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Aziraphale settles the box of new books on the floor and looks around for Crowley. He's normally around as soon as Aziraphale gets back, eager to chat even if he hasn't wanted to go out in the London rain and trawl around a house clearance searching for first editions.
'Crowley?'
'Sorry, angel. Just a minute!'
Aziraphale smiles at seeing him, stretched out along the couch, red hair ruffled where he's leaning against the arm of the chair. He's wearing earphones.
Crowley slams his laptop shut, scrabbles to his feet and comes over to Aziraphale.
'What were you watching?'
'Oh. Uhh...nothing. Nothing important.'
He thinks, feeling how tense Crowley suddenly is in his arms, that might be the first direct lie the demon's ever told him.
Mesopotamia, 3200 BCE
The whole writing thing is fast threatening to overtake food and wine as Aziraphale's favourite human invention. The way the humans can just keep notes of things; the way they can record favourite stories and songs so it doesn't matter if someone moves away or gets killed because their words can stay behind; the way people can play about and make the words even better so the stories take on a new level of grandeur.
The reading comes first, of course. Easy enough; those first writings still carry a hint of the writer's feelings behind them. A complaint, a plea; sharp emotions that give him a basic understanding of what he's looking at. Some of them make him think of Crawly.
He learns to write the human way. A long summer's morning and a patient scribe, explaining the different shapes and angles to him, coaching him through it when his first attempts don't look anything like what he's trying to reproduce.
Crawly's name looks different, captured by his hand like this. He likes the permanence of it, the sharpness.
It's another couple of centuries before he sees the demon again. They're discussing the improvements in beer when Crawly asks 'you haven't got involved in that writing thing, have you?'
'Yes, why?'
Crawly shudders. 'Oh, Downstairs is very keen on it. Waste of time if you ask me. The humans are only going to use it to cause trouble, you know.'
Aziraphale thinks of the fish recipe he's currently carrying in his bag, and decides not to argue. Crawly can be prickly when he's pushed into things by Head Office, after all.
Crowley's flat, 2020
'Stupid, stupid bloody show writers,' Crowley proclaims and reaches out for his wineglass, leaning across Aziraphale's lap for it.
'I could have passed you that, dearest. What have they done?'
'That,' and he waves a hand indigently at the screen. 'That nonsense. Makes absolutely no sense at all.'
Aziraphale glances up to see the closing credits of a historical drama that he'd been carefully avoiding - Crowley laughs at historical inaccuracies but they make his teeth itch. 'I believe Tracy said this was one that worked much better as a book?'
He feels Crowley tense slightly beside him.
'I'm sure I've got a copy somewhere if you'd like to read it done properly.'
'Uh, no...No thank you.'
'It's no problem, I can find it easily enough.'
'Aziraphale, you don't like anyone touching your books. You'd only get annoyed me with folding the corners or something.'
'You're not anyone, are you?' and he sees Crowley's small, wondering smile. They're still not sure of this new thing between them, a couple of years not enough to erase the six thousand that went before.
'I'd be worried about it, angel. Honestly.'
'I can get you your own if you like?' and somehow that must have been the wrong thing to say, because Crowley's drawing away now, and although he doesn't wear his glasses any more when they're alone, he reaches up to his face as though expecting to find them. The gesture covers his eyes.
'Crowley...'
'Leave it. Please.'
He does.
Soho, 1800
He should have got more shelves. At least twice the amount. Aziraphale frowns at the pile of books and wonders if the humans will notice just a few dimensional tweaks. It's not really a frivolous use of miracles if he needs it for his disguise, right? Or maybe he can even pass it off as something he needs to do to protect pieces of human history; being a guardian of their culture possibly?
He's spent three solid weeks doing this already, and he's hardly a quarter of the way through - he hadn't realised he'd brought so many books over the years.
Crowley strolls in an hour later, hat dipped to one side, jacket collar turned up against the chill. 'You having fun there angel?'
He bites off a sarcastic comment and just nods. 'Are you busy today?'
'Nah, I thought I'd come and see if you needed a hand sorting the shelves out but it looks like you're good, so-' Crowley half turns to go and everything in Aziraphale aches to see him leave so soon.
'You could - you could...help me shelve some of these if you don't mind? They're all in groups, I just need them sorted alphabetically and put on the shelves.'
'Sure.'
He glances over at Crowley occasionally as they work; the demon's unusually quiet today. He doesn't think he's ever seen Crowley concentrating so hard.
'Planning something I need to thwart?'
'Sorry?' Crowley looks up, face furrowed. He's chewed his lower lip since he's been in the shop, left a mark in it.
'You look...like you're thinking a lot.'
'Oh, of course,' and there's a small chuckle that Aziraphale doesn't think is entirely genuine. 'Always planning things, me.'
A few hours later, when Crowley offers to go and fetch them some wine, Aziraphale glances at the shelves he's been working on and doesn't have the heart to point out that most of them are filled wrongly. Perhaps he hadn't explained himself well enough; Gabriel's always on at him that he doesn't make sense.
'To your shop,' Crowley toasts and Aziraphale brings their glasses together, smiling.
London, 2021
It's raining when he gets into the Bentley. Crowley snaps his fingers, banishes the rain and any lingering dampness from his car and starts the engine. 'They said it was gonna be warm today, that's why I said we'd do the forest and look at me, got soaked going to pick up those pastries you like- fuck's sake!' He grabs at the radio but not before Aziraphale's heard it.
He doesn't recognise the narrator but he does recognise the story. The Black Rider and the flight to the Brandywine River, early on in the Fellowship of the Ring.
'I like this one,' he says softly.
Crowley looks devastated. 'Sorry.'
'What do you mean?'
Queen blasts onto the radio; much louder than Crowley would normally have it and he doesn't look over at Aziraphale while he drives. He can recognise 'I don't want to talk about it' when he sees it.
The Dowling's, 2014
It's normally only Crowley who goes into the house; Aziraphale spends most of his time in one of the staff cottages or wandering the grounds. But tonight, the house feels tense; an uneasy swirl of emotions and anger that he can't place.
Warlock's six now. Is that a normal age for Antichrist powers to start developing? He's not sure but Crowley's in there, has been for at least an hour and the cloud of feelings only seems to be getting worse.
Aziraphale lets himself into the main wing of the house. Everything's peaceful. Too quiet almost. And there's the door to the room where Warlock spends most of his time, and suddenly he can hear arguing; Warlock sounding on the verge of tears, Nanny snapping in a way he's never heard before.
He opens the door without knocking. Sees Warlock scowling at an exercise book; sees Nanny fighting to keep her patience.
'You told me the wrong answers,' Warlock says, and it's obvious that this argument has been going on for a while. 'You told me the wrong spellings and I got in trouble, look.'
Aziraphale soothes things over as best as he can, distracting Warlock and leading Nanny outside where he doesn't attempt to ask her what's happened but does pull her into a hug for a brief second.
London, 2021
He asks Crowley directly that evening, once they're back at the shop. He's got the lights low enough that it feels cosy, they've eaten and he's deliberately kept away from wine so he can do this clear headed.
'Crowley, can I ask you a question?'
The demon groans. 'No decent conversation in the history of the world has ever started with that nonsense. What's wrong?'
'I wanted to ask you about this morning. You seemed so upset - I wanted to know what was wrong so I could make sure I didn't hurt you like that again.'
There's one of those moments when he's reminded that Crowley is a snake in his other form; a long, slow twist of muscle and spine, contorting himself away from Aziraphale. 'You didn't. I was over-reacting.'
'Not if it hurt you,' he says softly. 'What was wrong?'
'Don't laugh at me.'
'Why - why would I do that?'
It hasn't been long since he cut his hair short again, and he thinks Crowley's regretting it now; he's trying to pull it down across his face as a barrier again. 'Why wouldn't you? The humans always seem to find it funny.'
'Dearest...' and he rests his hand on Crowley's. 'Was it about the book?'
'Audiobook,' and Crowley spits the word out. 'I'sss the only way I can manage. Stupid bloody snake eyes, they can't do the text or something, or snake brain or whatever. I can read but not books like you can, and...and...I get confused with a lot of the letters and things, it's why I was always filing your stuff wrong, remember? You used to get annoyed with me for not taking it seriously.'
'Oh, Someone, Crowley, I'm so sorry.'
Crowley shoots him a look that's just short of pleading, and Aziraphale knows he's not always known what Crowley needs from their friendship but this time, it's obvious.
They don't mention it for the rest of the evening.
He knows the human name for it, of course. Dyslexia. He's not sure if it's exactly the same thing in Crowley's case but it's close enough. He wants to help; can't imagine how he can.
A cottage in the South Downs, 2023
It's raining. Enough to keep any visitors away at least. Crowley's sprawled warm and loose-limbed in front of him, head resting against his chest, feet dangling over the end of the couch, and the plates from lunch are still scattered on the table.
'You got any preferences today, angel?'
'It's your turn,' Aziraphale says and smiles as Crowley starts scrolling through his phone. 'Just leave the spiders out of it this time, please.'
Crowley sniggers, relaxes even more. Aziraphale can feel the new weight of his limbs. 'Beren and Luthien do for you?'
He nods agreement, kisses the back of Crowley's head and leans back to listen to the book. They do this a lot now, listening to stories together. Crowley says sometimes it reminds him of bards and minstrels, of Greek plays and a night they'd spent sitting at Homer's feet.
Coloured paper had been partially successful; some of his books had been surprised to find themselves soft yellow or pale blue, and Crowley had found he could read some languages better than others, different scripts seemed easier for him. Being free of Hell's demands for paperwork also seemed to have helped; without the spectre of punishment for getting the letters wrong, Crowley was relaxed enough that he'd write lists and plans for his own use now.
But mostly, he likes to listen and Aziraphale delights in his enjoyment and the cottage is full of stories now.