Over the centuries Aziraphale's staunch avoidance of most of the sins had gradually crumbled, and although he was by no means a hardened sinner, nor was he the paragon of virtue he had originally been. Apart from anything else, their reciprocal Arrangement had required Aziraphale to tempt mortals as often as Crowley had performed blessings and miracles; and whilst Aziraphale was certainly not in Crowley's, or even Hastur's, league when it came to corrupting the innocent, nevertheless he had been engaging in thoroughly unangelic behaviour on and off for a good many years now.
It wasn't that Crowley was trying to tempt him, per se -- or, only in a general way. Not in a seriously-trying-to-get-him-in-trouble-with-the-Boss kind of way - because Crowley, when it came right down to it, was perfectly happy with the status quo, and certainly didn't want any new, gung-ho, by-the-book principality to be assigned in Aziraphale's place. Certainly not. But there was still something thoroughly irresistable about watching Aziraphale taste his first mouthful of unforbidden fruit, and watching him being gradually seduced - in a very prim and angelic fashion - by the printed page. Vanity, at least over his appearance, was not a problem for the angel; indeed, at times Crowley rather wished it were, because if he could only dress with a little more panache, and do something with his hair, he could really be quite something. Well, he already was something, of course - but. Well. Yes.
Demons were, after all, supposed to be fairly enthusiastic about embracing sins, so it wasn't precisely something to be embarassed about. Sloth. Anger. Vanity. Gluttony. Avarice -- well, avarice was rather pointless, since neither of them needed currency to have their whims fulfilled, but Crowley was a big fan of wanting things. Envy.
Lust.
And what could be more thoroughly wicked, when all was said and done, than harbouring lustful thoughts about an angel? Even if one more frequently felt an impulse to bash him over the head with a brick for having so irritatingly poor a grasp of the obvious, and for being so painfully oblivious to the passage of time during the Twentieth Century. Because Crowley had seen an awful lot of interesting things in his time, and done quite a number of interesting things too, and there were certain ideas that just couldn't quite be banished from his head.
* * *
"It's -- slippery," he said at last.
"Yes."
Crowley watched Aziraphale delicately place another little pad of rice and fish onto his cautious tongue with rather more intensity than the event warranted.
"But -- not unpleasantly so."
"Mmm." A lock of fair hair innocent of bleach fell over one of Aziraphale's eyes. Crowley exerted an effort of will and refrained from pushing it out of the way. "Have you tried the pickled ginger? It goes rather well -- no? Here."
"Mmm."
The slivers of fish were jewel-bright and almost translucent, and if they'd been any fresher they would still have been swimming. It was one of Crowley's favourite restaurants at the moment. There was a congenial pause, and Crowley reflected that it was a great pity, in some ways, that they weren't both mortal. He picked lazily at the array of sushi and sashimi he had selected, watching Aziraphale study each pristine little morsel and then lift them, one at a time, up to his waiting mouth. The soy sauce and the wasabi were both investigated, although Aziraphale, predictably, thought the wasabi a trifle too hot for his palette. Crowley watched the angel's pink tongue dart out to lick the corner of his mouth, and he thought a number of very bad things.
"More wine?"
"Well, I don't know that I ought - um. Yes. Yes please." Crowley smiled toothily, and refilled Aziraphale's glass. "Thank you." They both sipped at glasses of the surprisingly palatable Chardonnay, and to any casual observer there would have been no hint that they were, technically speaking, arch enemies. Possibly even nemeses. Technically speaking. "Well. Well, I have to say that this was really -- I mean, considering that it's raw fish - well. It's really jolly nice. Have you finished with the, ah, what were they -- um -- the Oklahoma rolls?"
"California rolls. And go ahead."
"If you're sure? Mmm? Thank you. Who could have thought they would be so tasty?"
"You see, you need to trust me when I tell you you'll like something," said Crowley, as innocently as he could manage. Aziraphale beamed at him.
"You were certainly right about sushi. And chocolate. And that Caxton chap."
Crowley nodded. He wondered, idly, how many years it would take before he could persuade Aziraphale that eating sushi from a naked virgin was a good idea, and whether deflowering an angel would earn him a special place in Hell. And, if it did, whether this would be a good thing.
* * *
any mortal, that is, who was lucky enough to happen upon the shop during one of its erratic opening times, and who was prepared to brave the odd smells and the suddenly flickering lighting, and the ferocious glowering of the proprietor, and who happened to have precisely the right sum in change upon their person. And even then, more often than not, they found themselves hurrying back with shadows under their eyes and newly-aquired nervous twitches, eagerly returning the volume within a couple of days and telling the proprietor to keep the money, keep the book, they'd given up reading.*