“You can’t just go around calling people my dear these days,” Crowley says, sitting back in his seat and crossing his arms over his chest. “People get—thoughts in their heads.”
“I’m surprised you worry so much over what humans have in their heads,” Aziraphale says, sounding content. They’ve just finished lunch and a bottle of wine between them and the waitress told them they seemed a lovely couple. Lovely. A lovely couple of somethings—that—that’s for sure. “Big bad demon like you.”
“I just don’t want you calling the wrong person darling,” Crowley says, rolling his eyes. “and upsetting the status quo, angel.”
“You’re one to talk,” Aziraphale says. “Calling me that.”
Occasionally, he gets this checkmate! look on his face when he thinks he’s one-upped Crowley—which he rarely does. Sometimes, Crowley lets him win, of course, because he can be accommodating if he wants to be—downright friendly if he makes the effort, which he does for exactly one being on this—well, once-intended-to-be godforsaken planet.
“You are an angel,” Crowley says, gesturing vaguely. “I’m essentially referring to you by name.”
“That certainly isn’t how humans take it, my dear,” Aziraphale says, smiling beatifically.
Crowley makes an incoherent grumbling noise. It’s all this conversation deserves.
“Who’s the right person to call darling, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks.
“I—pardon?” Crowley asks, raising his eyebrows.
“You said I shouldn’t call the wrong person darling,” Aziraphale says. “Who’s the right person?”
Crowley goes still, flitting his eyes up to see that Aziraphale’s got that face on again.
Checkmate.