—on her--"

"Legs," Crowley said. He sipped the drink, and sighed again with pleasure at the rich warmth.

"Yes. I mean, no. Not in the sense you mean. On her hard work and virtuous qualities."

"Which she proves by marrying into cold, hard cash, and don't tell me she would have managed that with perfect virtue and without a pretty face and good legs. He wouldn't have noticed her in the cabaret in the first place. Or that she'd find the young man as charming without the mansion. Excellent lesson for the humans, almost as excellent as this mead." He took a long sip. "I can always count on you to have the good stuff, you dissolute old sensualist. How old exactly is this? Left behind in Viking raids?"

Aziraphale pouted sternly at him, but didn't argue. He was feeling as content as a cat by the fire. He had enjoyed the show, enjoyed an excellent supper, and now Crowley was sprawled out in the back room as if he belonged there. For the first time in sixty centuries, Aziraphale was feeling conscious of a perplexingly human sense of domesticity. He always had the impulse to help people, that was an unquestioned part of his nature. Now, watching the demon look far happier and cosier than anyone doomed to eternal hellfire should rightly look, he felt a strange urge to cosset him as well. He wanted to pet the demon, and spoil him, and keep that sleepy smile softening the sharp angles of his face.

He pressed his lips together, disapproving of himself. If Michael knew he was tempted to put a lap blanket on a drowsy demon and tuck it around his thighs...

"Why the sudden frown, darling? Am I being more annoying than usual? Am I getting in the way of your work? You can tell me to slope off, if you like. You never had any problem shooing me off before." Crowley's smile had gone, in any case, and his yellow eyes reflected nothing but firelight.

"Quite the opposite, really." Aziraphale sipped pensively at his drink, the rich honeyed spiciness setting off pleasure messages in his corporeal brain. "I missed the Arrangement."

"It probably meant more work for you, without the Arrangement in place." Crowley's voice was suddenly cool.

"Not at all, seeing you were out of commission. I had practically a free hand."

"How nice for you." Crowley's voice had passed from cool to positively icy.

"Now, don't be like that, dear boy."

"Did you miss the excuse to do temptations? Get a little soot on your white wings?"

"Don't be silly. I don't enjoy tempting those poor humans for you any more than you enjoy turning them to the hard and straight road for me. It's just sensible."

There was nothing sleepy at all about Crowley now, if there ever had been. He was leaning forward, face intent and unreadable. "What exactly did you miss?"

"Oh, my dear." Aziraphale pressed his fingertips together in agitation. Why did Crowley always have to push things? "You can't expect me to say it."

"No, I suppose I can't expect that at all." There was a distinctly nasty note to Crowley's voice.

Aziraphale was miserably conscious of having spoiled the lovely evening, and at the same time felt guilty for caring so much. He was an angel. His idea of a lovely evening should be helping the wandering sheep back to the fold, not spending it in the company of a demon watching chorus girls kick their admittedly pretty legs. He supposed he had lost his own way somewhere, and the worst of it was that he wasn't sure he wanted to find his way back. The immediate desire to have Crowley smile again was a much stronger impulse and that, surely, was all wrong. Heaven frowned at Hell's delight, and vice versa. That was the proper way of things.

He drained his glass so that he didn't have to look directly at Crowley.

Crowley apparently had other ideas. He was out of his chair and across the room so fast that it felt like he hadn't taken a step but had struck across like a cobra, his face thrust close to Aziraphale's, voice hissing. "What are you thinking right now, angel?"

Aziraphale felt a twinge of fear, and was disgusted with himself for it. Crowley wouldn't hurt him, he was sure of it. This was just bluster. Even if he tried, Aziraphale was more than a match for any demon, with or without his sword. "I wasn't thinking anything."

"Oh, you were. You're always thinking. You think, and you look, and you talk, oh youprattle, you chatter on endlessly, but you rarely actually say what you are thinking, do you? And I'm no good at guessing an angel's mind. I never was as good of an angel as you are." Crowley's mouth twisted bitterly, then he stepped back, seeming more like his usual self, less alarmingly serpentine. "And you thwart even without intending." He turned away and picked up his dark glasses from where he'd discarded them. "I suppose I'd better go."

"You don't have to go," Aziraphale said, through his hurt and confusion.

"Really?" Crowley's eyes were masked by black circles once more. "I can stay. If you want me to. But you have to ask. Those are the rules, and you know that as well as I do."

"I know nothing of the sort. I wish—I wish you'd stop playing these games. I don't know what the rules are." Aziraphale blinked hard.

"Fuck. You really don't, do you?" Crowley passed a hand over his brilliantined hair, messing it up. It made him look younger, which was ridiculous for such an ancient being. "I thought I'd got off lightly, you know," he said, almost dreamily. "I mean, Falling wasn't so bad after all. After the Rebellion I got to stay on Earth instead of in Hell. I got a body and all kinds of enjoyable things to do with it. I was stupid enough to think that maybe She hadn't judged me too harshly, that I was okay really, I just deserved a slap on the wrist and then I could get on with things and have some fun. I should have known She was just saving up special hellfire for me."

"Crowley." Aziraphale stepped forward and reached out a tentative hand. He let his fingers just cover Crowley's, noticing the flinch, and also the way Crowley's hand tilted and gripped tight, as if he didn't want to let go. It made his heart ache. "If I can help you in any way... Perhaps put in a word Higher Up..."

Crowley laughed, joylessly. "Ask me to stay. Say please."

Aziraphale bit down the plea even as it rose to his lip. "I don't think that would be wise—"

"I know. I'm sorry." Crowley's voice was oddly gentle. "No redemption for the Fallen. It's all right, angel. I'm not such a heartless bastard as I try to be, at least not with—never mind. At least you put up with my company."

He released Aziraphale's hand. "Good night, angel," he said, as brightly as if nothing had happened. "I'll pick you up in a cab tomorrow, so don't get too ossified."

"Tomorrow?" Aziraphale couldn't find his mental feet. Everything seemed to hurt, as if the mead had been poisoned.

"I did hear that some very interesting works were going up for sale privately. And that some potential buyers were considering forging them. It would be terrible if they fell into the wrong hands."

"Considering, or being tempted?" His voice was automatically stern, falling back into old patterns, even as his mind whirled desperately.

"I couldn't say, darling. Anyway, I have an invitation to the sale, and I thought I'd bring along a guest. Try to dress like it's the twentieth century. And, Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale waited.

"I never actually give up on batting a sticky wicket. Major character flaw."

Then Aziraphale was alone with his books and his tumbled feelings, and Crowley was gone.

Notes:

1) We're back at "The Cabaret Girl". The theme is just too perfect. Marilynn is a cabaret girl and doesn't want to give up her improper life, Jim needs to live up to his trustees' expectations, their lives don't gel at all, but they both want to be married because true love. Crowley is too cynical.

2)  Image by Don White, Pixabay

3) Thanks again for all the support. It really does mean a lot to me. <3

4) Title is from "Schöner Gigolo, armer Gigolo" because I ran out of suitable lines from the English version. Poor gigolo Crowley indeed.