The Curious Condition of Being Human

Chapter 3

"Would you like to stay the night?"

The question, which was an entirely normal one for one long-term partner to ask the other, blindsided Crowley so much that he snorted 25-year-old scotch. Said scotch was the post- theatre nightcap he'd been enjoying in Aziraphale's shop.

The thing about fine scotch is that it burns your nose hairs just as completely as the corner shop piss. But at least the cheap stuff deserved to be expelled into the air along with mucus and phlegm.

To do that to the good stuff was a crime, really.

"Crowley, are you quite all right?" asked Aziraphale as he produced a lace handkerchief and handed it out to him.

Crowley let his nostrils burn for a few seconds before he shook his head and banished the pain from his body with a celestial shrug. He still took Aziraphale's handkerchief though, and dabbed it to his face. "Just a drinking accident," he murmured stuffily.

"Hmmm," Aziraphale intoned. He was not the world's most observant person, but nor was he completely oblivious. He gave Crowley a bit of a side-eye. "You've been acting awfully strange today, you know."

Crowley's eyebrows arched high, his expressive, rubbery face going long before it snapped back into something more neutral. He cleared his throat. "Have I?" he squinted and a tear streaked down his cheek.

"You have. Which means you're up to something."

"Of course I'm up to something," said Crowley tetchily. "Being up to something is my whole deal, isn't it?"

The look that Aziraphale gave Crowley made him realize that his statement made less sense without taking his demonic nature into account.

"I just mean..." Aziraphel took a huffy breath and pinched his lips closed. "Never mind. If you don't want to stay over, I'm not going to beg you." There was a note of hurt on the word beg.

Crowley realized that with Aziraphale's current context, his not accepting a request to stay over was likely similar to turning down a lunch date - unlikely without a good reason. He just sat there, twirling the last of his scotch around in a crystal tumbler, unable to think of a way to recover.

"If you'll excuse me," Aziraphale began when he realized Crowley wasn't going to explain himself, "I'd like to get ready for bed." He stood and tugged down at the front of his waistcoat.

"Angel..."

"Come on, up you get. Finish your drink." Aziraphale grabbed Crowley by the elbow and tried to haul him up.

In response, Crowley slouched deeper into the plush antique armchair and willed himself to weigh twice as much as his weedy figure should have.

"Crowley," said Aziraphale with a heavy sigh.

"Rrrrarh, fine," groused Crowley. He got himself out of the chair and slammed back the rest of the scotch, then plopped the glass on top of a copy of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.

Aziraphale darted forward and quickly plucked the glass off the book. As he looked around for a place to stash it, Crowley paced toward the door. "Wait! Wait..." He gave up on finding a totally clear spot and instead made a beat-up old copy of Kerouac's On The Road the sacrificial coaster.

"You're giving me the bum's rush, so my bum is rushing," Crowley called back.

Aziraphale wasn't a swift creature, but he could indeed move when properly motivated. He managed to catch up with Crowley's long-legged stride and catch the demon by his arm.

Crowley spun around and exhaled. "Look, I've just got some...stuff. And...business. On my mind. That's all." His tone got softer. "It's not you." Which was sort of true, in the broadest possible sense. None of this was Aziraphale's fault, but his current state was the full cause of Crowley's distraction.