There Will Come a Day: A Good Omens Fanfic

If You Admire Me, Hire Me

1921, Biarritz, South of France

Aziraphale lifted the glass of gin and champagne cocktail, breathed in the scent, let it flower across his senses as his eyes closed. Then he parted his lips and let it pass them, still inhaling the scent, the burn just touching his lips and tongue, like the faintest bloom of—

"You know, it's almost obscene watching you do that. I'm sure it's a sin."

"Crowley!" Aziraphale tried not to let too much pleasure show, but he was not particularly good at hiding his expression. He beamed. "I wasn't expecting to see you here."

The demon laughed and swung up onto a stool next to him, legs swinging in long black trousers, auburn waves plastered back with brilliantine, white tie immaculate, face clean-shaven. "Why not? It's a nice hotel. More my kind of scene than yours, I should've thought. I'm here every night, in fact, at twenty franc a dance."

Aziraphale snorted. "I've seen you dance. You're overcharging."

"The humans don't seem to think so. I play tennis, too, rather well. White suits me more than you'd think. Does that drink thing taste any good?"

"Delicious, my dear fellow." He sighed as Crowley took the cocktail from his hand and sipped appreciatively. "But really, why the gigolo act? You can't possibly be short of money."

"Of course not, but some of these people have far too much, and it's an easy source of trouble. I hang around acting like a four-flusher and letting the ladies buy me nice things, they get discontented, their mothers get worried, menfolk get jealous, everyone's drinking or on pills, all kinds of interesting things happen. Usually starting with calling me a cake eater, which just goes to show they haven't met you yet. So, what are you doing on this side of the Channel? Do you have something godly in mind?" He drained Aziraphale's drink. Aziraphale frowned at the glass, and it refilled.

"A young lady is going to read her poetry to her friends tonight. I've heard it's awfully good. If she's going to publish it, I'd like a first copy." He took the glass back and sipped again, rather less leisurely than before, before Crowley could steal it again.

Crowley's brows drew together over his dark glasses. "Girl by name of Joan, going by Sunday for some reason? Permanently waved blonde hair? Horn rimmed spectacles?"

"Yes. Why?"

"I was dancing with her lady aunt earlier. Sorry to disappoint, angel, but I'm not sure she'll be in a state to read anything."

"Why, what did you do to her?" Aziraphale asked sharply.

"Me? I did nothing." Crowley shook his head innocently. "She just seems rather interested in the flower vases."

"Whatever do you mean?" Aziraphale blinked at the elaborate arrangements of extremely expensive pink roses and extremely green ferns, which were making the air fragrant at great cost.

Crowley slung an arm over his shoulder. "Watch," he hissed in Aziraphale's ear, leaning close. His warm weight pressed against Aziraphale. "But don't show you're looking."

"Easier said than done," said Aziraphale, a bit flustered by the contact. Crowley usually slinked all around him, not over him. He could smell Crowley's scent, a mix of sharp green scent and soft leather that Aziraphale vaguely associated with flappers. Not a masculine scent at all. " I'm not wearing dark glasses."

"Then look at me. Be fascinated by my conversation and just watch with your peripheral vision. I am a fascinating conversationalist, you know. The guests here tell me that frequently."