Chapter Text
“Well, goodnight, my dear.” Another of those awkward silences, in which they sat there, as if barely three hands breaths of leather between them was some kind of insuperable distance, and waited for one of them to say something or do to break the weight of sixty centuries.
“Night, angel.” Crowley took in a breath, as if gathering courage, and Aziraphale froze, hand on the door, waiting for the words. “Walk you to the door?"
It was on the tip of Aziraphale’s tongue to say something snippety about being an angel with full enough powers that he could walk a few metres to his own door in perfect safety. Fortunately, he had given himself a firm enough talking to the night before about self-sabotage that he swallowed the words. “Please,” he said instead, and he could feel how shy his smile was, as if this was some kind of stranger.
Crowley’s smile wasn’t shy at all, it was relieved and radiant, and really this was ridiculous, but Aziraphale’s own smile increased anyway. “Good. I have something important to ask you.”
He made a nervous show of unlocking the door. It was late, but he didn’t sleep and Crowley didn’t need to and there was absolutely no reason not to invite him in. Instead he turned in the doorway, door unlocked but still closed, and Crowley was standing very close, looking at him with such a deep, fascinated, snake-like stare that he dropped the keys.
Crowley bent and picked them up, pressing them into his hand, his cool skin whispering over Aziraphale’s own.
“Thank you, dear boy,” Aziraphale said, and then because he was embarrassed, asked, “What was it you wanted to ask me?"
“Oh. Yeah.” Crowley shuffled his feet, looking surprisingly boyish. “Come to New York with me tomorrow?"
Aziraphale blinked. “Why?"
“To see how Warlock is doing,” Crowley said, as if that was obvious.
“Warlock?” He blinked again, and Crowley looked annoyed.
“Yeah, Warlock. Remember him? We raised him for eleven years, or did you forget about him the moment you saw Adam Young? I know Warlock isn’t the Antichrist or anything, but that should be an advantage from your point of view. Don’t you care how he is doing after being dragged off to Megiddo?” Crowley was definitely looking nasty now, absolutely like a pissed-off demon, and the whole thing was going so differently to how Aziraphale expected that he didn’t quite know how to respond.
Unfortunately what came out of his mouth was, “You were the one who suggested killing the boy."
“It wasn’t personal.” Crowley took off his dark glasses, apparently the better to glare at him. “He’s still our kid."
“B-but, Crowley, he’s not our kid,” Aziraphale said helplessly, wondering if Crowley was going insane or if he was.
“You’re a terrible father for an angel,” Crowley said, accusingly. “I’m a demon, and I make a far better mother."
“We’re not his parents! Warlock has two perfectly good parents of his own!"
“Fine!"
They glared at each other for a moment, still crammed together in the doorframe. Then Crowley leaned forward suddenly, and dropped a kiss on Aziraphale’s cheek, a hairsbreadth from the corner of his mouth, and swung back to the car before Aziraphale could react.
“Pick you up at lunchtime,” he said. “The plane tickets are booked for the evening.” He opened the car door and slid inside
“I don’t believe you. You never book anything,” Aziraphale called after him, hearing his laughter as the door slammed.
Aziraphale pushed open the door, feeling ridiculously flustered, and as if the cool touch of lips on his cheek had somehow burned him with hellfire. He felt like he’d lost some kind of battle, somehow.
“Oh, Lord."
“Don’t blaspheme,” said Crowley sternly, readjusting the fit of a black skirt over slim thighs. “You don’t want Warlock not recognising his Nanny.” He sent Aziraphale a stern glare over the top of his glasses. “He’ll have no idea who you are at all."
“I’ll change in New York, if you insist. Besides, I thought you’d decided you’re his mother, not his Nanny."
Crowley ignored that, and sniffed. “Perhaps it’s for the best, if we’re travelling in first class. You’re not the only one with standards."
Aziraphale trailed after the dark figure to the car, aware he had allowed himself to be caught off-foot again, and determined to regain his balance. One of Crowley’s stockings was crooked, and even Aziraphale knew that seamed stockings were not that all that common these days. Crowley was deliberately being provocative so that Aziraphale would be overcome by the need to tidy up and fuss over stockinged legs. He was not falling into that trap.
He stared at the sashaying hips and wondered if Crowley had bothered to change bodily configuration this time, and then why he cared. He slammed his door with rather too much vehemence.
“You,” said Crowley, “are a heartless angel, and always have been. At least for centuries."
“Nonsense. I am a soldier of love. May I remind you that the last time we saw that child, he was attempting to blast you away with a very real gun?"
“Was he? I thought it was a water pistol."
Aziraphale rolled his eyes.
“Oh,” said Crowley, thoughtfully. “That was you? I suppose I should thank you."
“Go on, then."
“Later.” The Bentley roared into life. “Anyway, I’m sure he didn’t mean any real harm. Just a bright and mischievous spirit. He takes after his mother."
“She’s a very nice lady—"
“Me."
Aziraphale sulked—no, maintained a dignified semi-silence—all the way to Heathrow, even through a rather delicious lunch at a pub. It didn’t help his temper that Crowley insisted on making a spectacle of them by pouring the tea and fussing over him like a housewife from a fifties sitcom. People kept giving them fond looks. They probably wouldn’t be as approving if they realised Crowley had just given the impression of paying without actually doing so. Aziraphale was in a petty and unangelic enough mood to let Crowley get away with it, although he did make sure to tip generously himself.
They arrived a quarter of an hour after the plane was supposed to leave, but Crowley didn’t worry about things like that. The plane would leave when they were good and ready. Aziraphale passed his bags to the concierge service, and the demon disappeared in the direction of the loos. When he returned he was in jeans and a half buttoned shirt over a slightly hairy chest again, although his mouth was still red with lipstick, hair caught up in a tight bun.
“Stockings and tight skirts are Hell to travel in,” he explained. “I should know.” Aziraphale refrained from asking him what the point of wearing them to the airport at all was then.
Somehow Crowley managed to get through the formalities without any staff, fixed by the demon’s cold gaze, remembering to ask for sunglasses to be removed. Aziraphale changed into a comfortable cardigan and slippers and ignored Crowley’s rolled eyes. He sank into the seat he was ushered to on the plane with a sigh of relief. He wasn’t keen on planes at the best of times. They seemed an inconvenient way to fly, and part of his mind still associated them with bombs and young men shooting each other to shreds. Crowley loved them almost as much as he loved cars, and was looking happily around, fiddling with gadgets.
The dividing wall was pulled down between their adjoining suites, but Aziraphale was secretly disappointed to realise their armchairs were a long way apart, too far for easy conversation. Still, he had a carry-on full of books, and he was sure Crowley would have enough mindless electronic entertainment to be going on with. There would be plenty of quality alcohol to amuse them both, too. Aziraphale picked up the menu, and busied himself with pretending that the whole tedious taking off process wasn’t going to happen.
He was well into his third glass of champagne and a book on experimental physics when Crowley had the beds made up. They were technically single beds, but bedding covered the lowered dividing wall to make a double bed of kind. Crowley arranged oversized pillows against the wall on both sides, removed his glasses, cast his lean form on the bed, and patted the other side.
“At least come here. This is too much like drinking alone, and that’s pitiful."
Aziraphale peered at him over the top of his reading glasses, and Crowley sighed, letting his hair down in soft ginger waves. “Look, I’m not asking you to join the mile high club, just be companionable. Bring your book and your bottle."
Aziraphale could think of no good reason to refuse, and protesting would draw attention to his sudden furious blushing. He was somewhat lonely anyway, so he obeyed.
There was a small teddy bear on his side of the bed, and he carefully removed it and put it on the nightstand.
“See you got the boy one. They gave me the girl, just because I’m wearing makeup.”
Aziraphale declined to point out that Crowley probably had been a girl, or at least a mature female-presenting demon, only a few hours ago. The demon was glaring balefully at the bow on his teddy bear’s head, and Aziraphale deftly rescued it before it could suffer a violent fate that might set off the smoke alarms. He carefully settled it next to its partner and swung his legs up onto the bed.
“That’s better, we can talk properly now,” said Crowley with satisfaction, and promptly went to sleep.
Aziraphale sighed, settled back on his pillows, and went back to his book. Demons were such unaccountable creatures.
It was a couple of hours before he heard Crowley mutter in his sleep and turn over, sprawling horizontally across the bed.
“Bad dreams, my dear?” Aziraphale asked softly, aware of the theory if not the experience. If anyone was going to have nightmares, it was probably one of the Fallen. Crowley grunted and rolled again, pillowing his head against Aziraphale’s hip and flinging an arm over his thigh. That seemed to relax him, and he murmured again and relaxed, arm wound around Aziraphale’s thigh.
Aziraphale sat still for a moment, trying to work out the situation.
“If you get lipstick stains on my favourite trousers, you’re responsible for the miracle cleaning,” he said, carefully watching Crowley’s face. There was no answering twitch of the lips or eyelids, so it seemed he really was asleep.
Right. He waited a while until he was sure Crowley was deep under, then carefully lifted the clinging arm and eased himself out from under it.
He hesitated a moment, then picked up both teddy bears and, moving very slowly and carefully, put them under Crowley’s arm. The demon muttered again and then, to Aziraphale’s malicious delight, hugged them tightly in his sleep.
Aziraphale clipped the seatbelt across Crowley’s waist and very slowly rose to his feet, and padded across to his chair.
“Aziraphale,” Crowley breathed.
He froze at the soft voice.
“G’night, angel,” Crowley whispered, and Aziraphale relaxed. For a moment he’d thought—but that was stupid.
“Sleep well, my dear,” he said and started the next chapter.