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.
Considering how carefully Aziraphale laid out everything at the beginning of their picnic, it's nearly comical the way Crowley tumbles everything back into the basket. Not that Aziraphale is at all fussy about it when he moves to assist, folding the blanket up into more of a sloppy ball than a neat square. The only thing he puts away nicely is the uneaten cherry tart. He really would like to eat that, but -- later.
He slips back into his waistcoat and takes Crowley's hand, letting him be pulled up and led out of the park. He holds hands without worry of recrimination from anyone. To the humans they pass, they are simply any other couple out for a stroll, although only the most oblivious would assume it platonic. Not with the adoring looks Aziraphale keeps giving Crowley, each one laced with desire. His aura shines bright, extending out and around Crowley like a feathered wing. Like shelter, protective and welcoming, always.
The boot earns a soft tsk of his tongue. "That means you've earned too many tickets," he teases. Not that he cares. He squeezes Crowley's hand before letting go and sliding into the passenger eat, picnic basket at his feet this time instead of his lap. "Well, I'd say that went very well. We ought to do that more often."
Were a demon given to blushes, he’d probably be flushed by those loving glances Aziraphale keeps giving him and the way his love spreads around them like wings, feeling not only tender but in some way protective, too, almost fiercely so, the way he imagines Aziraphale would be if pushed to it. No, certainly no one seeing them would suspect they’re anything other than a couple, but Crowley doesn’t care. His hand squeezes gently around Aziraphale’s as they walk, and his thumb strokes over his knuckles in a fashion that could seem almost idle if not for the sheer pleasure he takes in touching him.
“I’m sure my address is in the system,” he says dismissively on the topic of boots and tickets, and it’s probably true, except any traffic notices tend to disappear between the courts and his home, and no one remembers to follow up. Curb laws, such a silly human invention. He gets the car started and peels off, to the outraged look of a traffic officer who was just hurrying over to intercept them. Aziraphale’s declaration about the picnic gets Crowley smiling, his hand reaching over from the gearshift to cover the angel’s again. “I could be persuaded.”
Glancing over sidelong, he adds after a brief hesitation, “You can stay the night, if you want.”
Aziraphale can blush enough for the both of them, rosy-cheeked and happy as they make their way to the Bentley. He loves how Crowley holds his hand actively, rather than passively, making the most of their physical connection. No more hands tucked in pockets or clasped in front of waistcoats, a respectable distance kept between them. Not if Aziraphale can help it.
He doesn't give any more thought to Crowley's parking habits once they are back on the road. The hand on his is enough to keep him occupied. "Then let me persuade you," he says, smiling. "A picnic at every one of those clandestine meeting spots." Not that he'd be opposed to a picnic out in the open, either, but they can have a lot more fun (and drink!) where they won't be noticed.
"Oh..." Oh. A picnic is one thing, who knows what an entire night spent at Crowley's will lead to? Is he ready for that? It's one thing to give Crowley his love, it's another to express that love physically without being a fumbling idiot about it. But when he looks over at Crowley, he realizes that he very much does want. Or, rather, the thought of them being separated, even for the rest of the day, is too much to bear. If that means things get awkward later, that's fine. They can muddle through it. Together.
He turns his hand to touch Crowley's and squeeze it reassuringly. "There's no place I'd rather be."
His gaze turns back to the road after he asks, the set of his shoulders going a bit tense; it’s impossible to stay relaxed when a question so blatant is out in the open between them, like that. Even after everything these past few days—Crowley doesn’t look at Aziraphale until he feels his hand turn palm-up, and grip his, and the response is what he was hoping for, what eases the tight feeling in his chest and the fear of overstepping. Then he does look, darting a quick glance and a flashing smile, his fingers around Aziraphale’s squeezing in turn. “Best to finish the wine anyway,” he murmurs after driving along for a few moments. Yes, things may get awkward, there’s always that chance, but Crowley doesn’t care; he doesn’t want to be apart from Aziraphale today, or tonight, or...the rest they can figure out later. He lifts Aziraphale’s hand to his mouth, pressing a hard kiss to the back of it.
And they’re back in no time, pulling up to the curb.
Crowley leads the way up, charged a little with nerves when he opens the door and steps over the threshold, holding it for Aziraphale—not a bad feeling, this, just the sense of things changing again, enlarging in some way, as though the universe he’s always known is expanding around them. “Do you want a glass?”
That smile and the kiss to the back of his hand ease his own nerves, as well. He trusts Crowley implicitly, and he craves this new intimacy that they share. However they spend the night, they'll be together, and that's what matters to him the most.
Of course, that doesn't entirely stop the butterflies that are currently dancing the Gavotte inside of him, as he follows Crowley through the door, basket in hand. He was only here a few hours ago, but already it feels different. Crowley's invited him to stay, to carve out space for himself among the foreboding furniture and priceless artworks. His gaze sweeps around the flat, as if taking it in for the first time.
"Oh. Yes, thank you." He offers Crowley the basket, then shrugs off his jacket and looks for a place to hang it up somewhere. There's also the matter of where to sit, but he'll let Crowley take the lead on that one.
There are some hooks that jut out rather forebodingly from the wall that Aziraphale will find if he looks around, and though the flat is mostly dark open space and terrorized plants and sculpturary, he does have a few pieces of furniture around for sitting on: the chair Aziraphale calls a throne, the bench, an ornately carved settee. And the bed, but Crowley doesn't let his mind wander there yet. Taking the basket when Aziraphale hands it over, he strolls into the kitchen--glaring briefly at the plants as he passes, they'd best make a nice showing of themselves if they know what's good for them--and fetches out a couple of old crystal wine glasses, along with the bottle that was tucked into the basket. About to go back out, he pauses at the sight of the cherry tart packed away more carefully than the rest of the leftovers.
He has plates and forks somewhere, though it takes an extra minute or two of poking around before he finds a set. Crowley can hardly remember the last time he ate here; all his meals have been with Aziraphale lately, or on occasion something quick and easily scarfed down from a food truck on the rare occasions when he's feeling a need for sustenance. He puts the cherry tart on the plate, balances it, the fork, the glasses and the bottle as he moves from the kitchen into the sitting room of sorts. "Over here, Aziraphale."
When the angel finds him, he's already set the glasses down, along with the tart and fork, on an inconveniently low table in front of the settee. "Better finish that off," Crowley tells him, pouring wine into the glasses. "Just go to waste if you leave it here."
The jacket gets hung on one of the aforementioned hooks, but when confronted with his seating choices, Aziraphale decides to wander Crowley's flat instead. He's feeling unusually restless, and with Crowley getting things ready in the kitchen, sitting alone somewhere with nothing to do doesn't appeal to him at all.
He makes a steady circuit of the open space, lingering on the plants. The plants are his favorite part of the flat, even if he's not thrilled about Crowley's method for keeping them so lush and green. The angel admires them for a minute or two and leaves them a whisper of positive encouragement before he continues his self-guided tour. Minus the kitchen, where Crowley is taking a curiously long time to get glasses for the wine, and the bedroom, which he avoids to keep his thoughts from running away from him.
The sculptures get a curious look-over. He remembers the one of Good and Evil wrestling, and maybe it's because of recent events, but that wrestling no longer looks quite so innocent to him. He blushes and moves on to the bird statue, which seems surprisingly simple in comparison. Where has he seen this statue before? It was...
...it was in the church.
When Crowley calls for him, he comes over promptly, smiling as if he's trying to hold back a great wave of emotion. His composure nearly cracks at the sight of the cherry tart, but he manages to hold himself together, taking a seat on the settee. He'd much rather wrap his arms around Crowley and hold onto him for all his worth, face pressed into the crook of his neck, but Crowley's in the middle of pouring the wine and he doesn't want to interrupt. "That was very kind of you," he says, his voice a little shaky. "Thank you."
Edited 2019-07-24 01:58 (UTC)
i think i'm remembering the right statue but correct me if not
Crowley doesn't realize that Aziraphale's been wandering, or that he's found his little keepsake from the 20th century. Not that it was all that little, it took a bit of effort to get it moved after he'd gone back to the wreckage of the church, curious about what he'd find still intact. Especially as he'd had to be very ginger about it, thinking it might burn him. But the destruction of the church had deconsecrated it, so it hadn't been as hard as he'd expected in the end, and when he had it all set up properly in his flat he liked the look of it, not to mention the audacity of a demon keeping a souvenir from a church.
And it made him think of Aziraphale, every time he passed it. How he'd looked long ago with wings outstretched, shielding Crowley from the rain. How he'd looked at him in the church when he realized his books were safe.
Aziraphale's smile is trembling at the edges, as though he's constraining a great deal of emotion behind it. Studying him a bit worriedly behind the glasses, not understanding the emotion, Crowley perches on the back of the couch next to Aziraphale once he's sat down, with one of the glasses of wine in his hand. His tongue is tied at the allegation of kindness, stomach doing a jump that is rather more excitement than discomfort, though the cherry tart doesn't seem to warrant all this. For a moment he's afraid--is it possible Aziraphale's changed his mind about being here? But he tells himself not to get so nervy and jump to conclusions, and he reaches out his free hand and tentatively smooths Aziraphale's hair, a finger tracing in a curve over his ear, down to his cheek. "Are you all right?" he asks quietly.
He turns into Crowley's touch instinctively, biting his lower lip as if ashamed of his own emotions. Seeing that statue on display felt like he had read someone's private correspondence, or was watching someone without them knowing. It sets up a poignant ache in his heart, to know that Crowley kept this as a memento, a reminder of what he yearned for all this time, and that Aziraphale could have seen it, too, if only he had --
No. No, he had known it, too. He had known it the moment Crowley remembered the books. And what had he done in return, besides giving him the holy water? He had denied him, time and again. And despite it all, Crowley kept that statue there. A physical reminder, out in the open, not just hidden in his heart, like Aziraphale had done until far too recently.
It is all too tempting to shrug and force a smile, to tell Crowley that he's fine, please pass over that glass of wine, dear. It's not very romantic to be a mess of regret and longing and vulnerability. He's supposed to be strong one, isn't he? "I..." His voice cracks a little and he presses further into Crowley's touch. "I saw the bird statue, it... it surprised me, is all. That you kept it despite how I treated you afterwards."
Aziraphale leans into the touch, so Crowley keeps doing it, caressing over his hair and down his cheek in a slow repetitive motion, returning some of the pleasure Aziraphale gave him in the park. The angel seems to need this, and it’s rather a nice feeling, to be able to offer some form of solace, assurance, though he wishes it weren’t necessary; Crowley always gets anxious when confronted with Aziraphale’s distress. Demons aren’t any good at comfort, everyone knows that. Yet Crowley’s had the suspicion for some time now that he would do anything, be anything that Aziraphale needed, no matter how it goes against his natural instincts or Hell’s expectations. Maybe this is one of the new things they can define for themselves.
Oh. He listens as Aziraphale brings up the bird statue, touch faltering with momentary embarrassment before he resumes stroking his hair gently. Never mind, he’s glad Aziraphale told him rather than shrugging it off. It’s not as though Crowley can hope to hide how long he’s yearned after and loved Aziraphale any more; he’s made that abundantly clear in the last few days, if it hasn’t been obvious for decades now. “What do you mean? You were fine. We were friends again, weren’t we?” Aziraphale may be thinking of...other things, he supposes, things that were said later on, but it’s not necessary to get lost in remorse. They’ve both done enough regretting for things said or not said. Crowley takes a light grip of Aziraphale’s pale soft hair and tugs gently, teasingly. “You worry too much, angel.”
In this moment, Aziraphale would beg to disagree that Crowley is no good at comforting. Every stroke through his hair and caress down his cheek is a balm for his jangled nerves. No wonder Crowley likes this, he thinks absently as his mind turns a bit fuzzy. He shuts his eyes, like a cat in a sunbeam, letting the frayed tears in his heart mend themselves, drawn back together by Crowley's patient, soothing touch.
"We were always friends," he murmurs, his voice a little floaty. "Even when I said the most foolish things..." And then Crowley gives his hair a gentle tug and his eyes snap open, a startled laugh leaving his mouth without even trying. "I'm so good at it, though," he huffs in response, a touch wryly. Worrying about Crowley's safety, worrying about their superiors finding out about the Arrangement, worrying if he's doing the right thing, or if whatever thing he's doing, he's doing it the right way...
But it's nearly impossible to be worried now. He feels too safe around Crowley for those painful second guesses to take root in his thoughts. He concentrates on Crowley's hand in his hair instead, the playfulness in his friend's voice. "You know, back in Eden... I was so worried about having given my sword away. And the first thing you did, when I confessed it to you, was to reassure me." He smiles at the memory, the years between then and now to not seemingly matter. "I thought, is this was having a friend is like? You were so good to me, even back then."
“Yes, we were,” Crowley agrees, continuing the soft strokes, the teasing little tugs at strands of Aziraphale’s hair now and again. Yes, they’d always been friends, even on opposing sides throughout history or the times they’d fought. Even when both of them were being pig-headed, stubborn...he grins briefly when Aziraphale says how good he is at worrying, in that wry tone. “Well, I didn’t want to be the one to tell you, angel, but at least you know it.”
It’s said with plenty of affection, because who would Aziraphale be without that tendency to worry, without always fussing about what Crowley’s up to or what would have happened if their Arrangement had been discovered, fussing over nearly everything he does himself—he wouldn’t be the Aziraphale that Crowley’s known all these years. His hand eases down the back of Aziraphale’s neck, caressing there lightly for a moment, before he rubs between his shoulders soothingly, easing invisible tensions. “Ah, well, I knew you couldn’t have done anything wrong,” he says softly when Aziraphale brings up their first meeting, all those millennia ago. “Nothing like that in you.” Crowley gazes down at him, remembering the longing he’d felt even back then, the urge to be near that angelic presence. Aziraphale might have had the sword; he might have chosen to strike out at the demon who tempted Eve and had the humans banished from Eden, yet he’d crawled straight to him anyway. “All that goodness in you, I could see it. Like a beacon. The other angels are nothing like you.”
It's reassuring to hear that bond between them, however unspoken, however pulled at by opposing forces or their own foolishness, remained intact. He gives a soft exhalation of relief, one that turns into a sound of pleasure as Crowley begins to ease out the fading tension between his shoulders. He doesn't look much like a creature of worry now, his eyes half-lidded and his posture slack and easy. He looks up when Crowley continues to speak, his friend's cascading red hair another reminder of that shared moment in Eden. Their first moment together, and despite being an angel and a demon, they were civil to one another. More than civil -- they smiled. Even shared a laugh, until Aziraphale's nerves got the better of him. Offering Crowley a wing for shelter from the rain seemed only natural at the time.
"No, I suppose they aren't," he says, and there is a touch of sadness in his voice at that admittance, but he's quick to leave it behind, reaching up with one of his hands to brush back a loose lock of Crowley's hair. "The other demons are nothing like you, either. No one is like you, my dear. You are truly extraordinary."
He smiles, feeling warm and content. He finally gives that cherry tart consideration, and picks up the plate and the fork. He breaks off a small piece with the edge of the fork to capture the perfect bite: a flaky crust, sweet custard, and a glistening red cherry atop it. "Can I tempt you?" he asks, holding the fork up to Crowley's lips. "It goes perfectly with the wine."
It's good to feel Aziraphale relaxing, the worry leaving the set of his shoulders as Crowley kneads between them with the heel of his hand. He watches Aziraphale's expression smooth out too, his eyes growing heavy-lidded, and it gives him a possessive twinge of pleasure that echoes within him again when Aziraphale looks up at him. His touch eases but remains on his back, just beneath the base of his neck, and Crowley continues gazing at Aziraphale as he captures a strand of his hair to brush back from his face, intent on him. "No imagination, is that lot's problem," he answers in a low voice, meaning the other demons. Perhaps it's a problem for Heaven, as well: all those angels unable to see past their own righteousness, to see in terms other than black and white, like Aziraphale does. He's the extraordinary one, Crowley thinks.
Though of course he's rather predictable in some ways, especially for a demon who's known him for six thousand years, and he isn't at all surprised when Aziraphale offers him some of his dessert to try. Crowley'd be just as happy to watch Aziraphale eat the whole thing, but his lips twitch in a smile that grows into a grin, as he says casually, "Temptation accomplished," before leaning forward and taking the bite of custard and pastry, with its sweet cherry to crown it off. It is good, he'll admit, Aziraphale always has a knack for finding the best tasting desserts. "Not bad." Crowley slides down to sit on the couch properly, landing with a little thump next to Aziraphale, and tilts his wine glass to his lips. "You're right, it does pair nicely."
Aziraphale hums a quiet note of agreement, for now simply watching Crowley and enjoying the feel of the hand on his back and the soft silk of hair on his fingertips. He's beautiful like this. Always beautiful, as a matter of fact. It feels superficial to point that out as another difference between Crowley and the other demons, but it's true. Even the angels, in their sterile perfection, can't hold a candle to him. No one else, he is certain, could stir such feelings within him.
"You have imagination in spades," he says finally. "And you put it to good use." He means Crowley's unflagging cleverness, although as he stares at his extraordinary demon so longingly, it can certainly refer to other things.
The callback to Aziraphale's witty (in his humble opinion) reply to Crowley's own 'temptation' the afternoon after they had successfully fooled their superiors makes him giggle, and he watches quite happily as Crowley takes the offered bite. He's even happier when Crowley joins him on the part of the couch that's actually meant to be sit on. "If I know anything, it's what wine goes with what dessert. I've had plenty of practice." He grins, then resumes eating the tart, taking his time to enjoy it, as he always does, washing down every other bite with a sip of wine.
When nothing is left but a few flaky crumbs, he sets the plate back down. There's no napkin, so he licks his lips clean. "You know, I... I saw that other statue, too. The one of Good and Evil wrestling." He takes a prim sip of wine, then asks nonchalantly, "Are you sure that's what they're doing?"
It stirs in him an answering passion when Aziraphale looks at him with longing in his eyes: a mirror of the feelings Crowley has carried within for so long that they seem a part of him. With sudden fascination, his fingers brush subtly at Aziraphale's cheek, and he wonders briefly what kind of use his angel would like to see him put his imagination to, but he leaves that thought to the side while he has some of the pastry and then watches Aziraphale finish off the rest. Elbow braced against the back of the couch, cheek leaning against a loosely curled fist, he waits patiently while Aziraphale enjoys the tart and the wine, taking a less-than-subtle pleasure in watching him.
"Hm?" Crowley's slow to catch up for a moment, because the sight of Aziraphale licking his lips was...stirring. His eyebrows raise, and then he lifts his head a moment later in understanding. "Oh, that." He hadn't cared much about the subject matter of the statue at first when he'd bought it, in truth; but he'd thought it would make an appropriate conversation piece if any demonic visitors ever took it in their heads to show up, evil wrestling good into submission and all of that. Or at least it might be approved of, since demons aren't much for conversation as a rule.
Still, after a while he'd begun to be...rather fond of it. The demon and angel locked in their eternal struggle, or perhaps it wasn't really a struggle at all, at least not one either of them wanted to win--
He suppresses a sudden grin, thinking of Aziraphale gazing at it and having the same thoughts. "Interesting question you raise," Crowley drawls innocently, draping his arm over the back of the settee. "What do you think they're doing?"
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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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He slips back into his waistcoat and takes Crowley's hand, letting him be pulled up and led out of the park. He holds hands without worry of recrimination from anyone. To the humans they pass, they are simply any other couple out for a stroll, although only the most oblivious would assume it platonic. Not with the adoring looks Aziraphale keeps giving Crowley, each one laced with desire. His aura shines bright, extending out and around Crowley like a feathered wing. Like shelter, protective and welcoming, always.
The boot earns a soft tsk of his tongue. "That means you've earned too many tickets," he teases. Not that he cares. He squeezes Crowley's hand before letting go and sliding into the passenger eat, picnic basket at his feet this time instead of his lap. "Well, I'd say that went very well. We ought to do that more often."
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“I’m sure my address is in the system,” he says dismissively on the topic of boots and tickets, and it’s probably true, except any traffic notices tend to disappear between the courts and his home, and no one remembers to follow up. Curb laws, such a silly human invention. He gets the car started and peels off, to the outraged look of a traffic officer who was just hurrying over to intercept them. Aziraphale’s declaration about the picnic gets Crowley smiling, his hand reaching over from the gearshift to cover the angel’s again. “I could be persuaded.”
Glancing over sidelong, he adds after a brief hesitation, “You can stay the night, if you want.”
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He doesn't give any more thought to Crowley's parking habits once they are back on the road. The hand on his is enough to keep him occupied. "Then let me persuade you," he says, smiling. "A picnic at every one of those clandestine meeting spots." Not that he'd be opposed to a picnic out in the open, either, but they can have a lot more fun (and drink!) where they won't be noticed.
"Oh..." Oh. A picnic is one thing, who knows what an entire night spent at Crowley's will lead to? Is he ready for that? It's one thing to give Crowley his love, it's another to express that love physically without being a fumbling idiot about it. But when he looks over at Crowley, he realizes that he very much does want. Or, rather, the thought of them being separated, even for the rest of the day, is too much to bear. If that means things get awkward later, that's fine. They can muddle through it. Together.
He turns his hand to touch Crowley's and squeeze it reassuringly. "There's no place I'd rather be."
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And they’re back in no time, pulling up to the curb.
Crowley leads the way up, charged a little with nerves when he opens the door and steps over the threshold, holding it for Aziraphale—not a bad feeling, this, just the sense of things changing again, enlarging in some way, as though the universe he’s always known is expanding around them. “Do you want a glass?”
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Of course, that doesn't entirely stop the butterflies that are currently dancing the Gavotte inside of him, as he follows Crowley through the door, basket in hand. He was only here a few hours ago, but already it feels different. Crowley's invited him to stay, to carve out space for himself among the foreboding furniture and priceless artworks. His gaze sweeps around the flat, as if taking it in for the first time.
"Oh. Yes, thank you." He offers Crowley the basket, then shrugs off his jacket and looks for a place to hang it up somewhere. There's also the matter of where to sit, but he'll let Crowley take the lead on that one.
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He has plates and forks somewhere, though it takes an extra minute or two of poking around before he finds a set. Crowley can hardly remember the last time he ate here; all his meals have been with Aziraphale lately, or on occasion something quick and easily scarfed down from a food truck on the rare occasions when he's feeling a need for sustenance. He puts the cherry tart on the plate, balances it, the fork, the glasses and the bottle as he moves from the kitchen into the sitting room of sorts. "Over here, Aziraphale."
When the angel finds him, he's already set the glasses down, along with the tart and fork, on an inconveniently low table in front of the settee. "Better finish that off," Crowley tells him, pouring wine into the glasses. "Just go to waste if you leave it here."
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He makes a steady circuit of the open space, lingering on the plants. The plants are his favorite part of the flat, even if he's not thrilled about Crowley's method for keeping them so lush and green. The angel admires them for a minute or two and leaves them a whisper of positive encouragement before he continues his self-guided tour. Minus the kitchen, where Crowley is taking a curiously long time to get glasses for the wine, and the bedroom, which he avoids to keep his thoughts from running away from him.
The sculptures get a curious look-over. He remembers the one of Good and Evil wrestling, and maybe it's because of recent events, but that wrestling no longer looks quite so innocent to him. He blushes and moves on to the bird statue, which seems surprisingly simple in comparison. Where has he seen this statue before? It was...
...it was in the church.
When Crowley calls for him, he comes over promptly, smiling as if he's trying to hold back a great wave of emotion. His composure nearly cracks at the sight of the cherry tart, but he manages to hold himself together, taking a seat on the settee. He'd much rather wrap his arms around Crowley and hold onto him for all his worth, face pressed into the crook of his neck, but Crowley's in the middle of pouring the wine and he doesn't want to interrupt. "That was very kind of you," he says, his voice a little shaky. "Thank you."
i think i'm remembering the right statue but correct me if not
And it made him think of Aziraphale, every time he passed it. How he'd looked long ago with wings outstretched, shielding Crowley from the rain. How he'd looked at him in the church when he realized his books were safe.
Aziraphale's smile is trembling at the edges, as though he's constraining a great deal of emotion behind it. Studying him a bit worriedly behind the glasses, not understanding the emotion, Crowley perches on the back of the couch next to Aziraphale once he's sat down, with one of the glasses of wine in his hand. His tongue is tied at the allegation of kindness, stomach doing a jump that is rather more excitement than discomfort, though the cherry tart doesn't seem to warrant all this. For a moment he's afraid--is it possible Aziraphale's changed his mind about being here? But he tells himself not to get so nervy and jump to conclusions, and he reaches out his free hand and tentatively smooths Aziraphale's hair, a finger tracing in a curve over his ear, down to his cheek. "Are you all right?" he asks quietly.
That's the one! <3
No. No, he had known it, too. He had known it the moment Crowley remembered the books. And what had he done in return, besides giving him the holy water? He had denied him, time and again. And despite it all, Crowley kept that statue there. A physical reminder, out in the open, not just hidden in his heart, like Aziraphale had done until far too recently.
It is all too tempting to shrug and force a smile, to tell Crowley that he's fine, please pass over that glass of wine, dear. It's not very romantic to be a mess of regret and longing and vulnerability. He's supposed to be strong one, isn't he? "I..." His voice cracks a little and he presses further into Crowley's touch. "I saw the bird statue, it... it surprised me, is all. That you kept it despite how I treated you afterwards."
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Oh. He listens as Aziraphale brings up the bird statue, touch faltering with momentary embarrassment before he resumes stroking his hair gently. Never mind, he’s glad Aziraphale told him rather than shrugging it off. It’s not as though Crowley can hope to hide how long he’s yearned after and loved Aziraphale any more; he’s made that abundantly clear in the last few days, if it hasn’t been obvious for decades now. “What do you mean? You were fine. We were friends again, weren’t we?” Aziraphale may be thinking of...other things, he supposes, things that were said later on, but it’s not necessary to get lost in remorse. They’ve both done enough regretting for things said or not said. Crowley takes a light grip of Aziraphale’s pale soft hair and tugs gently, teasingly. “You worry too much, angel.”
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"We were always friends," he murmurs, his voice a little floaty. "Even when I said the most foolish things..." And then Crowley gives his hair a gentle tug and his eyes snap open, a startled laugh leaving his mouth without even trying. "I'm so good at it, though," he huffs in response, a touch wryly. Worrying about Crowley's safety, worrying about their superiors finding out about the Arrangement, worrying if he's doing the right thing, or if whatever thing he's doing, he's doing it the right way...
But it's nearly impossible to be worried now. He feels too safe around Crowley for those painful second guesses to take root in his thoughts. He concentrates on Crowley's hand in his hair instead, the playfulness in his friend's voice. "You know, back in Eden... I was so worried about having given my sword away. And the first thing you did, when I confessed it to you, was to reassure me." He smiles at the memory, the years between then and now to not seemingly matter. "I thought, is this was having a friend is like? You were so good to me, even back then."
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It’s said with plenty of affection, because who would Aziraphale be without that tendency to worry, without always fussing about what Crowley’s up to or what would have happened if their Arrangement had been discovered, fussing over nearly everything he does himself—he wouldn’t be the Aziraphale that Crowley’s known all these years. His hand eases down the back of Aziraphale’s neck, caressing there lightly for a moment, before he rubs between his shoulders soothingly, easing invisible tensions. “Ah, well, I knew you couldn’t have done anything wrong,” he says softly when Aziraphale brings up their first meeting, all those millennia ago. “Nothing like that in you.” Crowley gazes down at him, remembering the longing he’d felt even back then, the urge to be near that angelic presence. Aziraphale might have had the sword; he might have chosen to strike out at the demon who tempted Eve and had the humans banished from Eden, yet he’d crawled straight to him anyway. “All that goodness in you, I could see it. Like a beacon. The other angels are nothing like you.”
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"No, I suppose they aren't," he says, and there is a touch of sadness in his voice at that admittance, but he's quick to leave it behind, reaching up with one of his hands to brush back a loose lock of Crowley's hair. "The other demons are nothing like you, either. No one is like you, my dear. You are truly extraordinary."
He smiles, feeling warm and content. He finally gives that cherry tart consideration, and picks up the plate and the fork. He breaks off a small piece with the edge of the fork to capture the perfect bite: a flaky crust, sweet custard, and a glistening red cherry atop it. "Can I tempt you?" he asks, holding the fork up to Crowley's lips. "It goes perfectly with the wine."
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Though of course he's rather predictable in some ways, especially for a demon who's known him for six thousand years, and he isn't at all surprised when Aziraphale offers him some of his dessert to try. Crowley'd be just as happy to watch Aziraphale eat the whole thing, but his lips twitch in a smile that grows into a grin, as he says casually, "Temptation accomplished," before leaning forward and taking the bite of custard and pastry, with its sweet cherry to crown it off. It is good, he'll admit, Aziraphale always has a knack for finding the best tasting desserts. "Not bad." Crowley slides down to sit on the couch properly, landing with a little thump next to Aziraphale, and tilts his wine glass to his lips. "You're right, it does pair nicely."
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"You have imagination in spades," he says finally. "And you put it to good use." He means Crowley's unflagging cleverness, although as he stares at his extraordinary demon so longingly, it can certainly refer to other things.
The callback to Aziraphale's witty (in his humble opinion) reply to Crowley's own 'temptation' the afternoon after they had successfully fooled their superiors makes him giggle, and he watches quite happily as Crowley takes the offered bite. He's even happier when Crowley joins him on the part of the couch that's actually meant to be sit on. "If I know anything, it's what wine goes with what dessert. I've had plenty of practice." He grins, then resumes eating the tart, taking his time to enjoy it, as he always does, washing down every other bite with a sip of wine.
When nothing is left but a few flaky crumbs, he sets the plate back down. There's no napkin, so he licks his lips clean. "You know, I... I saw that other statue, too. The one of Good and Evil wrestling." He takes a prim sip of wine, then asks nonchalantly, "Are you sure that's what they're doing?"
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"Hm?" Crowley's slow to catch up for a moment, because the sight of Aziraphale licking his lips was...stirring. His eyebrows raise, and then he lifts his head a moment later in understanding. "Oh, that." He hadn't cared much about the subject matter of the statue at first when he'd bought it, in truth; but he'd thought it would make an appropriate conversation piece if any demonic visitors ever took it in their heads to show up, evil wrestling good into submission and all of that. Or at least it might be approved of, since demons aren't much for conversation as a rule.
Still, after a while he'd begun to be...rather fond of it. The demon and angel locked in their eternal struggle, or perhaps it wasn't really a struggle at all, at least not one either of them wanted to win--
He suppresses a sudden grin, thinking of Aziraphale gazing at it and having the same thoughts. "Interesting question you raise," Crowley drawls innocently, draping his arm over the back of the settee. "What do you think they're doing?"
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