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."
The picnic is certainly on brand for Aziraphale's fussiness and attention to detail. But more importantly, it gives him structure, a map that he can follow now that their relationship has evolved. Crowley deserves the same amount of thought and care that he puts into all of his other pursuits. When he looks up and sees that unaffected smile, he knows that he's plotted the proper course.
Aziraphale, by contrast, has his legs tucked in, comfortable but not taking up too much space. His gaze lingers on Crowley's careless sprawl for a moment before he turns his attention to the wine, casting a miracle to open the bottle, because he's not about to do battle with a cork that's likely to crumble under the pressure of a wine screw. "Well," he begins, and then Crowley nudges his shoulder with his chin. The gesture is both sweet and alluring, especially with Crowley's hair brushing against him. It gives him a little shiver as hands over a full glass of wine.
"I can't imagine turning you down, especially now that you have a few more weapons in your arsenal to persuade me." He turns his head just enough to brush a kiss against Crowley's cheek. "I do miss it. That was the best part of these past eleven years, you know. Watching over Warlock together." Never mind that it was the wrong boy.
He takes the wine glass in his hand, shifting around a bit so that they can be pressed shoulder to shoulder. It’s a new thing, this desire to be in contact with Aziraphale at every moment—or perhaps not as new as Crowley thinks, just unacknowledged for so many years that it’s almost the same. The kiss to his cheek, these sweet gestures between them are a new thing too, and he suspects it will take a while before they stop making his breath catch or his pulse jump, or perhaps they never will, because he loves Aziraphale too much, loves every moment they touch, longing for more of it. The contained way Aziraphale is sitting makes Crowley think of draping himself all over him, getting his limbs tangled around him, and he thinks perhaps Aziraphale wouldn't mind a bit, would probably welcome it, point of fact, but at the moment there's the wine to drink and the food to eat--well, to watch Aziraphale eat, mostly.
"What weapons?" he asks teasingly, though he's pretty sure he knows what the angel means. Leaning closer, he adds, "You've a few new ones of your own, you know." He can't imagine any advantage he has over Aziraphale, when his angel can knock him completely off balance with a word, a touch, a smile. Crowley doesn't even really mind it. "I know what you mean, though. I got to see you all the time. I can't remember another decade that was like that."
Of course, there's this new era they've entered into, past the aversion of Armageddon: one where they can spend as much time together as they want, with no one to answer to.
He reaches up to gently curl a lock of Crowley's hair around his finger, as if to answer the question, before laughing breathily at the return volley. It never ceases to amaze him how irresistible Crowley finds him, not only his boundless love, but the way he physically expresses that love. An angel -- especially a rather fussy, behind-the-times angel, shouldn't be able to cast that sort of spell, and yet Crowley seems to crave his touch, his softness. It makes him want to give Crowley everything he asks for, and more. He presses back into that shoulder touch, affectionate and loving.
"There was no other decade like that," he murmurs, fixing his gaze on Crowley's. "Although for our next venture, let's not pretend that we don't know one another." That was the hard part, staying in character as a humble gardener, knowing that Crowley was somewhere inside the house, only being able to meet up after hours to discuss how their plan was going.
He clinks his glass to Crowley's before taking a sip. The wine is as good as he remembers, made better by the scenery around them. "Shall I fix you a plate, darling? Just a bit of what you like, I promise."
Crowley goes still for a moment when Aziraphale curls a red strand of his hair around his finger, finding himself surprisingly affected by the gesture. Like a tether--like a tender little tie, binding Crowley to him. A promise that they need never be apart again. Lost in the thought, he blinks at Aziraphale when he speaks again and meets his eyes, becoming aware that he must have looked rather captivated for a few moments. "Right," he answers, a little unsteadily, and then getting back into the thread of the conversation, "Much better when we work side by side." Or disastrous, depending on who you're asking. Like nearly-bringing-about-the-end-of-the-world-disastrous. But they were united there at the end, side by side for the last stand, and look how well it all turned out.
He drinks too, after the toast, and it brings back memories that make him smile and at the same time make him ache for the time that they wasted. Here they are sitting in the sun on the bank of the canal, having a picnic, with Azirphale offering to fix him a plate and every word and gesture from the angel beguiling Crowley with its sweetness, and it's almost outrageous to think that they might have had this before, perhaps for years, centuries, if there hadn't been missteps and complications and misunderstandings--but there's no point in dwelling on that when he feels as though there's so much more ahead of them than there is behind. Crowley smiles lazily and contentedly, ducking his head to briefly kiss Aziraphale's shoulder. "Yes, go on."
The memory of running his hands through Crowley's hair comes back with that tiny, winding touch, colored by the bewitched look on Crowley's face. His fingers itch to bury themselves in that beautiful cascade, but he stops short, breath held, when Crowley resumes the conversation. He wants so much, to make up for lost time, or to stop time entirely so that he can enjoy this moment a little longer.
"Side by side," he agrees with the tenderest of smiles. The way it ought to be from now on.
He lets the curl unwind from his finger, watches as it bounces back into place. The kiss on his shoulder is a surprise, one that heats him through the fabric of his shirtsleeve and sends a bit of flushed color to his cheeks. Oh, he should have expected how that would make him feel, the romance novels warned him about shoulders. Almost as popular as necks.
Somehow he maintains his composure long enough to put together a plate for each of them. Savory items, mostly, as he intends to save the cherry tart for dessert, but he can't resist slicing into the brioche and spreading on the blackberry jam. He takes a bite of that first and hums contentedly, leaning back into the spot he was before, close enough for Crowley to press against him again, reluctant to lose that intimacy, even while eating.
The food does look good, and even if Crowley isn't much of a gourmand, he can at least appreciate the effort Aziraphale put into choosing things that might tempt him enough to nibble at the plate the angel fixes for him. He's heard an old cliche about food tasting better outside, and perhaps there's something to that, for the way the flavors seem a bit brighter, sharper, more intense than they usually do--more interesting, in short, so he does a little more justice to the plate than he usually would, though as usual his attention wanders away from it long before Aziraphale's finished eating his.
Crowley's soon a bit tipsy on the wine, which hasn't lost his attention, and which in fact he's replenished in his glass once or twice since they started, and enticed by Aziraphale's nearness. Watching the angel savor morsels of cheese or delicate bites of blackberry jam on brioche, he remembers how captivated he always is by watching Aziraphale enjoy himself, with the almost sinful pleasure he takes in a good meal. Somehow it's all the more fascinating now, his gaze traveling from Aziraphale's fine hands to the blissful expression on his face; he watches the sunlight glint gold on his hair, and though reluctant to interrupt him at the height of his indulgence, at last Aziraphale appears to be slowing down on the meal and Crowley is by this time all but draped across his shoulders. Having shifted to be a little bit behind him, he lets one of his hands brush his sleeve so as not to startle him, and then his arm slips around his waist, and Crowley presses his face to the join of his shoulder and neck, leaving a brief kiss there.
It's the best of both worlds, to dine al fresco in the shade of the wide-boughed oak tree, the thick foliage creating a private space among the flowers and lush, green grass. Aziraphale enjoys each bite slowly, although for the first time ever, he feels a bit self-conscious, knowing that Crowley is watching him, taking note of his pleasure. But that awkwardness fades quickly. The food is too good and he's already lost so many of his inhibitions around Crowley. And if his satisfied sighs are drawn out a little longer -- a little more sinful -- than usual, that's simply the way it goes.
He is more or less done eating when Crowley wraps an arm around him and kisses him. He's not startled, but deeply affected nonetheless, a warmth spreading through him that has little to do with the sun above or the wine he's been drinking. He hasn't neglected his glass, either, and regretfully finds it empty when he lifts it for a fortifying sip. He sets plate and glass aside and turns a little in Crowley's grasp, an answering kiss to his jaw, which is the best he can do if he wants to stay nestled against him.
"Care for some dessert?" he asks, voice low. He means the cherry tart, except not really, not with the way he's staring at Crowley's mouth as if it's the most delicious thing on the menu.
He nuzzles into Aziraphale’s neck, indulging in the scent of sunlight on his skin, and then lifts his head as Aziraphale turns halfway around, keeping his arm around his waist. It feels somehow utterly decadent to hold him and feel his answering kiss to his jaw, out here in the open, shaded though they are by the oak tree and the bit of encouragement Crowley put into the foliage to give them extra cover, but it’s irresistible too as he pulls Aziraphale closer, wrapping himself around him like he’s wanted to do since they arrived. He’s never been overly concerned about being appropriate, and besides, his angel is meant for decadence; the only hesitation Crowley has is pushing for too much. Aziraphale is staring at his mouth, though, and it’s hard to misinterpret that. “Oh yes,” Crowley murmurs to his offer of dessert, before tipping his head and kissing him. If it’s possible to fall in love many times, he thinks he has already—he thinks this is just another instance, when Aziraphale is being so damnably alluring and Crowley can’t stay away from him, longing to touch him and be touched.
Pulling back from the kiss before he can go too far—before he can give into the urge to push Aziraphale down into the soft grass and crawl over him—Crowley hesitates briefly, looking away when he speaks even though his eyes are concealed. “I dreamed of you,” he admits in a low voice, picking up one of Aziraphale’s hands and toying with it. “I dreamed we were...in a garden. You were stroking my hair. I suppose that’s why—“ He gestures loosely around his head, leaving the sentence unfinished.
Appropriateness is the last thing on his mind as he gets wrapped up in Crowley's embrace. He lets Crowley take the lead on the kiss, his lips soft and open, though he can't resist just the touch with his tongue. He's rewarded with the taste of wine and blackberry jam and something much richer and darker. When Crowley pulls away, he's quite flushed, a look of immense pleasure on his face. He doesn't even think about the cherry tart. Let the ducks have it, who needs it when he has this instead?
It's a moment before he catches onto Crowley's words. The confession brings out such a tenderness within him, it makes his heart overflow. How apropos that they are here, he thinks, and while he lets Crowley toy with his hand as he pleases, he reaches up with the other one, capturing one of those beguiling red tendrils between his fingers.
"Would you like that now?" he offers. Not in a flirting tone, as he had done with the dessert, but reverently, as if he was put on Earth to carry out Crowley's desire.
Looking back at Aziraphale again, Crowley reaches out a hand and brushes his fingertips along the arch of Aziraphale's cheek, touching the pink tint in his skin as he takes in the flushed, contented look on his face. So lovely. Still so new and enticing, to know that he put that look there, and to be able to touch Aziraphale openly, with the angel's invitation. And to be touched, his chin ducking as Aziraphale reaches out tenderly to his hair again, capturing a strand between his fingers. Aziraphale offers him everything he wants, his warmth and generosity overflowing, the tone of his voice suggesting that it would be a gift to him and not the other way around, and Crowley hardly knows what to do or say when he can feel Aziraphale's love surrounding him so obviously.
"You're too kind," he mutters, meaning it, meaning that--it must be more than he deserves, a demon like him, but how could Crowley possibly refuse? He ducks his head against Aziraphale's shoulder for a moment, fingers tangled up in his and clenched tight. The sunglasses get in the way, but he's used to that, and he's not sure he has the courage to go without them right now. "Can I lie in your lap?" he asks a little desperately.
He turns his face into that touch, as brief as it is, face glowing. Crowley handles him with adoration, he doesn't know how to respond other than to bask in it, to revel in their closeness. He had denied Crowley all those years, but he had denied himself, too. Now there isn't anything between them except the desire to enjoy these moments as they come, each one a precious gift.
The subtext of Crowley's words is not missed. Not by an angel who is determined to pay attention to Crowley's body language, to no longer miss any of his subtle cues. "Just the right amount of kind," he gently counters. He lets go of the strand of hair in order to run his entire hand through it, careful not to catch on the braid. Giving Crowley a taste of what he wants.
"Yes, of course." He presses a kiss to Crowley's temple and patiently waits for the demon to detangle himself so that he can sit back and cross his legs, providing more than enough lap for Crowley to lie in.
Oh, Aziraphale. Crowley shivers with that long stroke of his fingers through his hair and the kiss to his temple, needing a moment to steady himself before he can lift his head from his shoulder. He's never felt anything in all the long history of the Universe like the adoration he has for Aziraphale: breathtakingly close to worship. "You're perfect, is what you are," he mumbles, resisting an urge to bite Aziraphale's shoulder and instead leaving another kiss there before he moves. He wants to devour him.
Instead he shifts back to allow Aziraphale to change position, reluctantly unwinding himself from him, and sinks down into the lap he offers so generously without letting himself hesitate, his hair spilling messily over them both. Crowley turns his face up to the sky, to Aziraphale, lying with his head pillowed on a wonderfully comfortable thigh, and it's even better than he remembered, better than he dreamed, even without Aziraphale stroking his hair yet. "Is this--is it all right, like this?"
In another situation, he might argue over that. He's an angel, but he's far from perfect: he's soft, and fussy, and messes up far too often than he'd like to admit. Plus, it's a virtue to be humble. But somehow, when Crowley praises him like this, in this context, it feels so good that he doesn't say anything, merely swallows at the way Crowley kisses his shoulder, as if he can sense his desire to use his teeth, to have a good hard taste of all that love within him.
Crowley's head in his lap is a sight to behold, all that red hair spread out like a river of fire. He remembers suddenly the only other time this happened, nearly a thousand years ago. It had been so different then, Crowley fatigued with pain, and Aziraphale too stunned to appreciate the intimacy. Instinctively, he reaches over and strokes both of Crowley's arms, as far as he can reach, as if reassuring himself that the demon is uninjured. That this is a time of pleasure for them, that those old wounds have healed.
He sits back again, lightly brushing errant strands of hair off of Crowley's face. He looks at the sunglasses, wonders if it would be too much to ask Crowley to remove them. He decides against it; they are hidden from other park-goers, but he knows how vulnerable Crowley feels without them. He knows that if he asked, Crowley would take them off anyway, and he doesn't want that, either.
"Yes, it's perfect, love." The term of endearment slips out easily. That's all he feels right now. He begins to stroke Crowley's hair, gently from the roots to the ends, catching little curls as he goes and letting them wrap around his fingers. "Is this how it was? In the dream?"
He smiles faintly when Aziraphale reaches out to brush his hands briefly over Crowley's arms, knowing what he's remembering. He's thinking of it too: the absolution in the aftermath of pain, its cessation feeling almost like ecstasy, that left him wholly without anything resembling caution or a sense of awkwardness when he'd collapsed exhausted in Aziraphale's lap. It had been the first time they'd ever been so intimate--the first and only time for many centuries. But Aziraphale doesn't voice the memory, so Crowley doesn't either, looking up at him through dark lenses as he smooths strands of hair from his face. This is something he likes about the sunglasses--that he can study Aziraphale at his leisure, and not be known to be doing it, at least not for certain. Still, there's something that feels a little bit lonely about it now, about not allowing himself the vulnerability of meeting Aziraphale's gaze openly. When they're alone, he thinks, and he takes one of Aziraphale's hands and holds it at his lips.
The way the endearment slips out so easily in Aziraphale's voice makes him shiver, as does the angel's fingers beginning to stroke through his hair, the nape of his neck prickling with eager pleasure. "Nearly." They had been newly made, in the dream, he and Aziraphale. As if they were the innocent ones given a garden at the beginning of the world, before the knowledge of good and evil. Crowley lets go of his hand, reluctant, yet yearning to have Aziraphale touch him any way he likes. "It didn't feel like this. Nothing is as good as you."
Having his hand held there, to Crowley's lips, only makes his smile grow, warm and sweet, even after Crowley lets go so that Aziraphale can work both his hands into his luxurious hair. Aziraphale has always been one to smile, but since Armageddon was averted, those smiles have come more easily, more freely. Right now, behind those sunglasses, Crowley can look as long as he likes at how utterly happy his angel is, how content he is to touch Crowley's hair and cradle his head in his lap, as if Crowley always belonged there, from the very beginning.
"Nearly?" he queries softly, as he slows his hands through Crowley's hair. Is there something better he could be doing? But then Crowley compliments him so profoundly that he has to shut his eyes a moment, his expression turning impossibly soft. "Oh, Crowley," he whispers, almost as if he can't believe it. He opens his eyes again and resumes the hair petting with one hand, the other gently brushing against Crowley's lips, the closest he can approximate a kiss.
"I've never had a dream," he admits while he continues to lavish attention on all that beautiful red hair. "I've only fallen asleep a handful of times, so that's probably why. What's it like to dream?"
His lips part beneath the caress of Aziraphale's fingers, his tongue flickers out for a brief taste. He feels again something that is like an ache of hunger, like he is starving for the love that Aziraphale offers him, wanting to taste it, drink it in. He studies the expression on the angel's face, with a feeling beneath his ribs that is like pain at the sight of it. Who knew that Crowley could make him look like that?
The thought soon slips away with Aziraphale stroking his hair, long heavy strands passing through his fingers, and it must be something wicked, he thinks vaguely, to persuade an angel into doing this for him; nothing that isn't wicked feels this good. His brow furrows faintly as he tries to imagine having never had a dream, how to describe it to someone to whom dreaming is like an unknown language. He's always known Aziraphale doesn't sleep often--extremely rarely, in fact, in all his six thousand years--but he hasn't thought much about what that means.
"Strange," he answers presently. "Sometimes you know you're dreaming, but usually you don't, and even when it feels real you know there's something not quite right." Crowley has dreams of falling: the rushing, roaring wind, burning heat and then cold. He blinks, shaking off the thought. "And the good ones are never good enough." He smiles faintly up at Aziraphale, thinking of the dreams he's had of him over the centuries. "Because then you wake up, and you always feel like something's missing."
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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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Aziraphale, by contrast, has his legs tucked in, comfortable but not taking up too much space. His gaze lingers on Crowley's careless sprawl for a moment before he turns his attention to the wine, casting a miracle to open the bottle, because he's not about to do battle with a cork that's likely to crumble under the pressure of a wine screw. "Well," he begins, and then Crowley nudges his shoulder with his chin. The gesture is both sweet and alluring, especially with Crowley's hair brushing against him. It gives him a little shiver as hands over a full glass of wine.
"I can't imagine turning you down, especially now that you have a few more weapons in your arsenal to persuade me." He turns his head just enough to brush a kiss against Crowley's cheek. "I do miss it. That was the best part of these past eleven years, you know. Watching over Warlock together." Never mind that it was the wrong boy.
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"What weapons?" he asks teasingly, though he's pretty sure he knows what the angel means. Leaning closer, he adds, "You've a few new ones of your own, you know." He can't imagine any advantage he has over Aziraphale, when his angel can knock him completely off balance with a word, a touch, a smile. Crowley doesn't even really mind it. "I know what you mean, though. I got to see you all the time. I can't remember another decade that was like that."
Of course, there's this new era they've entered into, past the aversion of Armageddon: one where they can spend as much time together as they want, with no one to answer to.
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"There was no other decade like that," he murmurs, fixing his gaze on Crowley's. "Although for our next venture, let's not pretend that we don't know one another." That was the hard part, staying in character as a humble gardener, knowing that Crowley was somewhere inside the house, only being able to meet up after hours to discuss how their plan was going.
He clinks his glass to Crowley's before taking a sip. The wine is as good as he remembers, made better by the scenery around them. "Shall I fix you a plate, darling? Just a bit of what you like, I promise."
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He drinks too, after the toast, and it brings back memories that make him smile and at the same time make him ache for the time that they wasted. Here they are sitting in the sun on the bank of the canal, having a picnic, with Azirphale offering to fix him a plate and every word and gesture from the angel beguiling Crowley with its sweetness, and it's almost outrageous to think that they might have had this before, perhaps for years, centuries, if there hadn't been missteps and complications and misunderstandings--but there's no point in dwelling on that when he feels as though there's so much more ahead of them than there is behind. Crowley smiles lazily and contentedly, ducking his head to briefly kiss Aziraphale's shoulder. "Yes, go on."
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"Side by side," he agrees with the tenderest of smiles. The way it ought to be from now on.
He lets the curl unwind from his finger, watches as it bounces back into place. The kiss on his shoulder is a surprise, one that heats him through the fabric of his shirtsleeve and sends a bit of flushed color to his cheeks. Oh, he should have expected how that would make him feel, the romance novels warned him about shoulders. Almost as popular as necks.
Somehow he maintains his composure long enough to put together a plate for each of them. Savory items, mostly, as he intends to save the cherry tart for dessert, but he can't resist slicing into the brioche and spreading on the blackberry jam. He takes a bite of that first and hums contentedly, leaning back into the spot he was before, close enough for Crowley to press against him again, reluctant to lose that intimacy, even while eating.
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Crowley's soon a bit tipsy on the wine, which hasn't lost his attention, and which in fact he's replenished in his glass once or twice since they started, and enticed by Aziraphale's nearness. Watching the angel savor morsels of cheese or delicate bites of blackberry jam on brioche, he remembers how captivated he always is by watching Aziraphale enjoy himself, with the almost sinful pleasure he takes in a good meal. Somehow it's all the more fascinating now, his gaze traveling from Aziraphale's fine hands to the blissful expression on his face; he watches the sunlight glint gold on his hair, and though reluctant to interrupt him at the height of his indulgence, at last Aziraphale appears to be slowing down on the meal and Crowley is by this time all but draped across his shoulders. Having shifted to be a little bit behind him, he lets one of his hands brush his sleeve so as not to startle him, and then his arm slips around his waist, and Crowley presses his face to the join of his shoulder and neck, leaving a brief kiss there.
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He is more or less done eating when Crowley wraps an arm around him and kisses him. He's not startled, but deeply affected nonetheless, a warmth spreading through him that has little to do with the sun above or the wine he's been drinking. He hasn't neglected his glass, either, and regretfully finds it empty when he lifts it for a fortifying sip. He sets plate and glass aside and turns a little in Crowley's grasp, an answering kiss to his jaw, which is the best he can do if he wants to stay nestled against him.
"Care for some dessert?" he asks, voice low. He means the cherry tart, except not really, not with the way he's staring at Crowley's mouth as if it's the most delicious thing on the menu.
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Pulling back from the kiss before he can go too far—before he can give into the urge to push Aziraphale down into the soft grass and crawl over him—Crowley hesitates briefly, looking away when he speaks even though his eyes are concealed. “I dreamed of you,” he admits in a low voice, picking up one of Aziraphale’s hands and toying with it. “I dreamed we were...in a garden. You were stroking my hair. I suppose that’s why—“ He gestures loosely around his head, leaving the sentence unfinished.
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It's a moment before he catches onto Crowley's words. The confession brings out such a tenderness within him, it makes his heart overflow. How apropos that they are here, he thinks, and while he lets Crowley toy with his hand as he pleases, he reaches up with the other one, capturing one of those beguiling red tendrils between his fingers.
"Would you like that now?" he offers. Not in a flirting tone, as he had done with the dessert, but reverently, as if he was put on Earth to carry out Crowley's desire.
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"You're too kind," he mutters, meaning it, meaning that--it must be more than he deserves, a demon like him, but how could Crowley possibly refuse? He ducks his head against Aziraphale's shoulder for a moment, fingers tangled up in his and clenched tight. The sunglasses get in the way, but he's used to that, and he's not sure he has the courage to go without them right now. "Can I lie in your lap?" he asks a little desperately.
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The subtext of Crowley's words is not missed. Not by an angel who is determined to pay attention to Crowley's body language, to no longer miss any of his subtle cues. "Just the right amount of kind," he gently counters. He lets go of the strand of hair in order to run his entire hand through it, careful not to catch on the braid. Giving Crowley a taste of what he wants.
"Yes, of course." He presses a kiss to Crowley's temple and patiently waits for the demon to detangle himself so that he can sit back and cross his legs, providing more than enough lap for Crowley to lie in.
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Instead he shifts back to allow Aziraphale to change position, reluctantly unwinding himself from him, and sinks down into the lap he offers so generously without letting himself hesitate, his hair spilling messily over them both. Crowley turns his face up to the sky, to Aziraphale, lying with his head pillowed on a wonderfully comfortable thigh, and it's even better than he remembered, better than he dreamed, even without Aziraphale stroking his hair yet. "Is this--is it all right, like this?"
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Crowley's head in his lap is a sight to behold, all that red hair spread out like a river of fire. He remembers suddenly the only other time this happened, nearly a thousand years ago. It had been so different then, Crowley fatigued with pain, and Aziraphale too stunned to appreciate the intimacy. Instinctively, he reaches over and strokes both of Crowley's arms, as far as he can reach, as if reassuring himself that the demon is uninjured. That this is a time of pleasure for them, that those old wounds have healed.
He sits back again, lightly brushing errant strands of hair off of Crowley's face. He looks at the sunglasses, wonders if it would be too much to ask Crowley to remove them. He decides against it; they are hidden from other park-goers, but he knows how vulnerable Crowley feels without them. He knows that if he asked, Crowley would take them off anyway, and he doesn't want that, either.
"Yes, it's perfect, love." The term of endearment slips out easily. That's all he feels right now. He begins to stroke Crowley's hair, gently from the roots to the ends, catching little curls as he goes and letting them wrap around his fingers. "Is this how it was? In the dream?"
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The way the endearment slips out so easily in Aziraphale's voice makes him shiver, as does the angel's fingers beginning to stroke through his hair, the nape of his neck prickling with eager pleasure. "Nearly." They had been newly made, in the dream, he and Aziraphale. As if they were the innocent ones given a garden at the beginning of the world, before the knowledge of good and evil. Crowley lets go of his hand, reluctant, yet yearning to have Aziraphale touch him any way he likes. "It didn't feel like this. Nothing is as good as you."
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"Nearly?" he queries softly, as he slows his hands through Crowley's hair. Is there something better he could be doing? But then Crowley compliments him so profoundly that he has to shut his eyes a moment, his expression turning impossibly soft. "Oh, Crowley," he whispers, almost as if he can't believe it. He opens his eyes again and resumes the hair petting with one hand, the other gently brushing against Crowley's lips, the closest he can approximate a kiss.
"I've never had a dream," he admits while he continues to lavish attention on all that beautiful red hair. "I've only fallen asleep a handful of times, so that's probably why. What's it like to dream?"
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The thought soon slips away with Aziraphale stroking his hair, long heavy strands passing through his fingers, and it must be something wicked, he thinks vaguely, to persuade an angel into doing this for him; nothing that isn't wicked feels this good. His brow furrows faintly as he tries to imagine having never had a dream, how to describe it to someone to whom dreaming is like an unknown language. He's always known Aziraphale doesn't sleep often--extremely rarely, in fact, in all his six thousand years--but he hasn't thought much about what that means.
"Strange," he answers presently. "Sometimes you know you're dreaming, but usually you don't, and even when it feels real you know there's something not quite right." Crowley has dreams of falling: the rushing, roaring wind, burning heat and then cold. He blinks, shaking off the thought. "And the good ones are never good enough." He smiles faintly up at Aziraphale, thinking of the dreams he's had of him over the centuries. "Because then you wake up, and you always feel like something's missing."
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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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