Ineffable

Envy

It had been a long day in Wuhan. The strange new virus was spreading rapidly and the authorities were talking about placing the country on lockdown. Crowley had lurked about as the humans argued and blundered. He didn't like to interfere, but he knew his performance on this assignment was being watched closely. He'd done his part, whispering in an ear here to go without a mask, there not to bother with hand washing. He caused an unstoppable itch on a nurse's nose, and she pulled her mask down and scratched her face with a gloved hand. He felt a bit squirmy about it, but he had a job to do, after all.

Back in London, he walked through the bustling streets to Aziraphale's bookshop. The sidewalks were filled with people hurryling home to warm dinners, or picking up last minute supplies for supper.

He was planning to try his hand at a frittata. It was always a challenge to cook for Aziraphale, who was a vegetarian. He stopped and bought a good bottle of wine. When he sauntered by the flower lady's stand, he couldn't resist stopping for a bouquet. She had some lovely roses that stood out hot, pink and voluptuous, in the chilly January evening.

"Bless you kind sir," she croaked as he plucked the flowers from their jam jar and handed her a ten pound note. "Buying for someone special?"

"Erm....." Crowley said, suddenly self conscious.

"Love is a tricky thing," she commented with a toothless grin.

"It is, isn't it," agreed Crowley.

"Good luck with it then," she said as he hurried away, He pulled his coat closer against the chilly mist. The blue scarf that Aziraphale had given him for Christmas was snug against his neck. He was looking forward to the comfort of a cozy dinner and the pleasures of the angel's bed.

But when he got to Aziraphale's, the flat was dark.

"No mind," thought Crowley. He let himself in. Not that Aziraphale had given him a key. But Crowley didn't need a key to enter where he wanted. One of the advantages of being a demon. He puttered about the dark flat, turning on the lamps. He put the flowers in water. He opened the wine, started frying onions for the frittata.

Crowley did enjoy cooking - more, it seemed as time went on. He had developed a bit of a fetish for kitchenware stores, with their gleaming, sleekly designed utensils, their clever solutions for mundane problems. What really was the best device for grating ginger, peeling garlic, squeezing lemons? Gradually, his purchases appeared in Aziraphale's old fashioned, minimally equipped kitchen. Aziraphale preferred to eat out.

He had no idea where Aziraphale had got to but figured he'd be home soon enough.

But he wasn't.

One hour passed, then two. The frittata sat golden and perfect in the oven. Crowley hunkered down by the fire and finished the wine. The flowers took on a decidedly droopy look.

By the time he heard the angel's tread on the stairs he was pacing the flat restlessly and little tendrils of smoke were coming out of his ears. He heard the jangle of keys, the turning of the lock. Aziraphale entered looking rosy and pleased with himself. A little jealous worm started gnawing at the base of Crowley's brain.

He knew that look.

"Hello," Aziraphale sang out. "Let yourself in, I see." He went over to the fire and rubbed his hands. "Brr! It's getting cold out! A winter storm blowing in. My, that smells good! What did you make?"

"Aziraphale," said Crowley. "Where were you?"

"Where was I? I had a date."

"A date." There was a buzzing in Crowley's ears, like a thousand flies.