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.
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."
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.
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."
He follows Aziraphale further into the flat, moving around him as is his wont, gravitating towards him like he's a force that can't be resisted. Crowley takes in his neat and elegant clothes, the picnic basket in his hand, how put together he is in comparison to Crowley, who looks very much like he just rolled out of bed, complete with the snarls in his newly-lengthened hair. He thinks Aziraphale doesn't look exactly like he couldn't sit still, but he does look like he's been awake for a while, charged up with purpose. Drifting closer, he tugs aimlessly at one of the angel's sleeves and then lets go. "Didn't mean to. It just came on me." It's sort of an apology, or at least an explanation for why he's been out of pocket for--however long it's been. A couple of days at least, is his impression. He wants to kiss Aziraphale too, wants to be touched by him, just be near him...their gazes meet and it brings a little jolt of awareness that he isn't wearing his sunglasses. Nor did he even think to put him on before he answered the door.
"There's too bloody much of it," Crowley complains about his hair, because it's easier to complain than to invite Aziraphale's touch, which his whole body thrums with longing for. "But I can tie it back, I suppose," he concedes, a grudging admission that he intends to keep it because Aziraphale likes it. It's wildly out of style, but he'll manage, he supposes. He's seen humans wearing--what do they call it--the man-bun?
When Aziraphale offers the long-awaited picnic he feels his lips curve into a slow smile. Saint James Park--it's not a garden, exactly, but it's probably the closest thing in London. "You've owed me that for decades, angel. Finally getting around to it?"
Aziraphale may have put a little more time into getting himself ready than usual. His own hair looks extra fluffy as he had given it a good brushing before coming over. But he certainly does not mind how Crowley looks now. In fact, he finds it rather adorable, bedhead and all. It's like the demon's gone soft along the edges a bit, and when he tugs at the angel's sleeve, Aziraphale smiles sweetly and returns the favor, taking his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze.
"It's fine, dear. I had plenty of reading to do, while you were asleep. But I did miss you." He looks at Crowley's hair again and beams when Crowley says he'll tie it back, which means he'll be keeping it, at least for a little while.
The teasing question has him blushing a little, although it's worth it to see Crowley's smile. "Yes, well. I suppose I was waiting for the right moment to ask." He switches the handle of the basket to his other hand, suddenly feeling a bit nervous. "So? Would you like to go?"
There's a jolt when Aziraphale takes his hand, a moment where his heart skips a beat and he knows that the angel's touches affect him now just as much as they did before, making it almost impossible to think past the desire just to be near him and bask in all the caring and good-natured cheer that Aziraphale projects towards him. He looks lovely too, and it occurs to Crowley that perhaps he might have put some extra effort into his appearance before coming over, as though--as though he's come courting, which is an idea that bemuses and bewitches Crowley all at once, so that he finds himself tangling his fingers up with Aziraphale's and tugging the angel towards him a little.
"What did you read?" It's inordinately fascinating, but he suddenly wants to know just what Aziraphale got up to while they were apart, what he was thinking about, if he thought about Crowley. He'd missed him, the angel said, and Crowley missed him too, even while he was asleep. He rubs his thumb across Aziraphale's knuckles and lifts the other hand to his shoulder, squeezing it lightly.
"I want to. Wanted to for a long time." Crowley hesitates. "Afterwards--we can come back here, if you like."
It is such an absolute thrill to be able to reach out and take Crowley's hand whenever he likes. He can do that now, he realizes giddily, and when Crowley entwines their fingers and tugs him closer, he'll find no resistance from the angel. Just a smile and so much warmth as the space between them becomes more intimate.
He did in fact, come courting, or at least experimenting with how humans handle this sort of thing. When Crowley asks him what he was reading, he shrugs evasively. "Oh... you know, books." He makes a small sound behind closed lips at the hand on his shoulder and the way Crowley rubs his knuckles. Heaven help him. "R-romance ones, mostly. Just trying to... to get a sense of what comes next..."
At least Crowley finally says yes, which fills him with relief, followed by a spark of anticipation at the counter offer. "Oh, yes. I would like that very much." Not the least of which because Crowley will put on his sunglasses when they go outside, and he'll want to see the demon's eyes again, when the picnic is over. He looks into those eyes lovingly. "Well... best go put your hair up, then, and we'll be off."
Books about romance? Oh that is just delightful. Crowley feels a grin spread across his face, suddenly feeling lighter, buoyant, like his wings might manifest and lift him from his feet. "Romance. I see. And have you learned anything interesting?" His tone suggests innocence but the way his gaze drops hotly to Aziraphale's mouth is anything but. "You'll have to tell me all about what does come next. Since you've made a study of it."
He won't insist on hearing it all now, he supposes, since Aziraphale seems very much to want to take him on their picnic, and Crowley can't help but feel suddenly that the soonest they're off, the soonest they'll be able to come back. Aziraphale's ready agreement to come back to his flat with him later gets him prickling with nerves, a little anxious, excited twist in his stomach: they've never really spent much time here, and for all the times Crowley's fallen asleep sprawled out next to piles of books on the furniture in Aziraphale's shop, the only time Aziraphale stayed the night in his flat was the night after the almost-end of the world. The thought of having him there brings out all the possessive need in him, and his fingers tighten around Aziraphale's, reluctant to let him go.
"You have to help me," Crowley tells him, regarding his hair. Aziraphale's given him the perfect opening, and Crowley's not at all above guilting him into giving him what he wants. "It's your fault it grew out like this, you know. Putting ideas in my head with all your petting."
To see Crowley smile like that, to look at his mouth like that, sends sparks up the angel's spine. "Um, w-well," he stammers, wanting to say something useful and yet finding that his mind has gone utterly blank. "Yes and no. There's a lot of passion, not a lot of, ah..." His tongue darts out unconsciously, wetting his lips. "Instructions. A lot of formality, too, but I'm sure we can avoid most of that."
This picnic, though, this feels like a good next step. If he can survive long enough, because Crowley is telling him that he needs to help him with his hair, and it's as if someone just presented him with a tray of his favorite sushi rolls, the way he inhales deeply, eyes widening at the request, as well as the implication that Crowley has been thinking about him, even in his sleep, craving the angel's touch in his hair.
He sighs, feigning coyness, although it sounds more like a whine than anything. "If I must." He carefully sets down the picnic basket, then gives Crowley's hand another gentle squeeze, also reluctant to let go. "I'll need my hand back."
“Well, I’m sure we’ll get by on what you know.” Crowley manages to maintain the casual tone, though his eyes have possibly gone a bit dark, the pupils widening, as he thinks about Aziraphale studying his books, reading about romance and passion and such things while he slept...he wishes he had been there. He’s always rather enjoyed watching Aziraphale get utterly absorbed in whatever book is in front of him, sometimes to the point of seeming to forget that Crowley is there—not that he really sees much appeal in the books themselves, but Aziraphale is very appealing in that way. He’s sometimes wondered what it would be like to be the focus of the angel’s study himself.
He might find out, he realizes suddenly, if Aziraphale is to—do something with his hair, just now, which knowing him might end up being more involved than the messy updo Crowley had planned to wrestle it into. It’s been a long time since he had to deal with quite this much of it, and he’s forgotten the knack. He used to weave plaits in it, to hold it back from his face, but he doubts he could do it now without taking a lot of time to get the hang of it again. But Aziraphale’s got such clever fingers. A shiver goes down his spine at the thought of Aziraphale’s hands in his hair, Aziraphale’s attention centered on him.
The angel’s squeeze to his hand makes him realize that he’s staring rather hungrily, and Crowley forces himself to let go and turn obligingly away. “Do you want me to sit down?” he asks, his voice coming out a little scratchy. It would be difficult for Aziraphale to reach all of it, if he kept standing.
Crowley's gaze is ridiculously distracting, and all he can do is nod absently while he stares into those dark, hungry eyes. As rich as his imagination was over the past few days, nothing is as sweet, as electrifying, as Crowley in front of him right now. It's almost a relief when Crowley lets go and turns away, giving him a moment to breathe. Oh, he is so in over his head here, but he finds that he doesn't care all that much, either.
"Yes, if you don't mind," he says finally, looking over all that beautiful hair. There's a sweet warmth within him, underneath all the butterflies, that comes from knowing that Crowley trusts him to do this. He hopes he's up to the challenge. If he'd known what was in store, he would have skipped all the romance novels and picked up a book on braiding instead. "Somewhere other than that throne of yours? I need to be able to get behind you to do it properly."
“It’s not a throne,” Crowley insists, but he’s not really interested in arguing; he says it only to distract himself from the anticipation building in him with an almost painful sweetness. His heart jolts at the thought of Aziraphale running his hands through his hair again, like he did a few nights ago, when the world was so stunningly, irrevocably changed—but it’ll be different now, because there’s so much more of it. Because Crowley did this for Aziraphale. He can’t deny it, at least not to himself: he doesn’t have to admit it aloud, but all of this was for him. It must have been, for Crowley to do it in his sleep. The world seems a little fuzzy around the edges, a bit like he’s drunk too much, as he makes his way over to some extraneous piece of furniture that has no real purpose and would never be seen in any ordinary home, a sort of bench upholstered in sleek black leather, choosing that to sit down on.
There. Nothing to get in the way of Aziraphale—he swallows—handling him how he likes.
“You don’t—“ Crowley’s voice catches for an instant, “—you don’t have to do much with it. If you don’t want. Just throw it up in a bun or something, it’ll be fine.”
"Ornate high-backed chair, then," Aziraphale replies with a small grin at Crowley's back. He likes the chair fine, honestly. It suits Crowley, like everything else in his flat, but it's not suitable for what they're about to do. The bench is more appropriate, and he follows Crowley towards it, taking a seat next to him. The leather creaks as he turns towards the demon, to ask Crowley to turn his back, but something gives him pause. It's the catch in Crowley's voice when he asks for the bare minimum. As if he's afraid of asking too much of Aziraphale.
He leans in and kisses Crowley's cheek, whisper-soft. "Nonsense, my dear. I don't intend to leave here until i've given it the care it deserves." He lightly nudges Crowley's knees, directing him to turn, and finally, when the demon's ready and comfortable, he touches his hair.
Slowly, reverently, he runs his fingers through the mass of curls. Each time he hits a tangle, kink, or snarl, he patiently works it out, casting a tiny miracle for the ones that are most stubborn. It's delectably soft, like running his hands on silk. Each stroke of his hands starts up at the crown, moving downward, tucking strands behind Crowley's ears as he goes, letting each curl cling to his fingers to the very end of his hair. He watches them bounce back, silently delighted, admiring their sheen in the light, the way the lighter strands gleam, as if golden thread was weaved into all that fiery red.
In those long, blissful minutes, he gives Crowley's hair more care and attention than he has even the most priceless of books.
"I'd like to braid it," he says, as he gathers two small bundles of hair, one on either side, and brings them together. "A half-crown, to keep it out of your face, and leave the rest loose. Is that all right?"
The kiss to his cheek--it's not as stunning, as earth-shattering as the kisses Aziraphale had given him a few nights before, but it's such a tender, unexpected gesture that he feels his breath catch nonetheless. Crowley blanks out for a moment, at last managing to reply, "If you like," in a voice gone a little unsteady, and he turns away when Aziraphale nudges him, his back to the angel and a little shiver of awareness going down his spine. Of course, he's trusted Aziraphale at his back for six millennia--there's no deceit in the angel, no meanspiritedness or intent to harm; he was kind even to a lowly demon from the first moment they met--but it's still a peculiarly vulnerable feeling to have him just behind him, hands gently lifting up the weight of his hair. Perhaps because of everything that's so recently changed between them.
Crowley soon forgets all about that.
The delicious sense-memory of Azirphale's hands running through waves of his hair in the dream pales in comparison to the reality, the actual physical delight of it, fingers gliding in long, smooth, slow strokes from the roots of his hair to the curling ends, every strand seeming to part and smooth out for the angel's touch as easy as you please. Bliss radiates from one of them, both of them, he can't tell how much is his and how much is Aziraphale's as he sinks into it as into warm water, lulled by the strokes and the sheer pleasure of them echoing through his body. It reminds him a little of grooming his wings, but where Crowley scowls and forces everything into order, Aziraphale seems instead to coax and persuade, until Crowley feels as though every part of him is being gentled.
He wonders vaguely what it might be like to have Aziraphale groom his wings for him. If it felt any better than this, he'd possibly discorporate on the spot.
Aziraphale's question has him blinking slowly as his mind tries to catch up to what the angel just said, the world gone blurry around him. "Anything," he says muzzily at last. "Anything you want."
As he pets Crowley's hair, smooth and satisfying between his fingers, Aziraphale feels the bliss that mirrors his own. It warms him from within, curls up nicely around his heart and mingles with the physical pleasure of the act. And there, too, is the novel but not wholly unwelcome sense of pride. Crowley is soft and pliant beneath his hands because of him. No one else could relax Crowley like this, could leave him open and wanting. It's a feeling both selfish and selfless, and part of him wants to gather up all that thick, beautiful hair and press his face into it, to breathe in Crowley's familiar scent, but he controls himself. They'll never leave for that picnic at this rate.
Crowley's voice sounds like something from a dream, and he smiles instinctively. "I want what you want," he says, sounding more in control than he feels. He lets the strands fall from his hands, then re-gathers one of them, gently, his nimble fingers braiding it from just above Crowley's temple. It's nothing fancy, and he's not quick about it, tightening each plait carefully as he goes, until he's almost out of hair. He holds it together between his ring finger and pinky while he gathers up hair on the other side, repeating the process. He spends a bit of time holding them together, making sure they look even, before using another miracle to conjure up a bit of black ribbon.
"There we go," he says, once the braids are tied together. He sits back and hums to himself in satisfaction. "Do you have a mirror? Go take a look and let me know if you like it."
Crowley makes a little sound of acknowledgement, but otherwise doesn’t reply, his eyes falling closed as Aziraphale gathers pieces of his hair from either side of his face and begins to plait them. He could sink backwards into Aziraphale’s arms right now, his body easy and pliant, basking in the pleasure of contact: it’s such a tempting thought, but he resists the urge and the heaviness of his body, because they still have the picnic ahead of them and anyway he’d mess up Aziraphale’s progress with the braids if he moved now. The angel takes his time, gentle and deft with his hands as he weaves strands of hair together, the light tugs when he pulls them tighter almost as pleasurable as the stroking had been. Crowley has no wish to interrupt his work.
His eyes open when he’s done, the two plaits tied off with a bit of something Aziraphale miracled up; he listens as he tells him to go have a look, but Crowley turns to face him rather than getting up at once, movements slow and languid.
He can’t help himself: he leans forward, tilting his head and kissing Aziraphale on the mouth, though he holds back from how much he wants to wrap himself around him and pour all his longing and desire into the kiss. They’d never get anywhere if he did that. When he pulls back he doesn’t say anything, words still not quite connecting in his brain yet, but Crowley gets up and makes his way to the nearest reflective surface to take a look at what Aziraphale’s done with him. His hair is dark red and shining, the long curling strands laying in perfect order with the two plaits keeping it from his face—it reminds him of times long ago, and he likes it very much.
“Perfect,” he finally declares, turning back. Looking around for a moment, he locates a pair of sunglasses and puts them on. “Are we off, then, angel?”
It's a regrettable bit of space between them, but it's necessary for him to be able to braid Crowley's hair properly. He would love to hold him like this, to let Crowley rest his back against the angel's chest, to cradle and support his languid frame. Maybe later. They have time for all that, and more.
He watches Crowley turn to face him, breath caught in his throat. His hair was beautiful enough from the back, but from the front, framing his face, he's a vision. When he kisses him, Aziraphale shuts his eyes and basks in the moment, his own mouth soft and yielding, letting Crowley take from him what he wants. However much he wants, and it's perfect, but over too soon. Crowley leaves him in a daze when he gets up to check the angel's handiwork, and the space around him feels that much cooler for its loss.
He's softly pressing his lips together when Crowley speaks to him, as if preserving the memory of that kiss. "Mmm?" He looks up at him fuzzily, then blinks and rises from the bench, hands fluttering. "Oh! Yes, yes. Let's be off." He spends a few frantic seconds straightening out his waistcoat, then walks over to the picnic basket and swoops it up into his grip, his enthusiasm renewed like a bubbling spring. He grins brightly at Crowley before opening the door for him. "After you, dear."
Crowley’s a study in casualness as he waits for Aziraphale to straighten himself and get to his feet and get the picnic basket, one hundred percent perfectly casual as he winds his way out the door the angel holds open for him, eyes safely concealed behind the dark lenses. He has to be, or else he’d give into the urge to pin the angel back against the door or any other nearby surface and kiss him senseless, kiss him until they’ve both forgotten any thought of going anywhere else that day. The apparent daze Aziraphale was left in after their brief kiss on the bench makes him long to. Not to mention how he can’t get the thought of Aziraphale’s hands in his hair out of his mind, how he aches for his touch, aches to be held by him, greedy for it; but he can be patient. As patient as a demon can manage, anyway.
“I’ll drive, yeah?” That’s a rhetorical question. The Bentley’s parked out front, rather illegally, but it never seems to get a ticket, or if it does they have a tendency to poof out of existence. The park’s not far off, so he doesn’t take to the road as fast as he usually does, only shoving traffic out of the way at some intersections so they can skip all of the red lights.
“So what did you bring for us, angel?” Crowley asks as they drive, glancing curiously over at the picnic basket.
Aziraphale doesn't bother to answer the question about who's driving because it is most definitely rhetorical. He never learned how to drive, at first erroneously assuming that motor cars would be a passing fad, and then later because he could always miracle himself a taxi if necessary. Crowley giving him a ride was often a last resort, and his besotted state does not entirely quell his trepidation. Crowley may not go too fast for him metaphorically, but literally, in the car, is another matter.
It seems, however, that Crowley isn't being the speed demon he normally is, so he relaxes more comfortably in the passenger seat, picnic basket on his lap, arms wrapped around its sides so it doesn't jostle. "Oh, a bit of this, a bit of that. I went to Harrods and asked the cheesemonger to prepare a sampler, and I picked up those crackers that you like. The brioche was too good to resist, so I bought a little pot of blackberry jam, and some figs, and a cherry tart for dessert. And a couple of scotch eggs. They aren't quite like the ones we used to get at that pub in Mayfair, but they're close enough."
He smiles and pats the side of the basket, pleased with his selection. "And the wine, of course. A red Madeira I've been saving. I know they don't allow drinking in the park, but I'm sure we can keep anyone from noticing, so long as we're discreet."
He glances over again with brows raised, looking doubtful at the basket's capability to contain the apparent feast Aziraphale brought along. "Were you afraid we'd starve?" His lips curve in a smile; that too is rather a rhetorical question, because Aziraphale can generally be relied on to polish off whatever Crowley doesn't finish. And more to the point, Crowley likes to watch him at it. It's always appealing to see Aziraphale given over to as much pleasure and enjoyment as he takes in good food. And of course, Crowley will be happy to do his part when it comes to the drinking.
"A Madeira?" He glances over again, apparently seeing no need to watch the road much while he drives. "Would this be something we've had before?" He's remembering an afternoon more than a century ago--not all that long, all things considered, for the two of them--when they met in Saint James Park for the first time and decided to make it their own, so to speak, their particular meeting place. It wouldn't at all surprise him if Aziraphale chose the wine out of sentiment--it would be just like him. He wouldn't admit it, but it's actually a little touching if that is what Aziraphale most remembers about their times in the park, rather than the fight they'd had over holy water in later years.
Crowley pulls the Bentley up to the curb, stopping it brazenly beneath a parking prohibited sign, near one of the entrances to the park. "Lead the way," he says to Aziraphale with a little sidelong smile, already certain that the angel has picked out a spot for their picnic.
It may be rhetorical, but Aziraphale is fully prepared to answer anyway. "A proper picnic has a variety of foods, and it isn't too much of any one thing, anyway." He knows that Crowley will only take a nibble of a few things, not as into eating as an activity as he is. It used to puzzle him, why Crowley would agree to meet him for meals if all he was going to do was stare at him the entire time. Now he has a little more clarity on their past interactions: Crowley likes to watch him enjoy himself.
The initially innocent thought makes him blush and tug at his bowtie. Goodness. He has been reading far too much romance.
"Yes, it's -- eyes on the road, Crowley, please -- it's from the private collection of that proprietress you tempted. Remember? We went there after deciding to make Saint James Park our meeting place. I went back there the next day to see if she'd be willing to sell me another bottle. I was planning to share it with you later, but, ah... you know, that business with the holy water..."
He looks away, out the window as the scenery passes. That's the trouble, when it comes to Crowley. He remembers everything. Mostly, how he kept misinterpreting Crowley's overtures of friendship. Of whatever else they could have had, if Aziraphale had only been a little bit braver. "She went on and on about you," he adds, caught up in the memory. "And then she said that you must like me a great deal, to have invited me there, as you had been alone for so long. That's why she sold me the bottle."
Once they're out of the car, he turns and smiles at him, the bittersweetness of the memory fading quickly. He has Crowley with him now, and if he needed any reminder that things are no longer like the were that day in the park, he only need to admire the hair he braided just a short time ago. Offering him an arm, as he had wanted to all those years ago, he carries the picnic basket in his other hand and walks them down off the main path to a patch of grass close to the canal. A large oak tree provides shade and shields anyone beneath its branches from the prying eyes of onlookers.
"A clandestine meeting-place for court spies," he says, reluctantly letting go of Crowley's arm so that he can set down the basket and spread out a tartan blanket. "One of several. I don't know why we never bothered to use them, it was our idea."
Crowley does turn back to the road while Aziraphale's speaking, but more because he needs a moment to gather his thoughts than to watch where he's going. He expected, perhaps, that Aziraphale had found something similar, something that would put them in mind of that exquisite bottle they'd shared all those years ago, not that he'd gone back for the very same and somehow talked the proprietress into selling it to him, as though to capture a moment of the time they'd spent together. And that he's been saving it all this time, even after they'd had this fight, and Crowley never knew. "I suppose she really did like me," he ventures after being silent for a while, rather than say any of the other things he's thinking. "Or you. She probably liked you. Everyone does." Except for the would-be bookshop customers, but who counted their opinion?
The park is the same as it always is on a sunny day, full of people strolling or sightseeing or scheming, and he thinks, they've passed so much time and had so many things happen here, and there they are again walking arm in arm this time, Crowley letting Aziraphale guide him down the straightforward path when his tendency would have been to wander all across the lawns. It makes him smile, as does the awareness that there are no enemies at their backs now and no one watching what they do, though he still likes the way the oak shields the grassy area Aziraphale leads him to from any passersby.
"Suppose we never got around to it," Crowley answers, making a casual gesture behind his back to thicken the tree's foliage and then sticking his hands in his pockets while he watches Aziraphale lay out the blanket, not offering to help, though he smooths down a bunched-up corner when the angel's back is turned. Tartan. Of course. "Do you know, angel, I miss making all our plans sometimes. We'll have to find something new to scheme about one of these days."
The silence bothers him a little. After confessing so much to one another the other night, it feels awkward to have these little gaps of things unsaid. But then Crowley compliments him, and he blushes and laughs, shaking his head a little as if to deny it. "I can think of a few people who do not like me, but I shan't say their names, they don't deserve the recognition. She most definitely liked you, though. I hope she found someone special, she was a nice woman. And her generosity lives on, with the Madeira."
Once the blanket is spread out (and yes, he notices that one corner that Crowley smoothed out), he opens the basket and begins to unpack it. The wine, two glasses, a small stack of plates, utensils, and napkins, and of course, the food. This is no slapped-together arrangement, oh no, Aziraphale is taking the concept of picnic very seriously, and it shows in how carefully he places everything, intending to do it right and proper.
"I suppose it's not enough that we helped stop Armageddon and saved one another for you, we need to go out and look for trouble," he comments distractedly while unwrapping the cheese board. "What did you have in mind, hmm? What sort of schemes would need an angel by your side?"
He sits back on his heels, finally satisfied with the presentation. He moves to finally settle on the blanket, but stops before he actually sits on his jacket. He sweeps it out of the way, then decides to shrug out of it entirely, folding it neatly and setting it aside, away from the food. There, much better. He smiles up at Crowley and pats the space of blanket beside him. "Come join me, dear? I'll pour the wine."
Watching Aziraphale unpack the picnic basket, it soon becomes clear that he put a good deal of thought into it; Crowley imagines that he probably even considered the type of cutlery and if it would fit the occasion. It's the kind of fussiness he would ordinarily poke fun at, only right now the fussiness seems...touching, somehow. He's certain that Aziraphale must have been determined to do the picnic justice, to make it the very essence of picnic. He imagines him in his bookshop making the arrangements, planning him all out while Crowley slept...and he's smiling without quite realizing it while he looks on, shrugging in response to the question. "Nothing in mind, really. Just open to opportunity." He's still gazing at Aziraphale with a great deal of affection when the angel looks up at him and invites him to sit beside him, and the smile on Aziraphale's face is so open and welcoming that he has to drop his gaze, glad for the dark glasses.
"Go on, then." Crowley drops down gracelessly on the blanket close to Aziraphale's shoulder, long legs stretched out in the way of everything. "If there was a scheme, let's say," he goes on, watching over his shoulder as Aziraphale pours wine, "you'd be in for it, wouldn't you? Us working together, like old times?" They don't really need their Arrangement anymore, now that they don't have any respective Upstairs or down Below offices to report to, but Crowley rather misses it. And he misses tempting sometimes too, doing a bit of it here and there when he gets the itch. Leaning forward, he nudges his chin against Aziraphale's shoulder, long strands of his hair brushing against his back. "Don't say you don't miss it too. I know you, you cunning old angel."
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For sohoangel
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.
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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."
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“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.
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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."
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"There's too bloody much of it," Crowley complains about his hair, because it's easier to complain than to invite Aziraphale's touch, which his whole body thrums with longing for. "But I can tie it back, I suppose," he concedes, a grudging admission that he intends to keep it because Aziraphale likes it. It's wildly out of style, but he'll manage, he supposes. He's seen humans wearing--what do they call it--the man-bun?
When Aziraphale offers the long-awaited picnic he feels his lips curve into a slow smile. Saint James Park--it's not a garden, exactly, but it's probably the closest thing in London. "You've owed me that for decades, angel. Finally getting around to it?"
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"It's fine, dear. I had plenty of reading to do, while you were asleep. But I did miss you." He looks at Crowley's hair again and beams when Crowley says he'll tie it back, which means he'll be keeping it, at least for a little while.
The teasing question has him blushing a little, although it's worth it to see Crowley's smile. "Yes, well. I suppose I was waiting for the right moment to ask." He switches the handle of the basket to his other hand, suddenly feeling a bit nervous. "So? Would you like to go?"
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"What did you read?" It's inordinately fascinating, but he suddenly wants to know just what Aziraphale got up to while they were apart, what he was thinking about, if he thought about Crowley. He'd missed him, the angel said, and Crowley missed him too, even while he was asleep. He rubs his thumb across Aziraphale's knuckles and lifts the other hand to his shoulder, squeezing it lightly.
"I want to. Wanted to for a long time." Crowley hesitates. "Afterwards--we can come back here, if you like."
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He did in fact, come courting, or at least experimenting with how humans handle this sort of thing. When Crowley asks him what he was reading, he shrugs evasively. "Oh... you know, books." He makes a small sound behind closed lips at the hand on his shoulder and the way Crowley rubs his knuckles. Heaven help him. "R-romance ones, mostly. Just trying to... to get a sense of what comes next..."
At least Crowley finally says yes, which fills him with relief, followed by a spark of anticipation at the counter offer. "Oh, yes. I would like that very much." Not the least of which because Crowley will put on his sunglasses when they go outside, and he'll want to see the demon's eyes again, when the picnic is over. He looks into those eyes lovingly. "Well... best go put your hair up, then, and we'll be off."
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He won't insist on hearing it all now, he supposes, since Aziraphale seems very much to want to take him on their picnic, and Crowley can't help but feel suddenly that the soonest they're off, the soonest they'll be able to come back. Aziraphale's ready agreement to come back to his flat with him later gets him prickling with nerves, a little anxious, excited twist in his stomach: they've never really spent much time here, and for all the times Crowley's fallen asleep sprawled out next to piles of books on the furniture in Aziraphale's shop, the only time Aziraphale stayed the night in his flat was the night after the almost-end of the world. The thought of having him there brings out all the possessive need in him, and his fingers tighten around Aziraphale's, reluctant to let him go.
"You have to help me," Crowley tells him, regarding his hair. Aziraphale's given him the perfect opening, and Crowley's not at all above guilting him into giving him what he wants. "It's your fault it grew out like this, you know. Putting ideas in my head with all your petting."
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This picnic, though, this feels like a good next step. If he can survive long enough, because Crowley is telling him that he needs to help him with his hair, and it's as if someone just presented him with a tray of his favorite sushi rolls, the way he inhales deeply, eyes widening at the request, as well as the implication that Crowley has been thinking about him, even in his sleep, craving the angel's touch in his hair.
He sighs, feigning coyness, although it sounds more like a whine than anything. "If I must." He carefully sets down the picnic basket, then gives Crowley's hand another gentle squeeze, also reluctant to let go. "I'll need my hand back."
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He might find out, he realizes suddenly, if Aziraphale is to—do something with his hair, just now, which knowing him might end up being more involved than the messy updo Crowley had planned to wrestle it into. It’s been a long time since he had to deal with quite this much of it, and he’s forgotten the knack. He used to weave plaits in it, to hold it back from his face, but he doubts he could do it now without taking a lot of time to get the hang of it again. But Aziraphale’s got such clever fingers. A shiver goes down his spine at the thought of Aziraphale’s hands in his hair, Aziraphale’s attention centered on him.
The angel’s squeeze to his hand makes him realize that he’s staring rather hungrily, and Crowley forces himself to let go and turn obligingly away. “Do you want me to sit down?” he asks, his voice coming out a little scratchy. It would be difficult for Aziraphale to reach all of it, if he kept standing.
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"Yes, if you don't mind," he says finally, looking over all that beautiful hair. There's a sweet warmth within him, underneath all the butterflies, that comes from knowing that Crowley trusts him to do this. He hopes he's up to the challenge. If he'd known what was in store, he would have skipped all the romance novels and picked up a book on braiding instead. "Somewhere other than that throne of yours? I need to be able to get behind you to do it properly."
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There. Nothing to get in the way of Aziraphale—he swallows—handling him how he likes.
“You don’t—“ Crowley’s voice catches for an instant, “—you don’t have to do much with it. If you don’t want. Just throw it up in a bun or something, it’ll be fine.”
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He leans in and kisses Crowley's cheek, whisper-soft. "Nonsense, my dear. I don't intend to leave here until i've given it the care it deserves." He lightly nudges Crowley's knees, directing him to turn, and finally, when the demon's ready and comfortable, he touches his hair.
Slowly, reverently, he runs his fingers through the mass of curls. Each time he hits a tangle, kink, or snarl, he patiently works it out, casting a tiny miracle for the ones that are most stubborn. It's delectably soft, like running his hands on silk. Each stroke of his hands starts up at the crown, moving downward, tucking strands behind Crowley's ears as he goes, letting each curl cling to his fingers to the very end of his hair. He watches them bounce back, silently delighted, admiring their sheen in the light, the way the lighter strands gleam, as if golden thread was weaved into all that fiery red.
In those long, blissful minutes, he gives Crowley's hair more care and attention than he has even the most priceless of books.
"I'd like to braid it," he says, as he gathers two small bundles of hair, one on either side, and brings them together. "A half-crown, to keep it out of your face, and leave the rest loose. Is that all right?"
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Crowley soon forgets all about that.
The delicious sense-memory of Azirphale's hands running through waves of his hair in the dream pales in comparison to the reality, the actual physical delight of it, fingers gliding in long, smooth, slow strokes from the roots of his hair to the curling ends, every strand seeming to part and smooth out for the angel's touch as easy as you please. Bliss radiates from one of them, both of them, he can't tell how much is his and how much is Aziraphale's as he sinks into it as into warm water, lulled by the strokes and the sheer pleasure of them echoing through his body. It reminds him a little of grooming his wings, but where Crowley scowls and forces everything into order, Aziraphale seems instead to coax and persuade, until Crowley feels as though every part of him is being gentled.
He wonders vaguely what it might be like to have Aziraphale groom his wings for him. If it felt any better than this, he'd possibly discorporate on the spot.
Aziraphale's question has him blinking slowly as his mind tries to catch up to what the angel just said, the world gone blurry around him. "Anything," he says muzzily at last. "Anything you want."
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Crowley's voice sounds like something from a dream, and he smiles instinctively. "I want what you want," he says, sounding more in control than he feels. He lets the strands fall from his hands, then re-gathers one of them, gently, his nimble fingers braiding it from just above Crowley's temple. It's nothing fancy, and he's not quick about it, tightening each plait carefully as he goes, until he's almost out of hair. He holds it together between his ring finger and pinky while he gathers up hair on the other side, repeating the process. He spends a bit of time holding them together, making sure they look even, before using another miracle to conjure up a bit of black ribbon.
"There we go," he says, once the braids are tied together. He sits back and hums to himself in satisfaction. "Do you have a mirror? Go take a look and let me know if you like it."
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His eyes open when he’s done, the two plaits tied off with a bit of something Aziraphale miracled up; he listens as he tells him to go have a look, but Crowley turns to face him rather than getting up at once, movements slow and languid.
He can’t help himself: he leans forward, tilting his head and kissing Aziraphale on the mouth, though he holds back from how much he wants to wrap himself around him and pour all his longing and desire into the kiss. They’d never get anywhere if he did that. When he pulls back he doesn’t say anything, words still not quite connecting in his brain yet, but Crowley gets up and makes his way to the nearest reflective surface to take a look at what Aziraphale’s done with him. His hair is dark red and shining, the long curling strands laying in perfect order with the two plaits keeping it from his face—it reminds him of times long ago, and he likes it very much.
“Perfect,” he finally declares, turning back. Looking around for a moment, he locates a pair of sunglasses and puts them on. “Are we off, then, angel?”
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He watches Crowley turn to face him, breath caught in his throat. His hair was beautiful enough from the back, but from the front, framing his face, he's a vision. When he kisses him, Aziraphale shuts his eyes and basks in the moment, his own mouth soft and yielding, letting Crowley take from him what he wants. However much he wants, and it's perfect, but over too soon. Crowley leaves him in a daze when he gets up to check the angel's handiwork, and the space around him feels that much cooler for its loss.
He's softly pressing his lips together when Crowley speaks to him, as if preserving the memory of that kiss. "Mmm?" He looks up at him fuzzily, then blinks and rises from the bench, hands fluttering. "Oh! Yes, yes. Let's be off." He spends a few frantic seconds straightening out his waistcoat, then walks over to the picnic basket and swoops it up into his grip, his enthusiasm renewed like a bubbling spring. He grins brightly at Crowley before opening the door for him. "After you, dear."
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“I’ll drive, yeah?” That’s a rhetorical question. The Bentley’s parked out front, rather illegally, but it never seems to get a ticket, or if it does they have a tendency to poof out of existence. The park’s not far off, so he doesn’t take to the road as fast as he usually does, only shoving traffic out of the way at some intersections so they can skip all of the red lights.
“So what did you bring for us, angel?” Crowley asks as they drive, glancing curiously over at the picnic basket.
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It seems, however, that Crowley isn't being the speed demon he normally is, so he relaxes more comfortably in the passenger seat, picnic basket on his lap, arms wrapped around its sides so it doesn't jostle. "Oh, a bit of this, a bit of that. I went to Harrods and asked the cheesemonger to prepare a sampler, and I picked up those crackers that you like. The brioche was too good to resist, so I bought a little pot of blackberry jam, and some figs, and a cherry tart for dessert. And a couple of scotch eggs. They aren't quite like the ones we used to get at that pub in Mayfair, but they're close enough."
He smiles and pats the side of the basket, pleased with his selection. "And the wine, of course. A red Madeira I've been saving. I know they don't allow drinking in the park, but I'm sure we can keep anyone from noticing, so long as we're discreet."
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"A Madeira?" He glances over again, apparently seeing no need to watch the road much while he drives. "Would this be something we've had before?" He's remembering an afternoon more than a century ago--not all that long, all things considered, for the two of them--when they met in Saint James Park for the first time and decided to make it their own, so to speak, their particular meeting place. It wouldn't at all surprise him if Aziraphale chose the wine out of sentiment--it would be just like him. He wouldn't admit it, but it's actually a little touching if that is what Aziraphale most remembers about their times in the park, rather than the fight they'd had over holy water in later years.
Crowley pulls the Bentley up to the curb, stopping it brazenly beneath a parking prohibited sign, near one of the entrances to the park. "Lead the way," he says to Aziraphale with a little sidelong smile, already certain that the angel has picked out a spot for their picnic.
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The initially innocent thought makes him blush and tug at his bowtie. Goodness. He has been reading far too much romance.
"Yes, it's -- eyes on the road, Crowley, please -- it's from the private collection of that proprietress you tempted. Remember? We went there after deciding to make Saint James Park our meeting place. I went back there the next day to see if she'd be willing to sell me another bottle. I was planning to share it with you later, but, ah... you know, that business with the holy water..."
He looks away, out the window as the scenery passes. That's the trouble, when it comes to Crowley. He remembers everything. Mostly, how he kept misinterpreting Crowley's overtures of friendship. Of whatever else they could have had, if Aziraphale had only been a little bit braver. "She went on and on about you," he adds, caught up in the memory. "And then she said that you must like me a great deal, to have invited me there, as you had been alone for so long. That's why she sold me the bottle."
Once they're out of the car, he turns and smiles at him, the bittersweetness of the memory fading quickly. He has Crowley with him now, and if he needed any reminder that things are no longer like the were that day in the park, he only need to admire the hair he braided just a short time ago. Offering him an arm, as he had wanted to all those years ago, he carries the picnic basket in his other hand and walks them down off the main path to a patch of grass close to the canal. A large oak tree provides shade and shields anyone beneath its branches from the prying eyes of onlookers.
"A clandestine meeting-place for court spies," he says, reluctantly letting go of Crowley's arm so that he can set down the basket and spread out a tartan blanket. "One of several. I don't know why we never bothered to use them, it was our idea."
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The park is the same as it always is on a sunny day, full of people strolling or sightseeing or scheming, and he thinks, they've passed so much time and had so many things happen here, and there they are again walking arm in arm this time, Crowley letting Aziraphale guide him down the straightforward path when his tendency would have been to wander all across the lawns. It makes him smile, as does the awareness that there are no enemies at their backs now and no one watching what they do, though he still likes the way the oak shields the grassy area Aziraphale leads him to from any passersby.
"Suppose we never got around to it," Crowley answers, making a casual gesture behind his back to thicken the tree's foliage and then sticking his hands in his pockets while he watches Aziraphale lay out the blanket, not offering to help, though he smooths down a bunched-up corner when the angel's back is turned. Tartan. Of course. "Do you know, angel, I miss making all our plans sometimes. We'll have to find something new to scheme about one of these days."
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Once the blanket is spread out (and yes, he notices that one corner that Crowley smoothed out), he opens the basket and begins to unpack it. The wine, two glasses, a small stack of plates, utensils, and napkins, and of course, the food. This is no slapped-together arrangement, oh no, Aziraphale is taking the concept of picnic very seriously, and it shows in how carefully he places everything, intending to do it right and proper.
"I suppose it's not enough that we helped stop Armageddon and saved one another for you, we need to go out and look for trouble," he comments distractedly while unwrapping the cheese board. "What did you have in mind, hmm? What sort of schemes would need an angel by your side?"
He sits back on his heels, finally satisfied with the presentation. He moves to finally settle on the blanket, but stops before he actually sits on his jacket. He sweeps it out of the way, then decides to shrug out of it entirely, folding it neatly and setting it aside, away from the food. There, much better. He smiles up at Crowley and pats the space of blanket beside him. "Come join me, dear? I'll pour the wine."
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"Go on, then." Crowley drops down gracelessly on the blanket close to Aziraphale's shoulder, long legs stretched out in the way of everything. "If there was a scheme, let's say," he goes on, watching over his shoulder as Aziraphale pours wine, "you'd be in for it, wouldn't you? Us working together, like old times?" They don't really need their Arrangement anymore, now that they don't have any respective Upstairs or down Below offices to report to, but Crowley rather misses it. And he misses tempting sometimes too, doing a bit of it here and there when he gets the itch. Leaning forward, he nudges his chin against Aziraphale's shoulder, long strands of his hair brushing against his back. "Don't say you don't miss it too. I know you, you cunning old angel."
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i think i'm remembering the right statue but correct me if not
That's the one! <3
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