“You know, the humans use ‘angel’ as a term of endearment now.”
Crowley, who had been in the middle of celebrating a particularly good quip toward Aziraphale with a large gulp of Scotch, chokes and sputters on the harsh drink.
Aziraphale huffs a laugh. “If you’re going to use your vessel to drink, you should at least do it right,” he teases.
Crowley coughs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Shut up,” he rasps. “What did you say?”
“I said,” Aziraphale says, smugness palpable in his voice and the smirk on his face, “that the humans have started calling their loved ones 'angel.’ Don’t you think that’s lovely?”
Clearing his throat, Crowley tosses the rest of his drink back, hoping if Az sees him drinking enough that he’ll mistake the blush on Crowley’s cheeks and neck for alcohol-related rosacea.
He does, of course, think that it’s lovely—he’s the reason this trend kicked up, after all. In the midst of working on tempting a clergyman he had slipped up and, as is a natural occurence for Crowley, he started talking about Aziraphale. Unfortunately, clergymen take religious talk quite seriously and offhandedly referring to Aziraphale as “an angel he knew” put Crowley in a difficult position which ultimately required him to further explain that by an angel he did not mean an otherworldly celestial being with powers greater than humankind could comprehend, he meant… his lover.
He didn’t expect the relatively unimportant portion of that conversation to be so impactful as to create a new and popular term of endearment, but what can you do? Crowley knew that Az would eventually catch on but keeping up with trends unrelated to rare (and boring) literature or food isn’t his strong suit. It’s only been… what, fifty years since 'angel’ started to catch on?
Self-satisfied bastard must have been so excited to lord that over me, Crowley thinks fondly.
“Goodness, are you drunk already? Why are you just staring at me with that look on your face?”
Crowley chases away his lovesick smile with a scowl and taps his glass on the tabletop, watching as it refills itself. “Not nearly drunk enough,” he says. “And whoever started that trend must never have met you lot, or he wouldn’t call the one dearest to his heart an angel.”
Aziraphale’s smile falters and Crowley’s heart constricts.
“Well,” Crowley amends, “the others, anyway. You’re the only one of 'em worth knowing. The bloke who started the trend was probably thinking of you.”
A silence falls between them, one of acknowledgement and of agreement to let the silence remain in place of anything too much, too loud—too fast—and Crowley thanks the Dark Lord for the glasses obscuring the very obvious, very amorous look in his eyes.
“Anyway,” he murmurs, “guess I’ll have to pick a new nickname for you, hmm? Can’t have people thinking anything untoward.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale says, a light blush dusting the apples of his cheeks, “do you have to? I mean, it's—it’s just a quite accurate nickname.”
Crowley bites his lip to stop himself from pointing out the implication, the lack of clarification, the suggestion that the nickname is accurate in more ways and for more reasons than one, and simply shrugs.
“I guess keeping it is less effortful,” he says.
Aziraphale smiles, the expression on his face a complicated mosaic of relief and confliction and affection. “Thank you.”
Crowley smiles back. “No problem, angel.”
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