The Curious Condition of Being Human

Chapter 7

When Crowley met Aziraphale for dinner, he set out to give the angel his own way at everything. He conceded to Aziraphale's choice of table (one with a view of the street and part of the restaurant, instead of Crowley's preference of the far corner so he could keep an eye on the room like a Mafioso expecting a hit.) He didn't complain when Aziraphale ordered the excessively garlicky mussels as an appetizer. He didn't argue when Aziraphale wanted to order the wine that better suited his dinner selections than Crowley's. He didn't interrupt as Aziraphale went on at length about a drama taking place down the street between the florist and the tailor.

Crowley didn't even put up a fight when both wanted the hazelnut torte for dessert and there was only one left. It was the sort of thing that would have, in the past, started an embarrassing little old married couple squabble until one of them just used their powers to miraculously stock the kitchen with one more serving.

Crowley's extremely accommodating behavior did not go unnoticed by Aziraphale. A few incidents, he could forgive. But when he stopped them for a whole ten minutes on the way back to the shop to watch a terrible street magician fail to basic tricks with absolutely no complaint or show of impatience?

"All right. What is it?" asked Aziraphale as he latched the shop door behind them. "You've been treating me like an ancient basset hound who gets one last good day before being shipped off to the bloody vet." He stood in front of Crowley, fists balled up, chin tilted, expression as intimidating as he could be - which wasn't very. "I'm starting to think that whatever this surprise of yours is, it won't be a good one."

Crowley's lip twitched. His jaw muscles rippled nearly imperceptibly as the tension he'd been biting down on all evening bubbled to the surface. He tugged a pendant out of the front of his shirt, then rubbed a finger over the onyx stone. "You're right," he said quietly, those two words tinged with regret.

There was a moment in the bar when Crowley nearly confronted his demonic brethren. Then, maybe they would have put him under the spell, properly this time.

Aziraphale had seemed...happy, and like a weight had lifted from his shoulders. Crowley had witnessed him settling into humanity. And maybe, just maybe, if the forces of Heaven and Hell could get their acts together just once, he could be happy, too.

And they could be happy together in a wonderful delusion of mortality. If only for a little while.

But as soon as Crowley heard the word games from the demons, he knew he couldn't tip his hand.

And the only way he could see forward was to hurt his angel.

"Crowley," said Aziraphale, his lower lip wibbling. "You're scaring me." He stepped forward, then suddenly squeaked. "Are you sick?" And then he grabbed his hands. "Something fatal?"

The sheer terror on Aziraphale's face was hard for Crowley to absorb. He started at him for a long moment, before words found their way out of where they'd gotten caught up in his throat. "What? No, no. I'm not sick. No."

Aziraphale exhaled.

"But you are. Sort of."

"I'm dying?" squeaked Aziraphale in the highest tone he'd ever used.

"No! No. Sick. Kind of. You're under a...oh for Satan's sake..." Crowley reached up and ripped his glasses off. He still hadn't removed the enchantment over his eyes because it was a dead giveaway for any demons checking in on them. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

"Here," said Crowley as he stepped close to Aziraphale. "Look into my eyes." He settled his hands on the angel's shoulder, the onyx pendant dangling in the deep V of his shirt.