Work Text:
PDA
noun; informal. a public display of affection.
Crowley is already at St. James Park when Aziraphale arrives, sitting on Aziraphale’s favorite bench under the weeping willow tree by the lake and arguing with a mallard about the disposition of the crust on his curry pie.
"He claims the wheat is not the same delicious strain of wheat from Mr. Abdul's cart," Crowley says. "Clearly has taste is his little webbed feet. I'm not feeding you again." The last directed to the duck who waddles off to rejoin the missus, flopping into the water with a very Crowley-like huff.
"Hello, my dear," Aziraphale says, brushing off the seat beside Crowley and sitting down. He hesitates the barest fraction of a second and then drops a hand to Crowley's knee. "How was your morning?"
"Oh, you know, this n' that." Crowley waves a hand, shifting fractionally closer beneath Aziraphale’s palm. "A few minor temptations. Scuffles. Fallings out. There was an iced latte thrown. A pair of trainers stolen. Mischief. Mayhem. You know the kind of thing."
"You do have your reputation to keep up," Aziraphale agrees, brushing his thumb along the side seam of Crowley's trouser leg. Even if they’re on a third side of two at the moment old habits died hard -- especially the habits of six thousand years -- and both of them feel compelled to put in a bit of effort against a future surprise inspection. Better safe than sorry. "You'll be pleased to know your student at the shop purchased two volumes of manga. She's discovered yaoi." He smiles. "And polyamory. I know Gabriel would not approve."
"Now there's an angel with taste in his feet," Crowley agrees. He holds out the paper bag he has with him so Aziraphale might extract his curry pie. Mr. Habib’s does the best tofu, Aziraphale thinks happily. Crowley has gone out of his way.
"Tamarind sauce?" Crowley asks, holding out the container. "Did your lady friend have any musty old books to your liking?" Aziraphale accepts the sauce and tells Crowley a bit about Nasreen’s latest finds. They’re still learning to fill the gaps in conversation left by no longer needing to a) prevent the apocalypse while b) pretending to aid and abet the apocalypse. It had been a long eleven years. Aziraphale was frightened, at first, that they would look around when the terror finally waned and discover they had nothing left to hold them together. Instead, it felt as if they were making up for more than a decade of speaking about almost nothing but Warlock and the possible end. There was always something to talk about, and he was always thinking to himself when Crowley is here I must remember to tell him … or remembering that he can text and reaching for his mobile.
When they’ve finished their pies and the conversation has lapsed comfortably, Crowley stands up and wanders across to a vendor selling ice creams. He returns with a violently orange ice lolly already beginning to melt as he peels off the plastic wrapper. He slouches back onto the bench, hesitates for a second, and then pulls up his feet so he can turn and lie on his back with his head pillowed on Aziraphale’s thigh.
The sunglasses are still firmly on, but Aziraphale can feel the deliberately-performed innocence radiating off the creature in his lap. Aziraphale’s heart is beating faster than usual in his chest. This is … unexpected, he thinks, possibly the first time Crowley has ever used Aziraphale’s leg as a pillow and certainly the first time he’s done so in quite such a public manner. Centuries of steeling himself not to respond makes him freeze before he realizes he’s being invited.
His left arm is hovering, awkwardly, moved hastily out of the way when Crowley moved to lie down; slowly he lowers it until his hand comes to light rest on Crowley’s stomach. He looks at it, a suddenly alien appendage that seems disattached from the rest of him, and wonders if it could really be this simple. Crowley resettles his shoulders against Aziraphale’s leg and brings up the hand not holding the ice lolly to interlace his fingers with Aziraphale’s own. Aziraphale’s hand stops feeling alien and, once again, it’s just him -- Aziraphale -- holding hands with Crowley -- holding Crowley’s hand. On a bench. In St. James Park. He couldn’t stop the smile even if he were trying.
The midday sun is warm, verging on hot, and Aziraphale is grateful for the shade of the overhanging willow. They’re in no particular hurry to return to the shop. A group of youngsters from the local nursery roll by in a giant pram and their caregivers stop for a lesson on duck, goose, swan, raven, sparrow. Aziraphale encourages a heron to land in the reeds nearby to the delight of one observant, brown-eyed toddler.
"That one, now," Crowley points at the child with what’s left of the ice lolly. "She'll be poking snakes with sharp sticks in a year or two." Aziraphale follows the gesture with the tiniest bit of angelic encouragement. The raven-haired lass is fussy now out of boredom; with a nudge here and an opportunity there she might be persuaded to study snakes rather than torment them.
"You put her in my sights deliberately." He looks down at the demon in his lap, striving for as neutral a tone as possible. Crowley tips his face up toward Aziraphale, expression nearly impossible to read behind the sunglasses. Impossible, that is, if Aziraphale hadn't had six millennia to learn every shade of Crowley's studiously blank expressions. Crowley puts the length of sugary ice between his lips and sucks on it quite deliberately before tipping his head back down to continue his study of humanity passing by on the path in front of them.
Aziraphale suddenly wants to lean down and press a kiss to that sticky orange mouth. But he’s uncertain of the etiquette. They've been meeting on park benches since park benches had been invented. Companionable. Close enough to pass a shared drink or a meat pie back and forth, though rarely more than their shoulders or knees touching. His hand on Crowley's thigh earlier had felt ... daring. Now Crowley’s head is in his lap. He feels a bit dizzy from the joy of it.
Across from their bench, a human couple is similarly seated, heads bent together over one of the women's mobile phone screens. The one not holding the mobile points to something on the screen, laughing, and says something to the other who responds. They lean toward one another over the source of their amusement and share a lingering kiss. He's seen this scene play out between lovers century after century and never understood, before, what helped humans over the breach. It turns out, in the end, all it had taken was a simple laying on of hands.
Crowley decides on their walk back to the bookshop that this new reality is terrifying. He has never felt so unable to hide behind dark sunglasses, a flash wardrobe, and his customary bravado. He usually makes a point of being noticed so that no one can quite remember what it is they've actually witnessed. It’s a demonic sleight of hand that's served him well throughout the centuries. With Aziraphale, today, Crowley wants to be witnessed and remembered.
He wants every passerby to understand whom he and Aziraphale are to one another. Most will only understand on human terms but that would be enough for honesty: partner, lover, husband. More than business associates and different from dear friends. He wants to be witnessed touching and being touched in the way that only lovers in this time and place touch and consent to be touched. He wants to be witnessed holding hands as they stroll back to the edge of the park, step out into the flow of pedestrians, wait at the pedestrian crossings for the lights to turn. He wants to be witnessed as Aziraphale, delighted, pauses at a vendor’s stall laden with brightly colored fabricsand purchases Crowley a gauzy scarf "to match your eyes": an explanation murmured against Crowley's startled lips as Aziraphale wraps the silk around his throat and pulls him gently forward. To be witnessed as Crowley kisses him back.
Crowley puts his hands to Aziraphale's hips, opening his lips to the touch of Aziraphale's tongue, warm and plump like a human's, tasting of curry and tamarind. Mine, he thinks, enough power in the sentiment that several tourists poking through the vendor’s wares take a step back without quite knowing why and the vendor has a moment of panic about that last box of hats: he really had found them in an alley but now he wonders if he should have taken a picture for proof. And I’m his. Hands off. Aziraphale nips at Crowley's bottom lip, gently, no doubt tasting tangerine and chemical dye in return, then pulls away just enough to say with no real urgency: "I should get back to the shop."
"So responsible," Crowley mocks, slightly horrified by the affection in his voice. It feels like every being in the park -- perhaps for several kilometers in every direction -- will have heard how much he loves Aziraphale and Crowley burns with how much he wishes they had. He makes an effort and peels his fingers back from where they rest at the slight curve of Aziraphale's hips. Before he can step back any further, Aziraphale catches his hand and just like that they're walking through the streets of London hand in hand talking about driving to Tadfield on the bank holiday weekend. One of Aziraphale's better miracles, Crowley thinks, making this seem like any other afternoon spent in one another's company and yet shot through with awe at their world made anew.