An angel and demon meet in St. James Park

[sohoangel]

In the newly renovated St. James Park, an angel sits on a park bench and waits for a demon.

Aziraphale can't remember whose idea it was to meet here, but he's glad of the decision. The park is lovely, perfectly picturesque on this sunny afternoon. Just enough of a pleasant distraction to keep him from anxiously checking the winding paths along the canal in anticipation of Crowley's arrival.

They need to hammer out the details of another one of their favor-slash-miracle deals, as per the terms of their Arrangement. It used to be that one would simply turn up where the other one was, but after Aziraphale nearly lost his head (literally) a few decades prior, it made more sense to pick a place that they could visit regularly. To check in with one another, so to speak.

Absently, he smooths out the lapels of his short-waisted tailcoat, a pale robin's blue. No one casually wore all-white these days, so he was trying to branch out a little. He spares a glance along the path. He hopes Crowley doesn't suddenly appear out of nowhere, he wants to be prepared for a change.

Oh, are those ducks in the canal? How delightful!

Comments

[temptational]

There, now he's done it. Aziraphale will be inspiring all sorts of embellishments left and right, and perhaps Crowley will slip a word in Nash's ear as well, to make sure there are enough nooks and crannies to attract unsavory characters. "Yes, it's simply delightful," he drawls, putting a little extra sibilance into the first syllable of simply, and takes the bag of candies that Aziraphale hands over.

Of course, he tries the lemon drops first, deliberately salacious as he slides one between his lips. "Well, then, was it everything you hoped it would be, for a bit of processed sugar?" he asks around it, sucking at its sweet-tart taste while he gestures with the bag to Aziraphale's Turkish delights. "Or does it taste of the factory?" Onward progress and all of that. "No, I'll stay with these. Finish them quickly, those orphans are giving you the most bedraggled look."

They're probably not orphans, really, judging by their clothes, but children are even worse than ducks for always wanting what you're eating. "Drinks, angel. Rare vintages, fine wines, a 200 year old bottle of brandy or two. We are stopping for some, yes?"

[sohoangel]

Aziraphale smirks just a touch at Crowley's drawn-out 's'. Yes, he has a feeling that Crowley will put his own spin on the situation, but that's all right. More often than not, they balance one another out, even when they aren't trying to. Humans have a way of reaching their own equilibrium no matter what Heaven or Hell are up to.

Kind of makes one wonder what the point of the Great Plan is. If, in fact, one is not an angel, because angels do not question the Great Plan, especially not Aziraphale.

He watches Crowley's lips for a moment, to see if he'll indeed pucker up because of the tart taste, but it's the angel's own face that turns sour as Crowley has to go and yuck his yum by bringing up hungry orphans. "They are not," he hisses after he's had a quick look himself. "If you don't want one, you can just say so."

A demon trying to make an angel feel guilty. It's as ironic as an angel tempting a demon with sweets.

The elaboration on what kind of drinks they'll be sharing turns his mood right back around. It's one thing -- sometimes the only thing -- that they can agree on. "Go ahead, twist my arm," he says with a smile. "Where did you have in mind?" He's quite all right with making that the first stop. They can sober right up again before heading to Parliament.

[temptational]

Crowley grins a little at the faces the children are making behind Aziraphale's back, and sets off again in a saunter, steering the angel away down the path. "My mistake. They looked orphan-esque at first glance." As they walk along he takes occasional shortcuts through patches of grass or flower beds, sometimes curving away from Aziraphale's side but always regrouping again. "Ah, I know a place you might like. It's not fancy, a bit underground, actually, but they've got themselves a vault with some very rare stuff, and they don't open it for just anyone." It had taken Crowley only a month to convince the proprietress to open it for him, but he is a demon, and he'd found her quite willing to be tempted by the affections of a sensitive young poet who came to sigh over his verses in a corner of the establishment nearly every evening. "I'll let you choose the vintage."

Working at another lemon drop, he holds out the bag with the chocolate creams in it for Aziraphale to reach.

[sohoangel]

Hmph. That's better. He tries not to think about orphans in general as they head off, but he does decide to focus that future socialite's attention on orphanages in particular.

Until then, there's a lovely walk in the park and the prospect of fine wine and brandy. He does wish that Crowley would stop veering off the path, though, and half-considers looping his arm around the demon's to keep him from wandering off before mentally shaking his head at the idea. What a silly notion. So silly that it pops into his head more than once. He settles for miracle-ing any trampled flowers back to their former glory.

"How generous of you," he says in response to choosing the vintage and the offering of the chocolate creams. There's not a trace of sarcasm, just a soft smile of gratitude before he pops a chocolate into his mouth. It's dark, not nearly as sweet as the Turkish delight, but the creaminess more than makes up for it. He makes a little sound of appreciation before chewing and swallowing. "Oh, that's very good. Thank you."

[temptational]

It would be very silly, absolutely ridiculously silly if Aziraphale were to link his arm around Crowley’s and they were to stroll arm in arm through the park, as though courting. It would probably be dangerous in some fashion too, since everyone knows that angels and demons are polar opposites, their very natures anathema to one another. Crowley would probably let Aziraphale do it if he tried. He tends to go along with whatever the angel wants, and suggest or tweak things as they suit him, which: since they don’t make a habit of strolling arm in arm, he has no idea how he’d feel about it. It would be interesting to find out.

“You paid for them. There’s nothing generous about it.” Crowley’s natural inclination is to bristle at any suggestion that he’s being nice, in any form, so it works out quite well for him that he can share out the chocolate creams and still have plausible deniability about his intentions. Enjoying how obviously Aziraphale enjoys them, Crowley tsks at him and waits for him to be done savoring the first before holding out the bag again. “Too sweet if you ask me,” he says, breezing past the fact that he didn’t actually have one. “Come on, then, alcohol awaits.”

It’s almost a shame to leave the park, but he does quite like drinking with Aziraphale, so he leads the way out and to the establishment he spoke of. They have to descend an uneven flight of stairs to enter, and it’s rather dark and garishly wallpapered inside, but Crowley lazily takes a table in the corner and waves at the proprietress to bring them the special list.

[sohoangel]

Yes, it would be dangerous. Bad enough if Heaven found out about their Arrangement, he'd be in even more trouble if he was spotted linked arm-in-arm with Crowley. He'd probably be shuffled off to a desk job Upstairs for the rest of Eternity, never to see Earth again. And Crowley! Oh, he couldn't bear to think about what Hell would do to him. Demons were such terrible, cruel beings...

Well, not all demons. Certainly not the one walking alongside him. Would it really be so terrible, to take his arm, as he would a friend's...?

No. It was too great a risk. He pushes the notion out of his head completely, keeping himself busy with his candy consumption, smiling to himself when Crowley offers the bag of chocolates again. There's something oddly touching about the contortions Crowley goes through to avoid being thanked properly. Some day he'd like to tell Crowley that he can see that bit of good inside of him, but he knows better than to make right now that moment.

He doesn't want to ruin the rest of their afternoon.

The pub gets a bit of side-eye from Aziraphale as they make their way down the stairs, but he follows along willingly. How many holes in the wall (sometimes literally) has he dragged Crowley to over the millennia for an exciting new cuisine? He sits down properly, hands resting on the edge of the table. "How'd you find this place?" he asks curiously. "It doesn't look like much from the outside."

[temptational]

Crowley, for his part, slouches back in his chair much the way he slouched on the park bench, an arm thrown over the back of it, one long leg extended out from the side of the table so that if someone walking by weren't paying close enough attention in the dark atmosphere, they'd likely fall right over him. At least there's some advantage to the dim lighting, which is that no one is likely to look twice at them in here. They can sit a long time and catch up, no need for subterfuge. He doesn't like feeling as though he needs to look over his shoulder when he and Aziraphale are together. Heaven and Hell alike can just mind their own business.

"Oh, I had a job to do on some fellows in here," he answers vaguely, as the proprietress comes over with the list of rare bottles, and he orders a couple of glasses of scotch to get them started. Frowning in remembrance, he adds, "D'you believe that they put children in workhouses these days?" It's probably why he has grubby orphans on his mind. "You'd think your side would have something to say about that. Well, anyway, one of the places burned down a week back. No one was hurt, but there's an awful lot of insurance money on the line. The brats found some matches and I suppose they must have heard from somewhere how fun they are to play with."

The scotch arrives and he takes a long, satisfied drink.

"So then, angel, what have you been up to in this day and age?"

[sohoangel]

Aziraphale smiles at the proprietress, polite as ever, and peruses the list, although he keeps an ear on what Crowley's saying. It's why he looks up sharply at the mention of the fire, concerned but quickly relieved when he learns that no one was hurt. He remembers the Great Fire of London like it was yesterday, and the thought of London going up in flames like that again gives him the shivers.

"I'm glad no one was injured, especially the children." He frowns, wanting to defend his side's stance on such matters. "I don't like such things either, my dear, but humans have free will, they make their own decisions. And God promised that She wouldn't flood them all out again, so... sometimes you have to watch them make mistakes and hope that they learn from them."

He takes a sip of scotch, wishing that the conversation would turn to something a little more light-hearted. He gets his chance when Crowley asks what he's been up to. "Well," he says, his tone eager as he sets down his glass. "I've been collecting books again, and I'm considering opening a bookshop of my very own, in Soho."

[temptational]

Crowley glances over at Aziraphale with his eyebrows raised a little, surprised at the sharp glance the angel gives him in reaction to the story. Of course, Aziraphale spends far more of his time than Crowley watching what humans get up to and worrying over their varied multitudes of mistakes. Crowley usually just puts ideas in their heads and gets out of there--well, in this case he did at least stick around to make sure none of the children got caught in the fire. Not that Aziraphale needs to know. He'd probably start crediting him for being nice again.

"I don't see how you have to, unless it's a job. You could just let them go at it and give your attention to your own pursuits." Crowley doesn't really like the idea of Aziraphale fretting all the time, but he's happy enough to let the subject drop. "A bookshop, really? Doesn't that imply that you'll be selling your collections? I wouldn't have thought you could bear to part with any of your books." Crowley doesn't go in for reading much himself, but he knows very well how obsessed the angel is.

[sohoangel]

"But it is is my job, Crowley. Or, rather, it was, until a wily old serpent managed to sneak into the Garden. Now I'm constantly playing catch-up." He gives the demon a pointed look before returning to his wine list. "It's a lot harder to look after nearly a billion souls than just two, I can tell you that much..."

He's not mad at Crowley, of course. Doesn't blame him in the slightest for following orders. But Aziraphale continues to feel bad that wasn't very good at guarding the Eastern Gate. Even if Adam and Eve's eviction from Eden was part of the Great Plan, at least based on the fact that the archangels weren't too fazed about it. He had thought about asking God what She thought, but then She'd probably ask him about he flaming sword again and he didn't think his conscience could deal with lying to Her a second time.

"Oh my goodness. Sell my collections?" He laughs a touch nervously. "Oh, no no no. No. I'd keep them in the shop, of course, but I'd have other books, too. People could buy those ones. The ones I don't want." And there's no absolutely no flaw in this plan, so far as he can tell. "I think it will be fun. I'm constantly in other people's bookshops, after all."

[temptational]

“Doesn’t have to be you that looks after all of them, though, does it?” To say that Crowley felt guilty about the role he played in the Garden would be taking it too far. But he does feel a certain sense of indignation that Aziraphale seems to bear the brunt of the responsibility, even if to some degree he takes it on himself. There’s plenty of other angels who could come down off their high host and play nursemaid to humans as well. Oh, they’ll show up for miracles once in a while, but they don’t take nearly the degree of interest Aziraphale does, so it’s hardly fair. And he doesn’t like Aziraphale feeling guilty over the whole business himself. About to say more, he stops, thinking better of it—throwing it all back on the Almighty usually just results in Aziraphale feeling compelled to defend Her—and instead nods at the wine list. “What about it, then, anything catch your eye?”

He gives Aziraphale a look from beneath an arched brow once he starts sputtering about his books, disguising amusement. “Other books. I see.” Crowley does not point out the obvious flaw in Aziraphale’s plan, which is that he’s never met a book he didn’t like. Not that Crowley knows anyway; Aziraphale’s got high standards in every other area, so he supposes there must be something on his discard pile. Very bad poetry, perhaps. “It sounds fun, I suppose, if you want humans coming in all the time asking questions.” Oh, please say Crowley can hang around and watch. Especially if they try to interrupt Aziraphale while he’s reading.

[sohoangel]

He's already made a decision about which wine to order, but he keeps his eyes on the list, his expression pensive as he considers Crowley's question. It doesn't have to be him, no. The truth is, his affection for Earth and the humans who live on it are as much a motivating factor as his feeling of responsibility. He likes it here. He feels love here -- the couple whispering to one another sweetly in the corner, the small group of friends sharing a drink and some laughter, the proprietress smiling while she polishes the bar.

"Sometimes they're able to take care of themselves on their own," he says finally with a content smile, before flipping the wine list over so Crowley can see and pointing to a rare vintage. "This one. I haven't seen it on any menu in some time."

He returns to the topic of a bookshop with renewed confidence. "Oh, but they'll be asking questions about books," he says with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I'm sure I'll appreciate the company." He picks up his glass, but pauses before it touches his lips. "If, ah... well, it's not built yet, but when it is.... maybe you'd like to come by and see it?"

His voice ends on a bit of squeak that he stifles with a long swallow of scotch.

[temptational]

"Sometimes. Yeah, I suppose." Of course, one could easily point out that Crowley likes it here too, with as much time as he spends on Earth even if he doesn't need to. It's different for Aziraphale, though. He feels more, feels the goodness in them, the echoes of Divine love. Crowley's pretty sure he's feeling it now, in fact: he's made a study of Aziraphale for several millennia now, with or without meaning to, and he can recognize what that particular look of contentment on his face is. It fascinates Crowley, in spite of himself. It makes him wonder, what does all that love feel like, how does he know...realizing he's staring a little too long and too closely, he shifts in his seat, glad of the excuse to look at the vintage Aziraphale points to on the wine list and indicate to the proprietress what they want. One can't say the dark lenses over his eyes don't come in handy.

"I dunno, angel, bookshops, they're not really my style." Crowley swallows down the remainder of his scotch and adds casually, "But yeah, I'll stop in." Actually, he likes the thought of it even more than a regular meeting place like St James Park. Aziraphale doesn't tend to sleep, so Crowley's not sure if he's ever actually kept a place of his own on Earth like Crowley has done throughout the centuries, usually changing it up as soon as some new, appealingly terrible style of decor comes along.

[sohoangel]

He catches sight of that stare out of the corner of his eyes and raises his own, eyebrows beginning to lift questioningly, but Crowley has already moved on to signaling the proprietress, so he blinks and sits back again, leaving the wine list on the table, not thinking any more of it. If there's something Crowley wants to tell him, he usually does. He likes that about Crowley, how he doesn't need to dither over his words like Aziraphale does. He secretly wishes he had that kind of confidence.

Disappointment barely has a chance to take root before Crowley says he'll visit, and then he absolutely beams. Yes, this bookshop is a smashing idea, now he's even more motivated to finally settle into a space of his own instead of staying at various boarding houses around the city. "Wonderful," he says, and lifts his glass to clink it to Crowley's, but aborts the gesture when he sees that the demon's glass is empty. He chuckles and polishes off the rest of his scotch, too.

"I'll let you know as soon as it's established. It might take a bit of time, I can't miracle up a space, obviously. I'll have to do it all myself." Or, rather, pay a bunch of people to fix up a space for him.

[temptational]

"That said," Crowley adds, unable to resist, "if you start recommending books I ought to read, angel, I'll have to, shall we say, encourage your bookshop to become the gathering place of choice for sticky-fingered children and amateur poets." He can't have Aziraphale feeling emboldened to try to persuade Crowley to better himself. Besides, Aziraphale's bright, obvious pleasure at the thought of Crowley visiting him in his workshop is almost too much to bear, a little like how he imagines swallowing sunlight must feel. Teasing Aziraphale is usually the best way to get past it. Watching Aziraphale finish off his scotch, he thinks briefly of filling their glasses again, but then he sees out of the corner of his eye that the bottle of wine is on its way, and he's definitely curious to try what the angel has picked out for them.

"I'll look around for a space with you, if you like," he offers. Obviously if Crowley is going to be spending much time there, he can't have it anywhere near a church or a cemetery or any other sort of consecrated ground. (Aziraphale would consider that sort of thing too, he suspects, but it's what he tells himself rather than the simple fact that he just wants to spend more time with him.)

[sohoangel]

Aziraphale huffs and sets aside his empty glass. He knows Crowley is teasing, but it frustrates him nonetheless that he can't simply look forward to something without Crowley poking holes in it. "I still don't understand what you have against the classics," he complains, revisiting one of their old arguments. "They're a valuable insight into the human condition. Don't you need to know that, if you're going to tempt anyone?"

There were so many things that Aziraphale learned about humans by reading. And so many more opportunities to put himself in their mortal shoes. To know what it's like to aspire to greatness, or fear death, or fall in love. He could eat their food and wear their clothes, but as an angel, there were some experiences he knew he'd never have.

The proprietress comes over with a bottle of dry Madeira wine from the early 1700s and two glasses. She offers both men a small pour to sample, then fills the glasses with their approval and leaves the bottle on the table.

Crowley's offer is a surprise, but a pleasant one. "O-oh, certainly, if you like." He'd never say no to Crowley's company. He never has said no, either, no matter when or where the demon shows up. Sometimes he wonders if he was supposed to have shooed him away back in Eden, but he's avoided getting into trouble over it for nearly 6000 years, he's not about to worry over it now.

[temptational]

Crowley rolls his eyes when Aziraphale starts in about the classics. "I don't need to read stodgy old books to have 'insight into the human condition,'" he says, mimicking the way Aziraphale said it. "I've been watching them for 6000 years, and believe me, angel, if you pay attention to what they do when they think no one's around, you get plenty of insight."

Of course, where Aziraphale saw nobility and aspirations to greatness, Crowley saw--well, rather different things. It was one of the reasons he enjoyed their arguments, because Aziraphale could get so passionate about the goodness in humans that sometimes it almost made him see them in a different light, not that he would ever admit that to the angel.

He sips some more of the wine after the proprietress has filled their glasses and left, and damned if it isn't one of the most exquisite he's ever tasted. Smacking his lips, Crowley grins at Aziraphale's response to his offer to accompany him, enjoying the angel's pleased surprise. "Aziraphale," he exclaims, a sudden brilliant idea occurring to him. "This Madeira is outstanding. Do you know what we ought to do?" He leans closer and pitches his voice lower. "We ought to move what's in the vault to your new bookshop. For safekeeping. She won't even notice."

[sohoangel]

"I pay attention," Aziraphale says, more than a touch defensively. When he doesn't have his nose in a book, anyway. "And they aren't stodgy, they're full of wonder and grandeur and delightful turns of phrase. There are even ones of a more, ah, earthy nature, if that's your thing. Or you could try reading the current literature. Mary Shelley wrote a very spooky one that I simply couldn't put down, and I know you like spooky."

He could argue in favor of books all day if Crowley let him. Right now, however, he's far more curious in whatever idea has popped into the demon's head. He leans in as well, unconsciously miming Crowley's body language, before letting out a scandalized gasp at the suggestion.

"Crowley," he admonishes. "That's terrible." Although, that does give him an idea of his own. "I suppose I could include a wine cellar in the shop. Then we could drink there."

In private. The thought makes him feel a little flushed, although he has no idea why. He takes a long sip of wine while he waits for Crowley's response.

[temptational]

Crowley is a bit curious about these books of an "earthly" nature Aziraphale mentions (and how familiar is the angel with their subject material, for that matter?) but he doesn't pursue it. "Oh? And just how spooky was this book, then?" He leans his chin in his hand and raises an eyebrow. "Let's say on a scale from cowering in fear to saying 'oh good Heavens, what a fright!'."

He and Aziraphale probably have rather different definitions of spooky. They have different definitions of many things, such as brilliant ideas versus terrible ones. "No, it's perfect! She doesn't even drink them!" Crowley leans in still more, putting extra persuasion into it. "She wouldn't even have sold the bottle to us without demonic influence. And I know you'd have something to say about someone who collected books and never read them, like they were just a bit of background decor."

But he does like the thought of a wine cellar in Aziraphale's bookshop. It would certainly encourage spending lots of time there, with the angel--drinking after hours, he supposes, just the two of them. "See, you're even thinking of a place to put them," he says, reaching out to squeeze his arm and giving it a little shake, still grinning with the unholy glee he takes in trying to tempt Aziraphale.

[sohoangel]

It is true, their definitions of spooky are likely not the same. Although Aziraphale doesn't spook as easily as one might think. Being supernatural by nature makes tales of ghosts and demonic possession lose a little of their oomph. "Mmm, I'd say it's more macabre than spooky. It's about a man who brings a sewn-together corpse to life. Using science."

He purses his lips when Crowley uses his love of books against him. It's true, using books as mere decoration is one of his pet peeves, but he also can't help but think about how he'd feel if someone snuck off with his collection.

And then Crowley touches him -- squeezes his arm, even -- and he freezes, his swallow of wine caught in his throat. How is it, just like that, Crowley can touch him? Why is it so easy for him, while Aziraphale has to stress over it so much that he can never work up the nerve?

It must not mean anything, he decides. Only another tool in the demon's arsenal.

He chokes down the wine. "No," he says, in a tone that implies that Crowley has pushed too far this time. "I can procure my own supply, I don't need to resort to theft." He frowns in disapproval, although there's a little something like hurt in his eyes, as well. "You can't just take things without asking... well, you can, but I won't be a part of that."

[temptational]

It's no surprise, of course, to be scolded for his demonic inclinations towards sin and vice--regular point of conversation for them, that is. But Aziraphale does it in that tone that says he won't entertain any further argument and it's time for Crowley to drop the subject; spoilsport, he thinks, and almost says aloud, when he catches sight of that look in Aziraphale's eyes. He's not...he can't be getting upset, can he? Over this? Crowley frowns in thought, for an instant it occurs to him that maybe...is it because he touched him?

They don't, as a rule, touch very often; at one time, in the earliest days, Crowley had assumed it might burn, the two of them being of such natures that are not only opposite to one another but in eternal enmity. But as time had gone on and contact had happened occasionally between them...sometimes accidentally, sometimes not...he'd realized that it had been a silly assumption, there was nothing that could go wrong with it. At least, that was what he thought.

He withdraws his hand in a perfectly casual motion, and sits back tipping the wine glass to his lips, also perfectly casually. "Oh, don't be so stalwart about it, angel, it's not as though I'd need your help," he says after he's drunk. Casually.

[sohoangel]

In the earliest days, Aziraphale had assumed that if anyone was to burn from casual contact, it would be Crowley. He was a demon, after all, and Aziraphale was a being of Good. He kept space between them out of courtesy, not wanting to hurt his occasional companion.

But perhaps, over time, that distance was also to protect himself.

When Crowley pulls his hand away, Aziraphale uses all of his willpower not to place his own hand over the spot on his arm that Crowley touched. He still feels the demon's warmth through the layers of cloth. God help him, he already misses it. How pathetic can he be?

"No, I suppose not," he says softly. He hazards a glance at Crowley, who seems his usual unaffected self. "How did you get her to part with this bottle?"

[temptational]

"Oh, yeah, that. She just wanted someone's affections; it was easy to get her to soften up once I found her a pretty young thing." Humans almost always want that. It makes them so easy to tempt, it almost takes the sport out of it at times; its power over them is a curious thing. He's aware that there's a sudden awkward stillness in Aziraphale next to him, which Crowley stoically ignores. He doesn't like it when Aziraphale gets distressed, and it's far worse when he suspects he is somehow the cause of it--it makes him want to reach out again, but since it all seems to have something to do with touching him in the first place, Crowley doesn't.

What he does do, however, is tip out the Madeira over Aziraphale's glass, pouring him quite a generous quantity, and then follow that by refilling his own. Alcohol can be counted upon to smooth over almost any stiff moment. "Well," Crowley raises his glass, "here's to your future bookshop, angel. What will you call it?"

[sohoangel]

"Oh. I see." His mouth twitches a little, but there's no lecture that follows. He made the proprietress happy, if only for a little while. He didn't tempt her to hurt anyone, or harden her heart to others. It's not the worst thing one could do in exchange for a bottle of wine.

Of course, there's the question of who the 'pretty young thing' is, but the moment is awkward enough as it is without him asking. He decides to drop the subject entirely, forcing a smile that soon becomes genuine when Crowley refills their glasses and offers a toast.

"To the bookshop," he says, clinking his glass gently to Crowley's, before giving him a mildly baffled look. "I hadn't thought of a name. I suppose it needs one, doesn't it?"

[temptational]

Crowley is happy to move on from the subject as well: it's become dangerous ground, for some reason he can't quite identify. Instead he watches Aziraphale from behind his shades, trying to be subtle about it while he attempts to understand what's going through the angel's mind. It gives him a strange feeling to see how easily Aziraphale's smile switches from something a little stiff to something genuinely interested and happy as soon as they go back to the topic of his bookshop--a little like being lit up from within, in a way that burns as well as warms.

"Most do, yeah," he agrees with a sinuous shrug of his shoulders. "Always a bit of a risk, naming something, innit? Shapes its nature." Look at him. He'd probably still be spending most of his time slithering around on his belly if he'd stuck with Crawley.

[sohoangel]

"Yes, that's very true," Aziraphale agrees with a thoughtful nod. Naming anything -- a creature, a place, an emotion -- gives it a definition of sorts. As this is his first endeavor in taking on a permanent, human space, he wants very badly to do it right.

Leaning back in his seat a little, he toys with his glass while he thinks over his options. "I suppose 'Words, words, words' is a bit too on the nose," he says with small laugh. "Some sort of book pun?" He shakes his head. "No, no, I'm no good with those..." He does come up with clever puns, on occasion, but often long after the moment to say them has passed.

He sighs and takes another sip of wine. "If nothing comes to me, I could just name it after my alias, perhaps? 'A.Z. Fell's Bookshop.' That's not so bad, is it?"

[temptational]

"Overused, probably," Crowley says to the first suggestion. He shrugs at the idea of puns--Aziraphale could probably come up with one, given enough time, but don't ask Crowley's opinion on it, he doesn't read enough to care. He snorts a little when Aziraphale mentions his alias. "A.Z. Fell? Is that what you're using these days?" Hm. He's never considered any particular use of a first or middle initial, he's mostly just been Crowley. It might be worth some thought. "Well, I suppose it'd do."

[sohoangel]

Aziraphale's cheeks flush a little at the snort, which he would blame on the wine if Crowley ever dared to point it out. "What's wrong with my alias? No one can seem to pronounce Aziraphale properly, let alone spell it, so I decided to make things a little easier all around."

He drains half his glass. That's what he's going to call it, then, if Crowley's going to laugh at it. See if he lets the demon pay a visit to his bookshop if he thinks the name is --

Oh. Oh, he's okay with it. He sets down his glass. "Well! I'll hold onto that one. A plan B." He smiles and tilts his head curiously. "You're still going by Crowley, right? Just Crowley?"