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“Fraternizing?”
The word stings as Crowley repeats it, like venom in a wound. Stings, because it’s true. If anything, the word feels like an understatement. It’s not just inappropriate, what he and Aziraphale are doing. Not just scandalous. It’s fundamentally, enormously wrong. An angel and a demon working together? “Blasphemous” doesn’t even begin to cover it.
But they’ve gotten comfortable with “blasphemous,” haven’t they? Too comfortable. They’d tiptoed around it, in the beginning. At some point, that caution evaporated, turned into seeing how far they could push it before it broke. And break it did, that night in Edinburgh, where the ground had swallowed Crowley up.
“Whatever you wish to call it,” says Aziraphale. “I do not think there is any point in discussing it further.”
“I have lots of other people to fraternize with, angel.”
“Of course you do.”
“I don’t need you.”
Crowley regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. He wants to take them back, to grab them out of the air and shove them down into a dark pit somewhere in Hell.
To apologize.
Apologize for being the reason that Aziraphale’s brow is now creased with worry, and for always causing the angel trouble. While Crowley doesn’t give a damn about vexing Heaven in general, vexing Aziraphale specifically makes him feel vaguely guilty.
For the first time in the conversation, Aziraphale turns to face Crowley. “And the feeling is mutual! Obviously!”
Obviously.
Logically, Crowley knows this is true. Of course Aziraphale doesn’t need him. He has been nothing but an annoyance to the angel for damn near 6,000 years—which, to be fair, is part of his job description, but still. The words feel like a punch in the gut.
Aziraphale has never needed Crowley’s help, and now that Crowley needs his, he won’t give it to him.
“I didn’t mean it! I was lying!” Crowley wants to yell. “I’m a demon, that’s what I do.”
But demons don’t apologize.
And angels don’t lie.
Crowley settles for childishly mocking Aziraphale’s word choice as the latter storms off.