Chapter Text
The morning light begins to softly peak through the curtains around the bookshop. It appears intrusive to the two within, despite neither exactly needing sleep. Crowley stretches out on his spot on the couch, bone cracking as he elongates himself. Aziraphale stands with a smile, rounding the corner of the room to where he keeps his stove. He leans back around the frame with a frown.
“This, still, does not mean we are partners. Sometimes you have to . . . work tog-”
“Yeah yeah, Angel. You give a similar speech everytime. Would you like to reiterate the terms of the agreement
again
, or can we move on?” Crolwey’s proud grin is met with a look of disdain, but both fade into a sense of ease in mere seconds. “Now, these people you hold
oh so dearly
close to you. They stage protests and such because they are against the war. Why are they against the war?”
“It is
evil
Crowley. They are fighting for land, not rights or freedom. It is a war of greed!” Aziraphale calls out from wherever he has gotten off to.
“Right, right, but what’s wrong with taking some land?”
“Innocents are dying!” A puff of white hair appears around the corner, there is worry in the eyes below it. “Can’t you understand the problem?”
“I suppose, it all seems so frivolous .”
“Well you started it, didn’t you? The very least, helped make it spread to other countries.” The angel disappears in a mumble, probably complaining again. Crowley mumbles back, or more to himself, rather. All he had done for the war was anger a few people in a diner about it.
When the angel returns, he has two cups. A white mug of hot chocolate and a whiskey glass of, well, whiskey. He sits up to take the cool glass from him, wasting no time to finish it. “What are we to do, then?” Aziraphale is quiet again, as if his words are destructive and the room is fragile.
“Well, I suppose you can’t just stop showing up. You have to convince them you are no longer interested . . . or make them no longer interested in you.”
“Hmm, the latter may have the best consequences. I don’t want to go against my words, especially because I am not against them. What about me could we possibly make uninteresting to them? Arlo is very persistent in making sure I feel included. He even had me speak in front of-”
“Wait, Arlo? You have
friends
in these people, they have names?”
White eyebrows furrow together as his head tilts, “You know the name of your dancers, do you not? What is so different?” Crowley shrugs, accepting that the angel is right. It was simply unexpected. “How is the lovely bartender, Merci, anyway? I had such a lovely time speaking with them.” Crowley can only think of the teasing and mocking attitude they exhibited. Not to Aziraphale (that he knew), but
about
him after he left. His reddening face revealed his thoughts are not simple.
“Merci is more than fine , trust me. They try their best to . . . keep me entertained.” The demon clears his throat before moving on. “Regardless, we are here to talk about your issues. When are you supposed to see anyone again?”
“Well, as long as no one comes over uninvited again, not until tomorrow night.”
—-----
Jaxx is waiting at the door when Crowley walks in the next night. She was out for two days on a break, but she doesn’t look well rested. She is still kind enough, or maybe she cares enough, to send Crowley a smile before she starts talking.
“How is the loverboy? I’m assuming you visited?” Crowley rolls his eyes as he keeps walking, heading towards the changing rooms.
“What do you need, Jackie?” He receives a small frown at the use of a proper name, but it’s quickly brushed off.
“Marlene isn’t coming in anymore, caught a flu or something. We have-”
“I already knew that, the spot is covered.” There is a long pause as both stop walking. Jaxx stares at the man in front of her.
“I only counted seven in the back room, though?”
Crowley starts walking as the words leave his mouth, “I haven’t made it there yet, have I? Hard to count me when I’m not here.” Jaxx is frozen for another second before she can be heard quietly clapping in excitement. She makes it back in the room before the boss, he is met with small cheers and giggles. “I’m not messing around tonight, I still want all of you to perform as well as usual.”
“Wait, but . . .” Raphael speaks up from the corner. He has a red, pleather bodysuit on and a pair of demon horns on his head. He’s matching a girl in the back, dressed like an angel, for their set. “I thought Marlene only had the background, trio part? Are you moving us around?”
“Are you kidding?” Crowley smiles wide, leaning against one of the walls. “I want nothing more than for my dancers to have the spotlight. I’ll be fine in the back.”
. . .
And fine he was, though he did make a few extra dollars from patrons. While Crowley had a way of making himself appear younger, thinner, prettier; however, he couldn’t compare himself to the younger ones in the club. A few requested him at their tables, like his fiery red hair. He gave them low-contact dancers or massages, but tried his best to stay out of the way of his staff. He didn’t need the money like they did. Nor the attention, at least not from the clientele.
Before long, Crowley is caught up in talking and fixing costumes that he loses track of time.
“Hey, didn’t you say you needed to leave by midnight, Cinderella? It’s almost a quarter after.” Merci pops into the backroom, staring between their watch and Crowley’s face.
“Oh, shit! You guys have a good night, stay safe.” As Crowley leaves the room, he grabs his coat and keys. Merci tails him as he goes room to room for each thing.
“What a mess you are, big plans with the angel tonight?” They snicker as Crowley glares, receiving a warning from him, “I knew it. Be safe, wear protec-” The demon scowls as he covers Merci’s mouth.
—-----
Soon enough, Crowley is walking into the bookshop. No knock, no greeting. The little bell gives away his entrance, though.
“Crowley, I do hope that is you . . .” Aziraphale rounds a corner, he is carrying a stack of books with a look of pale worry. All color returns with the addition of a smile when he sees the demon. “You are a few minutes late, you know.”
“I try to keep my business open, unlike yourself. I was working tonight, as well.” Crowley shed his coat, still wearing his stage costume. He notices how Aziraphale is wide-eyed, those his pupils are now trained on the stack of books in his hands. “I hope you don’t mind, I didn’t have time to change.” There is a sly smile on his face, but they both know Crowley would leave to change if asked.
“No, if you are comfortable in that, I do not mind . . .” He turns back around, taking the stacks of books to a half-emptied shelf.
“What are you doing, rearranging all over again?”
“Yes, well. I kept coming over to this shelf for my philosophies, but they are on the other side of this room. So I’m switching them since my brain cannot seem to figure it out.” Crowley, while the angel was talking, had inched closer to see clearly what was being moved. Due to his heels, he had to be an extra five or six inches. They clinked across the floor in an echo – like bells ringing in a church.
Aziraphale sets the books down onto the ground and dusts himself off. The bare skin of Crowley’s hips sets off his cool again. He has very low, metallic-y and black flared pants that mostly cover the heels. His “shirt” barely covers anything; a deep V, cropped above his sternum, but at least the back is closed. There is a small flare of a collar on the gold top that elevates the look in total. But there could be nothing to imagine with how tight it all sits. Crowley’s long, wavy hair sits well framed around his face, too.
“Aziraphale?”
“Hmm, yes?”
“You were staring was all. Not used to seeing so much skin?” He steps a bit closer, still selling himself like he would at Mephisto’s. “Angel.”
“Arlo will be here soon enough,” He rushes out, peaking around the other man. “Did you have a plan to get him to go away yet?” Crowley nods, passing the shorter man to grab a bottle of wine from the back. It took him longer than he’d like to admit to find the location. His exploration a few weeks back didn’t reach the liquor cabinet,
“Drink up.”
“Wine?”
“Thought you were trusting me, hm?” Crowley ignores the response he gets, knowing it has to be about ‘angel v.s. demon’ of some sort. He slips his hands under Aziraphale’s suit jacket, attempting to remove it. The angel doesn’t move, neither away nor in assistance.
His mouth moves, first wordlessly before he can get anything out, “Crowley?!”
“Calm down, I need your jacket to make this more convincing.” He pulls it off the other being, leaning closer to ease it off. He stares at his hands in his own fear, swallowing hard as he pulls away. Once the tan garment is wrapped around him, he takes the bottle of wine back and stomachs a large gulp all in a single, swift movement. Aziraphale follows suit with a notable look, in the dark of assumptions that will be made for the night.
Crowley snaps, allowing music to fill the room. The voice is not familiar to the bookseller, not one of his records (though it would appear to be playing from his vinyl player). It was much too heavy, too modern. Crowley hums along as his hands unbutton the vest of the plump cherub, being allowed to remove it all the same. The demon pulls the tucked in shirt out from the pants holding them, going to the bowtie to undo it. “Just these four buttons, nothing more . . .” He prompts as he leaves the angel disheveled. He messes up the white hair a little before nodding to himself.
“What is your plan, Crowley?”
“Debauchery, mostly.” He shrugs with a smile, buttoning the jacket closed. Despite their proportions, the jacket sits at a similar place on his wire framed body. It ends just half of his thighs, allowing him to remove his pants without exposing himself.
“Crow-Crowley?!” The ‘holy’ one gapes as the demon undresses himself.
“I said debauchery!” He chuckles at the other’s face, throwing his pants out onto the floor with the rest of the clothes. “It’s only my pants, I still have coverage. Listen, it’s part of the plan.”
Crowley can not say he is in the right frame of mind, even before he arrived at the bookstore. Working as he does allows, maybe even silently requires, inebriation of some kind. His preferred poison has always been a strong whiskey, but that doesn’t stop him from branching out. Guests always brought their own fun along.
Comfortability
thrives
in inhibition. Crowley believes they’re synonymous, at the very least.