Chapter Text
Perhaps it was a bit unorthodox for a thirty-five year old mechanic to babysit an eleven year old boy nearly every other weekend, but to be frank, a lot of things in Anthony Crowley’s life were fairly unorthodox.
Crowley is what he likes to call a reluctant family friend to the Dowlings. They’re sort of neighbors, the Dowling family has a huge property that spans a couple acres, and Crowley’s little cottage happens to sit near the edge of it. Sometimes he feels like his house is actually supposed to be the Dowling manor’s garden shed, but it’s not as if he needs a lot of space living by himself. He was fresh out of college with a useless degree, healing from a bad break-up, and unsure what to do with his life, when he inherited the little cozy house. It’s nestled near the woods north of the village of Tadfield, a few hours drive outside of London. He was bestowed the place from an aunt who he barely knew. Apparently she’d been renting out the property to foreigners who wanted an “authentic British countryside experience” (but still have access to shockingly good cell service). While her lawyers had suggested he sell the place to get a little money for maybe a bigger flat in the city, Crowley saw the cottage as a fresh start, and instead decided to keep the place. Life in the city wasn’t really all it was cracked up to be, and there were plenty of people Crowley would happily never bump into again all the way out here (like his sister, his exes, his ex-friends, his old roommates, that one wannabe gang he almost accidentally joined, and that old bloke Shadwell he used to live next door to who would put iron nails in Crowley’s door insisting he was a demon even though he’s fairly certain fey are weak to iron not demons…) He wanted to try the peaceful, retired life. Even though he wasn’t remotely retired and still worked in the nearby village’s auto shop. Still, the move was supposed to be Crowley turning over a new leaf, and the cottage was nice. Not too big, not too small, and plenty of space outside to grow a lavish garden.
Of course, at the time he hadn’t known he was a ten minute walk from the residence of a US ambassador, but that dawning realization didn’t change Crowley’s attitude about the cottage. The ambassador’s security were tetchy with him, probably seeing his affinity for sunglasses indoors and the face tattoo he got as soon as he turned eighteen as sketchy. He made it very clear that as long as they kept off of each other’s properties and respected one another’s business, he had no problems with them and they would have no problems with him.
Then, a rowdy little two year old with a spark of mischief and curiosity tumbled in his garden one day, and the Dowlings and Crowley became a bit more acquainted.
He remembers that snot nosed brat picking haphazardly at his precious rosemary with pudgy little fingers, and caught him before he could stuff any of it in his mouth, no matter how good it smells. It was the first time he willingly approached the Dowling manor’s door, with little Warlock clean of any dirt he got crawling around Crowley’s garden and trying desperately to grab ahold of any of his red hair he had lazily pinned up once he realized the kid’s desire to claw at it.
After returning her kid, Harriet had been so grateful that she gave him the privilege of watching over Warlock whenever both Dowling parents were away. At first, twenty-six year old Crowley didn’t really see this as much of a privilege and more of a manipulation that just meant the Dowlings didn’t have to spend any of their egregious wealth on a proper nanny, but… Well, Crowley found himself growing soft for the kid. Warlock was a rambunctious thing that reminded him a lot of himself growing up. Full of questions about the world with a little bit of an attitude, he would normally annoy the snobby politicians his parents surrounded themselves with, but Crowley had nothing but patience for him. Watching him get taller every year, seeing his eyes sparkle with mirth at Crowley’s yearly gag gifts around the holidays, and overcome with fondness whenever the kid got excited and wrapped his arms around Crowley’s waist, it kinda did start to feel like a privilege. Not that he would ever say that. He and Warlock are both terrible with mushy honesty like that, their dynamic much more akin to brotherly bonding. Still, once in a while when Warlock has a bad day at school, comes down with the flu, has a fight with his parents, or just has to deal with the vastness of the world around him like any kid his age does, Crowley will be a little mushy. Just to get him to smile and laugh again. He’ll wrap him up in blankets, cook him his favorite foods, let him help in the gardens, or let the kid fall asleep on his shoulder while they watch one of those silly animated movies they both secretly love.
Crowley never, ever envisioned himself as a parental type growing up. He didn’t get along well with his own father, he and his mother were mostly just civil, and his sister is a menace to society and Crowley’s temper, so family wasn’t that important to him. He never got close to a lot of people, he had friends and partners, but no one he would ever call family. Warlock, though, is probably the closest thing to family Crowley’s ever had. Not to say the kid doesn’t test his patience or scare the shit out of him sometimes, but damn it all, he loves this kid.
That’s probably the main reason he doesn’t absolutely lose it when he finds Warlock painted archaic symbols on his office floor one Saturday night.
-
Crowley raps his knuckles gently on the door, spotting a bit of light coming from underneath. It’s nearly one in the morning, he wonders if the kid accidentally left his handheld console on while playing a game before falling asleep. Or, more likely, he didn’t pay attention to the time and is still playing. Wouldn’t be the first time he’s caught him doing that.
“Why are you still up—“ Crowley sharply cuts himself off once he fully takes in the state of the room.
As soon as the door opened, the eleven year old boy kneeled on the floor had jumped nearly a foot in the air, only illuminated by the torch on his phone. Jaw hanging open in shock, Crowley blindly reaches for the light switch, needing to confirm what he’s seeing. They both grimace at the sudden bright light that floods the office.
Honestly, it wasn’t really much of an office. It has a desk and a meager bookshelf stuffed with a handful of things Crowley’s gotten over the years. Those were shoved to one wall, and the opposite has the futon that practically belongs to Warlock, since Crowley hardly ever has anyone else over, much less staying overnight. It even has a fuzzy Star Wars blanket always draped on it that Warlock is particularly fond of. The wooden floors here are nothing special, but Crowley keeps the cottage in good condition. He hadn’t bothered replacing these with the more rustic redwood flooring he has in most of the other rooms.
Well, they definitely need replacement now that Warlock has gotten paint everywhere.
The boy has a chip brush in his hand, coated in white paint. White paint is all over the floor, his hands, his face, his clothes, and dripping over the edges of the can that is nestled off to the side from… whatever Warlock is painting. There’s a large circle with a square inside the boundary edges, and several rings within that radius. Symbols he doesn’t recognize scatter around it, creating a puzzling picture he can’t imagine could possibly mean. It’s not entirely symmetrical or even, and there’s random splatters everywhere, but it’s clear there’s specific intentions in mind. Oddest and most worrisome of all are the eight candles surrounding the circumference, thankfully unlit. Though, there’s a box of matches next to the paint can, which is just…
Crowley’s temper is finicky, and can light blazing and fast like an inferno, but he promised himself a long time ago he would never lose control in front of Warlock. He never raises his voice at him if he can help it, he never raises a hand to the boy, and he never punishes him without reason. The cold, emotionless growl of his voice is something he knows Warlock recognizes when he’s really, really messed up, as he hisses, “What the bloody hell have you done?”
Warlock springs to his feet, clutching the messy paintbrush in both hands as if it can shield him from the anger rolling off of Crowley in heated waves, “I-I can explain!”
“Good. I’d love to hear it.” His mouth curls in a half formed snarl, his foot tapping an impatient rhythm as he waits for the kid to get his wits about him.
“Well, you see, I, um—It’s Adam’s fault, really!” Warlock huffs petulantly.
That’s not the first time he’s heard that. Warlock’s parents had argued a long time about whether to privately homeschool their kid, or let him join the local elementary school. It would be good for him to spend time around other kids his age, but they could better monitor his curriculum at home. It was a long back and forth before Thaddeus relented to Harriet’s stubborn insistence on Warlock having a normal childhood (well, as normal as possible when you have the biggest house and a weird accent compared to the rest of your peers). Despite his differences, Warlock managed well in school, and was even wrangled into a little clique that called themselves “the Them.” Adam Young was a bright kid with an imagination that rivals Crowley’s own, and is well known for coming up with all sorts of trouble for the Them to get into. He’s hosted the group a few times while Warlock is over at his house, and they’re all good kids, but sometimes they get a little over their heads. This seems to be one of those many cases.
He raises a skeptical brow, arms crossed, “Pray tell, how you painting my floor has anything to do with Adam?”
The kid glares at the mess in front of him, avoiding Crowley’s gaze, as he explains, “Adam found this drawing somewhere he and his parents stopped at while they were in the city last week. He thinks it’s just a cool drawing, but probably rubbish. I think it’s a summoning circle.”
Crowley blinks, “A summoning circle?”
“Yeah, y’know, for like a demon. He said he found it near a bible. Adam thinks it’s just a coincidence, but I think it’s got to be a way to summon a demon. No one else sided with me, so we made a bet. We’re planning on meeting in the woods tomorrow, and I said I would bring a demon. Prove it was real.”
Crowley really couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He ran his fingers through his hair, exasperated, “Warlock, demons aren’t real. It’s possible someone might’ve thought it was supposed to be a summoning circle, but that doesn’t mean it works.”
“But—“
“Furthermore, even if hypothetically speaking demons are real, why the hell would you try to summon one?”
Warlock shrugs, “Thought it’d be cool.”
The redhead buries his face in his hands, breathing for just a moment so he doesn’t scream at how ridiculous this is, “Warlock, I don’t know what I’m going to do yet, I can’t believe—urgh, you are going to bed right now, while I try and clean this up.”
His eyes widen, throwing his hands out as Crowley takes a step forward, “Wait! I haven’t finished yet! I want to know if it works!”
“It definitely won’t.”
“I want to try!”
“Warlock—“
“Please! I’ll go to bed, I promise, but I need to know for sure.”
This is absolute madness. Crowley has never been a very religious man, finding the whole Heaven and Hell thing far too black and white for how muddled and messy and complicated the world really is. It was backwards, stuck in its old ways, and not to mention most people who practice are a bit aggressive towards people like Crowley. So, he’s not a fan. Never believed in it, never will. Demons and angels are cool in concept, aesthetically speaking, and some of the bible stories are potentially interesting fiction , but it’s never been anything more than that to him. He should not be entertaining this, or god forbid, encourage those brats to pull something like this again.
Unfortunately, Crowley has always had a hard time telling Warlock no when he gives him puppy eyes like that, and what the hell, not like Crowley is getting much sleep tonight anyway.
His shoulders sag, and he grumbles, “Fine, but you’re staying far away from any open flames and I will be telling your parents about this.”
The kid nods, “Okay, okay. Just light the candles, see if something happens.”
Crowley bends down to grab the matchbox, cursing under his breath as he desperately tries to keep paint from getting on his socks, “S’there not, I don’t know, some kinda incantation?”
“Incan-what?”
“Like, a spell or some Latin. Usually something like that in those exorcism movies.”
Warlock shrugs, “Dunno. The paper only had the drawing.”
Probably for the best; he’d feel real stupid trying to recite some Latin he’s sure he’d butcher the pronunciation of.
Careful of the paint and ensuring Warlock was a safe enough distance away with a cup of water in his hand in case of an emergency, Crowley lit all eight candles around the circle. He stood before it, waiting for something to happen.
Should he pray? No, it’s for a demon. Uh, offer his soul? No, that’s reckless. If this were real. Which it isn’t. Of course nothing is going to happen. They wait with bated breath for a minute. Warlock turns the light off, claiming the atmosphere is off, but still nothing happens. No demon. Just a lot of paint.
Crowley turns back to his charge, frowning. Warlock’s eyes move in an indiscernible way that could almost be an eye roll, but is just off enough to have plausible deniability, “I know, I know.” He pouts, “I really thought it’d work. It looked legit.”
“I don’t even know where you get it in your head to summon a demon of all things.”
Warlock furrows his brow in genuine thought, “I don’t know. Maybe all those horror movies you let me watch.”
Crowley scoffs, ruffling the kids hair just to hear him squawk in indignation, “You are not seriously trying to pin this on me?! Where did you even get all these candles? Or the paint?”
“I just asked mom for it. Honestly don’t remember what I said to convince her.”
Crowley isn’t sure whether to be proud of how clever this kid is or annoyed at the outcome and at Harriet for not paying more attention to her sneaky son. He growls some final warning and shoos him out of the office, so he can start cleaning this up. Warlock protests enough to get his favorite blanket thrown at his face, before slinking off to collapse in Crowley’s room. The kid can argue about bedtimes all he wants, Crowley knows he appreciates beauty sleep as much as he does.
He heaves a great sigh, assessing what needs to be done. He stands before the circle again, frustration simmering underneath his skin, “What a pain.”
Crowley stares down at the strange markings, barely visible by the flickering candlelight. He spots the paintbrush Warlock used to make it next to his foot, and gingerly picks up the offending tool. It’s still absolutely coated with paint, dripping steadily as Crowley holds it out. To be honest, he doesn’t know why or how, but one of those drops of paint must have done something, like fix an incomplete symbol or cancel out an unnecessary one. One moment it’s silent except for Crowley’s quiet mumbling to himself, and the next he’s yelping and stumbling back from the suddenly illuminating circle.
Bright light cascades down upon it, blinding enough that Crowley has to shield his eyes for a moment. Rapidly blinking, Crowley’s heart jumps to his throat in shock when he finds something—someone standing in the circle.
“Oh dear.”
The posh voice is the last thing Crowley would expect to hear coming from a being brought forth by a summoning circle, but it fits the figure standing in the center of the room. He looks like a man, with curly blonde, almost white, hair that surrounds his head like a halo. He’s dressed like he’s traveled forward about a century into the future with something as ridiculous as a tartan bow tie and gold pocket watch to accentuate his beige trousers and tan well worn waistcoat. A gold signet ring gleams from his pinkie finger, and his hands nervously wring together in front of his pudgier figure. His eyes, though, are the most striking thing about him. They’re a crystal clear blue at first glance, but lightened by the circle, he can see how there’s truly a myriad of colors swirling in his irises: blue, grey, green, gold, silver. They’re memorizing to say the least. Gentle wrinkle lines mark the corners of those eyes and crinkle especially at his forehead as the man-like being frowns. Those eyes dart all over the room, before they finally settle on Crowley.
He startles, like he wasn’t expecting someone else to be in the room, and clears his throat rather politely, “Oh, uh, apologies, dear boy. I seem to be out of sorts. Would you mind terribly telling me where I am?” He takes another sweeping look around the room, eyes lingering on the bookshelf in the corner, “This certainly doesn’t look like a church. Obviously not consecrated grounds, of any sort.” His eyes flicker back to Crowley, and he tilts his head slightly, “And, I don’t mean this in any offense of your character, but… well, you don’t look like a priest. Where am I, exactly?”
Crowley’s mouth opens and closes like a particularly stupid looking fish for far too long, before he finally finds his voice, “Uh, er, no, not a priest. This is, um… my office?”
The other being’s brow furrows further, “You sound unsure…”
“Well, it’s not really an office, ‘cause I don’t use it very often, but it’s technically an office, what it was made for, I s’pose. Uh, are you a demon?”
His face crumbles, clearly distraught by the implication, and Crowley winces. He shakes his head vehemently, “Oh, Heavens no. Quite the opposite, really.” Before Crowley can question whatever that means, he raises a brow, considering, “Were you attempting to summon a demon? I don’t believe that would be a very wise course of action. Awful company, demons are. They have never been known for their manners, I can assure you.”
“Er, right. I’ll take your word for it… Wait, no, I wasn’t trying to summon a demon!”
“Then, what were you trying to do exactly?”
Crowley rolls his eyes, hissing, “Warlock was trying to summon a demon. I’m just trying to clean up his mess.”
“A warlock?” He frowns deeply, “I haven’t seen one of those in a good few centuries.”
“What? No, he’s not—His name is Warlock. He’s a kid. Was trying to prove he could summon a demon to his friends, but he didn’t.”
It was clear the being wasn’t really following along, so Crowley waves a dismissive hand, and sighs, “Doesn’t matter. If you’re not a demon, what are you, exactly?”
He blinks, shifting uncomfortably, “Ah, well, I really shouldn’t say…”
“Why not?”
“They implemented a law about three millennia ago to not reveal our true identity to humans, unless under specific orders.”
What a statement to say with a completely straight face. Crowley has half a mind to wonder if he’s completely lost it.
“Well, you’re definitely not human. I feel like the worst revelation is already out of the way. I didn’t even believe in the supernatural until about five minutes ago.” He still doesn’t really, but the cognitive dissonance of what was in front of him and his past thirty some odd years of beliefs will one day catch up with him. The being still hesitates, so he offers instead, “You could at least tell me your name.”
Names are powerful, right? Isn’t that always a thing? He guesses the media must have miscalculated that one, because the being easily smiles and says, “Oh, of course. How terribly rude of me to not introduce myself. I’m Aziraphale. And, you?”
Should he really give his name away to whatever this person is? Oh, who cares, this night can’t possibly get any weirder.
“Crowley. Well, Anthony Crowley. But, I go by Crowley.”
“Crowley.” Aziraphale tests the name, like he’s trying to memorize the line to a play, and nods to himself, “Lovely to meet you. Now, I was in the middle of some very important work. Would you mind letting me free?”
“Letting you free?”
“Yes, you see, if this was just any old summoning circle, I would have no trouble moving in or out of it on my own. They aren’t normally meant to hold ethereal energy. However, this is specifically my circle with my name.” He points to a part of one of the inner circles, a symbol just as strange as all the others around it. It must be right then that he noticed the paint hasn’t really dried yet, and was now smeared on the bottom of his nice looking oxfords, and he grimaces. It’s a loathsome expression that almost makes Crowley laugh, if not for how he’s still reeling from everything happening. “How did you—or, well, this Warlock, as you said, even find my circle? I’ve certainly never shared it with a human before.”
“Dunno. Said a friend grabbed it in London. Probably from a bookshop or a church, if I were to guess. He mentioned a bible was near it.”
Aziraphale sighs, “Yes, rather, that sounds about right. I suppose it’s not that pertinent. You were the one who activated the circle, you’re the one that can send me back home.”
“How do I do that?”
“Well, a summoning of an a—of me is no binding contract, like you often see. I’m not asking for your soul, or anything of the sort. Simply make a wish, I grant it, and my duty will be fulfilled. I’ll be able to return home, and you may—ah, well I suppose I can spare a miracle to clean the paint. I’ll need to take care of my shoes, anyway.”
Something clicks, and he snaps his fingers, “Oh, you’re an angel.”
Aziraphale’s eyes widen, and he sputters, “Wh-What? What could possibly make you think such a ridiculous notion?”
Crowley snorts, “You’re kidding, right? Opposite of demons, ethereal, miracles, even your whole bloody cherubic get up. It’s kind of obvious now that I think about it.”
The angel flushes, “W-Well, for your information, I’m not a Cherubim, I’m a Principality. Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, to be even more precise.”
He huffs in surprise, “Huh. You were there in Eden?”
“Of course. My assignment has been on Earth since time began. Though, I haven’t spoken with a human about my true nature in quite some time. I suppose the summoning makes it a tad bit difficult to blend in.”
“A little,” He pauses, backtracking their conversation to the original topic at hand, “Hang on, what does wish granting have to do with this? That doesn’t sound very… angelic. Sounds more like a genie.”
Aziraphale shrugs, “It’s more a figure of speech. I’m merely performing a miracle, but you may ask for what you specifically wish to be blessed. Whether it’s for good health, fortune, luck, or something of the sort, I can grant it. I can’t say I’ve ever been summoned before, but those are the rules, if I remember correctly. And, I do have an impeccable memory.”
“There’s nothing else I can do?”
The angel looks at him confused, “Do you… Do you not want a wish? You truly can ask for just about anything your heart desires, you know. It’s no trouble at all. There are limits to my powers and God’s will, of course, but I can’t imagine you asking for anything that outrageous.”
Crowley scratches at his neck nervously, “I don’t know, that’s just… a lot of power all of a sudden. Can’t I think about it? Put a pin in it?”
Aziraphale scoffs, “And, leave me here stuck in this circle until you make up your mind? I’d really rather you didn’t.”
His annoyed scowl isn’t very angelic, it looks very human actually. It’s sort of cute, too.
Wait, cute, what?
“What if I wish for, I don’t know, your freedom from the circle, and you owe me a favor in return?”
The being eyes him suspiciously, and he can’t really blame him. It sounds like a trick (maybe Shadwell had been onto something about the iron).
“There… There must be something you can think of. Making deals isn’t really the sort of thing an angel does, you know.”
Crowley winces, running a hand through his hair, “Right, ‘course, I just…”
Silence settles again, Crowley trying to wrap his thoughts into anything remotely coherent. Aziraphale considers him again, but there’s something different, almost warm. He smiles, and it really is a nice one, “Well, at least this shows to me you have a good heart. Not one taken by greed or envy. Must be someone who isn’t often gifted with kindness, yes?”
No, not really. This cottage is probably the nicest thing Crowley has ever been gifted by anyone, and it was from a dead family member he hardly knew, who handed out several of her properties to various people in the family tree. It’s nothing special really, but Crowley made it special. He gives a half nonchalant shrug, but the angel looks at him knowingly.
“Crowley, I’m an angel. Helping people is quite literally my purpose. It’s alright to ask for what you want.”
What he wants. What does he want? Honestly, he’s fairly content with his life. He’s pretty healthy, he likes his home, he doesn’t mind his work, and he doesn’t really need more money. He can’t exactly ask this being to fix every mistake he’s ever made in the past, and perhaps it’d be best if he didn’t. Those mistakes led him to the life he does have now, so it can’t have been all that bad. The only thing is, well, he’s kind of… lonely. He’s always felt like something is missing from his life, and he tried to find it in his past relationships. Most of them decided he was too difficult, found him too needy, couldn’t stand his temper, wanted him to change who he was to fit their mold better, could never see eye to eye, or just ultimately wanted different things out of life. He can’t say he was ever truly happy with any of them anyway. No one felt like the ever mysterious One . It might be silly to hang on to such fairytale-like notions, but Crowley can admit to himself that he’s a romantic and sort of a softie at heart. Not that he would ever admit that out loud, he has a reputation to uphold after all. Would it be so bad to ask this angelic being for help to find what’s missing? Seems like as good an opportunity as any.
“Do you think—ah, I suppose you would know, not necessarily think—are soulmates a real thing?”
Aziraphale’s expression morphs into one of surprise, clearly not expecting the sudden subject change, and he flounders, “Oh, hm… no, not really. I can’t say true soulmates are part of the Great Plan.” Crowley must look dejected, because he quickly amends, “That’s not to say there doesn’t exist a—well, perfect seems like a strong word, but there could be someone who’s a good match for you out there, if love is what you are seeking.”
Crowley shrugs nonchalantly, gazing down at the ground, “It’s all I can really think of off the top of my head.”
He regrets looking up to see the angel’s face, which has significantly softened into a sweet, understanding smile, “I’m a little surprised, I must say. You don’t strike me as the romantic type.”
He growls in protest, “‘M not,” He very much is, “I just… I’m happy with everything else in my life I think. A partner would be… nice, I guess.”
Aziraphale nods serenely, “Of course. You humans are very social creatures, after all. Perfectly lovely goal. And, I believe I can help you.”
Crowley freezes, disbelief clear in his voice, “You can?”
The angel clicks his tongue, crossing his arms, “Don’t sound so skeptical, dear boy. Of course I can. Love is built in the very foundations of an angel, after all. We’re made to love all of God’s creatures, great and small. Also, I’ve studied with the greatest of philosophers in all of human history, I know a thing or two about human love.”
“Right.”
Aziraphale holds a hand up, his middle finger and thumb pressed together, but pauses, “Are you sure this is what you want?”
Crowley huffs, “Can’t really think of anything else.”
He nods, “As long as you’re sure,” and he snaps his fingers. Crowley expects to see some kind of sparks or feel a warmth in the room or really anything, but there’s no fancy fanfare.
He looks around in question, “Um, what exactly did that do?”
Aziraphale’s eyes twinkle (and Crowley didn’t even know that was possible) in excitement, and he instructs simply, “Look at your hand.”
Everything that has been happening since he first walked into this room has been the opposite of his expectations, so he doesn’t bother trying to guess what he’ll see, but his heart still jumpstarts in shock at the sight. Tattooed in black ink, much like the snake one on his temple, is a compass on the back of his right hand. It’s an old fashioned thing with perhaps more detailing than Crowley’s normal style, but what’s really shocking is the fact the compass needle is actually moving . It spins in frantic circles over and over again.
“Uh, Aziraphale, what is this?”
“It’s a compass.” He shoots him a scowl, as if to say no shit , and that makes the angel chuckle, “It’s a compass that points to who will likely be a good partner for you.”
Crowley’s brow furrows, showing the tattoo to the angel, “It’s not pointing to much of anything right now.”
Aziraphale hums thoughtfully, “Ah, yes, it’s likely experiencing a bit of interference from my vicinity. Think of it like I’m the South Pole, and this potential partner of yours is the North Pole you’re seeking. Once I’m out of your hair, it will begin pointing the way. It’ll spin again like so once you’re close. Just follow it north.”
Huh. He stares down at the compass, a little mystified honestly, “Uh, I… Thank you.”
The angel smiles, clearly pleased with a job well done. He takes a step forward, exiting the circle, and with a wave of his hand, all the paint in the room returns once again to the newly sealed can and the candles are safely snuffed out. Crowley blinks, still not used to the magic act, “Oh, uh, thanks for that, too. Saved me a penny on a paint scraper.”
“You’re very welcome,” He holds out his hand to Crowley, “It was wonderful to meet you, my dear, but I really must be getting back home now. Best of luck on your journey.”
He takes Aziraphale’s hand and gives a polite, firm shake, definitely not focusing on how warm and soft the angel’s hand is, and clears his throat awkwardly, “Right, yeah, nice to meet you, too. Er, I don’t think I said sorry yet for, uh, interrupting your evening.”
He laughs, and it sounds like wind chimes and silver bells, and Crowley is still holding his hand for some reason, “Oh, it’s not entirely your fault, as you explained. Chalk it up to God’s ineffable plan.” Crowley’s face involuntarily scrunches up, “Really, not to worry, I—” The angel pauses, and if it weren’t for the low light of the moon through the window probably tricking Crowley’s eyes, he’d think there might be a tinge of pink on his cheeks. He clasps Crowley’s hand between his own, squeezing it comfortingly, “I haven’t had a human acquaintance in a very long time. If you find yourself in a spot of trouble, feel free to summon me again. Though I doubt you would, if you could please refrain from overdoing it.”
“‘Course, wouldn’t dream of it.” He drops the other’s hand finally, shoving both his own in his pockets before he does something stupid like straighten his bow tie or fix the lapels of his coat just to feel a little more of his warmth again (he sometimes wonders if he’s cold-blooded, the way he always runs freezing cold and constantly seeks out warmth), “Um, have a goodnight, Aziraphale.”
“Goodnight, Crowley.”
It’s then he realizes he’s actually standing in the angel’s way for the door to the office and he can’t expect him to know his way around the cottage, supernatural entity or not. He turns to lead the way, however awkward a second departure will be. When he glances back to see if the angel is following, he finds the office devoid of anything but a fresh can of paint, eight half burned candles, a futon with no blanket, the drawing of the summoning circle neatly placed on the center of his desk, and the bookshelf oddly organized for the first time since Crowley moved in.