Title: Interacting
Author: kbk
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Terry Pratchett, Neil Gaiman, not me.
Notes: An odd little scene. Six hundred words exactly.

If Aziraphale had ever thought about it - which he hadn't, being as it was a human thing to do, and he generally felt compelled to contemplate divine mysteries whenever he allowed his mind to wander - he wouldn't have believed that everyone looks innocent in their sleep. He would most likely have made some kind of rambling statement to the effect that with their conscious guards relaxed, a person's essential nature would show through, and while all humanity was inherently good it was also inherently evil and this inherent duality would affect a person's uninhibited appearance.

He would have been forced to reconsider when he entered his shop to find Crowley sitting behind the counter with his head pillowed on his neatly crossed arms. With his eyes gently closed, a small smile of contentment on his lips, and a ray of light highlighting one cheekbone, he resembled nothing so much as a vision of purity from some Renaissance Master. It was entirely possible, of course, that he had been a model for such at some point, but there had been little contact between the two of them at that point. It was odd, thought Aziraphale, that they had seen so much more of each other in recent years than they had in some of the preceding centuries, especially since it was now so much easier to conduct business long-distance.

Then the door banged shut behind Aziraphale, and Crowley stirred. His head lifted almost imperceptibly, and one yellow eye slitted open. "'zi'phale?" Crowley muttered muzzily. The angel felt a strange impulse to murmur an assent and encourage his friend to relax back into that state of seeming peace. He considered it for a moment, wondering at the source of the urge. He was just about to discard it out of hand when Crowley sat up, blinked a few times, leaned back in the seat and let out a lengthy yawn. "Where were you, then?" the demon asked, a tiny hint of a smile on his face. Then his lips twisted in displeasure as he noticed the time. "I've been waiting for hours," he complained with a trace of incredulity.

"Obviously you were making good use of the time," Aziraphale replied snappishly. It had been something of a long day for him, attempting to deal pleasantly with any number of discontent minimum-wage shop assistants, none of whom seemed able to help him find the - admittedly unusual - vegetables he required to make a stew he had once favoured. And to return to his shop expecting a haven from the world but finding somebody there - a nominal enemy, at that - irritated him quite a bit.

Crowley gazed at him for a long moment, then stood and stretched widely. He dropped his arms, straightened his jacket, and materialised a pair of sunglasses on his nose. "I'll just get out of your way, then," said he, slinking out from behind the desk and towards the front door. He slowed slightly as he approached the angel, raising his eyebrows over his sunglasses as if challenging the other to speak, then swept past and out of the door.

Aziraphale watched the door swing closed, staring after the demon for several long moments. A tiny voice of regret murmured in his chest even as he admired the picture that had momentarily formed of a slim black-clad back framed by the doorway and silhouetted in the fading evening sunlight. "How very odd," he murmured to himself. Then he turned, and moved deeper into the shop, and very deliberately did not think about Crowley at all.