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Operation Mistletoe has been, if Anathema is any judge, a resounding success. Crowley and Aziraphale had spent almost an hour and a half kissing, only springing apart, both blushing, when the doorbell had rung to announce the arrival of another guest.
During the dinner, they had been the very image of propriety, although they’d kept sneaking glances at each other and smiling throughout, and Anathema would swear blind that they’d held hands under the table for most of the time.
And, of course, they’d left early, citing a long drive back to London as the reason. Anathema, who knows exactly how fast Crowley drives, and Madame Tracy, who also lives in London and yet had seen no need to leave just yet, had exchanged a very knowing look. Even Wensleydale had seemed ready to object, though Pepper had been swift in shutting him up with a firm head shake and, Anathema suspected, an equally firm kick in the shin.
Since then, she’s neither heard nor seen hide nor hair of either of them; but today is her scheduled fortnightly dinner and drinks with Crowley, and as he hasn’t texted or called to cancel, she expects he’ll be there.
Indeed, he’s already sitting at their usual booth when she gets to the restaurant. Uncharacteristically, he’s not wearing his sunglasses; the other people in the restaurant don’t seem to notice his eyes aren’t exactly what one might call human.
“I don’t know whether to thank you or throttle you,” he says, in lieu of a greeting.
She smiles placidly, sliding into the seat in front of him. “I take it’s going well, then.”
He picks up the menu and scowls at it as if he didn’t order the same thing almost every time, and says nothing.
That’s just fine. She’s perfectly capable of holding a one-sided conversation. “It must be. After all, as someone very old and wise once told me, it doesn’t matter how different you are — if you truly love each other, you can find a way to cherish each other’s differences and make it work.”
The growl that resonates in his throat as he none too gently sets down the menu and picks up the wine list is very impressive, and would doubtlessly be extremely intimidating to just about anybody else; but she knows him too well.
“Have you moved into the bookshop yet?”
He only doesn’t slam the wine list on the table because it’s impossible to slam down a sheet of paper, no matter how stiff or fancy. “Anathema, I swear —”
She grins at him, unrepentant. “That’s a yes, then.”
Crowley’s face is slowly taking on the pinched look of someone who’s feeling an oncoming migraine, or, perhaps, is entirely unused to not being the smuggest person in the room. “Yes,” he grits out.
“Two days later? Three?”
He shoots a glance upwards as if begging for patience. “One,” he mutters, almost inaudible.
She claps her hands together and gives him her best wide-eyed, earnest look. “Oh, how lovely. Have you decorated for the holidays yet?”
“Look, I don’t know where you’re going with this —”
“Because you really need to make sure, when you get a Christmas tree, that it’s a pine, not a fir or a spruce.”
He gives her a long, wary look. “Why?” he asks, looking for all the world like he knows he’s going to regret asking.
“It would be a perfect symbol of your relationship so far. You know, all those millennia you spent —”
“Finish that sentence, and I swear, I will make you regret it.”
“— pining.” She smirks at him. “You know I’m not afraid of you.”
He scowls at her again. “I will walk out of here and leave you to pay the bill. It’s a very expensive restaurant, you know.”
“We haven’t even ordered yet,” she points out, reasonably. “Besides, I am filthy rich, and you know it.”
He groans. “You have no idea how much I regret not telling you to shove off and bother someone else, when you called back in September.”
“I’ll tell Aziraphale you said that.”
“You don’t talk to him.”
“I’ll make an exception.” She winks at him. “Besides, I ought to start, really. After all, he will soon be my — best-friend-in-law? Is that a thing?”
His lips twitch up in what is undoubtedly a smile. “That is so not a thing.”
“Well, it should be.” She smiles back at him. “Come on. You know you would be teasing me just as much if our places were reversed.”
“More, probably,” he admits. “You did tell me to just talk to him.” There’s a bottle of wine on the table, even though the waitress hasn’t been by since bringing their menus; he pours them both a glass, and takes a long drink from his.
“Repeatedly, and at great length. Not my fault you were too stubborn to listen.”
“Be nice,” he grumbles; and then hesitates. “I — best friend? Really?”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” she says, lightly. “I don’t have many friends. Well —” she smiles, ruefully. “Any, really. Not much room for friends when you’re growing up learning a book of prophecies cover to cover with Armageddon looming in your future.”
“Right,” Crowley says, dubiously. “But now — there’s Madame Tracy —”
“— who is lovely, but we don’t have that much in common, she’s thrice my age —”
“— I am literally older than dirt, Anathema.” Crowley looks utterly bewildered. “You need some human friends.”
Anathema shrugs. “And I’ll make some, now that I’m settled here. But…” She trails off, suddenly unsure, and masks it — poorly — by taking a sip of wine.
Crowley raises his eyebrows. “But?”
She sets her glass down, and sighs. “But I’m glad to have you. Even though I know I’m probably not — much, from your point of view. I’m just human. I don’t measure up.”
Crowley scoffs. “Don’t be daft,” he says, firmly. “Wouldn’t spend time with you if I didn’t think it was worthwhile. I enjoy your company.”
“Well, of course,” she says, because while she might be feeling suddenly a little maudlin, she knows he wouldn’t lie to her. He means what he’s saying. But — “But it’s Aziraphale who is your best friend. Not me.”
“Yes, Aziraphale is my best friend, in the sense that I’ve known him six thousand years and he is the love of my life,” he says, slowly, patiently, looking at her with an odd intensity. “But you are, also. How many humans d’you reckon get to tease me like you just did? Matter of fact — how many humans d’you reckon know me well enough to tease me like you just did?” He takes another long drink of wine, draining his glass. “Which was horrible, by the way. Do that again and I will have your guts for garters.”
She just stares at him for a long moment, digesting. Then, because the alternative would be reaching across the table to give him a hug, which would be incredibly awkward and he definitely would object to — “You don’t wear garters,” she says. “So I feel pretty safe in saying that there is also another way in which you, specifically, resemble a pine tree.”
He groans and closes his eyes briefly, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “You’re going to finish that sentence no matter what I say, aren’t you?”
“Yup.” She grins at him. “You, like a pine tree, can be incredibly sappy.”
“That was absolutely terrible.” His glass is full again; he toasts her with it. “Well done.”
She clinks her glass against his. “Why, thank you.”
They drink. The waitress finally comes over, and takes their meal orders.
“Anathema?” Crowley says, when the waitress has left.
“Yeah?”
He smiles, eyes soft. “Thank you.”