Chapter Text
It certainly hadn't escaped Aziraphale's notice that over the years Crowley has helped him out of a number of awkward situations. That he's always had the ability to show up whenever Aziraphale is feeling particularly lonely, or overwhelmed, or celebratory, to take him out for drinks, or entertainment, or a satisfying meal, so he can vent his frustrations or share his good fortune, or to simply enjoy each other's company. In fact, Crowley has been a constant source of support, even when Aziraphale wasn't aware that he needed it, even when he rebuffed it. Long before they were allowed to admit how much they truly meant to each other, Crowley had been showing it repeatedly, for years, expecting nothing in return.
Crowley has been, it has to be said, a much better friend than Aziraphale deserved.
It's a fact that's been weighing on him heavily, and since the failed Armageddon he's been trying desperately to think of some way to make it up to him. Or perhaps, now they're free to spend as much time together as they like, a variety of small ways he can make it up to him, to show that he cares deeply for him in return. Crowley doesn't make it easy, of course, he's very independent, and often secretive, and he refuses to admit when he needs help. Not to mention he views acts of kindness and unexpected gifts with deep suspicion.
Aziraphale has been mostly frustrated as to where to start.
Until one morning Crowley had complained, over a particularly good carrot cake, that since he'd left Hell's employ he'd found it hard to shake the amorous attentions of both those he'd tempted before, and those familiar enough with his human identity that they assumed he would be open to what he termed 'bloody aggressive flirtation.'
Aziraphale had actually been witness to several of these instances recently. If Crowley wasn't concentrating on remaining unnoticed, strange men and women would regularly encroach on the demon's personal space, to insist that he take their phone number, or join them at parties - or, if they were feeling particularly bold, to proposition him outright.
Quite aside from the rudeness of such interruptions, Aziraphale has also found himself personally irritated by how little it seems to matter to them that Crowley is currently socially engaged with him.
Crowley has admitted that he finds using miracles to send them all on their way wasteful. 'How many times do I have to say no? It's not like they even count on my quota any more, since I'm no longer an agent of Hell,' he'd grumbled while stabbing the crumbly, deliciously moist cake in a way that it really hadn't deserved.
Aziraphale had felt duty bound to help him, and had put his rather considerable brain to the challenge.
Two weeks later he invites Crowley out for lunch. It really is an invitation as well, properly handwritten on stiff card, and miracled straight to his flat in Mayfair.
He takes a seat in the rather delightful restaurant he's discovered just recently, it's situated next to a florist and he thinks Crowley might appreciate that. The gift he'd chosen is tucked carefully into his jacket pocket. He doesn't get to buy things for the demon very often, and it seems like they should make an occasion out of it.
Crowley arrives ten minutes early, and Aziraphale can't help but be pleased at the suggestion that he might be eager for his company. The demon slips in opposite him, long legs stretched out just on the edge of blocking an aisle.
"I got your invitation. Special occasion, is it? You kind of look like you're up to something?" There's a crooked half-smile to go with the words, a gentle rise of eyebrows, teasing and comfortable, which warms Aziraphale inside.
"I've no idea what you mean," Aziraphale tells him, though he is smiling rather hard, which seems to convince Crowley that whatever it is can wait until he's ready to share.
Aziraphale decides on the soup, and a warm, crunchy baguette with fresh butter. Crowley decides on coffee, leaving him space to lean and watch Aziraphale eat while they discuss the food, sea travel, whether cats can be trusted, and then the likelihood of future architects re-designing modern classics. A waitress returns once Aziraphale has finished to bring them tea, more coffee, and two pieces of caramel shortbread.
Crowley is still regarding him suspiciously every so often, likely because Aziraphale can't quite hide how excited he is about the prospect of pleasing Crowley with a gift once they've finished. But then there are only crumbs and half a cup of his tea left, and no more excuses.
Aziraphale wipes his mouth with a napkin and clears his throat.
"Yes, well, I took it upon myself to - I do hope you won't be cross with me. It took me quite a while to - but it seemed so obvious once I thought of it." He gives up on trying to explain, because it's clearly going terribly. "It'll be easier if I just show you." He pulls the box he'd carefully acquired out of his pocket. They'd insisted on putting it in a box, traditional he supposes, considering the sort of ring it is. He'd chosen the black velvet one immediately, with a smile and a noise of satisfaction, Crowley would have insisted on it, he was sure of it.
He turns the box on the white tablecloth and dramatically pops it open with a smile.
Crowley's spoon hits his cup with a sharp clank.
Aziraphale had indeed spent quite a while, a few days - a week really - looking for something that he thought Crowley would like, something that would compliment the style he normally favoured, something that he'd be willing to wear. It would have to be believable after all, if it was to be used as a ruse. He'd finally chosen something in titanium, with curving black lines that twisted into each other, in a way he can't help but think is rather serpentine. It had seemed so perfect for Crowley that Aziraphale had bought it on the spot.
It's definitely striking, sitting there tucked in the white interior. The black and the silver both seem to catch the light, and he can see it reflected perfectly in Crowley's glasses.
"I do hope you like it," he says nervously. It had needed to be striking, of course, so people noticed it. That was its purpose after all, to give Crowley something to quickly fend off the amorous intentions of others. But it also had to be striking because Crowley himself was always so very present, so vivid, how could anything Aziraphale bought for him be anything less?
Crowley has gone very still, and though his eyes are hidden, the position of his head suggests that he's staring at where Aziraphale's fidgeting hands are currently curled around the box, rather than at his slightly nervous face. There's a spill of coffee on the white tablecloth that's spreading slowly.
"Ngk."
"I tried so very hard to find something you'd like," Aziraphale admits. "You can be so particular about what you wear, and I buy things for you so rarely. You so rarely let me do things for you."
"Aziraphale." Crowley's voice sounds oddly thick, as if his caramel shortbread hadn't gone down quite right. Really, how many times does he have to remind him to chew his food?
"It is alright, isn't it?" Aziraphale presses. "I'd hate for you to wear something you dislike."
"No, I - I love it," Crowley says, sounding like someone has squeezed all the air out of his body, and Aziraphale can't help but smile at him, terribly pleased, because he's usually so resistant to admit things like that. As if liking things is a weakness to be exploited.
"Oh, I'm so happy, I know how you're always so reluctant to be honest when you like something. I was so worried. Oh, may I?" Aziraphale holds a hand out, makes a 'give me one of yours' gesture, because though he's absolutely certain it will fit it's always best to make sure.
Crowley puts his cup down rather more harshly than is good for it, splashing more coffee on the table in the process. He swallows, thickly, and slides his pale, long-fingered hand across the table. It's shaking a little, and honestly this is why Aziraphale keeps insisting that he wear a proper jacket. He's never been very good at keeping his corporation's temperature up.
It's so nice to be able to touch him, Crowley so rarely allows them this sort of intimacy, he's always so carefully contained, and Aziraphale can't help but congratulate himself on finding an excuse that lets him grasp the demon's hand.
Aziraphale plucks the ring from the box, finds the appropriate finger and slides it down slowly, before reluctantly releasing him.
"There we are, perfect," he says happily, because it's a perfect fit, as he knew it would be.
Crowley stares at it, swallowing like he's trying to remember how to speak, fingers opening and then shutting, in a way that seems to be making himself get used to the way it feels. And then his mouth slowly stretches into a very rare, and slightly awkward, full smile.
Aziraphale is pleased beyond measure, this has gone so much better than he'd hoped.
"Well, I thought if you had a ring on the appropriate hand it would give you the perfect excuse," he reasons.
The smile folds down, becomes a confused frown.
"An excuse?" Crowley says, eyebrows slowly pulling together over his glasses, his voice seems to come from a long way away.
"Yes, a way to deflect amorous attention without forcing you to explain yourself, or make up any excuses. You said the other day that it was bothering you terribly. I thought on it a bit and decided this would be the perfect way to provide you with the means to politely refuse, when people make themselves available to you, or harass you with their numbers and so forth. I know you find it terribly annoying, the constant interruptions, the attention. So I acquired you - well armour if you like, to deflect it." Aziraphale smiles, because that was a much better explanation.
"Amorous attention, right, of course," Crowley manages, words oddly forced out.
"Oh dear, your shortbread really did go down the wrong way didn't it?" Aziraphale leans in a little, in case he requires a sharp pat on the back.
"Yes, that's it, too much shortbread," Crowley says, voice oddly scratchy and cracked. His mouth is twisting sharply down at the edges, until he seems to forcibly straighten it. "Capital idea, very convincing, well done."
"Really? I'm so happy, truly. I was worried that I'd overstepped, choosing something for you. But I never get to buy you things, when you're always finding things for me and they're always so well thought out and perfect. You know me so well, my dear, and I've felt so awful about the fact that I've never really given you anything, never taken you anywhere." Aziraphale was hoping Crowley's face would have given him some indication as to what the demon thinks about all this, but his expression is oddly stiff now, he almost looks pained. Aziraphale forges on hopefully. "I feel like you're constantly surprising me with gifts and invitations. And I've never been very good at that, but I'm going to do better. And I hope that when I invite you out somewhere that it's something you'd say yes to. I wanted so badly to hear you say yes, Crowley."
Crowley makes a broken sort of noise, and abruptly looks at his watch.
"Oh, would you look at the time, I quite forgot that I have a thing - I should go, promised someone something, and then completely forgot." His chair scrapes back as he pushes himself jerkily to his feet, unsteady as if he'd briefly forgotten how to walk.
"Crowley, you haven't even finished your coffee?" Aziraphale protests.
"You can have it," Crowley says, straightening abruptly and shoving both hands in his pockets, the left one taking three tries to cram itself in there. Which seems to throw him a little. "I'll, ah, see you around, angel. Thanks for the - ngk - for the present."
Crowley is gone, before Aziraphale can push himself to his feet. He stops the motion half way through and sinks back into his seat, heavy with disappointment and more than a little hurt. Crowley had seemed so genuinely happy with his gift, but he'd clearly done something wrong. Made some sort of mistake that had left the demon uncomfortable.
"And he knows I don't like coffee," he mutters.