A quick thing I wrote a few months ago, and didn't type up until yesterday, because I'm a bit shiftless.
Crowley was asleep. It was a nice way to be. He didn't dream, of course - he'd switched them off after the first one in which the beetle-farmer of the twice-anointed fourteenth century had featured significantly.
Honestly. Falling unconscious for a third of their lives and vividly hallucinating. Humans should be more concerned.
And then the door of his apartment slammed open and Crowley became less asleep.
A high, panicky hammered at his brain. "-And I tried to call the Metatron and no one answered so do you think that they could have just taken it off the hook or something but I suppose that the line might be busy, as it were, only it's never been -"
Crowley sighed and tuned Aziraphale out until the room was filled with anxious silence and worried angels. Then, he frowned at his guest, pushed his sunglasses up his nose for effect, and sat up straighter in the office chair he used in lieu of a bed.
Aziraphale stewed, quivering very slightly.
Crowley said, "What's wrong?"
The angel chewed his lip. "I tried to talk to the Metatron."
"I see."
"And he - it - well, there was no answer."
"Maybe the line was busy."
"I thought of that. Only there wasn't any hold music, how they do." He groaned and dropped his head into his hands. The rest was muffled by grief and well-kept nails. "I even might have enjoyed Liszt, if he had started playing. Not Elgar, but maybe Liszt."
Crowley snapped his fingers abruptly. Aziraphale stopped wailing. To look in-control-of-the-situation, Crowley checked that his tie was straight, which it was. "And that means... you're getting the cold shoulder? Bully. So what?"
Aziraphale gaped at him. "So what? So - what if I can't reach Heaven because I'm no longer and angel."
Crowley snorted with laughter.
Aziraphale's terrified look endured.
Crowley cleared his throat. "Well. Can you still - you know?"
"I don't know! - I haven't tired. I thought I should tell you." He hesitated, wrung his hands, and said in a rush, "Because maybe - maybe you're the same way. You know. Disconnected."
Ha. The day Crowley was kicked out of Hell was the day he lost the Antichrist or something.
"Excuse me," he said, and walked into the next room over.
Aziraphale watched the closed door for a few minutes. There was a whoosh and a thud. He flinched.
Crowley came back out, face absolutely white and fingers twitching spasmodically. He took a deep breath and wished he had cigarettes in his pockets, just for something to do with his hands. "Um. That went well."
Aziraphale whimpered. "So...you can't...you know?"
Crowley tilted his chin up, and behind his shades his eyes changed.
Aziraphale's comfortable corduroy ensemble disappeared. He squealed, both from surprise and the cold.
Crowley shrugged his jacket into place, took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, and searched for a flame. He found it on the end of his finger. As he took a puff, he growled, "Of course I can still you know. Don't wake me up unless it's important."
Aziraphale was half-giggling, now, from relief. "My dear, I apologize. I must look foolish."
Crowley took another drag and looked him up and down. At length, he said, "You look fine. Get some pants on, 'my dear' - I don't swing that way."
Aziraphale stopped giggling. He blinked his big, innocent eyes, and - the same clothes reappeared. "Oh. Crowley? - last question. I promise."
"What?"
Aziraphale attempted an awkward wink. "Since when?"
Crowley hid his smile behind a scowl, and told his friend to scram.