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]

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?"