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."
That lick earns a proper shiver from Aziraphale, not only from the sensation, but also because it's a reminder that Crowley has a tongue that could be put to good use. He blushes at the thought, but it only enhances his smile. In contrast to Crowley, he believes that something that feels this good can't possibly be wicked.
He listens to Crowley's answer, genuinely curious and also simply enjoying the sound of his voice. In all his time with Crowley, no matter if he agreed or not, if the words made sense or were one of those non sequiturs that Crowley was so fond of spouting, he would listen. "Seems a little bittersweet to dream," he remarks thoughtfully, playing with the ends of Crowley's hair, letting them tickle his fingers before resuming another stroke. "I wonder why we're made to do it."
What would he dream about, he wonders? Would he have dreamed of something like this? Would his mind have allowed it, or would he have been too scared to contemplate it, even in his sleep? "I think I'd like to try it sometime, when you're around. That way, when I wake up, there won't be anything missing."
He loves watching these little blushes come and go in Aziraphale’s cheeks, they’re so becoming on him. Crowley gazes up at him and thinks idly of capturing his hand and bringing it back to his mouth so that he can have the pleasure of toying with it and enjoying more of Aziraphale’s blushes, and return a little of the shivery delight every stroke through his hair is giving him. His eyes fall half-shut as Aziraphale toys gently with the ends of his hair and then resumes caressing through it.
“Suppose it is.” He’s never had occasion to consider it much before. Dreams come and go, though some of them were constant, like the ones featuring Aziraphale. Crowley smiles at him. “Knew I’d be getting itchy to see you again when I’d start dreaming of you every night.” Those had been bittersweet dreams, he supposed, always waking feeling hungry for something he wouldn’t admit to himself, restless until he popped up wherever Aziraphale was and tempted the angel into drinks or provoked some kind of quarrel. But he wouldn’t have traded them for any other. He too wonders if Aziraphale would ever have dreamed of him were he in the habit of sleeping, and he has to shut his eyes when the angel goes and talks about sleeping with him there so there’d be nothing missing when he wakes, rolling his head with a little groan, like it causes him physical pain.
“Oh, angel. You must stop.” Crowley wants to devour him. It’s boundless, this wanting for him, what it makes him feel when Aziraphale says things like that. He drags Aziraphale’s hand to his mouth and kisses it fervently, adding, “Don’t actually stop,” just in case it should not be obvious that he loves every word.
The confession draws another blush out of him. He hadn't dared to ask if this was the first dream that Crowley ever had of Aziraphale, and it is a sweet, fluttering thing to know that it was not. "So it wasn't simply because of the Arrangement?" he asks teasingly, already knowing the answer. It's why their meetings often devolved into meals and drinks and other social activities, long after the details of their blessings and temptations were hammered out. "You'd give me such a startle sometimes, popping up out of nowhere. Even when I was hoping you'd show up."
Maybe that's what it feels like to dream. A kind of longing that simply can't match the reality. He still thinks that he might like to try it, but before he can ask more questions, he has Crowley groaning in his lap and kissing his hand so devoutly that he completely loses his train of thought. What was it that he said...?
Oh. Oh yes. He laughs brightly, the hand not being worshipped continuing to run through Crowley's hair. He had meant it in all innocence, but Crowley's reaction puts his words in a new light, one that he likes very much. "I don't think I'd want to sleep a proper eight hours," he informs the demon casually, his smile turning playful. "That's too much time wasted when we could be doing other things. A nap, then, and it'd have to be at your place. You're the one with the bed."
“I know. I liked startling you.” A smile curls into his voice, plays around his lips. There had sometimes been that little hint of delight, of pleasure in Aziraphale’s eyes when he caught sight of him, quickly hidden away—often so quickly that Crowley wondered if he imagined it. But it gave him a thrill, and made him want to do it again and again, to show up when Aziraphale was least expecting it and see if he could startle the same reaction out of him.
His eyes closed behind his sunglasses, he presses the smile against the backs of Aziraphale’s fingers and keeps on kissing them, tender and wicked, arching to the hand in his hair like a cat. “Listen to you,” Crowley murmurs, when Aziraphale’s words make him want to groan again. “Got other plans, do you?” His voice teases, but in truth it makes his throat feel tight and his pulse jump: thinking of Aziraphale in his bed, spending the night with him, whether in sleep or...doing other things, as the angel says. Keeping hold of the hand he’s captured, he turns it so that he can nuzzle into Aziraphale’s palm, against the inside of his wrist, nipping at him in a tender little bite.
"Wily old serpent," Aziraphale mutters, although there's only fondness in his voice as he winds a lock of Crowley's hair around his finger and gives a gentle tug. "I'm keeping my eyes on you, you know. No more sneaking up on me." It's not like Crowley needs to startle that look of pleasure out of him anymore, it's there all the time now in his eyes and his smile.
He gives a pleasant scratch to Crowley's scalp when he arches into the touch, quite taken with how the demon reacts to his suggestive words, as mild as they are on the surface. That coy satisfaction breaks when Crowley nips at the inside of his wrist, a quiet gasp leaving him before he can hide it. This playful teasing undoes him as easily as his words do to Crowley. He leans forward, hand sliding from his hair and down his side possessively. There's a whisper of wings in the air as he thinks of manifesting them to arch over them both, to shield them from view, to create a small bubble of the universe for themselves alone. They remain invisible, but barely.
"Only to hold you close," he answers, his voice raw with honesty. "And never let you go."
The hum of pleasure under his skin seems to deepen with every word. There’s a satisfaction he takes in Aziraphale calling him that, as much as feeling him tug at his hair, seeing his smile. The affection in Aziraphale sinks into him, tangles within the almost reverential love and aching desire Crowley feels for him all at once; it warms him from within and he arches further into the gentle rake of Aziraphale’s nails across his scalp, basking in it as he basks in the sun. He looks up intently at Aziraphale when he hears him gasp, seeing his response to the nip at the inside of his wrist; Crowley lingers there, with gentle teeth and clever tongue, watching his angel, drawn to every gasp of breath and minute change of expression. His grasp loosens around Aziraphale’s wrist when the angel leans down over him, missing his hand in his hair but his attention entirely caught by the shadow of him above, the susurrus of wings he can almost see between them and the sky.
Without thinking, Crowley reaches up and draws off his sunglasses, letting them fall to the side. Like this he can see the outline of wings clearer—though it has little to do with seeing, in truth, but a sense of them which exists in the same plane his own occupy, where he and Aziraphale are hardly apart at all—and he can see how Aziraphale looks at him, his unguarded gaze along with the raw emotion in his voice. The words resonate in him, striking something in him that is deep and old and has loved Aziraphale immeasurably for so many years, and for a moment Crowley can’t speak.
“Aziraphale,” he says at last, managing only his name, his eyes going wide and dark and hungry.
It is too easy to be overcome by these small physical gestures, so entwined as they are with his love for Crowley. He shuts his eyes a moment, giving himself to the pleasure of Crowley's mouth, letting those kisses and bites send sparks through his veins and settle deep within him. His wings, translucent in the dappled shade, tremble above them and he looks down into those beautiful yellow eyes, as if he can see into the depth of Crowley's soul.
Perhaps he can. He can see -- he can feel -- all that love, all for him. An ancient love, nearly as old as the stars. He wants to wrap Crowley up in his arms and his wings and his soul and never let him go. He wants to never let another moment go by in which Crowley feels alone, forced to rely only on dreams and stolen memories.
"You are loved," he whispers fiercely, placing both hands over Crowley's heart. "You are so loved."
As if afraid of his own intensity, he exhales and lets the wings disappear into the astral plane once more. "Crowley," he says softly, as his hands work their way back into the demon's hair, lightly tugging at the roots as if to ground himself. "Will you come up here so that I may kiss you?"
The pain of longing has been within him all these years, so old and familiar a part of him that he could keep it safely hidden away and never brought to light, barely known to his conscious mind if he didn't let himself dwell on it. Somehow it seems to have broken out of its cage, reaching out like vast wings, and for once Crowley doesn't deny it or push it away but lets it be felt and soothed by the answering love in Aziraphale, in all its fierceness and glory. He thinks all that love could scorch his soul, burning its way within him, and he welcomes it without looking away from the angel above him, his hands covering Aziraphale's where he's pressed them over his heart and gripping them tightly, as though to push the awareness of it deeper into him. Crowley looks at him with hunger and wanting, utterly captivated, watching the almost-presence of his wings fade as he exhales and some of the intensity surrounding them lessens, easing away into the sound of birdcalls and the soft touch of a late summer breeze.
He hardly needs to be asked, he's already pushing himself up from the ground almost before the words have left Aziraphale's mouth, turning fully to him and gripping him with shaking hands, pressing their foreheads together. "Aziraphale--" There's so much in the utterance of his name, a love that has its roots in the very beginning of their long affinity, and Crowley eases his mouth against Aziraphale's--he has to kiss him slowly, softly, or else he's afraid he might simply devour him, in every voracious, sinful way ever expected of a demon.
Aziraphale kept all that love in a cage, too, afraid to offer it lest he have to take it away again when Heaven called him to heel. He gives it all to Crowley now, determined to fill that ache. It's a blessing that won't burn him to cinders, the best one the angel has to offer. The greatest miracle he can perform, to help Crowley finally believe that he is a being worthy of love. His eyes are at once both soft and as blue as they've ever been, the moment preserved between them and the touch of their hands.
The sensation lingers, even while Crowley scrambles up to press their foreheads together, the angel's name spoken like a prayer. Even while Crowley kisses him so tenderly, shaking with the effort of not taking everything all at once. Aziraphale kisses back as if Crowley's mouth is all he needs to live, and maybe it is. Minutes pass unaccounted for as he loses himself in a pleasure as old as Eden.
It is when they finally part that Aziraphale seems aware of where they are again. As discreet as they are being, it's a bit much for a picnic. One of Crowley's braids has started to unravel, and he reaches up to tuck a loose curl back into the plait. "My dear," he says in the space between their lips. "Maybe it's time to go back to your flat?"
Crowley loses all awareness in the kiss of anything beyond the mere boundary of their bodies, so deep within his consciousness of Aziraphale that all else fades in unimportance. Aziraphale kisses him as if to offer a gift, as if to say that Crowley is all that he needs in the world, and he's awestruck with the significance the angel accounts to him. There's tenderness in it and an aching need for more, and Crowley pays little attention to where they are or if this is the right time to indulge every desire he's ever had for his angel, open and eager to take everything he's offered, but when they part and Aziraphale asks if he wants to go back to his flat now, his very soul seizes upon the idea. His flat, yes, they'll be alone there, nothing...nothing to interrupt them.
"Yeah--let's do that, angel." His voice seems rougher than usual, constraining unspoken desire. Crowley finishes what was left of the wine in his glass swiftly, puts his sunglasses back on, and then just as swiftly helps tumble their things together, at last unfolding himself to his feet and then holding out his hand wordlessly to help Aziraphale to his. When he's standing Crowley doesn't relinquish his hand, even when they come out from the cover of the oak tree. No one who might be watching matters anymore, and if God has anything to say about it, She can just come down and say it Herself.
The Bentley is booted when they reach it; he makes a gesture and it falls off with a clunk.
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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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He listens to Crowley's answer, genuinely curious and also simply enjoying the sound of his voice. In all his time with Crowley, no matter if he agreed or not, if the words made sense or were one of those non sequiturs that Crowley was so fond of spouting, he would listen. "Seems a little bittersweet to dream," he remarks thoughtfully, playing with the ends of Crowley's hair, letting them tickle his fingers before resuming another stroke. "I wonder why we're made to do it."
What would he dream about, he wonders? Would he have dreamed of something like this? Would his mind have allowed it, or would he have been too scared to contemplate it, even in his sleep? "I think I'd like to try it sometime, when you're around. That way, when I wake up, there won't be anything missing."
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“Suppose it is.” He’s never had occasion to consider it much before. Dreams come and go, though some of them were constant, like the ones featuring Aziraphale. Crowley smiles at him. “Knew I’d be getting itchy to see you again when I’d start dreaming of you every night.” Those had been bittersweet dreams, he supposed, always waking feeling hungry for something he wouldn’t admit to himself, restless until he popped up wherever Aziraphale was and tempted the angel into drinks or provoked some kind of quarrel. But he wouldn’t have traded them for any other. He too wonders if Aziraphale would ever have dreamed of him were he in the habit of sleeping, and he has to shut his eyes when the angel goes and talks about sleeping with him there so there’d be nothing missing when he wakes, rolling his head with a little groan, like it causes him physical pain.
“Oh, angel. You must stop.” Crowley wants to devour him. It’s boundless, this wanting for him, what it makes him feel when Aziraphale says things like that. He drags Aziraphale’s hand to his mouth and kisses it fervently, adding, “Don’t actually stop,” just in case it should not be obvious that he loves every word.
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Maybe that's what it feels like to dream. A kind of longing that simply can't match the reality. He still thinks that he might like to try it, but before he can ask more questions, he has Crowley groaning in his lap and kissing his hand so devoutly that he completely loses his train of thought. What was it that he said...?
Oh. Oh yes. He laughs brightly, the hand not being worshipped continuing to run through Crowley's hair. He had meant it in all innocence, but Crowley's reaction puts his words in a new light, one that he likes very much. "I don't think I'd want to sleep a proper eight hours," he informs the demon casually, his smile turning playful. "That's too much time wasted when we could be doing other things. A nap, then, and it'd have to be at your place. You're the one with the bed."
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His eyes closed behind his sunglasses, he presses the smile against the backs of Aziraphale’s fingers and keeps on kissing them, tender and wicked, arching to the hand in his hair like a cat. “Listen to you,” Crowley murmurs, when Aziraphale’s words make him want to groan again. “Got other plans, do you?” His voice teases, but in truth it makes his throat feel tight and his pulse jump: thinking of Aziraphale in his bed, spending the night with him, whether in sleep or...doing other things, as the angel says. Keeping hold of the hand he’s captured, he turns it so that he can nuzzle into Aziraphale’s palm, against the inside of his wrist, nipping at him in a tender little bite.
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He gives a pleasant scratch to Crowley's scalp when he arches into the touch, quite taken with how the demon reacts to his suggestive words, as mild as they are on the surface. That coy satisfaction breaks when Crowley nips at the inside of his wrist, a quiet gasp leaving him before he can hide it. This playful teasing undoes him as easily as his words do to Crowley. He leans forward, hand sliding from his hair and down his side possessively. There's a whisper of wings in the air as he thinks of manifesting them to arch over them both, to shield them from view, to create a small bubble of the universe for themselves alone. They remain invisible, but barely.
"Only to hold you close," he answers, his voice raw with honesty. "And never let you go."
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Without thinking, Crowley reaches up and draws off his sunglasses, letting them fall to the side. Like this he can see the outline of wings clearer—though it has little to do with seeing, in truth, but a sense of them which exists in the same plane his own occupy, where he and Aziraphale are hardly apart at all—and he can see how Aziraphale looks at him, his unguarded gaze along with the raw emotion in his voice. The words resonate in him, striking something in him that is deep and old and has loved Aziraphale immeasurably for so many years, and for a moment Crowley can’t speak.
“Aziraphale,” he says at last, managing only his name, his eyes going wide and dark and hungry.
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Perhaps he can. He can see -- he can feel -- all that love, all for him. An ancient love, nearly as old as the stars. He wants to wrap Crowley up in his arms and his wings and his soul and never let him go. He wants to never let another moment go by in which Crowley feels alone, forced to rely only on dreams and stolen memories.
"You are loved," he whispers fiercely, placing both hands over Crowley's heart. "You are so loved."
As if afraid of his own intensity, he exhales and lets the wings disappear into the astral plane once more. "Crowley," he says softly, as his hands work their way back into the demon's hair, lightly tugging at the roots as if to ground himself. "Will you come up here so that I may kiss you?"
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He hardly needs to be asked, he's already pushing himself up from the ground almost before the words have left Aziraphale's mouth, turning fully to him and gripping him with shaking hands, pressing their foreheads together. "Aziraphale--" There's so much in the utterance of his name, a love that has its roots in the very beginning of their long affinity, and Crowley eases his mouth against Aziraphale's--he has to kiss him slowly, softly, or else he's afraid he might simply devour him, in every voracious, sinful way ever expected of a demon.
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The sensation lingers, even while Crowley scrambles up to press their foreheads together, the angel's name spoken like a prayer. Even while Crowley kisses him so tenderly, shaking with the effort of not taking everything all at once. Aziraphale kisses back as if Crowley's mouth is all he needs to live, and maybe it is. Minutes pass unaccounted for as he loses himself in a pleasure as old as Eden.
It is when they finally part that Aziraphale seems aware of where they are again. As discreet as they are being, it's a bit much for a picnic. One of Crowley's braids has started to unravel, and he reaches up to tuck a loose curl back into the plait. "My dear," he says in the space between their lips. "Maybe it's time to go back to your flat?"
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"Yeah--let's do that, angel." His voice seems rougher than usual, constraining unspoken desire. Crowley finishes what was left of the wine in his glass swiftly, puts his sunglasses back on, and then just as swiftly helps tumble their things together, at last unfolding himself to his feet and then holding out his hand wordlessly to help Aziraphale to his. When he's standing Crowley doesn't relinquish his hand, even when they come out from the cover of the oak tree. No one who might be watching matters anymore, and if God has anything to say about it, She can just come down and say it Herself.
The Bentley is booted when they reach it; he makes a gesture and it falls off with a clunk.
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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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