In which paintball isn't nice

Sometimes Crowley admitted to himself, deep in the serpentine depths of what passed for his heart, that angels did some things better.

Keeping up sartorial standards, for instance. Not style, Satan still had that market cornered, and no one had called tartan bow ties stylish in several decades. Still, there was no doubt that over the last few thousand years after the Fall, the hosts of Hell had let their standards slip. Look at Beezlebub. Or rather, smell them. Catch Gabriel or Michael going around smelling like that. It was embarrassing.

Aziraphale smelled rather nice. Like old whiskey and morning rains and warm fur and an almost undetectable undercurrent of incense.

"Just miracle it away, angel."

"I'll still know it was there. You know, deep down underneath it all."

They were both of angelic stock, and Aziraphale's coat was if anything better up to standard than Crowley's jacket, splash of blue paint aside. That was a perfectably reasonable, er, reason, to call on a minor demonic miracle. Oh Satan, restore this jacket.

It was nothing at all to do with the beseeching, decidedly not up to standards puppy-dog eyes Aziraphale was turning on him. Or the way he then looked at Crowley, as if a run-to-seed demon was absolutely the most wonderful and nicest being in creation.

Aziraphale's cheeks pinked and his gaze dropped, and Crowley was already catching himself smiling indulgently when reality hit him in the face like a dead frog.

It wasn't just that Aziraphale determinedly saw the best in everyone, even his Adversary. It was that it really had been a nice thing to do, hadn't it? It had hardly been required by the Arrangement, a functional miracle now swapped for a quick temptation later.Crowley found himself desperately searching for excuses, like he had for his actions back in the Blitz. Aziraphale had clearly been upset by the stain. If the angel was fussing and pouting it could delay the search for the Antichrist by precious minutes. But then, so would getting drunk together on century old brandy and Crowley was definitely planning on that tonight.

It had felt nice. Being nice. Specifically, doing something nice for Aziraphale and have Aziraphale show he felt Crowley was nice.

Bloody angel, with his blushes and pouts and shining eyes and complete obliviousness to how much trouble Crowley could get into Down There for being nice to an angel. As if losing the Antichrist wasn't enough. Tempting Crowley into niceness.

He leaned over and picked up a gun, feeling it in his hands, feeling the weight and balance change as he pointed it at Aziraphale, rage flickering behind his yellow eyes. What was the angel saying? Something about guns lending moral weight?

He'd show them who was nice. It definitely wasn't Crowley.

oooo

Of course, the plan would have worked better if Crowley wasn't, deep down, also weak as non-holy water.

"They'll all have miraculous escapes," he admitted. "It wouldn't be fun, otherwise."

Aziraphale beamed. Dear Satan, he really did beam, as if it was still the nineteenth bloody century. Nobody beamed these days. Only Arizaphale. "You know," the angel said, radiating joy and affection, "I've always said that, deep down, you were really quite a ni–"

The rage swelled up, over an uncurrent of what was probably terror, and the next thing he had Aziraphale against the wall, and he really wasn't certain what was going to happen if they really did fight. Technically, as a serpent, he had been a Seraphim, and that supposedly made him more powerful than a mere Principality, and his bodily vessel was certainly in better shape than Aziraphale's, but Aziraphale was still in a state of Grace and–

–what the heaven would he do in this benighted universe without Aziraphale anyway?

"Sorry to interrupt an intimate moment, gentlemen, but can I help you?"

Crowley let the anger fade. It was really, really important to let Aziraphale know that he, Crowley, the serpent, was in no shape or form nice. But it was more immediately important to know where the Antichrist was.

He was in no mood to get smited, anyway. Down There would have too much chance of figuring out what he was up to if he lost this body, and...

It was nicer when Aziraphale smiled at him anyway.

Oh, bless. Bless bless bless it all to heaven.

oooooo

"You pushed me against a wall, Crowley. You'd only just fixed my jacket and you risked ruining it again. You could have spoiled the shape of my tie, too."

"Do you want me to say sorry?" For some reason Aziraphale's plaintive tone was almost too much for Crowley to bear, and the anger rumbled again in his heart.

"No, I suppose that would be too much to ask." Aziraphale sighed. "But I do want to talk. That young lady–"

"Satanic nuns are not ladies. She's not that young, either."

Aziraphale nodded somewhat dismissively. "She was quite nice, for a Satanic nun."

The word nice was like a knife. "Is she really what you want to talk about, here and now?"

"No. I mean, not really. I mean the young lady, she said–she thought–that you and I..." Aziraphale's cheeks were tinged with red, and he was looking down at his folded hands.

This was new. Mostly Crowley thought of that particular carnal pleasure as more something to tempt humans to do with each other, with as many tangled emotions as possible. It had been invented for corporeal kind, after all. But Aziraphale... Aziraphale looked perplexed, and vulnerable. He was actually blushing. Aziraphale, with six thousand years of earthly experience, was blushing as fetchingly as a schoolgirl whose name was paired with her crush on a toilet wall.

That was... nice.

"She thought I shoved you against the wall because I was overcome with sexual passion for you and couldn't wait to kiss you." Crowley chose the words deliberately, waiting to see the response.

"Yes." Aziraphale was definitely an attractive rose shade, and his temples were damp where the blond curls sprang up. "I mean, that's ridiculous. Humans." His chuckle sounded forced. "The end of the world is looming, and they only have one thing on their minds."

"Amazing how they do that," Crowley said, as blandly as possible. "Must be a kind of survival instinct. Not that there's going to be any babies any more. or any survival for that matter."

"Pessimist."

Crowley waved the Bentley's doors open, waving away the dangerous subject. "After you, angel."

It wasn't as if he had been thinking about it in the slightest. He had been angry, and in the grip of a different kind of desperation. He had been ready to fight, pressing himself against Aziraphale to control him and make him listen, not to feel the warmth of the angel's body against his cold blooded self. And it's not as if Aziraphale would have kissed him back, would have willingly parted his prim lips to allow a forked tongue to touch his own, would have raised his well manicured hands to pull him tighter...

That was no way to think, just because a stupid ex-nun misinterpreted a blamelessly hostile situation. That way lay madness. That way lay an angel with disapprovingly pursed lips and pitying pale eyes and terrible kindness and "My dear boy, I'm so very sorry, but.." and Armageddon would come as a relief after that, really.

Crowley ignored the unusually unreptilian sensation of heat he was experiencing and got on with trying to prevent the end of the world. He had been aware, for all too long, that he had far too much to lose. Having anything precious to lose at all was rare for a fallen angel, who had already by definition lost everything worth having.

It had been a nice thought, though.

He tried to remember that at the end of the night, when he wanted to ask Aziraphale to stay with him and drink themselves to oblivion and instead the angel had dismissed him and fluttered off as if Crowley had suddenly lost all interest to him. As if he had far more important things to think about than a demon sitting suddenly feeling abandoned and alone in his car, staring at an old bookshop and telling himself to stop being so utterly futile and drive home.

Crowley blessed loudly, drove home, and swore to only call Aziraphale once the angel had had a chance to truly miss him. He'd always done that. Sometimes he had left the angel centuries in which to notice there was an Adversary shaped hole in his life.

A couple of hours should do it tonight.