Contrary to popular belief, Aziraphale did own a modern mobile phone and did see fit to use it on occasion. (Whenever he remembered where the charging cord was, which was perhaps once or twice a year at best. It kept getting lost behind piles of shuffled books.) Anyway, the point was that he had possessed a mobile for several years, and was trying to use it more often, for the sake of others around him, if not his own.
By contrast, Crowley had kept his personal mobile with him at all times since approximately 1985, though now he seemed to use it mainly for causing mischief and playing loud flashy games involving miniature cupcakes. Both activities had got him commendations from Down Below, although in truth he couldn’t take credit for the cupcakes. That idea was apparently all human, and had shaped up to be the most delightful thing any human had ever done for Crowley personally. Or perhaps the worst. Difficult to tell when the demon was growling CUPCAKE MATCH, DAMN YOU! at his little screen, before throwing his phone out the window of the bookshop or threatening to dunk it into the Thames. His brow got rather furrowed and his mouth made that adorable little slash at the corner whenever someone beat his personal high score.
Aziraphale was thinking fondly about this and eating the most scrumptious sandwich for lunch when his mobile buzzed with a new message.
had lunch yet, angel?
Daydreaming a bit, Aziraphale used a minor miracle to type out a reply without needing to put down his sandwich or pick up the mobile. So convenient and helpful. Like voice commands without the sender actually needing to speak aloud.
Fortunately or not, I am eating a rather delightful sandwich right now.
Of course, you are free to join me.
Hm. A bit of juice from a ripe tomato slice spurted from the corner of his mouth, causing Aziraphale to laugh and touch his fingers to his lips as the phone dinged again.
could stop by with coffee or something?
Hm. Coffee did sound nice. Not as nice as other things Aziraphale could imagine, and nowhere near as delicious, but still a lovely gesture all the same.
He got a bit distracted by the second train of thought. Yes, Crowley would taste so much better than this sandwich. He’d taste wonderful, like the smoky caramel of a creme brulee…oh! How thrilling it would be, mapping Crowley’s lovely long hands and adorable pink mouth….
Aziraphale sighed deeply, shook his head to clear it of any wool-gathering, and returned to his lunch. Best not go down that path when the demon would be here at any moment.
Coffee sounds delicious, thank you.
Not as delicious as your tongue in my mouth and your hand on my cock.
You would taste like a creme brulee.
“Ngk.” For the last five minutes, Crowley had been staring at his mobile screen, slack-jawed and unmoving, getting shoulder-checked on the pavement by half the people in Oxford Circus and not caring one bloody bit. “Hnnn.”
Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh FUCK, screamed his inner voice, since the normal one seemed to have shut right the fuck down. Wh — for Sssomeone’s — Azzziraphale —
He read the text again, first with his glasses on, then shoved them up onto his head in case they were completely blinding him and he’d become illiterate or dyslexic or whatever the other thing was when you read something wrong because your brain stopped working. What the heaven was that, anyway? Dys…dys...brain... hnnng.
Your hand on my cock.
Aziraphale’s cock, oh, fuck, sssstop thinking about that, how hot and hard and perfect it would be. Can’t have been from the angel. Can’t.
“Sssomeone ssstole hisssss phone?” Crowley hissed this to no one in particular, although the teenage girl who clonked him in the ribs with her manga-themed purse seemed sympathetic as she met his horrified gaze.
“Sucks for you, mate.”
The man who hit him in the funnybone with a bowling bag thirty seconds later was less sympathetic, and told Crowley to fuck off from the middle of the pavement in no uncertain terms. Just for that, Crowley loosened one of the seams on the bottom, and felt a vague surge of pride when he heard the yelp of shock from the crosswalk.
Still needed to see the angel, though.
Who’d clearly had his phone stolen and definitely wasn’t sending hot texts to Crowley about what he tasted like because otherwise Crowley might discorporate on the spot, oh, god, was he panting now, he must look like a complete naffing idiot, FOR SATAN’S SAKE, WHAT IN HEAVEN IN WRONG WITH YOU, PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER RIGHT NOW AND STOP SWEATING, YOU STUPID BLESSED —
“Ngk,” was all that emerged from Crowley’s mouth before he snapped his fingers, and disappeared from the pavement.
Twenty minutes later, and still no sign of Crowley.
Aziraphale was used to the demon’s sense of timeliness by now — or rather, the complete absence of it — and so he finished his lunch, washed up, and got rid of some of the more sentient dust bunnies by kindly encouraging them to explore the rest of the city instead. He expected Crowley would appear with coffee and perhaps pastries by early afternoon, and so he settled down behind the register with a good book in the meantime.
What he did not expect was for Crowley to throw open the front door, march inside so quickly he got his feet tangled on the Persian rug, and collide with the counter within milliseconds of entering the bookshop.
Seconds later, the demon rearranged his corporation against the nearest bookshelf, as if he had meant to enter this way and drape himself over the shelf all along, just so. How unbelievably charming.
“Hello, dearest,” said Aziraphale, still waiting for possible explanations, and certain he would not get any for at least a few minutes yet. “Good temptations today?”
“Wh — er — hm.”
“Shame you couldn’t join me earlier. I thoroughly enjoyed my lunch.” Now that enough time had passed, Aziraphale glanced up from his page, only to notice Crowley was pink-cheeked, and was not quite looking at him. “Did you forget the coffee?”
This drew Crowley’s attention. “What.”
“Coffee,” repeated Aziraphale in a fond manner. “We discussed having it?”
“Having it, yeah. Loads of coffee. Gallons. Sorry. Did your — I mean, obviously you’d have spotted this by now, but did you notice if your, ah, mobile got stolen today?”
What a perplexing question. Aziraphale had no idea what this was supposed to mean.
“Heavens, no.” Aziraphale patted his front pocket. “Right here, as always. Why?”
“Ngk,” sputtered Crowley, and went redder than before, now gripping the bookshelf with one white-knuckled hand. His voice was not in the right octave at all. “Hm. ‘Sss n — no — THING but a chicken wing. Not a thing at all, angel, definitely joking, only curious, lots of idiotsss out to ssssteal antique phonessss these days. Ha! Taking credit for that now, all the — ssssexy — bots — d’y’hear that ringing? YEAH, I DEFINITELY HEAR IT, THINK THAT’SSSS ME, KNOW WHAT I’LL DO, I’LL JUSSST — ”
“Dear boy, you’re — yelling rather forcefully. Are you certain you’re all right?”
With a yelp of mm hm, Crowley pulled his mobile from his pocket and scurried out of sight so quickly it startled a nearby human into dropping their bag on the ground.
Frowning, Aziraphale used another minor miracle, encouraging the rest of the would-be patrons to leave immediately so he could suss out what the devil was happening. Once the shop was empty, he knew exactly where Crowley had gone, because a tinny salsa tune was now playing in the back right corner where Aziraphale normally stored atlases, and a high-pitched voice kept squealing cupcaaaaaaake match! every few seconds.
“Crowley, dearest. Aren’t you going to tell me what’s wrong? I can tell you’re upset.”
The salsa tune continued. His mobile buzzed after nearly a minute of silence.
did you mean it
“Dear boy, I refuse to have a textual conversation with you when you’re right here,” pleaded Aziraphale, although this did not garner the desired reaction from Crowley. Instead, his mobile buzzed again, more insistently this time.
ANGEL. was it meant for me or someone else
“What?” Aziraphale asked the screen, which was not helpful at all. Perhaps he had better go back through their last few messages. “Crowley, dear, why on earth would I be texting someone el….oh, fuck!”
There it was, plain as day.
Your tongue in my mouth and your hand on my cock.
“God,” whimpered Aziraphale under his breath, and winced when he realized what he’d done. Cursing was one thing, and blasphemy another. “So sorry. Sorry, Lord.”
How the hell was he supposed to excuse such embarrassing language? Such visceral, messy desires? Crowley was a demon; he probably had his choice of carnal pleasures wherever he went, with all manner of beautiful otherworldly creatures. And yet the serpent was here, blushing and stammering and attempting to source out why Aziraphale would say such an awful wanton thing to him, why he would ruin their six-thousand-year-long friendship with such a stupid careless textual message—
His phone buzzed again.
ANGEL, YOU’RE NOT ANSWERING MY QUESTION
JUST TELL ME
“Well,” sighed Aziraphale, as the tri-tone salsa tune struck up again, much louder this time, “Crowley, darling, it isn’t—I—did—mean it. The, er, phrase I wrote. But I should never dream of making you feel, ah, less than comfortable. In my presence, that is. I’m—quite certain you aren’t interested in doing any of that human nonsense with me, of—of course. You obviously don’t feel the same. And why should you? I’m only me. Silly and stupid, and you’re—” he waved a vague hand through the air “—well, you’ve got a—a reputation to uphold. A very cool one.” His lip wobbled; he coughed to disguise the knot of tears forming in his throat. “Actually, I don’t think I’m in the mood for, erm. Coffee. So if you don’t mind, I may just—go upstairs for a bit, a-and—”
The tinny music kept playing. But there was no response, text-based or otherwise.
“Angel,” rasped a voice behind him, and suddenly Aziraphale’s arms were full and a familiar lanky body was pressing against his in completely unfamiliar desperation. A normally-smirking mouth crushed Aziraphale’s own as long elegant fingers wound into his hair. That same clever mouth dipped down Aziraphale’s jaw before he could say so much as tickety-boo. “Fuck, angel, say it again.”
“Crowley,” gasped Aziraphale, stunned and delighted. “I—you mean you aren’t—”
“Uhwannatasteyoutoo,” groaned the demon against his collar, before dropping to his knees in front of Aziraphale’s scuffed brogues and resting his forehead against the middle of Aziraphale’s trouser-clad thigh. Nimble fingers skated over the back of his knees. “Nnnh. All over.”
Frankly, Aziraphale would have been less stunned had Crowley whipped out a ukelele from his back pocket and offered to play a round of flamenco.
“Darling, you — really —?”
“Thousssands of yearssss. Can’t wait anymore. Oh, fuck, angel, please let me—can I just—?”
“Yes,” hissed the angel, heat rising in his cheeks as the demon pressed a lingering kiss to the side of one knee. “ Crowley. Yes.”
They had coffee and creme brulee for breakfast the next morning, miracled straight in from a Parisian patisserie. Aziraphale hid a smile behind his angel wings mug when he noticed two identical cupcakes hiding in the back of the pink baker’s box.
Rather excellent match, indeed.