His wings flare a little at the suddenness of it and he's almost sure the chair will tip over, only then Crowley is there snarling at him. He is so close Aziraphale can feel the heat of him, can smell his breath. His mouth is so close it's all he can do not to wrap his wings around them both to shield them from the dead silence and prying eyes of the cafe, to wrap his arms around his neck and pull him in, drawing the anger from the demon with his mouth.
He would taste so very dangerous.
But Crowley is angry, too. Even his feathers seem to be bristling and Aziraphale has to resist the temptation to touch them and feel them soothe under his hands. He knows, no matter what he said, there are ways to soothe the demon, to draw him close. And those words. What does he mean by them. Would he return to the Almighty's Grace if he could? Does he want to stay away from it? He knows why nice is a terrible thing to be, and a dangerous one, but he's always wondered about Crowley's motives-- and if there isn't some spark left, deep inside him, that keeps him going. That keeps him from tipping completely over the edge.
Aziraphale selfishly wants to nurture it. To bring it to a pure white flame and cup it in his hands. But not for the better of all, which is the horrible part. But to know that he could. And he knows there is so much he can do. But there is so much more he won't. Because, perhaps even more selfishly, he wants Crowley to stay Crowley. A horrible demon, yes, but with a hidden font of something deep and warm and wonderful. Almost sacred. Something that no other Angel or Demon he's met has yet to have. Granted he hasn't met many of the latter. He doesn't know what it is, but he wants to see more of it.
"I did say for a demon," he murmurs after a moment, reaching up to rest his hand lightly on one of Crowley's slender wrists. "And you know, there's no one to impress here." Or to be afraid of either, he doesn't add.
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He would taste so very dangerous.
But Crowley is angry, too. Even his feathers seem to be bristling and Aziraphale has to resist the temptation to touch them and feel them soothe under his hands. He knows, no matter what he said, there are ways to soothe the demon, to draw him close. And those words. What does he mean by them. Would he return to the Almighty's Grace if he could? Does he want to stay away from it? He knows why nice is a terrible thing to be, and a dangerous one, but he's always wondered about Crowley's motives-- and if there isn't some spark left, deep inside him, that keeps him going. That keeps him from tipping completely over the edge.
Aziraphale selfishly wants to nurture it. To bring it to a pure white flame and cup it in his hands. But not for the better of all, which is the horrible part. But to know that he could. And he knows there is so much he can do. But there is so much more he won't. Because, perhaps even more selfishly, he wants Crowley to stay Crowley. A horrible demon, yes, but with a hidden font of something deep and warm and wonderful. Almost sacred. Something that no other Angel or Demon he's met has yet to have. Granted he hasn't met many of the latter. He doesn't know what it is, but he wants to see more of it.
"I did say for a demon," he murmurs after a moment, reaching up to rest his hand lightly on one of Crowley's slender wrists. "And you know, there's no one to impress here." Or to be afraid of either, he doesn't add.