“Come on, angel, it’s a gorgeous day,” said Crowley expansively, propping his legs up on the window ledge and gesturing through the slightly-grotty window at the Soho passersby. “Look at that sun. Look at those trees. Let’s go outside. Do something fun.”
“Mmm,” said Aziraphale, sat primly at his desk, spectacles at the end of his nose, peering over his taxes.
Crowley drummed his ankles on the window sill, waiting for more. When it didn’t come, he swung around on his stool and pointed an accusatory finger. “You’re getting boring as hell.”
Aziraphale looked at him over his lenses. “Is hell boring?”
Crowley shrugged with his mouth. “Can be. Can be. Depends what’s called for, look, the actual issue here is that you need to go do something fun with me.”
“During tax season?” said Aziraphale. “Really? I suppose I’ll simply drop all my responsibilities, then.”
“That’s it, yeah,” said Crowley, nodding encouragingly.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Aziraphale, peering down the street outside the bookshop as if he didn’t want much to do with it. He scuffed his shoe back and forth across the pavement. “I’ve really so much to do. Perhaps one quick thing, all right?”
Crowley stood, looking at him, hands sort-of-but-not-really-in-pockets (women’s jeans were definitely one of Hell’s ‘better ideas’). He pursed his lips. “I don’t get it. I really don’t. Crepes and Shakespeare and wine and now you just want to do your taxes.”
Aziraphale didn’t look at him. “I am dutiful. I have always been dutiful.”
The raspberry Crowley blew caused small dogs to bark all over the neighbourhood.
ginyia
