Crowley sauntered to the bar. The bartender grinned at him, and lifted an eyebrow.

"We're up to 158, aren't we, Anthony?"

"Nah. Got a guest. Think he'd like number 237."

The bartender looked over with interest. "Wouldn't have picked him. Thought you were the kind to chase younger tail, pretending to relive your lost and wasted youth."

"My youth is long lost, Mark." Crowley was beginning to feel irritated. "Longer ago and more wasted than you could possibly imagine. And not in any way recoverable."

"You're not as long in the tooth as all that. Pretty well preserved." The bartender poured two glasses of #237. "Still, I wouldn't have imagined you with the fluffy professorial type. I suppose he's very well off," he added cynically.

"Not as well off as me," Crowley said curtly. Part of him was enjoying this. He knew perfectly well what humans assumed when he said angel. And there was a tiny thrill each time they made the assumption, as if it was a confirmation that they were eternally paired in some way, even if Adversaries.

"Settling down, then? Comes to us all. Well, I'd look lively, if you care to protect your territory. Can't bring in anything that rich looking and leave it unattended in a hive of villainy like this." Mark jerked his head meaningfully.

Crowley followed the movement, swore, and picked up the glasses in one hand and the bottle in the other. "Send my friend some of those sweet things."

An extremely good looking young man with tattooed on eyeliner was having his hand patted soothingly by Aziraphale, and looked up guiltily as Crowley approached. Crowley considered momentarily changing forms, possibly to the one with all the maggots, but settled for, "That seat's taken. Get out."

The young man took in his expression and hastily obeyed. Crowley set the glasses down and swung onto his stool.

"That," said Aziraphale, "was discourteous, even for you."

"I'm discourteous? You were supposed to be drinking with me. But if you'd prefer picking up random humans, I suppose your shop is making a mint these days, so don't let me get in your way." He splashed the drink into his mouth without tasting it. He knew he was deliberately taking things in the worst possible way, but the even you had stung. The young man had been truly obscenely good looking, in a very human way. Almond green eyes, not bulging and yellow.

Aziraphale took a prim sip, and let the silence settle long enough that Crowley began to feel stupid and embarrassed for over reacting. He was sure he used to be better at keeping his cool than that.

"Look, angel—"

"Whatever that young man does or not do for a living, which is none of our business, he was in a lot of distress. And it is, as you are quite aware, part of my job to help humans through their problems and find a solution that doesn't damage their souls."

"You just can't help yourself, can you? You don't have a job any more! No one is keeping score, not for us."

Aziraphale bit his lip, and Crowley would have bit his too, except that he had trouble keeping control of his fangs when he was upset. The pale blue eyes were very round, and hurt, and everything had been feeling just wonderful only a few minutes ago.

"Perhaps not," Aziraphale said, after a while. "But my nature has not changed, nor have my powers. If you think I want to help myself from aiding and comforting others, then you're mistaken."

"I'm not going on with my job," Crowley said savagely. "Catch me doing the Devil's work for no pay."

Aziraphale looked not only wounded, now, but sorrowful. "Are you sure you can help yourself? Your fundamental nature, dear boy."

Crowley's hand was shaking. He tried to sprawl casually, but the bar stool wasn't designed for elegant languor, and he nearly slid off it. "So that's it, then? Still an angel and a demon. Adversaries."

"I should have thought that was obvious, my dear," Aziraphale said, very delicately, as if afraid his words would smash something fragile. "I did think for a moment last night—but just look at us, again."

"Look at us? We're best friends, having a drink in a very expensive bar, and you are about to have all kinds of delicious food to try. It's a beautiful world, you said so yourself. And our only Arrangement right now is to enjoy it. Together. Without worrying about sides."

He leaned across the table, chin cradled in his hand, and stared at Aziraphale, willing him to say that of course, they were on their side. Our side, our side. Just say it. He stared with all his might as if to hypnotise Aziraphale into it, even through his sunglasses.

Aziraphale turned away. "Oh, how pretty," he said, thanking the server who had just put a plate of pastel and brown morsels in front of him, and lifting a tiny mango flavoured treat in his elegant fingers. "I'm sure they're delicious."

"I do know how to cross a road by myself, you know," Crowley said, watching Aziraphale chew and swallow.

Aziraphale pressed his lips together. "Should I apologise?"

"Absolutely not," Crowley said hastily. "I mean, I get easily distracted, and then where would I be? A flattened snake. I'd have no hope of getting them to assign me a new body right now." That was a thought, actually. He'd have to keep real care of this body for a bit, until Hell lost interest in his betrayal and decided to make use of him again. He might even have to pay attention to the road. "No, I appreciate the guidance, and you can guide me all you like."

"Then what?" Aziraphale lifted his hands a little helplessly, then noticed a crumb and wiped them meticulously with a napkin.

"Damned if I know." Crowley drained his glass of rather ordinary wine. Aziraphale was right. Even if he could control the instinct to tempt and provoke the humans, Hell wouldn't give up on an asset over a betrayal for too long, in any case, especially an asset that had spent thousands and thousands of years playing up its own value. Betrayal was all business as usual, and Crowley's record was full of commendations. "Damned either way, I suppose."

"I wish—" Aziraphale's unfinished wish hung in the air between them, and it hurt like hellfire never had. Then Aziraphale made it worse. "Would it have been a problem if I was?"

"Was what?"

"Courting the young man. You keep talking about the pleasures of the world. And I know that you personally work with humans in this way."

"We're really going to have this conversation in public?" Crowley felt something shatter inside him. I thought, after all we'd been through together, you really would have given up on all this tempting nonsense. "No, actually, we're really not going to have this conversation in public. Because this bar doesn't hold enough wine for that."

"True. We're not going to have this conversation at all." Aziraphale looked miserable, fidgeting with the napkin. "It was a mistake, my dear. Please don't bring it up again. You know I truly value our friendship, even if I have been remiss in saying so."

"Aziraphale..." Crowley threw his head back, an aching pain behind his eyes. Lack of alcohol, perhaps. "Yes. Yes, I know you care about me. You are literally an angel and my friend. You know perfectly well that I can't do without you. I don't want to talk about you courting anyone. Can we drop the subject? I'm not good at being maudlin sober."

Aziraphale busied himself with the treats, and Crowley went to get more wine. Lots more wine. Why had he picked a place without spirits of the material kind?

When he returned to the table, Aziraphale started talking about some manuscripts he hoped to acquire as if nothing had happened, and Crowley slowly relaxed, and it was okay, it was even fun, because although he had no idea why these particular books were so important he liked the way Aziraphale radiated when he talked about them, colour rising to his face, hands animated. Crowley even almost didn't have a nervous breakdown when Aziraphale's shoe and calf rested briefly against his snakeskin possibly shoes. He felt like he was floating in space without any reference point.

Stupid. He had a reference point right across from him. A soft intelligent face, large ears for taking in all the problems of the worlds, kind eyes, solidity that you could grow a universe on. A reference point that had never let him down and never entirely vanished since that first seeking of contact and reassurance in Eden, even when Crowley had thought himself abandoned and unloved in the turmoil of the Last Days. The one being who had consistently put Crowley's safety first even knowing he was Fallen.

He told himself it was all going to be okay, if he trusted whatever was going on under that deceptively innocent exterior. Because Aziraphale might lie and evade and indulge in minor sins, but he was, on the most fundamental level, trustworthy, because he chose with his heart.

Three wines in, the wine bar had lost its appeal, and Crowley suggested going back to his flat to try some special acquisitions he had been saving for Aziraphale. They rose and got their jackets.

On the doorstep, they hesitated, uncomfortable and floundering again.

"I don't trust myself with the traffic," Crowley lied. "It might help if you," he sucked his breath between his teeth and looked anywhere but at Aziraphale, "guided me across the road." He awkwardly stuck a hand slightly out at an angle behind him, and felt relieved and terrified and blissful all at once at feeling his fingers enfolded and palm pressed. The contented chuckle beside him only made him feel even more confused.

His hands felt lonely on the steering wheel, which was a change because he was usually mostly consumed by passionate communication with the Bentley. When he pulled up in the private garage, he turned to look across at Aziraphale, and saw an open, expectant expression that pretty much destroyed any remaining self possession.

Don't kiss him, don't kiss him, don't kiss him, he chanted silently to himself. Don't mess this up, whatever this is.

"Home sweet home," he said lightly, and went around to open the door for Aziraphale, as if the angel was incapable of it himself. He was sure, almost sure, he saw a faint pleased smile on Aziraphale's face. He had no idea what it meant, except that if this was still a game, it seemed Aziraphale was the only one winning points.

Notes:

1) So I still am reading a lot of stuff on Angelology FOR SOME REASON and one of the books has "angel numbers" that apparently mean angels are sending messages to you if you see the numbers a lot. Crowley's working through the wines in order, and has reached a number which signals the beginning of something new in his life; adventure and excitement; and material prosperity. The wine he chooses to share with Aziraphale, on the other hand, symbolises cooperation and sensitivity to those you associate with; spirituality, conviviality and creativity; and alignment to divine purpose. So. Be careful what you wish for, dear demon, because you never know Who may be paying attention.

2) Forgot the "historical" (with a grain of salt) notes last chapter and realise it may have been a bit confusing, but it's not all that long in celestial timescale after the Tower of Babel from the first chapter, so diverse languages are a New Thing. And for all Zira's faith in permanency, no one can currently read Harappan/Ancient Indus Valley writing, except presumably him and Crowley.