The pair sit on a yellow tartan blanket on a crested, grassy hill overlooking the pond in St James Park. They both wear their respective colors. Crowley in something sharp and dark, glasses on, which seem to passersby completely usual on this sunny, mid-July afternoon. Aziraphale sits primly upright on his heels in a blend of creams and khakis, glass of champagne in one hand and a half-eaten strawberry in the other. Despite the illegality of drinking in an inner-city park, no authority is able to look too long at the pair without miraculously losing interest.
Crowley lounges out on the sheet. Legs crossed at the ankle. Elbows supporting his shoulders. As they often did on their get-togethers, they are reminiscing about moments in Earth’s history.
“Now Studio 54 had some of the best parties I’ve ever been too. Better than Rome. Better than Greece.” Crowley twirls the stem of an empty champagne flute.
“Better than the 1920s?” Aziraphale interrupts surprised.
“Oh yes. You had already left America by that time, so you missed it.” His tone is slightly chastising.
“I had been too long away from my bookshop during World War One, and staying through the Great Depression seemed so drab.” Aziraphale drops the rest of the strawberry into his champagne, and sips at it.
Crowley makes a face. “You know I didn’t stay for that decade, but popping over to America every now and then isn’t hard.”
“I’m not sure I would have looked proper at Studio 54” Aziraphale musses. “I barely looked right in the 1920s.”
“Based on what everyone else wore, no one would’ve batted an eye at you. You could’ve rode in on a horse naked for G-s..” Crowley stumbles unable to bring himself to say God “..you know.” He recovers quietly and looks away.
“Naked? Doesn’t seem like something an angel would do.” Aziraphale huffs. “At least not since the Renaissance…”
“Now that was a party!” Both Aziraphale and Crowley exclaim, meeting each other’s eyes.
They both slowly look off, meditating instead on the sweep of the hill down to the walking path and pond. There are plenty of humans in the park today. Joggers go by in groups or alone. A tour guide wanders along with clusters of photo-snapping tourists. A cyclist on a regular cruiser slowly unmounts his bike and glides a short distance to meet a woman walking toward him. As he slows and lands in front of her, she wraps her arms around his neck and he kisses her, one hand clutched on the handlebars of the stilled bike and one hand wrapping around her waist. It’s a simple kiss that doesn’t linger too long to be improper for a public greeting. When the kiss ends, the two beam at each other, and begin to spill into a grinning conversation. The shine of their sparkling eyes can be seen all the way up on the hill crest, despite being several meters away. Crowley feels immediately a bit sick. Oh humans. Enjoy it while you can, you short-lived, delicate things. He glances behind his glasses at Aziraphale. Who apparently also watched the kiss and is now clutching his chest with a warm smile on his face.
Aziraphale sighs. “I never get used to how charming humans are when they are in love.” Recognizing Crowley’s glance his way has the air of a question.
Crowley’s classic response to this has always been “Blehh.” It aptly hides his feelings for Aziraphale and is also an acceptable response for a demon anytime love is mentioned. He applies this response.
The couple slowly meander down the path, clearly enraptured with each other. Laughing lightly at, for, and to each other. The bicycle twilling along at an arm’s length until they move out of sight. Aziraphale watches them go. His expression unchanged despite Crowley’s non-response. When they disappear, he becomes extremely pensive. He casts a few furtive glances at Crowley, nervously picks at his lips, and practically wiggles.
“What is it, angel?” Crowley sighs. These were tell-tale signs that Aziraphale has finally grasped some long-sought concept, and is unsure how to properly voice it.
“Well I, what if we…” Aziraphale stammers.
Crowley’s eyebrows slowly raise, but he decides to give him all the time he needs for this one. Aziraphale is always surprising. It’s hard for Crowley to surmise where his mind has wandered.
Aziraphale recovers a bit after a breath, but looks down to fiddle with a button on his vest. His courage is visibly building though, his jaw becoming set. He glances at Crowley one more time, who shrugs at him, a universal sign for “yes? Go on.” When Aziraphale finally answers, his voice is slow and careful. Since almost-armageddon and becoming a traitor to his respective side, he is able to ask harder questions without blustering through them or ignoring them all together. His glance lingers but is a little shrouded.
“What do you think would happen if we kissed?”
Crowley jerks lightly, like a snake jabbed in their soft underbelly. The champagne flute fumbles in his fingers and is dropped on the blanket. His mind blanks. Unable to come up with a suitable quip or brush it off quickly, Crowley’s pause stretches. Aziraphale remains pointedly looking at Crowley awaiting his response.
After possibly an eternity, Crowley’s mind catches up. “Might sting a little.” He practically whispers, “Probably worth checking.” He adds as an afterthought even softer, “..if you like.”
Aziraphale’s eyes bore into Crowley’s. The sunglasses are hardly a barrier in the tree-dappled sunlight. The wind passes through the branches. Aziraphale smiles coyly and decidedly places his champagne glass down. Crowley stays very still, pinned in place. In some far-off part of his brain, he feels like coiling. But then Aziraphale is sliding off his heels and leaning over. A familiar electric feeling jolts through them both as Aziraphale’s fingers touch against Crowley’s temple. He slides Crowley’s glasses up into his hair, and when their eyes fully meet, now exposed, Aziraphale bends down.
The kiss is light at first, a sparkling brush reminiscent to the bubbles of champagne. Crowley can’t help to bring one of his hands up to cradle Aziraphale’s head and keep him from moving away, if inclined. Aziraphale shifts, lips parting, and the kiss deepens.
Crowley has kissed many people in his long time on Earth; comes with the territory. Demon. Lust being a sin and all. But in all of his memory, no kiss was ever so enchanting and drugging and damning as this one with Aziraphale. Perhaps it’s because angels and demons kissing is definitely a big no-no. Or perhaps it is due to the six thousand years of Crowley’s pinning, and humans just don’t have the gas for that. Crowley thinks distantly if he had to wait another six thousand years for this feeling, he would.
The kiss has to end sometime, so unfortunately for the both of them, it ends. During the length of the kiss, Crowley has sank down onto the blanket with Aziraphale perched on his chest. Both angel and demon are abnormally flushed. Crowley’s eyes are unnaturally large. Aziraphale is practically glowing, and he is the first to slowly collect himself off Crowley.
A dagger-like feeling stabs into Crowley. Ah it was bad! Or he’s already regretting it! And I’m going to have to chase him around for another century or two. He even begins to shake his head. “Didn’t you like it? It wasn’t painful.”
Aziraphale’s expression is beguiling with bright, shimmering eyes and dimples everywhere possible. “It’s about time to leave the garden. Don’t you think so?”