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[temptational]

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[peckishly]

[ It had been several years since their latest lunch, though in a friendship that spanned six thousand years, was really rather inconsequential. Aziraphale wasn't sure if Crowley was just going to sleep through the rest of the century, and he found himself thinking it would be quite a shame if he did.

He stared at his phone, the one with an old rotary dial that he'd kept in good condition since he'd bought it in the 1930s, but thought to himself that he'd get around to it tomorrow. After all, people in general did not like to be disturbed from their sleep and he imagined that if it wasn't important, he probably shouldn't, just in case.

A month later, he'd come around to picking up the phone, and even dialed in a single digit, before hanging up once more.

Aziraphale was in the shop when he'd heard a hard knock. ]

Terribly sorry, but we're closed!

[ The knocking persists, so Aziraphale eventually gets up from his desk and musters up a polite but stern expression. Yet, when the door swings open, it falls from his face. ]

Crowley! Heavens, are you quite alright?

[temptational]

[ Painful things had happened during the Second World War, things that didn’t really bear thinking about. Seeing Aziraphale towards the beginning of it had been the bright spot in an otherwise terrible, awful slog of years which had put a point to the abhorrent things humans could do to one another, demonic influence barely necessary. Crowley didn’t want to think about them, though since the war was at the forefront of his most recent memories of Earth, it was hard to get away from. It was easy enough to get oneself discorporated in the middle of all that violence, if one wasn’t careful enough, and towards the end he hadn’t been.

He found nearly a decade had passed when he finally managed to get himself back to Earth. Not so long in the grand scheme of things, but a depressingly long time to spend Below with no better company that Hastur and Ligur and, on more unpleasant occasions, Beelzebub. It didn’t surprise him, really, to find himself outside of the bookshop, rather soon after he’d gotten back. He would have wanted to see Aziraphale even under the best of circumstances, which these certainly weren’t. It was always disconcerting, coming back, trying to catch up on everything you’d missed.

His hard knock on the door finally caught attention from within; Crowley wasn’t sure if Aziraphale had opened the shop a day since the 1700s. ]

Hello, Aziraphale.

[ He wanted to think of something quippy to say, but it wasn’t coming to mind. Crowley was aware he was letting the doorjam take most of his weight, as though a step one way or the other would result in collapse. ]

Yeah, yeah, all’s fine. Do you have anything to drink?

[peckishly]

[ Aziraphale had the shop open just about every day, except Sunday, thank you very much, though his hours were variable and highly subject to change at any moment's notice. Despite all this, the store still stood, which was a good thing as it was now a receptacle for a demon about to tumble onto the carpets adorning his floor. ]

Of course. Let me get you something to drink, do come in.

[ He reaches out his arms to guide Crowley into the foyer, ready to take the brunt of his weight should the need arise. He has many thoughts in his head, like what happened and who did this and are you in trouble and why didn't you call me sooner? But he frowns and fusses, kicking the door closed behind them and trying to get Crowley a nice cushy chair to fall into so he can be free to go retrieve that requested drink. ]

I hope wine is alright.

[ He pours a glass for Crowley, himself still armed with a tea he'd been nursing for the past hour or so; it's gone cold now but he warms it up in his hands with liberal use of angelic miracles. ]

Pardon my saying so, but I really don't think all is fine.

[ Aziraphale lasted so long not saying anything, too. ]

[temptational]

[ Crowley doesn't usually lean on Aziraphale--not as a literal figure of speech, but now seems to be the exception, his steps stumble slightly as he's led in through the door and Aziraphale's arms are right there. Crowley lets him have a little, just a little bit of his weight as he guides him to a chair, not unselfconscious about it but simply glad to be back, to be here, in the very familiar atmosphere of the bookshop. Aziraphale's chair is soft and comfortable and he sinks back into the cushions until he looks as though his spine has half-melted, tilting his head up towards Aziraphale and nodding at the offer of wine.

Something tight in his chest, something that felt a little like a vice clamped painfully taut beneath his ribs since the moment he found himself back in Hell finally begins to ease a little. He lets out a slow breath, just because it feels good to do so even if he doesn't technically need to breathe, and reaches out for the glass Aziraphale pours for him. ]

Oh, I got discorporated.

[ It doesn't surprise Crowley that Aziraphale didn't manage to hold his silence. If there's one thing that can be counted on, it's his concern: bothersome sometimes, but at the moment Crowley rather feels like basking in it, as though basking in the touch of warm sunshine. ]

Towards the end of the war. Couldn't send you any word, it all happened too fast.

For sohoangel

[temptational]

He wasn't sure where it had all gone wrong--

Well, that wasn't true. He knew exactly where it had all gone wrong, did Crowley.

The Italian countryside in the 13th century wasn't his favorite place to be, so far in the last several millennia of Earth's existence, but it wasn't the worst either. It should have been an easy enough job, to get up there and mess with the burgeoning little crusade the French had going on, bunch of young peasants following around some shepherd boy on the notion that they were all going to the Holy Land, misguided by the boy's ridiculous claim that he carried a letter from Jesus Christ. Last time Crowley had seen that poor bugger he'd been on his cross, and hadn't made it back to Earth in person yet from what Crowley'd heard, though his followers were always claiming this or that as a portent for the end times. He knew what his bosses wanted, for the crusaders to reach the Mediterranean and march into the arms of the slave trade business that was thriving in the area. But though Crowley enjoyed a holy crusade dissolving into chaos as much as the next demon, he didn't particularly enjoy the wailing of children, so he diverted the slavers with a few shipwrecks (nasty time of year to be sailing the Mediterranean, he'd tell Hastur, always storms around) and intercepted the crusade near the southern coast of Italy.

It should have been so easy to stop them there--curse this so-called letter, make it so that the next time the shepherd boy tried reading it his flock he'd start gibbering in unholy tongues and they'd likely all run away screaming. All very simple, he thought, until he touched the letter.

It burned like he imagined holy water must feel in those few terrible moments before your body simply combusted and ceased to exist. Except Crowley didn't combust, he just went on and on burning, the blackened scorch-marks and oozing red, raw wounds scoring his palms, crawling slowly up the insides of his wrists, his forearms, beginning to creep past his elbows when he'd taken shelter in some fisherman's hut and collapsed against the brackish-smelling floor. There he closed his eyes and grit his teeth and concentrating on trying to combat it, trying to push the holiness out, curses forcing themselves past his lips as hours crawled by and he managed only to slow the burns' progression.

[sohoangel]

As it happens, Aziraphale is also in the Italian countryside, although he has nothing to do with the Crusades. The Great Plan is rather ambivalent about the entire affair. Whether the Crusaders win or lose, somebody's faith in a higher power will be strengthened. A bit like sporting matches, in that sense.

No, Aziraphale is merely here to bless some local fisherman with their daily catch, and maybe sample the seafood if he has some extra time. It's why he's entering this simple hut, although thoughts of his task vanish when he takes sight of the man huddling on the floor, his arms covered in burns.

"Oh, dear. Are you all right... Crowley?!" There is a perfect combination of confusion, alarm, and bone-deep worry in the way he says the demon's name. He rushes over and kneels in front of him. "What in heaven's name happened to you?"

[temptational]

The pain of the burns and his efforts to hold them back from spreading across his entire body occupy nearly all of his focus, so that Crowley is barely aware of it when the door to the hut opens. He'd be doomed if it was some fervent young priest chasing after the demon who tried to curse the crusade, determined to bless him out of existence. Hell, if it was some fisherman's wife come in to scream at him and beat him with a bit of basket weaving he wouldn't be much good for defending himself against her, either. It isn't either of those things, though. Crowley lifts his head at the sound of his name, his features tight with pain, brows drawn together as he struggles for concentration. Nothing shields his eyes: his dark spectacles fell away somewhere as he stumbled here, and he's forgotten about them entirely as he looks up at Aziraphale.

"A-Aziraphale?" It is him, unmistakably alarmed as he kneels down in front of him. As well he might be, seeing him like this, and if Crowley had any presence of mind for it he'd be deeply infuriated to have Aziraphale see him in this agonizing state, writhing like a worm on a hook, but as it is--

"What...what are you..." He cuts himself off with a groan and a withering curse. "Ah--fuck--holy fucking relic--"

[sohoangel]

In all his previous encounters with Crowley, he's never seen him in such pain. It tugs at his heart instinctively. Or perhaps not instinctively, because any other angel worth their wings wouldn't care. Any other angel would likely hurry the job along so they could get a commendation for their trouble. They certainly wouldn't attempt to heal the demon.

None of this ever crosses Aziraphale's mind. He lifts up his hands, preparing to lay them on Crowley and undo the damage. But then he hears what Crowley says and freezes in something akin to fear. Because if these burns are from a holy relic, then attempting to miracle away the trauma will only make things worse. So much worse.

Oh, no.

"Why were you touching a -- oh, Crowley, honestly! Were you planning to take a bath in holy water next?" His chiding tone only partly hides his anxiety as he lowers his hands and wrings the hem of his tunic. "Listen, you... you keep fighting off the holiness, I'll gather up some salve and gauze to treat the burns themselves. Otherwise they'll heal poorly."

For sohoangel

[temptational]

After leaving the bookshop Crowley wanders, still in a daze, and finds himself back at his flat without quite remembering how he'd gotten there. He's filled up, in a way he can't remember being for long centuries, as though he was starving and is now finally sated, and his thoughts scatter and meander with no particular order to them, dwelling here and there on the memories of Aziraphale's pulse jumping beneath his mouth, his fingers caressing through Crowley's hair, and all the words, all the loving praise Aziraphale spoke to him, that Crowley drank in desperately, hardly knowing how much he'd needed to hear it. He has the strange, light-headed feeling that he's been absolutely ruined, and perhaps made anew. Winding his way towards his bed, not so much deciding to as following an instinctive need for sleep, he collapses face-down across the mattress, only stirring long enough to miracle shoes and shirt away before falling into a blank, heavy sleep.

He isn't sure how long he sleeps or when he begins to dream. But the dream feels like a long one, sweet and lingering: lying in lush grass with the scent of ripe things growing all around, his head in Aziraphale's lap and the angel's fingers in his hair, long red strands of hair, stroking through them as they lengthen and curl.

Crowley wakes at last to a soft and persistent knocking on his door, for several moments unable to identify the sound before he realizes that he's in his flat, in his bed--under the covers now, cocooned in a messy pile of sheets and blankets--and that it's Aziraphale knocking, it must be, because no one else comes to visit him here. No one who knows what's good for them, anyway. He struggles out from under the blankets, mumbles, "’m coming, angel," and remembers to pull on a shirt before making his way out of the bedroom and to the door. There's an unusual weight on his shoulders, spilling down his back--at first he wonders vaguely if his wings have come out, not paying much attention, but then when about to reach the door he suddenly stops dead.

His hair. It's long, grown out in thick waves, almost as long as it became in the dream, as long as it was when he and Aziraphale first met. He feels an anxious, mortified twist in his stomach, thinking for a brief moment of miracling it back the way it was, but--Aziraphale will like it. The realization makes him hesitate, and slowly lower the hand that was about to gesture it back into order. Aziraphale will love it. That's worth anything, Crowley thinks, and he resolutely reaches for the door and opens it.

[sohoangel]

Rather than rest after Crowley leaves the bookshop, Aziraphale is filled with a manic sort of energy, one that drives him to distraction as he tends to the shop. His skin is tingling with the memory of Crowley's kisses, his heartbeat fast and giddy. He's never felt so light, so boundless. It's as if he could fly without his wings, buoyed by his love and desire for his special, precious demon.

He calms a little as the time passes, but the distraction doesn't fade. His thoughts turn to Crowley even when he's trying to think of something else. Sometimes innocent, sometimes far less than innocent, but always sweet, always loving. It's a little like being intoxicated, and he worries occasionally if any of his few customers notice. The one that he accidentally sells a first edition of Leaves of Grass to certainly does, and he closes the shop after that, so he doesn't do anything more foolish.

How do humans survive this? he wonders. He reads through old romances, his books of poetry, all the way back to the Song of Solomon, looking for advice. The next step in this new stage in his relationship with Crowley.

A date, he decides. A proper date. No, a picnic. Like he promised Crowley all those years ago in the Bentley. Pleased by his ingenuity, he visits Harrods and purchases a variety of treats, things that he knows that they both enjoy. He miracles up a picnic basket and packs it nearly to the brim, then adds a bottle of his best red from his wine cellar to round it all out.

He doesn't think to call Crowley first, too excited by the idea. He heads to the demon's flat and knocks on the door instead. When his initial knock is not answered, he frowns a little and raps his knuckles on the door again. Crowley is home, isn't he? He can sense his presence somewhere in there. The door finally opens and he smiles brightly. "There you are! I was thinking we could --"

His breath catches as he stares in wonder at all that glorious hair. It makes his throat go dry. "Oh. Oh, Crowley... you let it grow out again..." He steps forward, reaching up as if under a spell, stopping just shy of touching it. "It's beautiful."

[temptational]

The jolt of his heartbeat when he sees Aziraphale brings with it an unfamiliar, almost painfully sweet awareness of having missed him terribly, even in sleep, even having dreamed of him. Crowley’s unconcealed eyes go from the picnic basket in Aziraphale’s hand—he gazes blankly at first, then remembers that conversation a long time ago, the holy water in his hand, Aziraphale’s quiet offer—to the angel’s face, in time to see his expression change from an inviting smile to something filled with wonder, even awe. If a demon could blush, it’s certain that he would be right now, very fiercely. As it is, his tendency to fidget is almost impossible to resist, but for the moment Crowley stays still, his hand still on the door, and lets Aziraphale look his fill. His eyes fall to the angel’s hand as he reaches out; Crowley almost holds his breath, but Aziraphale stops just short of touching.

“I—“ Crowley’s throat feels tight and he has to clear it before continuing. “I didn’t exactly let it...” He steps aside to let Aziraphale in without even thinking about it, taking darting glances at him as opposed to Aziraphale’s open stare, but drinking in the sight of him just as much. “I just went to sleep, and it was all—“ He gestures around his head, “when I woke up.”

Crowley halts just short of telling him about the dream, embarrassment stopping his tongue. Maybe later, when they’ve had some of that wine he sees in the basket. It’s not so much that Aziraphale had been stroking his hair, plaiting it, lulling him into a sweet stupor with every touch which mortifies him to admit aloud, but rather where they had been while he’d done it. In a garden.

[sohoangel]

Really, he'd love nothing more than to wrap his hand in those lovely locks, to drop the picnic basket without a care so that he could cup Crowley's jaw and pull him in for a long, passionate kiss, but that's not what humans do when courting. Well, that's what some of them do, but he doesn't care for it. It feels disrespectful to rush in like that, to demand something without asking permission. It's enough to look, for now, to feast his eyes on how it cascades down Crowley's shoulders, as long as it's ever been.

He gives Crowley a little nod of thanks as he steps inside, grateful to be let into the demon's private space. He's here so rarely; even recently, Crowley gravitates to the bookshop far more often than the other way around. His eyebrows rise at the admission and his gaze shifts from the demon's hair to his unguarded eyes. "Is that so? I could barely sit still while you were gone. It suits you, my dear. The hair. I haven't seen it this long in a while."

Remembering the picnic basket, he lifts up his arm to show it off to Crowley. "Anyway, I, ah... well, I thought we might go on a picnic in Saint James Park, if you're feeling up to it."

for lunchbreaks

[temptational]

Years later, it surprises him how little really has changed, since the night that he and Aziraphale promised themselves to one another: how little notice Heaven and Hell seem to take of them, content that things are going along like they should as time marches on ever steadily towards Armageddon. Crowley doesn't trust surprises, views them with a great deal of suspicion, in fact--but he's not one to poke a nest of sleeping vipers either (he should know not to, being their cousin) and if Beelzebub and the others think all is as it should be on earth, so much the better. He keeps the holy water carefully sealed away, checking on its hiding place now and again to be sure it hasn't gone and evaporated on him or any such thing, brooding over the possibilities as decades wear on and the Antichrist at last arrives. When he does, it seems only natural to enlist Aziraphale's help.

The boy Warlock needs a nanny, his house needs a gardener: they fall into their roles together, and tending to the Dowlings' household means that they can virtually live together, as long as the nanny is not discovered in flagrante delicto in the gardener's bed. At night, when the Dowlings are asleep and the protection detail are looking the other way, Crowley steals into the gardener's cottage on the estate, where he and Aziraphale shed their disguises. Sometimes Crowley sleeps, sometimes not; he longs for those hours with Aziraphale, a quality of desperation to them as though they grasp for what time they have left before the end of the world.

That night he does sleep, because the next the Dowlings will be off on an early flight overseas, and so there's little for Nanny Ashtoreth to do after tucking young Warlock into bed. Which means he can wake with Aziraphale, linger for hours with him instead of stealing back early to the main house. He supposes Aziraphale may have some gardening he ought to be getting on with--then again, Crowley had a rather emphatic word with the landscaping before going to the cottage the night before, so the flowerbeds won't dare be too demanding. Dawn comes, light flooding the cottage, but Crowley only buries his head in the pillow, determined to wring as much enjoyment out of a late morning as he can.

[lunchbreaks]

Aziraphale does not like to sleep, though he does love to wake with Crowley, and on occasion get dressed with him the old fashioned way. He would brush Crowley's hair and buckle his brasserie, laying delicate kisses on his shoulder when he allowed it, tying his bow for him and rolling his stockings up his pretty feet and slender legs. Then she was Ashtoreth, and he Francis, and before dawn she would sneak back to her quarters and no one was any the wiser. And during the night, if they would be careless and she would leave lipstick marks on his jaw and neck and really, anywhere else, he didn't mind a lick.

Today, he had awoken and run his fingers through long red hair and kissed like lacework all along Crowley's exposed temple and behind the shell of his ear. "You can keep sleeping, darling," he had murmured softly."It's still early." But before the sun rises is the best time to water the plants in the summer, as well as his usual waking of his currently live-in boyfriend. He'd reluctantly snuck out of bed to do so, having to put the costume on for the neighbors, but lingered in the doorway and just appreciated all this for an extended moment.

It's the end of the world soon, and Aziraphale wouldn't want to spend it any other way- if they were to be apart for the rest of eternity, at least they had these last few years together. It wasn't enough and it could never be, and as the years creep closer, Aziraphale feels a little more of his heart turn to ash to think of a life without Crowley. Too long he had spent bending to Heavenly will and scared of divine punishment, and he was paying for it now in numbered stolen nights.

Still, it was more time than they ever got, able to essentially live under the same roof. And with the Dowlings on holiday, and Aziraphale finally return from duties, he toes off his shoes and takes a seat on the edge of his bed - of their bed. His dentures gone and sideburns tucked away into a vanity, he is there in his little capelet, bouquet of deep red roses in his hand.

[temptational]

Crowley is haunted by Aziraphale's leaving that morning, much later than they must usually wake to remake him into Ashtoreth. The fingers in his hair, the kisses at his temple and ear, and oh he wishes he'd tugged Aziraphale down into the bed with him and coiled arms and legs around him so that he had no choice but to stay. Summoned up a thunderstorm and left the gardens to care for themselves. Kissed any token protest from Aziraphale's mouth. It's not even a proper late lie-in, his longing for the angel entering even into his dreams. In truth Crowley loves the mornings when Aziraphale dresses him into the trappings of a nanny again, lusts for them, for the stolen illicit kisses and the tender way Aziraphale pins her hair and checks her stocking seams. And the nights when she leaves lipstick smears at his throat and stains Aziraphale's mouth for him, when she takes his cock between those painted lips...Crowley rolls over and makes a smothered sound into the pillow, his own hard cock caught against the soft mattress.

He's still aching when he wakes fully sometime later, turning his head so that squinting yellow eyes can see Aziraphale sitting on the bed beside him, a bouquet of wine-dark roses in his hand. That is a sight to charm anyone, even a demon woken somewhat bad-tempered from unrestful sleep. Crowley shifts to his side, the sheets sliding away from his naked shoulders as he props himself up on an elbow. This way his state of aching arousal is still hidden, though it won't be for long, he imagines. Glancing at the roses and then up to Aziraphale's face, he arches a brow. "You're so good to me, angel," Crowley tells him in a voice soft and rough from sleep, still with a hint of Ashtoreth's brogue.

He doesn't think often of the end of the world, himself, beyond what they are doing to try and prevent it: no sense in brooding over the Great Plan and all the rest, for God certainly isn't answering his questions, and as for his side they are as bloodthirsty for war as any bored pack of demons could be. On a day like this he'd much rather imagine he and Aziraphale have all the time in the world for one another.

[lunchbreaks]

The cruelty of the thing is that this was almost everything that Aziraphale had ever imagined for the two of them in these short years since he had told Crowley he wasn't planning to leave, the years he has been allowed to dream. Dream he does, of reading in the bookshop and a swishy-hipped demon sllithering around him to announce his presence and ask him profound questions like what are you reading and how was your day. And sometimes he dares, in a bus or a museum, to dream of taking Crowley's hand somewhere where others are present; one time, he had popped into the house for a moment and when he and nanny had both reached for one of Warlock's toys, their hands had touched briefly. That had stayed with him until nightfall, when she had stolen away to him and stoked all the flame in his chest.

Here he is now, flowers placed on the side table and gentle hand reaching to smooth down sleep-roughed hair. "Dear," he says, purposely sprinkling a little teasing of Francis in his voice. "Are you still sleepy?" He does, in fact, lift the rest of the blankets with the purpose of getting back into bed and having a lie-in, but then his face flushes a color that could rival some of the other shades of roses outside. No matter how many times he's seen Crowley's body and no matter how intimately acquainted he gets with it, this is always a pleasant surprise.

Aziraphale climbs, clamorous and inelegantly, back into bed where the first order of business is to take Crowley's cheeks in his hands and claim him with a kiss.

[sohoangel]

It's been a few weeks since the subject came up during their (first) picnic in St. James Park, but Aziraphale still hasn't fallen asleep, let alone dreamed.

Angels don't sleep. And although he is far from a typical angel, Aziraphale has never felt the desire to try it until recently, and it doesn't come naturally. Even curled up in post-coital bliss with Crowley, he doesn't drift off. He'd rather watch his beloved sleep instead, features smooth and peaceful in slumber. Eventually the angel's attention drifts to the pile of books on the nightstand (his or Crowley's, a good number of his books have found their way into the demon's flat). Just a few pages, he tells himself, and before he knows it, the light of dawn is creeping in through the windows and his thoughts turn to that delightful bakery on the corner with the exquisite pain au chocolat.

He really would like to have a dream, though, if only to understand what sort of spell it can cast, how it managed to coax Crowley into growing his hair out long. So, in the middle of the afternoon, in the back of his bookshop with the sign on the door turned to 'closed', Aziraphale lies on his couch, preparing to take a nap. He's traded in his jacket for a comfortable cardigan, his bow-tie undone and shoes off. The desk and nearby table are cleared of books so he doesn't get distracted.

Crowley is there, though. Whether he proves to be a distraction or not is irrelevant. It won't do to wake up from a dream and not find his precious demon within arm's reach.

this idea struck me and would not leave

[temptational]

Of course Crowley is nearby, for they've been seeing a great deal of each other over these past weeks, really what some might call inseparable; he doesn't see a need for them to be apart when Aziraphale's bookshop is always so welcoming, warm and inviting (to a beloved demon, if not to customers) and his own flat has plenty of space for them both, even when their wings are out. When he aches for Aziraphale at every moment, finding it intolerable to even consider a night away from him. Crowley doesn't care if he reads through those hours or occupies himself in some other way while he's sleeping, as long as he's there when he wakes, so it's no surprise that Aziraphale feels the same.

He's been amusing himself by rearranging a window display, finding some rather obscene titles among Aziraphale's collection to put in a place of prominence, but leaves off after a bit and goes to see what Aziraphale is up to. When he finds him stretched out on the couch, by all appearances asleep, Crowley stands looking at him bemusedly for a few moments: isn't this a novel sight? Aziraphale's been promising to try out napping for a while, but Crowley wasn't sure if he'd ever get around to it. But there he is, eyes closed, face still and beatific, the slump of his warm body against the couch too tempting to resist, and before Crowley thinks much about it he's changed himself into a snake and is winding his way up onto the couch with him.

He's not as large a snake, at the moment, as when he and Aziraphale first met, but large enough that he can loop a couple of gentle, possessive coils around the angel's shoulders and chest. His tongue flickers out to taste Aziraphale's cheek once he's settled himself into place, and then Crowley tucks his head down at the hollow of his throat and closes his eyes, sinking heavily into sleep almost at once.

I love it. <3

[sohoangel]

The angel is, in point of fact, not asleep, but somewhere in that twilight stage between wakefulness and slumber. The place where wandering thoughts tumble their way into dreams, or even heavier sleep, one undisturbed by any sort of thoughts at all.

He remains in that precarious balance, even when Crowley comes over to look at him. The demon's aura is like a warm blanket, wrapping itself around him and shielding him from the chill of the waking world, and in that comforting cocoon of warmth, he sinks further into sleep.

Who knows how the dream begins. No one ever remembers how a dream begins, anyway, the angel simply finds himself close to the ocean, breathing in the salt air. He's wearing a scarf, but it's so heavy. He reaches up to adjust it, but is distracted instead by the garden he is standing in, lush and verdant. Like Eden, if Eden were a little more cultivated and a lot less tropical.

It's lovely. Peaceful. And Crowley is somewhere close by, which makes it perfect. Even the oddly heavy scarf draped around his neck is perfect.

The dream fades out and he wakes. He blinks blearily in confusion -- what happened to the ocean? Oh, but he still has on that scarf, but when he reaches up lazily with one hand to touch it, he finds scales instead of fabric. He peers awkwardly at the snake wrapped around his shoulders. It's been ages since he's seen Crowley's snake form, but he recognizes it immediately, even if it is quite a bit smaller. With a tender smile, he gently strokes the back of Crowley's serpentine head, down along his reticulated spine, marveling at its softness and beauty. Looks like it wasn't merely the demon's aura that had lured him into a dream-state.

for lunchbreaks

[temptational]

The glorious ceremony, behind them now--the choir singing, the priest speaking words of holiness and blessing, all as painful as it had been to simply stand on the consecrated ground of the cathedral, but Crowley in a perverse, defiant way enjoyed it. What a novelty, a demon married off to an angel, their union blessed by God. He's certain it's the most original, inventive thing any demon in the history of Creation has ever done, and will be talked about for all eternity down Below, just as surely as it will be Above: the denizens of Hell sure that Crowley must have managed the ultimate temptation, the angels convincing themselves that surely this is all some clever ruse to keep as close an eye on their demonic brethren as possible. It makes him gleeful to think of it, but in truth it's the smallest part of this entirely vivid, overwhelming bliss that has struck into his very soul, so that he holds his head up high in the church like any bride very much in love with her groom, physical discomfort almost forgotten beneath so much sheer joy.

Then the feasting and the dancing, and if anyone notices that la principessa takes little food it can surely be excused away as nerves about the wedding night. Crowley would like to drink more, but it wouldn't do to have the court witness the bride imbibing too much. Still, he shares a few extra toasts with Aziraphale while miracling attention away from them, and there is more wine waiting in their bedchambers. The feasting goes very late but at last they're permitted to escape, Crowley leaning more heavily on Aziraphale once they're out of sight. 

Which only reminds him what a joy it is to touch his angel, to hold him or be held, and everything else that might be permitted tonight and in the nights to come; how much love blazes in him so that he feels as though he can't contain it, and Crowley stops them along the way to drag Aziraphale into an alcove and kiss him urgently.

[lunchbreaks]

It had been a beautiful ceremony, though Aziraphale had been quietly trying to hurry it up the entire time, to save his poor bride's feet. If anyone thought that la Principessa didn't eat much, it wasn't due to food left on her plate, as il Principe kept sneaking tastes of her food when no one was paying attention. And if he prefers slow songs and lets her lean against him particularly for any quicker-paced ones, well, no one needs to know the reason isn't solely just because he can't wait to spend all his time being inseparable from her person. How quickly they have fallen in love, the rumors spread across both of their cities. How beautiful they both are, and more still since they have met. The princess's wild spirit tempered and tamed, the prince opening up and finally coming into his own.

It was an excellent narrative, both to the people and to their respective bosses. Some of the angels had voiced their sympathies to Aziraphale, that they couldn't believe how the assignment turned out and felt very sorry for him indeed, were glad that he was in place so that the would be spared the embarrassment of being married to a demon. Aziraphale had responded to most of these by jokingly admonishing "careful, that's my wife you're talking about," with a pointed wink. And then the angels had eventually grown bored and stopped asking.

He's busy thinking about the fastest way to their chambers when Crowley pulls him aside: he's about to inquire as to the matter when he's kissed instead, and he clings onto the sides of Crowley's dress and returns the kiss fervently, happily. Anyone who happened to walk by, though there was no one, might happen to see instead a shy husband offering sweet kisses to his blushing bride, and not an angel pulling at his demon, cursing the sheer volume of her skirts that he cannot properly hold her in embrace.

"Come now, it's not that far," he says, voice breathing static against her wet lips. He steals another quick kiss, and then takes her hand and pulls her away and back into the light. "Shall I carry you?"

[temptational]

Though he's enjoyed wearing his beautiful wedding gown, there's an urgency building in him to be rid of it: the tight laces and voluminous ruffles, the jewel-encrusted bodice and heavily embroidered skirts. He's impatient with anything between his skin and Aziraphale's hands. None of this is feigned, the love blazing between them or the sheer wanting that courses through his veins, the feeling that he has been waiting for this night for a long, long time--far longer than their short engagement or the time that's passed since the night they realized their love for one another. No, some part of Crowley feels as though he's been waiting to give himself to Aziraphale all of his life.

"It is absolutely too far," Crowley disagrees, words breathed hotly at Aziraphale's cheek as he explores the line of his jaw with nuzzles and kisses. "Too many stairs--bloody long hallways--" He breaks away when Aziraphale offers to carry him, meeting his gaze, flooded with sudden relief and gratitude. "Oh, would you?"

It's not as though he can't walk on his own, his feet aren't that badly burned. But they are feeling awfully tender, especially after the dancing, nothing that a day or two of lazing around in bed couldn't fix.

[temptational]

Aziraphale, Crowley decides, is not allowed at any more parties without him: he's sure this has to be the third or fourth time he's gotten himself in trouble at one this century. Why he insisted on attending this one dressed so absurdly he doesn't know--soft blond curls piled on top of his head, rouged cheeks and pink lips, and that gown, all gauzy fabric and ribbons, clinging just where it oughtn't for an angel who intends to remain holy. Crowley mutters something in a dark voice and turns back to glare at the three mortals who'd been getting entirely too close and handsy for his taste, putting the fear of Crowley back into them with a flash of a rancorous yellow gaze. One appears to be in a swoon: he'd gotten the full force of the face Crowley had shown him. None of them are entirely sure what they saw, too stunned with confusion and terror, but it will haunt their deepest nightmares for years to come.

"You owe me for this," Crowley tells Aziraphale, dragging him out onto the grounds of the house where the party is being held, laughter and music and the light of glittering chandeliers spilling out onto the dark lawns. "Supposed to be spreading temptation, not saving you from--from--" He stammers, getting distracted by staring at Aziraphale in his gown. His fingers pinch a little fold of the skirt, gingerly. "Whatever you were doing."

Of course, Crowley's dressed the part too, more or less, in a tailcoat, waistcoat and breeches, all unfashionably black. He had a top hat at one point but must have put it down somewhere; oh well, can always conjure another. He's really not sure about going back to the party, though. It doesn't seem a good idea to let Aziraphale out anywhere dressed like that.

[lunchbreaks]

"Crowley!" he had exclaimed, entire face perking up. "Oh, thank you," he adds, knowing perfectly well that he could have taken those three men if things had really gotten out of hand. He had also been here on official business, but his part had been taken care of and he thought he'd amble out in new fashions, particularly since he'd heard that a certain demon had been in the area and hadn't even bothered to contact him about their little arrangement. Crowley might see through the illusion that is presented for the humans, that Aziraphale's neck is a little more slender, his facial features softened, chest and hips given to a rounder swell. In this gossamer muslin gown clinging to his curves, there's little left to imagine.

"I was getting a little unwanted attention, that's what I was doing," he counters sourly, as the fabric that clung to his form springs to Crowley's fingers. He makes no attempt to swat him away. "But I promise I'll make the other party-goers behave, if you do need to be getting back to your temptation," he answers, innocence on his face easy to feign with his bright blue eyes and sweet lips painted rose.

"People are staring," he says, since they had caused quite the scene with that exit. He moves closer as people rubberneck, and using them as an excuse, takes Crowley's face into his hands, giving him a gentle smile of gratitude, of relief, and other things besides. It could be part of the act, the way that Aziraphale looks at him, but if he's honest with himself, it's the only part of this entire architected scenario that is real. The partygoers seem satisfied with this outcome, and slowly begin to trickle people away from the windows. It wouldn't have been polite to stay there so long, anyway.

[temptational]

It's what's so baffling about the whole thing: Crowley knows very well Aziraphale could have taken care of those three instead of acting like a helpless damsel, all sweet and tempting in her muslin gown. It's almost as though--well, he's wondered sometimes, the way Aziraphale so often gets himself in trouble somewhere close enough for Crowley to hear about it and go see if he needs a hand. He clings jealously to the fold of skirt he's taken hold of. If he was looking for some attention, well--if anyone ought to be given Aziraphale some attention, shouldn't it be someone who can tempt him properly?

"Could've gotten rid of them yourself," he points out, moving a step closer. Crowley, for his part, doesn't care a whit if people are staring. He's forgotten to care about who he's meant to be here tempting, either. "Maybe their attention--" His lips curl in distaste, "--wasn't so unwanted after all."

His eyes widen behind a pair of round dark spectacles and he almost steps back again when Aziraphale reaches for him and cups his face in his hands. He looks so grateful, so sweet and innocent, his eyes lit up; the pretty feminine features he's given himself tonight do nothing to stop Crowley's imagination from wandering in inappropriate directions. "I--" Crowley swallows, pushing down wariness and a fear of overstepping that has shadowed him since the days of Eden. He can't remember the last time he wanted to tempt Aziraphale so badly. "Oh, I think the job's ruined, angel," he manages at last, recovering his nerve, "now that everyone's seen me rescue you. Very bad for a demon's reputation, and what'll I do about that, hm?"