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The day before Valentine's Day
Crowley's flat
The trendy part of town

Crowley and Aziraphale were grumbling, somewhat good-heartedly, morewhat drunkenly. Dinner had turned into drinks, which turned swiftly into the pair of supernatural entities being unceremoniously ushered out, having quite forgotten that they had only to expect the restaurant to stay open all night for it stay warm and welcoming till dawn, or till the appeal of having jelloid limbs and a tendency to lean all over each other wore off.

"How clean," Aziraphale hiccupped, and Crowley scowled. The angel said this, disapprovingly, most every time he set foot in the stylish apartment. Which wasn't very often, but still, a demon knows when he's being slighted.

Crowley threw his coat over the shoe rack (full of identical, expensive and slightly snake-like dress shoes) and promptly tripped onto the couch. He landed with a dignified flutter. Aziraphale squinted, reminded, as he often was, of a very slick, gangly cat.

"Yeah, well," Crowley spread out his limbs, satisfied sigh only furthering Aziraphale's drunken assessment. "We can't all be hoar...hoard..."

"I beg your pardon."

"Hoarders," Crowley managed, looking pleased with himself.

Aziraphale joined him on the sofa, pleased when the demon allowed him to squeeze into the small space beside him. Crowley's head began to loll on his shoulder, a nice sort of warm, Aziraphale thought, and began petting the dark hair absently.

If Crowley thought this was anything less than very pleasant, he was doing a very bad job of showing it. His yellow eyes closed and a low hum emitted from somewhere deep inside him.

"But you are ever so attack...attacked...attached to some things, my dear," Aziraphale said smugly.

"Yeah?" Crowley managed to raise his eyebrows without actually opening them. "Name" His lips pulled into a thin line then, as if immediately aware of the free-for-all he'd just given the angel. He opened his eyes and sat up to look at his companion. "No - "

"That drawing," said Aziraphale happily, pointing to the one-of-a-kind mysteriously-acquired da Vinci portrait on the otherwise plain walls, "the Bentley," he continued.

"Noo," Crowley scrubbed his face with his hands, "come on, angel," he groaned.

Aziraphale closed the distance recently discovered between them, whispering in a hushed, conspirative tone. "Plants?"

"Nu-uh," Crowley pointed his own finger in his friends general direction, "Nope," he popped the P excessively."


"Plants. Not attacked. Attached."

"Right-o," Aziraphale nodded like someone who no longer knows what they are agreeing to, but is keen to participate all the same. He grinned suddenly, and leaned in so close he got a mouthful of Crowley-hair. "I've got one."

Crowley giggled, then stifled it on Aziraphale's knit-clad shoulder. "Go on then, angel, go on," he smirked, less meanly than he would have liked.

Aziraphale leaned back on the arm of the sofa, and the room span vaguely above him. He pointed at his own chest and raised a well-groomed eyebrow. "Y know."

Crowley blinked for a moment, feeling exposed and a little bit warm inside. "Nah," he postured, "I nuh...know you've had that jumper sssince the Beatles, but truly angel," he hiccupped, "I could live without it."

"Obtuse!" Aziraphale moaned to no one, smacking one soft hand to his head dramatically. Then, quieter, "Beatles?"

Crowley gave him a significant look, going for incredulous, but managing fond. "That's me," he settled on. "Anyway, the Bentley doesssn't count. It's only One and your bloody...tatty papers," he smiled at the blow, glad for his alcohol-fuelled invincibility. "That's ripe for an insensitive BBC three documentary, that is."

Aziraphale gaped at him. "TATTY papers? Low, low, low...very low." he muttered, "tatty papers..." he propped himself up on an unwilling arm. "Well, what about..." Aziraphale looked around with unfocused eyes. "A-ha!" he cried.

"Bloody hell," Crowley covered his ears. "What, did you crack the Beatles reference?"

Aziraphale had pushed himself off the couch and was crouching over the sleek glass coffee table (which had, of course, never seen a cup of coffee yet). "What's this?" he demanded, "more 'meaningless' tat for Crowley's unsentimental memory box?" Aziraphale smiled triumphantly at his discovery, then back at Crowley, then back again, apparently enjoying both equally.

"Nngg..." said Crowley.

The statue. Shit. He could see the gears turning very fast in Aziraphale's head. Finally, " was very expensssive, and I ssstole it so..." As if that explained the naked embrace of the decorative winged-beings prominently displayed in his home.

Aziraphale seemed very sober all of a sudden, and Crowley rushed to follow him there, unwilling to be at a disadvantage as the angel dissolved into floods of laughter.

"What exactly are they doing?" Aziraphale managed, before having to stop to wipe a stray tear from his eye.

"Wrestling!" Crowley said, a little too defensively. "It's good vs. evil, you know, evil triumphing - " Aziraphale choked a little, "- you're being very immature about this, you know." Crowley scolded. He couldn't help feeling like he was missing something (a very uncomfortable feeling for the demon, who liked to think of himself as the funny one in this relationship) and he bristled under the peels of angelic laughter (as in, literally angelic, he sounded like a goat).

"Oh is that what evil's doing?"

Crowley spluttered. "Aziraphale!"

The angel held his hands up in mock surrender, "I'm sorry, my dear. It's just...wait, is this US?" now it was Aziraphale's turn to splutter.

"Wh - No! What? No, G - for someone's sake, it's just ART."

"This one looks like you," Aziraphale said.

Crowley's face went red. The truth was, he'd thought it was quite subtle. The angel would never make the connection, and he, certainly, Crowley had thought, wouldn't find anything untoward in it. For Someone's sake! He was the definition of prim, he thought Tinder was a badge one received at girl guides! (Rather than a rather evil and ingenious idea of Crowley's).

"Ah, yes, and that's me. Gosh, wasn't I slim." Aziraphale was now scrutinising the two warring angels (fallen and otherwise) so closely - and with an intensity reserved usually for only the tattiest of papers - that Crowley felt himself getting hot under the collar. He pulled at the black, silk fabric conspicuously.

"Is this how you see our relationship?" Aziraphale asked innocently.

Crowley tried to glare.

Aziraphale looked at it again. "You're on top."

"Oh My Go- come on!"

Aziraphale covered his mouth. "I just thought, if they were trying for historical accuracy..."

"Oh, settle down!" Crowley ran a harried hand through his hair, resisting the urge to pull it, and ignoring that last comment entirely, thank you very much. "It's not us! It's symbolic! Bloody Biblical!" he tried, as a last resort, to appeal to Aziraphale's supposed base nature.

Unfortunately, Aziraphale's true base nature was coming through a little stronger than the job-funded one.
"Biblical!" he cried, "dear boy, you're killing me."

"Go on then, what's the joke?" Crowley demanded. "What's so bloody funny?"

Aziraphale bit his bottom lip to stifle his mirth. "Apologies, my dear. It is a fine piece of art. I just don't remember that part making the final cut."

If Crowley was red-faced before, now he was beetroot. ", what?"

Aziraphale climbed back up beside his oldest (and possibly only) friend. He moved his fingers from his own mouth to touch Crowley's, briefly. "And, what's more, if such a Bible were to exist...well, there is no book I would covet so fiercely."

Crowley's hands felt like airy lead. His head wasn't faring much better. Ah. So they were going there.

"Things were different in those days," was all he could think to say.

"Yes..." Aziraphale allowed, "and no."


"Wrestling is still on the table."

"G-God, Aziraphale," Crowley stammered, "you can't just say things like that."

"Why ever not?" the angel asked. He was calmly removing his unnecessary glasses, and Crowley's borrowed heart was doing some form of gymnastics.

"It sounds like you mean..."

Aziraphale kissed him.

Neither of them cared, but it had just turned Valentine's day.