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"So I'll pick you up at seven?"
"With my shoes and face shining!" Aziraphale said, beaming with relief. Mr. Savoy really had turned out to be quite a nice gentleman, despite his unfortunate mustache, and Aziraphale had been a being of the world through too many changes to hold fashion against anyone.
He ushered Mr. Savoy to the bookshop door and closed it. Only then did he notice Crowley, draped against the counter, staring at him. There was what he privately would have described as a peculiar expression on Crowley's face. Almost judgemental, which was an odd expression for a demon. Crowley, he supposed, was in many ways an odd demon.
"It's a perfectly good expression," Aziraphale said, slightly defensive already. Crowley could be tiresome.
"I'll let that pass without argument, but really, do you think that was very angelic behaviour?"
"Buying a potential seller dinner to warm them up is quite common in the trade."
"You've warmed him up all right," Crowley muttered.
"I do hope so," Aziraphale said happily. He did so very much covet that Book of Deer manuscript. Until very lately the only extant copy of the gospel book he had known of had been in the University of Cambridge Library, and once he had found out Savoy might have a lead, he had been unable to rest easy at the thought of all those delicious errors in minuscule Gaelic. And the marginalia! He broke out in a cold sweat at the very thought of letting it slip through his fingers.
At first he had thought Savoy would refuse to part with it and his only hope was that some descendant would be more reasonable. That was the thing with humans: you had a real advantage in the waiting game. But in person, Savoy had turned out to be rather charming and eager to please, and all too eager to agree to dinner to talk it over and then coming home to examine Aziraphale's private back room.
"I just don't think it's morally acceptable to seduce books out of collectors."
"Well, really." Aziraphale sniffed. "I'm doing nothing of the kind."
"Better explain that to him, then, because I think he has real intentions of merging your collections."
"I'm sure he thinks no such thing. I—" Aziraphale mentally reviewed the conversation. "Oh dear. Again? After Mr. Fold last week?"
"And in right in front of me, too," Crowley said irrelevantly. "Wait, who?"
"It's always so painful disabusing them. I wish I understood why it keeps happening."
"You're kidding me, right?" Crowley unfolded himself to his full slender height, somewhat like a snake rearing, but Aziraphale had known him far too long to be bothered by that. "Speaking the way you do, and dressing the way you do—" Aziraphale looked down at his inoffensive cream sleeveless pullover and lilac shirt and opened his mouth to object, but Crowley steamrollered on, "and then you put the cherry on top by smiling at them like that."
"Like what?"
Aziraphale never did find out like what, because three things happened almost simultaneously. The door opened behind him, Savoy put his head in and called Coo-ee, Mr. Fell! and Aziraphale found his arms full of demon.
"I am so very sorry," Mr. Savoy said. "I'll come back later." Aziraphale felt Crowley give a cheerful little wave over his shoulder as the door closed.
For a moment, Aziraphale was rigid with shock. Crowley's chin was tucked into Aziraphale's shoulder, and his breath was hot and ticklish on Aziraphale's neck, under the ear where no touch but that of a barber had ever been felt.
"What do you suppose you're doing?"
Crowley stepped away, sleek and unbothered as ever. "Saving you an embarrassing conversation?"
"That's quite embarrassing enough." Aziraphale straightened his jumper, inexplicably ruffled. There was a kind of ghost of warmth where Crowley had been. "You know how the trade gossips. Whatever will they say?"
"That they were right all along about your fancy man and why the Bentley stays here overnight sometimes ."
Aziraphale spared him a glance. Crowley did indeed look fancy, and always had, according to the definition of the times. Even in Eden, his scales had been particularly shimmery; in Egypt he had worn a lot of gold and translucent muslin and very little else, and when it had been the fashion he had worn the very longest and most aggressive of codpieces. Right now, he had adopted black cashmere trousers that draped elegantly over his lean thighs, and a matching jacket hanging open over a red t shirt.
"I'm not sure I could afford you," Aziraphale said, and Crowley grinned, all sharp teeth.
"How much were you going to offer for that book, again?"
Aziraphale conceded the point. "But I can't have you acting the possessive paramour every time I fall into a misunderstanding."
"Acting the—oh, never mind. Look, I'm over here all the time anyway, and having it known you're already taken will stop the nuisances. Half the trade is gay, so they won't mention it. For my part, I get to foment petty jealousy, so it's all to the bad. Why not?'
Aziraphale felt sure there was a good reason why not, but Crowley had pushed his sunglasses back to show earnest golden eyes, and right now the angel couldn't think of one. After all, the Arrangement had been ill-advised from the beginning, and that had worked out all right.
"I suppose we could try," he said cautiously.
Crowley gave him a brilliant smile. "You have your boring Bookseller's Association dinner or whatever on Saturday, right? I'll pick you up at six."
He didn't, of course. They were only slightly fashionably late, though, given the way Crowley drove, and it was an interesting feeling entering on the arm of handsome and fashionably dressed man. Crowley, to Aziraphale's mild relief, was wearing a tie, although it was only loosely tied, and it was hard not to feel sinfully proud of being with the most beautiful person in the room. There were several nasty looks, which Crowley seemed to enjoy, returning with his laziest smile, but also looks of sympathy and envy.
There were others who had brought "friends" as their plus-ones, of course, but it was only later in the evening, when everyone was slightly drunk and gregarious, that Aziraphale noticed that the only couples dancing were men with women.
"It does seem a shame," he sighed, with inebriated sympathy.
"Pity angels don't dance," Crowley said, absentmindedly watching the wine in his glass as he rotated it.
"I do," Aziraphale was drunk enough to say. "I'm quite good."
"Come on, then. Let's shock the old fuddy-duddies, not that you aren't one." Crowley tugged Aziraphale to his feet and they were in the middle of the dance floor before the angel could think to object that this was hardly a gavotte. It was more like a kind of hugging to slow music, with shuffling feet. Surely he could manage that.
Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale's neck as if that was just what he wanted most in the world. It would have been impolite not to put his own arms around Crowley's graceful back in response. The demon was warm and slender and moved lithely, like the serpent he was, and—
Aziraphale grunted in pain as a snakeskin shoe ground down on his toe.
Crowley blushed. "Sorry, sorry, I—ow! Did you have to put your full weight on my foot?"
"Don't make personal remarks about my—ouch!"
Aziraphale wasn't sure if that blow was intentional or not, or which of them started laughing first, but eventually they found a kind of rhythm and trod on each other less, as they had learned to throughout the millennia. Crowley's eyes were sparkling brilliantly enough to be seen behind his dark glasses, and his grip on Aziraphale was loose and affectionate as they leaned into each other. By the last dance, it was almost too easy to pretend they were dancing because they wanted to, and not for any scheme.
He smiled at Crowley, suddenly very glad for the Arrangement, and Crowley, and the last six thousand years.
"Like that," Crowley said, voice rough.
"I don't follow, dear boy."
"My toes would agree. Come on, I'll sober up and take you home."
They held hands on the way to the car, to drive home the point, and when they arrived Crowley gestured at Aziraphale to stay put, then walked around to his door and opened it, helping him out.
"In case any of your neighbours are watching," he said on the doorstep, and kissed Aziraphale's cheek. His lips were smooth and warm and Aziraphale was glad he'd had a hot shave that afternoon, so they wouldn't chafe.
They smiled at each other for a moment—they had been smiling more than usual, Aziraphale drunkenly noted—then Crowley said "Night, angel," and left.
Aziraphale found himself somewhat thoughtful.
After that, they resumed their life more or less as it was, except that Crowley was more attentive than usual. Aziraphale became quite used to chairs being pulled out for him, sometimes followed by a light kiss on the cheek, and a hand tucked into his elbow or his own palm.
Aziraphale wasn't able to reciprocate much in kind. He'd learned just enough of human courtship to recognise it in humans, but it wasn't something he knew how to produce himself. He was happy to leave the show in Crowley's hands, and just go along.
Crowley clearly enjoyed it all; he met glares with insouciant winks and called Aziraphale 'angel' more in a couple of weeks than he had in a century.
Aziraphale enjoyed it too. That was the problem. Crowley could be ridiculously charming when he chose, and it felt like he chose all the time these days. It was all very well to play partners for his acquaintances, but on the night where it was very difficult not to turn his head to catch Crowley's kiss right on the mouth, he decided it was time to end things. There was a limit to how much pretending he could do.
After their next date.
Aziraphale decided to make it a little special, a bit of an occasion, and took him to do the Ritz. Of course, Crowley would be as relieved to end it all as he would be, but even so, he had a bit saved away even after the Book of Deer and it felt right to end on a splash, as humans would say.
Crowley was looking especially gorgeous in a deceptively shapeless suit, in black of course, and Aziraphale had dressed up nicely for the occasion, a small white rose pinned to his breast pocket. Crowley swept him up and down with an appreciative look, almost as if he thought the neighbours could see inside the door, and Aziraphale felt his cheeks heat.
Beyond time to put an end to this nonsense.
Over Crowley's shoulder, Aziraphale could see a street preacher set up on the narrow corner. He ought to approve, of course; preachers were Our People, no matter how irritating they were. This one had placards, and Aziraphale could clearly see one reading Gay Plague: Sin Punished by Heaven!
The world turned white-hot. For a moment, Aziraphale feared he had lost control of his angelic aura. He looked at Crowley, kind and brave and clever and fallen, and he thought of nice Mr. Savoy, and Mr. Fold, and of Miss Jones and Miss Brooks and all the other pairs of "friends" at the Bookseller's Association, and at the placard again.
Then he stepped out of the door, into full view of the preacher, and kissed Crowley.
Crowley's lips were strong and pliant and accommodating, although as far as Aziraphale could tell less experienced than one might have expected of a demon. He made a pleased sound that an aching part of Aziraphale's heart thought was all too convincing as he put his arms around Aziraphale's waist and tugged him closer.
When the kiss ended, as all things must, Aziraphale parted his lips again to explain, but Crowley confusingly said, "Yes, Aziraphale, of course," and kissed him again.
Aziraphale found himself backed into the shop, and somehow in the new sensations of his lips being parted and the sweep of tongue against tongue that it took him a moment to register that the door had slammed shut and there was no audience to perform to at all.
When their mouths parted, he tried to point this out, because as incredibly lovely as this all was, he couldn't take advantage of Crowley or risk his own heart being smashed on the floor. Somehow his brain misfired on the way to his mouth and what actually came out was, "Darling."
"Sweetheart," agreed Crowley, raining kisses on Aziraphale's neck. If his breath had felt amazing there, it was nothing compared to his lips and little darts of his tongue.
"I thought we were pretending."
"I thought you'd never figure it out." Crowley lifted his head again and he looked so ruffled and was shining so bright that the only thing to do was kiss him again.
"You mean you really—"
"Let me show you," Crowley said, and did.
Tangled in limbs and sheets and with a dark head pillowed on his chest, Aziraphale reflected that it was perhaps not so strange after all. They were of the same stock, and if he was a being of love, then it stood to reason that… well, the theological implications, let alone the political ones, were a bit thorny, and he could argue them out with Crowley over the next few decades. They were bound to irritate Crowley, which was something to look forward to. But here and now…
He dropped a kiss on Crowley's head. "Smile like what?"
"All sunshiny. Like you adore them," Crowley grumbled against his chest.
"I'll try to only smile at you like that in future, then."
"You can try." Crowley sounded pleasingly jealous for a moment, but then he yawned, and distorted through the yawn Aziraphale was fairly certain he heard "Love you too, Aziraphale."
He wouldn't call his demon on it, but there would be plenty of chances to tease it out of him again.
~end~