Feast

by Ashfae, mostlyjustgoose

Summary:

Crowley's spent the whole of lockdown asleep. Aziraphale has spent the whole of lockdown baking, cooking, and becoming increasingly frustrated with his solitude. Which eventually leads him to the perfect way to solve all his problems at once...

Or, Aziraphale attempts to seduce Crowley with a truly excellent meal, and Crowley is amenable.

Notes:

Just because we loved the pain of season two doesn't mean we don't still long for a good old Wake the Snake bit of satisfying smut. Enjoy. We certainly did. ;)

Edit: The wonderful Aivelin drew the most gorgeous fanart for this! It's linked at the end of the story and you should absolutely have a look and tell him how amazing it is. But not while at work. ;)

“No more showing up for breadcrumbs”, she said, “when you’re worthy of a whole damn feast.”
― Jeanette LeBlanc 

Crowley went to bed in not the best of moods.

Things could be worse, mind. Armageddon’s come and gone, for a value of 'come and gone' that equals 'sort of happened except not really and it's all just bloody ineffable again innit'. He’s free from Hell's shackles and Aziraphale’s free from Heaven's mindfuckery and humanity is free to go on being blessedly, damnably, fantastically human, and the world turns on.

But the world turning on means all the usual irritants, wars and plagues and famines. This year is apparently plague, and while it’s no 14th century (thank Somebody for that) it’s not a walk in the park either. Not least because they aren't supposed to go walking in parks. Not in company, anyway, and what’s the point of a walk in the park on your own with no one to talk to but ducks? 

So if Aziraphale was going to stand firm about not meeting at all until things eased up, Crowley might as well be asleep. Not like there’s much else to do lately.

And if while curled up between dark sheets and a comfortable mattress (or the walls, occasionally, or the ceiling) (which are also dark) he sometimes lets himself dream of good wine and better conversation, or of watching an angelic tongue licking cake crumbs off of angelic lips, or of another body curled up against his and sighing in relaxed contentment, well. That’s no one's business but his own.

Months pass, and Crowley sleeps.

*

For the first time in his long existence, Aziraphale finds himself in the exact same position as most of humanity.

The world fails to end, and for a little while Aziraphale feels frankly dazzled by the possibilities ahead of him. Heaven leaves him alone, and he’s still fully himself, wings and homely miracles and all, not a page out of place in his bookshop. There are so many things he can do with no one watching, with no fear of retribution. There are books he can read in a comfortable armchair by daylight rather than furtively with all the doors locked. ^[1] There are human hobbies he can devote space and time to without shame. There are chances now, his to discover, his to take.

Then comes lockdown.

Everything stops. No theatre, no cinema, no customers to chase away. No restaurants, no crowds. The plague^[2] empties streets and schools and all manner of communal spaces. Though it buoys Aziraphale’s heart to see how human beings offer one another remote support, it’s undeniably a blow to anyone with even the slightest desire for a non-solitary existence, and the angel is not immune.

Aziraphale bakes. He reads. He goes through his closet, making a conscientious effort to change his clothes every day, the way humans do—first his more modern wear, then the older pieces he still owns. He teaches himself the rudiments of skills no other angel’s ever thought to investigate, like origami and BASIC. ^[3] He sets up a projector in the back of the bookshop and watches a handful of films with cocoa and popcorn.

(And at times, alone in the silence, he lets himself listen to the ever-present whispers of human thought, sending out miracles to try and lessen the building miasma of despair. He can’t fix it all, and knows he would both burn himself out and probably incur the wrath of Heaven trying, but he can give little sparks of light to humanity the way they give them to one another, so he does.)

It feels increasingly empty, though. The plague rages; the quiet persists. Summer withers on the vine; autumn rots on the branch. Aziraphale’s human hobbies are less satisfying by the day. Even his furtive good deeds feel less fulfilling. He eats less often—he doesn’t need to, after all.

There’s a brittle chill in the air by the time Aziraphale allows himself to look at the truth face-on: I am desperately lonely, and I said no to the person who could have changed that.

Strangely enough, without Armageddon looming over him—without any sense of what, from here on out, constitutes the inevitable—Aziraphale finds that his nerves manage to metabolise into a spike of frantic courage within less than twelve hours of this revelation. Just enough courage to try Crowley by phone, mind, but his heart races all the same as he listens to the line buzz.

*

To say Crowley sleeps deeply would be inaccurate. The difficulty of waking him depends on whether he’s having an enjoyable afternoon nap, a solid night's rest, a lazy doze, hangover recovery, or something more akin to winter hibernation. His current state is definitely closest to the last option given that his corporation has been turned down to its lowest survival setting for a solid half a year or more.

It's not surprising, therefore, that it takes him a little while to wake up.

His arm is moving for the phone before his brain registers it’s ringing, with that unconscious, ineffectual, flailing, thwacking motion all too familiar to anyone who has ever set a morning alarm. ^[4] This accomplishing nothing, the phone keeps ringing. It takes several more tries before his hand (a little more awake than the rest of him, which isn't saying much) manages to catch hold of the phone and pull it under the covers with him.

"Nghwhahrg?" his mouth says, completely without assistance from his brain.

*

“Crowley!”

Yes, the sound is a garbled mess that in no way resembles words, but it loops around Aziraphale’s heart and pulls tight.

The past few months’ worth of alone ness have been every bit as hard on the angel as it has been on humanity. Even with miracles at his disposal, even with the encouragement he scatters to the souls wounded by forced separation, Aziraphale has been finding it harder and harder to hold on to a good mood. The emptiness in the bookshop (and London, and the world) has grown deeper and starker every day.

One inarticulate noise, and Aziraphale is moved to a greater joy than he’s felt in nearly a year.

“Oh, I—did I wake you?” His own mouth is fully prepped for takeoff, even as his brain still struggles. “Terribly sorry, only, you did say you’d set an alarm, and I thought—”

*

It's Aziraphale's voice. Of course it is, he set up his phone to only accept calls from Aziraphale; all other numbers are rerouted directly to the customer service line for Sofology to listen to their hold music, and serve them right for daring to interrupt a demon's well-earned (or at least desperately bored) rest.

"Azrfphf."

Crowley attempts to interrupt, but while his vocal chords are willing his tongue is still a bit behind. He yawns and stretches, head finally emerging from under his duvet, and tries again. "Whenssit?"

That one was almost a coherent sentence. Progress!

(The part of his vast consciousness that’s more or less perpetually focused on Aziraphale notes 1) the significance of the angel's calling him at all, 2) the apparent delight with which he'd spoken Crowley's name, 3) the unusually choked nature of the rest of his speech, which is 4) largely relieved babbling, and is putting together a number of conclusions which will be available for perusal as soon as the rest of him catches up.)

*

“What? Oh—November.” Aziraphale is mildly horrified to realise his vision has gone blurry and his cheeks are wet; he nearly drops the phone fumbling for a handkerchief.^[5] “Unfortunately the humans haven’t quite finished with the vaccine yet, it’s a few weeks off, but—well. I thought...”

He forces himself to take a deeper breath, to let the first surge of joy begin to settle.

“I wanted to say hello,” he manages, too happy to be shocked at his own audacity.

*

November? Bless it, he has overslept. Crowley vaguely remembers his alarm going off in July, blearily looking at the news and deciding everything was still too crap to be worth being conscious for, hitting a snooze button until August and settling back in. Aziraphale told him they'd see each other when it was over, which it manifestly wasn't^[6], and there hardly seemed anything else worth being awake for. Even the mudslinging and backstabbing of the American Presidential election didn't sound appealing for once.^[7]

Still, November is pushing it as naps go. Crowley groans and stretches again, gradually coming awake. "Ngh, right. Hi." Something is poking at his awareness, demanding attention. Aziraphale, yeah, but why is he calling and why's he sound like that? "Y'alright, angel?"

*

Angel. It’s been months since he’s heard that nickname, even at a distance. The fussier part of Aziraphale’s brain is utterly mortified at how the word makes his lower lip wobble; his heart is a fluttering mess, straining under the weight of longing the last six months have concentrated so acutely.

Absurdly, despite how desperately he misses Crowley, he’s momentarily glad the demon can’t see him. Not out of any concern that Crowley might mock him or dismiss him, but simply because he isn’t certain how he feels about anyone seeing him so profoundly moved.

“Quite all right, thank you, it’s...been a very long year.”

This is technically true—time has telescoped in a way he’s never experienced, not even in the most tedious ages and places. Silence has become a yawning, sluggish presence sprawled across the doorway of his shop and making itself at home in corners; hours can be filled with activity, but only ever alone. He’s lived centuries that took up less of him than the previous six months have done.

“I wouldn’t, ah...wouldn’t try catching up on the news all at once. And you may not want to do it sober, when you get to it.”

*

"Wasn't planning on it."

The sentence comes out a bit grunted, as he says it while also attempting that delicate manoeuvre known as Sitting Up. He more or less succeeds.

Truthfully he hasn't planned on anything yet; he's only been awake for two and a half minutes, there hasn't been time to plan anything. But it's a safe bet to assume that he won't read the news sober. Possibly he won't read it at all. There's only one question worth knowing the answer to, and the only person who can answer it is on the other end of the phone line.

"'m I allowed to come over yet?"

*

“Well—”

Every one of Aziraphale’s reflexes prompts him towards a firm no —it’s against the rules, after all, and even if he isn’t working for Heaven anymore, a sense of duty to humanity still anchors many of his actions. Hard not to want to work towards the common good for the sake of someone you love, or in this case, billions of someones. He shouldn’t say yes.

But now that he’s finally, finally heard Crowley’s voice again after the most uncertain six months of his entire long existence, he can’t bear to say no either.

Fortunately, over a very long career of finding ways to say yes without getting either of them in trouble, he has a far more expansive vocabulary than yes or no.

“I think,” he says, after a shaky inhale, “that it’s high time you started setting a terrible example for humanity again, Crowley. And I think you ought to start by flouting social distancing guidelines. In fact, I suggest you compound this prospective bad behaviour by bringing records to play at an excessive volume, and enough alcohol to make you a general neighbourhood nuisance.”

*

This is the thing about Aziraphale: there’s rarely a straightforward answer. Most of his no s can be worked around, tempted into changing, turned into loopholes. Most of his yes es first have to be cajoled into being, arranged, carefully coerced. A firm no does happen now and then; a definitive yes almost never. It can get frustrating.

But damn if it isn't a thrill every time Crowley gets to see Aziraphale bending the rules of both virtue and language in order to make a yes out of no without admitting it directly. Greedy, sneaky, bastard of an angel.

"You've got a point there." Crowley almost purrs the words, now definitely feeling more awake. "I'm well overdue for a spot of wiling. And Soho is a prime location for making trouble." The cogs in his head are spinning properly now, considering options: which albums, which wine, what to wear.

*

That tone of voice, Aziraphale thinks as he struggles to keep his knees from giving, is one of Crowley’s dirtiest tactics, and he loves it. Even though he rather prides himself on being able to control and hide his response to that tone, six months of profound isolation have worn him down; he has to grip the edge of an end table to steady himself.

This will likely be a visit with more than its share of temptation, even if Crowley doesn’t set out to do anything more than get Aziraphale to overindulge in wine. With a world’s worth of freedom laid at his feet after the failed Apocalypse, half a year’s worth of worldwide loneliness has begun some nearly chemical change in the angel.

He’d had plans, once. Plans to start slowly, to drop a few gentle words here and there, to grow whatever already exists between them inch by inch. Plans that involved the theatre, and lingering dinners, and walks through the city. Plans that he can’t bear to think of as irretrievably shattered.

But right now, another plan is sparking into being in the angel’s mind, one far more improvisational and even a little wild.

“Soho is more than overdue for some bad behaviour.” Aziraphale straightens, adjusting his bow tie out of sheer fussy habit. “I haven’t had my dinner interrupted once in the past four months. Entirely too quiet.”

*

"Can't have that." Crowley kicks off his sheets and swings himself off the bed. "At this rate you might end up letting actual customers in, just to shake things up a bit."

He saunters over to his closet. There are more accessories than actual clothes in there ^[8] but still several of the current year's best options fashion-wise ^[9] Mentally he picks out a few of his current favourite pieces, then snaps his fingers. 

His pyjamas vanish, replaced by the items he'd deemed acceptable for the moment. He looked himself over in the mirror and smirks. "I'll do what I can to spare you from such a terrible fate. If you want a disruption around, you should have the best."

Which is him, obviously. Crowley might be unemployed, but he’s still a demon.

*

“Agreed.” The word tumbles out fond and warm before he can stop himself; Aziraphale finds it both easy and a touch terrifying to let it go.

He can do this. He can make this work. All he needs is a little time^[10], and the courage of his convictions. Already the menu blooms in his mind’s eye, phantom tastes skittering along his palate—an earthly inspiration as powerful as any divine revelation he’s ever had or been a vessel for, a surge of determined fire up his back.

A quick glance at the pocket watch that obligingly turns its face up to him as he palms it reveals that it’s nearing four-thirty in the afternoon. Numbers flash through his brain, processed nearly quicker than human thought.

“Shall we say seven o’clock? Just to make for optimal disruption of the neighbourhood. I’ll make dinner.”

Not just dinner, his pounding pulse sings. This will be a temptation worthy of a Serpent, with meaning in every bite. An invitation in flavours, a message written directly onto a forked tongue. His whole life he’s been a half-baked hedonist—enjoying only the pleasures he knows he can get away with—but he has centuries’ worth of meals and secret thoughts to draw on for inspiration, and now there’s a wild absence of fear in him.

Already he knows exactly what he’ll be making as an amuse-bouche.

*

That quiet Agreed trips Crowley up for a moment, partly as he'd expected some further debating first (wasn't that what they did? ) and partly for how much...affection...the word contains. It sounds like affection, at least. Sometimes it’s hard to tell over the phone. What the Heaven has been going on with Aziraphale during the last several months, to make him sound like that?

Two and a half hours suddenly feels like a long time to wait. But there’s no question Crowley has things he can attend to in the meantime—checking that none of his plants have dared expire on him, for one thing—so he makes a small noise of agreement, followed by another of amused surprise. "You'll make dinner, will you? Since when do you cook, angel?"

*

There’s a faint prim noise on the other end of Crowley’s line—not quite a scoff, but with a touch of the same indignance. “Since shortly after I began baking,” he says, as if it ought to be perfectly obvious. Then a tinge of embarrassment slips into Aziraphale’s voice: “If you must know, it was the goat’s cheese soufflé that did it. I’d resolved not to cross over so I could focus on a single skill set, but once I got started—well. It passed the time, while everything else was... unavailable.”

The less said about that at the moment, the better. Crowley will be here tonight, if nothing else—there’ll be sound and warmth and company in the bookshop. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel, and like a human he’s sprinting straight for it, shutting out the dark possibility of failure.

“At any rate—see you at seven? Bring an appetite. And whatever music you like. Except not disco, there was a—bit of a fiasco in the neighbourhood, and if I never hear ‘Waterloo’ again it’ll be too soon.^[11] Ciao, my dear!”

Already half a dozen delivery people are en route to the bookshop, confused but carrying the ingredients the angel doesn’t have to hand, all about to be inexplicably several hundred pounds richer.

*

Crowley lets out a bark of openly delighted laughter as Aziraphale talks of goat's cheese soufflés. That's the angel he knows. He barely has time to make a wordless noise of assent before Aziraphale rings off, apparently to engage in a noteworthy amount of cooking.

Well then. Let it never be said that Crowley doesn't know how to rise to an occasion. ^[12]

Six fifty-nine that evening finds Crowley smoothly dressed in a dark suit with a red-lined black satin face mask to match ^[13], his hair freshly trimmed, waiting on the doorstep of the bookshop. Under one arm are a few carefully chosen records, and in his hand is a large bouquet of two dozen mixed roses, white and yellow and deepest red, because Crowley is nothing if not an opportunist. At precisely seven pm, he rings the doorbell.

*

The two and a half hours between when Aziraphale hangs up the phone and when the doorbell rings are some of the longest of his existence to date, and they fly by.

The nature of the game he and Crowley have been playing for centuries is to say things without saying them. When you’re afraid the most secret and vulnerable parts of you are subject to be scrutinised at any given moment, you learn the power of suggestion and implication. Even with the prospect of that scrutiny gone, six thousand years is a long time to be subtle about your emotions, and anyway Aziraphale is sure Crowley wouldn’t actually believe him if he simply laid his proverbial cards on the table at the very start.

But they have shared history, enough that he can serve little bites of memory with a new flavour, and watch to see if Crowley remembers what he himself remembers. He’s gripped with a weird manic energy as he macerates and dices and sautées, muttering triumphantly to himself as he gets each dish ready. They’re all small—just tastes, Crowley likes tastes better than a full meal—except for dessert.

The word endgame suddenly makes sense in a way it didn’t before.

He’s just finished getting the final touches on the whole meal (and reminding it that it’s to stay presentable until he says it’s all right, thank you very much) when the doorbell rings.

It startles him an entire inch off the floor, and he has to sternly remind gravity to please put him down, though it does absolutely nothing to quell the fact that his heart feels as if it’s flinging itself around inside his chest cavity like a pinball in one of those gaudy machines.

His fingers are tingling as he adjusts his bow tie. (He takes a moment to adjust his corporeal form as well—nothing too drastic, just changing genitals to the set with less visible signs of arousal.) Breath feels strange in his lungs, and not simply because the smell of old books now mingles with the smells of garlic and wine and hot sugar.

He pulls the door open, and what was a smile becomes a full-on beam when he takes in the sight of Crowley. Unmistakably Crowley, here at last, masked (the cheeky bugger) but still a figure he’d recognize anywhere.

For the wild reckless space of a single second, Aziraphale’s entire being is torn between wanting to burst into grateful tears and wanting to leap across the threshold and kiss him senseless.

He does neither. His chest expands with an inhale, and the urge to act so directly, like thousands before it, passes.

“Just in time,” he says, unable to tamp down the warmth in his voice. “Do come in, won’t you? I’ve just put out the hors d’oeuvres.”

*

Crowley's grin is revealed as he enters and takes off his face mask before stuffing it into a pocket. "Here," he says, all but thrusting the roses at Aziraphale. "Find a vase or something for these while I get my coat and all, yeah? I've ordered them not to wilt but best not to risk it."

He deposits his coat on the rack with the ease of long familiarity, sniffing the air. The change is profound. Usually the shop smells like books (obviously) plus an assortment of dusty mouldy things designed to put off potential customers. But now it's redolent with a variety of rather more appetising things, both familiar and new. "You've been busy," he says, impressed.

*

Aziraphale’s heart jumps as he registers the roses—that’s promising, that’s very promising, this plan might just work. Though of course there is always a demonic explanation for these sorts of things.

“Aren’t these just conspicuous enough to get the rumour mill in the neighbourhood going,” he says, because he knows the dance of their excuses by now. “You’re a menace. Thank you.”

Even as Crowley hangs up his coat, Aziraphale reaches down to fiddle with the stems of the roses, feeling for a bud somewhere. Something he can tuck into his buttonhole, if he feels brave enough.

“And I’ve certainly had to keep myself busy, over the last few months,” he adds. “Remind me to show you some of my other projects later.”

*

Crowley considers not taking the opportunity Aziraphale's put in front of him, but the steps of this dance are second nature for them now. Thwart and wile and thwart again, layers of excuses and justifications. He's here; everything else is a bonus. "Yeah, better put 'em in the window so they get attention, inspire lots of jealousy and envy and reckless speculation. Should've gotten a more ostentatious display, but there were limits to what I could do on such short notice." He sniffs at the air. "Is that wagyu beef I smell? You have been busy. How'd you get ahold of that?"

*

“I know a few enterprising souls who could use a little extra money and an excuse to leave the house in these trying times.” As lofty as the words are, he can’t help sounding pleased with himself—and with Crowley, for recognizing at least one of the dishes.

“If you wouldn’t mind putting on some of that likely-scandalous music you’ve brought,” he adds, as he breezes past Crowley to find a blown glass vase wedged awkwardly into one of the shelves. (The stack of theatre programs it was holding upright wilts to one side slightly, but doesn’t dare fall on the floor with Crowley around.) “Then we can get started properly.”

*

"My music isn’t scandalous, you’re just horrendously old-fashioned," Crowley retorts, more or less automatically. “Practically antique.” The grin he flashes at Aziraphale takes any sting out of the words as he walks over to the gramophone. He has a posh sound system in his flat, of course, but there really is just something about vinyl. It's no sacrifice to bring records over. Besides, they're trendy again.

Contrary to expectations, however, he puts on something smooth and jazzy. Even if he'd had other plans, he can recognize a scene being set when he sees one. He doesn't have to understand it yet to get the basic idea. "Properly? What exactly am I in for here, angel?"

*

“Dinner,” Aziraphale says airily, shooting him the sort of pretending-not-to-be-a-bastard look he usually reserves for infuriating statements like well, it’s your turn this time, isn’t it or wait and see. “Talking of which—thank you very much, my dear, you can help yourself whenever you like.”

There’s a small pink bud, very slightly open, that will just do the trick. Aziraphale gently pulls it free from the bouquet, breaks the stem off in just the right place so he can tuck the rosebud into the lapel buttonhole on his coat. (It stays there without needing to be pinned, because he asks it to.) That done, he nearly strides back to the table.

“Oh—did I forget to mention what I was serving?” He knows perfectly well he never specified. “To start—wagyu beef, oysters Rockefeller, and toro sashimi. Just a little something to whet the appetite.”

(Their first shared meals, plus something new with a pleasant texture and a fresh, bright taste. Oh, certainly he’s dressed up the beef with a red wine reduction and some caramelised onion and rosemary, and half hidden the oysters under parsley and bread crumbs, but the meat of their history is there.)^[14]

*

"Suits me. I’ve more of an appetite than usual, after that nap," Crowley admits, sauntering over towards the spread. It's an impressive one, the plating wouldn't disgrace the Ritz itself. "You really made all these?" he says, admiration evident. He might not be a food connoisseur the way Aziraphale is but he can appreciate artistry when he sees it. 

*

“I most certainly did.” He can’t help allowing himself to be pleased and proud, even if that does tip over a bit into smug. “Including the menu. Something of my own invention.”

He can’t resist dropping that in too—it feels like boldness, in the same way the vase in the window and the rosebud in his buttonhole feel bold. Something’s different today, and I can’t wait for you to guess how.

“Oh—and of course there’s wine. And,” he adds, almost gleefully, “a cocktail. Just the one sort, though, at least for today. The rest of the menu rather got away from me.”

Only one, but he’s proud of how simple and bold his choice is. Vodka, infused with jalapeño peppers ^[15], and passion fruit juice. Sweet and strong and full of fire going down.

*

Aziraphale never does anything without going over-the-top, but even for him this is decadent. Crowley has a brief pang of guilt; Aziraphale really must have gotten bored and lonely, to make a celebration like this. He shouldn’t have slept so long.

Hard to feel too guilty though, with the angel in front of him wiggling in pride and anticipation.

"Cocktails, is it?" He grins. "Hand me one of those and let's get this party started, angel!"

*

Of course he’s already got two ready for them, perfectly chilled, in two martini glasses. ^[16] Beaming and effortless, he whisks them up from their place on the table and brings them to Crowley, offering one out. Let me tempt you. This has been part of the dance too, for a long time, and it’s a part he loves dearly.

“It’s a rather unusual recipe, but I think you’ll like it. I learned it from one of the other shopkeepers on the street—you know they’ve got this thing called a ‘mailing list’, and they use it to chat about all sorts of things. You can learn some fascinating stuff, giving people licence to talk about their hobbies.”

*

It's usually Crowley tempting Aziraphale, not the other way around. Crowley finds that he doesn't mind the switch, particularly since Aziraphale is offering him alcohol. He rolls his eyes as he accepts the cocktail. "Yes, angel, I know what a mailing list is, along with everyone else in the 21st century." It's teasing but not unkind or unfond.

He has a sip. His eyebrow rises. "Zingy," he says, with approval, taking another swallow. "This thing have a name?"

*

“Well.” He draws himself up a little, shoots Crowley what he hopes is a sly glance. It’s still got quite a lot of his beaming softness in it, though, so the net effect is debatable at best. “As it so happens, the spouse of the gentleman who owns the magic shop got very interested in something called ‘mixology’. It’s one of their creations. They’ve named it the amor prohibido.”

This, he knows, is very nearly brazen of him. But after centuries of being timid, he’d rather like a change. Even if it is a bit terrifying.

*

Crowley manages to not spit his mouthful back into the martini glass in sheer surprise. The tone of the evening is already suggestive, but that? That's blatant , especially by Aziraphale's standards.

Then again, whenever he's committed to a course of action, he does tend to dive into it fully. Theatrically, even.

Well, well, well. Isn't this promising...

Crowley fires his best quirked eyebrow at Aziraphale. "Is it, now," he says, almost purring and trying to look as demonically suggestive as possible. ^[17]

*

All at once something shifts behind those gold eyes, and Aziraphale finds himself a small fascinated creature held in thrall to a snake. Just for a second. He manages to shake the sensation on his next inhale, but it leaves him with a pleasant free-falling feeling.

“It is. Invented in honour of their wedding anniversary,” he adds, which is true, though hardly a convincing fig leaf at this point. Not that he really wants the fig leaf, exactly, but… it’s more force of habit than anything else. “Thirteen years this coming May. According to Olive, their relationship had to remain a secret for a few months, as their family didn’t entirely approve of stage magicians. Oyster?”

*

Crowley has the distinct impression that if he says yes to an oyster, Aziraphale will feed it to him by hand. Which is...a pretty appealing idea, to be honest, enough to make his head spin.

You don't get to be the world's foremost expert in temptation without learning something about timing, however. Or about anticipation.

"In a minute, maybe," he says. "I'd like to get my mouth around one of those meaty things first."

Yes, he knows exactly how it sounds, as is made obvious by his smirk as he reaches for one of the wagyu beef things. Which proves to be sinfully delicious. He eats it in two bites, slow and deliberate and not quite provocative. "Mmm. That's good , angel." 

*

Immediately Aziraphale is glad he’d made a switch from his usual corporeal preferences at the start of the evening: his body is most definitely reacting without his permission. Between the capsaicin in the cocktail reddening Crowley’s lips, the absolutely shameless innuendo, and the deliberate way the demon handles his first few bites, he’s so wet it’s a little uncomfortable. (Not quite embarrassing, though.)

There’s a charge in the air that feels like a seam slowly unravelling: a thread being pulled, inches at a time, steady and sure.

“Thank you very much.” Somehow his voice remains smooth; though a flush rises on his cheeks and in his ears, his smile is sincerely pleased. “Not quite the Ritz, but I am very happy with the progress I’ve made, over the last few months.”

He snags a piece of toro and pops it into his mouth. It’s silky, cool, absurdly soft on the tongue, a sharp contrast to the heat of the cocktail; his eyes flutter shut for a half-second at the sensation. 

*

"I'll take this over the Ritz any day," says Crowley, still staring intently as Aziraphale...

Well. There's no polite way to put it. Aziraphale's mouth is making love to that sashimi, or vice-versa, and Crowley could happily take a seat and watch the angel appreciate his way through every last crumb of this planned meal and not get bored. Especially since Aziraphale looks like that while eating.

Crowley's trousers start to feel tighter than they did.

"That good, hmm?" His throat is dry. He takes another sip of cocktail. Forbidden Love , which might not be as appropriate a name as it first seemed. Crowley is starting to wonder what, if anything, is forbidden here. This is new ground for them.

All the better. He picks up one of the toro sashimi and slowly eats it, staring unblinking at Aziraphale all the while.

*

Again there’s that sense of being a prey animal caught in a snake’s focused gaze. Aziraphale holds eye contact for just a moment longer than he probably should before reaching for a piece of the wagyu himself.

“Well, I can’t exactly take credit for that,” he says, trying to use the words as an excuse to blow out a little breath to calm himself. Which only sort of works. “All I did there was slice and plate it, I’m afraid. But it is lovely, isn’t it? Incomparable texture. Clears the palate of the heat from the cocktail, a bit.”

He’s aware he’s sort of nattering on, at this point, so he pauses to try the beef. Admittedly, very little will ever come close to that very first taste of cooked meat, but a few things do come close, with wagyu being one of them.

*

"Thought of it, didn't you?" Crowley's voice is low and dark with appreciation. He remembers so clearly the first time he tempted Aziraphale, over a plate of roast ox. Little had he known what he'd started...

"Assembled it, paired it properly. Give yourself credit, angel." Remembering his earlier thought, Crowley picks up one of the oysters next, but holds it out for Aziraphale instead of swallowing it himself. "Petronius himself would envy your palate."

*

The oyster draws his gaze immediately, and he feels his throat tighten. There’s a charge of both challenge and invitation in Crowley’s posture. He knows, or at least suspects, and he’s clearly waiting to see what Aziraphale will do about it.

While lockdown has certainly increased Aziraphale’s desire to indulge, it has not put any significant dent in how much of a bastard he can be. He began this evening with the intention of being the one doing the tempting; he recognizes that he’s being offered a chance to turn the reins over to Crowley here.

With a start he realises he doesn’t actually want to.

He wants Crowley wound up, wants to push him to the same point of I can’t stand it anymore that he himself has only now reached. He doesn’t just want to give in, he wants to watch Crowley trying to hold himself together until he does, with both of them knowing it’s only a matter of time until they can both have what they want.

Aziraphale’s smile turns bright, if a touch sly, and he takes the oyster—and then reaches over to grab a fork so he can eat it out of the shell himself.

“Now, be fair to the man. I’ll concede I’ve had considerably more experience in sampling world cuisine than Petronius ever got, but he was an excellent chef given the limitations of the century and the available ingredients.”

*

Later, when Aziraphale tells Crowley what his thoughts were at this point, the demon will laugh himself senseless. As though he hadn't spent centuries already wound almost to the breaking point...! It was frustrating before, often, but by then it'll be hilarious.

And now?

Now Crowley sees a very familiar expression on Aziraphale's face, the one that says I am a bastard and I am going to enjoy it immensely and furthermore so shall you. And Crowley will, because he'd follow Aziraphale anywhere for that bit of mischief in his smile, and they both know it.

God, Crowley loves him.

He barely hears what Aziraphale says about Petronius because it's utterly unimportant compared to the real conversation happening here, the silent one about who's in charge and what speed they're going at. With Aziraphale looking like that the answers are a foregone conclusion, even if the goal hasn't yet been explicitly stated.

Crowley has no complaints about the situation. None whatsoever.

"Yeah, he wasn't bad," he says, picking up another oyster. "First time I ever had one of these." And he'd spent half the meal mercilessly teasing Aziraphale about what they were supposed to suggest and signify, the taste, and so on. No need to repeat that, the angel will remember. Instead Crowley leans his head back, tips the shell and lets the oyster slide in. Chews once to let all the flavour bloom in his mouth. Swallows it down, his throat on display. "Mm. S’good." 

*

It’s not often that Crowley does more than steal small bites off of his plate, but Aziraphale remembers very vividly the sight of him trying an oyster for the first time. The way his fingers curled around it, how his throat worked, how his expression bounced between confused and delighted and surprised… he hadn’t yet known what to call the slipping, tumbling feeling that accompanied all his thoughts and every taste of food.

Aziraphale knows, breathing through that feeling now, it’s always been love.

Now, though, there’s anticipation under it. Now there’s something that blazes brighter than hope, something that warms the air as his gaze traces along the line of Crowley’s neck again, watching him swallow. The sight alone is every bit as lush to him as the actual flavours.

He’s going to enjoy this.

“And at the time I’d thought you knew all there was to know about food,” he says, his tone very gently teasing. “But I’m glad I could broaden your horizons. Talking of which, by the way, you’ll have to let me know if I got the dough on this next one right.”

Aziraphale gestures at one of the plates, which obligingly scoots closer. He rarely admits to liking pizza, as it’s in general not the tidiest of foods, but for the first time he’s actually made one himself. Just a miniature one, already sliced for quick tastes.

This one is subtle in a way he’s intensely pleased with himself for. Goat’s milk feta—he couldn’t have used goat meat, that would have felt cruel—and prosciutto, with an additional topping that looks like black olives. They’re not olives at all, but cherries pickled in balsamic vinegar with thyme and peppercorn. He’d originally intended it to pique Crowley’s curiosity; now he’s simply interested to see how the demon reacts.

*

Crowley snorts. "Nah. Never was as much of one for food, you know that. Drink, now, that's another matter." His eyes twinkle as he tastes the cocktail again, slow and deliberate. If his tongue flicks out to lick his lips at the end, and if it looks a bit forked...well, that doesn't mean anything. Nothing at all. "I like this one, incidentally. Remind me to thank your neighbours for inspiring you." ^[18]

He tilts his head to look at the pizzas. Those definitely aren't Aziraphale's usual style—but at the same time they are, made small and neat with posh-looking toppings. "This is a new one from you." He picks up one of the thin slices, examining it. Looks harmless enough, and he likes olives.

One bite leaves him almost sputtering in surprise. He manages to chew and swallow instead of spitting (bad form, can't do that, might be remembered later). His expression can only be described, whether Aziraphale is familiar with the phrase/abbreviation or not, as 'WTF'. "Angel," he says slowly. "Why are there cherries on my pizza?"

(He does sound more amused than not, but only someone who knows him well would be able to tell.)

*

“Oh, did you mistake them for olives?”

If it’s possible to be arch and gleeful at the same time, Aziraphale is certainly pulling it off now. He knows perfectly well he’s fooled Crowley, and furthermore that he enjoys the deception. Which makes him feel terribly clever and sneaky.

“I came upon a recipe for pickled balsamic cherries and thought they might fit the flavour profile nicely.” He says it almost sweetly, punctuating the statement by picking one off of his slice of pizza and popping it into his mouth.

(Admittedly, it’s not the most delicious thing on the table. It’s a peculiar taste, to say the least. But it’s also a grab for Crowley’s attention, an alert meant to let him know that not everything here is as he might expect it to be.)

*

"You absolute bastard," Crowley says with delight that becomes more and more obvious. "You did that on purpose and we both know it."

Because he likes olives, but he loves when Aziraphale surprises him.

He takes another bite, now that he has some idea what he's getting into. "Not bad," he judges. "They're no pineapple, but it all works." ^[19]

*

“I rather thought so. Glad you agree.”

He takes another bite of his own, feeling absurdly pleased with himself. And, if he’s honest, with how Crowley’s reacted to the surprise. There’s a wicked delight in those yellow eyes that Aziraphale relishes with every fibre of his being. Once he would have never admitted to it, but now he’s allowing himself to bask. Because he loves the rare occasions when he can surprise Crowley like this on purpose. Without fail, it makes him feel suave and accomplished, something even vaguely approaching Crowley’s level of effortless cool.

Aziraphale chases the pizza with another sip of the cocktail, which makes his lips tingle. “I’m also choosing to count this as an instance of you being fooled by my stage magic skills, even if it is more disguise than sleight of hand.”

You thought I was an absolute bastard a minute ago. I’m afraid you gravely underestimated what you’re in for, dear boy.

If it happens at all it’ll take years of prying and poking and dirty tactics, but until then, Aziraphale will sooner submit to voluntary discorporation than admit to how much he enjoys being a bastard sometimes. How there are moments when it gives him a little rush of what feels like power, a feeling he likes far more than any angel ought to do. Even a retired one.

*

Crowley snorts, but it's fond. "Keep your attempts at stage magic to culinary venues and we will both be happier for it, angel," he says dryly. "Should I be worried about the main course, or dessert? Is there going to be steak tartare that turns out to be made of marzipan, or a cake that's actually lasagna?"

He pauses. "...hang on, is lasagna just pasta cake?"

*

“It is not, and don’t you start with your food semantics,” Aziraphale retorts immediately. He hasn’t yet forgotten Crowley giggling to him for a week straight over the consternation he’d caused with the simple question ‘Is a hot dog a sandwich’. “Though actually there isn’t one main course. I did it a bit like tapas, in that sense.”

Only three dishes, and only small servings, but made with care and plated beautifully. Pork medallions with a honey-apple glaze, wild rice pilaf with a mole poblano, and patatas bravas. He’d had a dozen more ideas but had ultimately narrowed it down to those three. Two sweet and savoury, and one with a fairly modest starch in combination with a sauce too spicy to eat on its own. Pairings of contrast. 

*

"Half the point of a fancy meal is talking about the food! I'm doing you a favour bringing semantics into it." Crowley loves asking people that hot dog question, it's amazing how much rage it induces.

He steals ^[20] another of the raw fish things—Aziraphale's right, the texture is like silk on his tongue—and finishes off his cocktail, holding out the empty glass. "Got another one of these to tide me over 'til the next round of tapas, in that case?"

*

“Of course.” Knowing how much Crowley enjoys spicy things ^[21] he’d made an entire pitcherful of the stuff. Granted, the only pitcher he had on hand was a Biot glassware one he’d intended to gift to the young lady across the street at the coffee shop as part of an anonymous ‘hang in there’ care package, but Crowley doesn’t need to hear about his good deeds. Particularly since they highlight how awful things have been over the past year, and he’s frankly not in the mood to discuss it.

So he pours Crowley another glassful, watching the demon watch his wrists the whole time, and though the smile on his face is an average size the grin in his soul is enormous.

“And at any rate, there is no pasta cake of any sort on this table, thank you very much.” (A sole covered dish, yes—dessert he wants to keep a complete surprise visually—but no lasagna.) “Though I’ll have you know I can make a passable tagliatelle from scratch, given some time to clear a large enough surface for it.”

*

Crowley does watch Aziraphale's wrists. They're nice wrists. Strong. Attached to frankly mouth-watering forearms.

He's not ogling, but it's a near thing.

(Is he allowed to ogle now? He might actually be allowed to ogle now. He might even be being encouraged to ogle now. Oh brave new world .)

The nice wrists hand him another cocktail, which is just adding insult to injury, for a value of both that equals 'insanely attractive'. "Tagliatelle, hmm." He takes a slow, deliberate sip, moving his gaze from Aziraphale's wrists up to his eyes. "I can do a good puttanesca sauce. If that's something that interests you."

*

Crowley’s gaze flicks up to meet his, and Aziraphale’s breath hitches quite without his permission, though silently. It’s manifestly unfair that whatever Crowley does to his physical appearance he’s the single most attractive person Aziraphale has ever come across, and doubly unfair that he’s rendered even more attractive when he obviously wants something.

A shame they gave Satan the title of Great Seducer, since Crowley’s the most effortlessly seductive being he’s ever known.

If that’s something that interests you. God, doesn’t it just. “I didn’t know you’d ever learned.” This is also true, and makes a good cover for the momentary slip. “We might have to make an evening of that sometime.”

He reaches back for one of the small plates with the trio of main-course-tastes on it, offers it out to Crowley with an indulgent smile. 

*

Crowley's mouth quirks. "Well, spent some time in the bordellos in the Quartieri Spagnoli for work, back in the day. Picked up a few tricks."

Yes, he knows exactly how that sounds. Yes, of course it's intentional. Crowley's seduction techniques would probably only work on Aziraphale and he knows it, but that's the only person he wants to impress, so. Temptation accomplished. Almost.

The anticipation is more dizzying than the alcohol, and he's loving it.

He looks away from Aziraphale only to glance at the plate he's handed, and grins at the patatas bravas , which he immediately picks up. "You remember how much I liked these." When were they last in Spain together? Centuries, at least. But it's not a dish that changes much over time.

He takes a bite, and for once it's Crowley making a small pleased noise about food. It's spicy , no second-rate aioli or mayo emulsions but a properly hot tomato sauce loaded with flavour. "Bless...that is delicious , angel." 

*

“Oh, thank you.” He can’t help but preen a little; he had in fact remembered how much Crowley enjoyed the dish. Hard not to, when it was one of the only things Aziraphale’s ever seen him finish eating instead of just tasting. “I was hoping that one would have enough heat for your palate.”

That last part comes out dangerously close to a purr, and he has to disguise his satisfaction (and, if he’s honest, calm himself down a little) by picking up his own plate and helping himself to one of the pork medallions. The honey-apple glaze, made with fresh apple purée and a splash of hard cider for taste along with a razor-thin sliver of melted garlic, is sweet without being cloying, a feat that’s made him feel quite accomplished.

“Mm—I do remember how much you complain every time we have some and they’re not properly spicy.” Dozens of terrified waiters over centuries, he’s sure, must have nightmares about him chasing them with a mortar and pestle.

*

Crowley might not eat much but like Aziraphale, he has standards. If something is advertised as spicy, it should be spicy .

(He might once have breathed fire at one of those chefs. Not the waiters, poor sods, they're just the delivery boys. Hardly their fault.)

These potatoes deliver, and before long they've vanished from his plate. He moves on to the pilaf next; a combination of chilli and chocolate is also a solid bet to get his attention. "I'm really impressed by—" He waves a hand. "All this. You put a lot of effort into it. Did you get ambitions to open your own restaurant while I was asleep?"

*

Strangely enough, Aziraphale finds he doesn’t really want to be coy with his answer here. He does contemplate how best to word it, though, over a bite of his own potatoes.

“I had a great deal of time, and very little of a directed nature to do with it,” he admits. “Helping out the neighbours when possible, of course. Organising the collection. But other than that, well… I’d already exercised one set of skills, why not try another?”

What he doesn’t add is, And when I realised I could work my way through any number of projects and still feel time crawling wretchedly by, I knew I had to call you. Instead he concentrates on the potatoes, and allows himself to glance at Crowley’s mouth as he eats, at his throat.

“Besides, I haven’t been to a restaurant in months. And you know takeaway simply isn’t the same.”

*

"Nah, takeaway is its own culinary niche." One which Crowley has been known to enjoy now and then, kebabs in particular. He hums approval of the mole , notices Aziraphale watching his neck as he swallows, grins to show that he knows he's being observed. "Probably a good thing you woke me up just now, in that case. First baking, then gourmet cooking...what would you take up next without me around to distract you? Making your own craft ales?"

*

“Good Lord, no.” Aziraphale’s scoff is, to tell the uncharitable truth, prissy. “Then I’d never be able to keep people out of here. I’ve seen the other shopkeepers discussing the possibility of bookshops that also serve food or alcohol, and this is not that sort of establishment, thank you very much.”

He pauses before adding, “You happen to be a special case, naturally.” Which he punctuates with another bite. 

*

Crowley's grin widens. "Missed me, did you?"

He doesn't even try not to sound smug about it.

*

There would have been a time when that question, posed that directly, would have encouraged a round of verbal dancing that tended towards a frantic jig: denial, poking, some posturing about being on opposite sides. Except there’s no opposite sides anymore. Not in this shop, not in this new world.

“Good company is hard to come by.” A smile curves his lips; his gaze flicks from Crowley to his plate and back again before he almost reluctantly starts to pile his fork with pilaf and mole. “And worth keeping around.”

*

Crowley could point out that he'd offered to come over and be kept around months ago, if he wanted to gloat. But he's high on good food and great alcohol and the best company, so he doesn't.

(Yet. There's always later for that, after all, if he wants to rub it in.)

Instead he lifts his cocktail glass. "A toast, then?" he suggests. "To keeping good company? Well, bad company in my case, obviously."

*

Game or not, dance or not, no matter what else is happening here, Aziraphale can never quite resist an opportunity to toast with his best friend. Not when he’s so relaxed, so happy.

“The best of the worst,” he offers, “or the worst of the best, but either way, extremely welcome.”

He lifts his own glass, leans over so they can clink together with a pleasant ringing noise. (It always feels like their toasts have a ring about them, whether made with porcelain or plastic cups or crystal or stoneware. Possibly that’s just Aziraphale being sentimental, though.)

*

"That's us," Crowley agrees, grinning. The best and worst angel, the best and worst demon, it all depends on perspective. He loves that about them.

They finish their mains, with more small talk that might or might not be flirtation (it is, ohh it is, the only reason Crowley doesn't call it that outright is because the anticipation is more delicious than the food), and a third cocktail in Crowley's case. It's definitely a new favourite drink of his, if only because it'll always be associated with the weighted, heated expression on Aziraphale's face right now. "Amazing meal, angel," he says as he clears his plate, a thing that doesn't often happen. But it was a long nap, the food was delicious, and Aziraphale...well. "Dessert?"

*

This whole wretched year Aziraphale has been mostly alone (a choice he now knows was a mistake), and having Crowley here and laughing makes him feel far more drunk than the cocktail ever could. (Although he does help himself to a second one of those, because it really is an excellent recipe. He’ll have to send Olive and Mutt a thank-you note.) They talk, a meandering conversation about everything and nothing and mostly food; Crowley compliments his cooking and Aziraphale doesn’t even pretend not to be pleased. Here and there one or the other of them will say something just a bit warmer than they’re accustomed to, just a touch more openly flirtatious.

By the time the mains are finished and he’s served up a single delicate serving of sorbet for each of them as a palate cleanser—green apple, lime, and basil, an unlikely marriage of flavours that’s somehow crisp and clean on the tongue—Aziraphale’s heart is racing. He knows his prospects are likely good, he knows Crowley has been following the pace he’s been setting. He knows there’s not much chance that the demon will miss the meaning in this last dish, or that he’ll reject it. But as most humans are when faced with their greatest desires, he’s nervous.

“Dessert,” he repeats, and sets aside his empty glass. The single covered dish on his table (which has been miracled to stay exactly as it was when it was finished, with no condensation or change in temperature) gleams silver, the last unknown on the menu. “This one is… well, it’s a recipe of my own. Took a great deal of adjusting to get it right, but I think it’s passable at this point.”

With one last sly glance, his heart twisting hard in hope, Aziraphale leans over and plucks the cover off.

A single crêpe, fragrant with Calvados and bourbon vanilla, rests on the plate like a pillow, with a pinkish filling that almost looks lewd where it threatens to spill past the crêpe’s edges: heirloom apple chopped fine and cooked soft. Perched atop the crêpe itself is a perfect dollop of whipped cream, thick and snowy, with twelve pomegranate arils arranged in it like jewels in a crown. An offering, small but infinitely precious, shining with secret meaning.

Pomegranate arils, the distilled echo of a myth that’s been passed down through humanity, the story of love between opposites reduced to a single potent symbol. An arrangement, in its way, as old as the one Aziraphale and Crowley had made so long ago.

As different as we are, I make myself part of something bigger, yielding up the person I thought I should be so I can be the person who is on your side.

I give myself to you.

*

Crowley is by no means as sensitive to symbolism as Aziraphale, but he's also not an idiot, and the message here is about as unsubtle as the cocktail they've been drinking.

He can smell the apples. The original forbidden fruit, which led to knowledge and awareness of sin, which changed everything...there's no way for Aziraphale to offer Crowley , of all beings, an apple, not without it being extremely mocking or extremely suggestive. And not just in the filling but soaked in apple brandy as well.

A crêpe, which makes his mouth quirk. 1793 had certainly been an interesting meeting. Crowley wonders now if Aziraphale has spent as much time wondering how else it might have gone as he has.

It's the pomegranate arils he focuses on, though. "If I remember right..." he says slowly, reaching out to touch one of them. They shine like rubies on their whipped cream bed. "If I remember right, Persephone only had to eat a few of these to be bound eternally to the king of Hell."

Or god of Hades, whichever. The point stands. Crowley delicately swipes a finger through the cream, scooping up just one of the arils with it. "Dangerous sort of thing to serve a demon. Aziraphale." His voice is quiet. They both know he's not talking about the food anymore. "You sure you want to risk it?"

His hand is suspended between them, the cream and pomegranate aril poised on his finger as an offering.

*

The conversation is absolutely not about food anymore. They’re at a threshold, now, a doorway where the door itself has swung wide open and left them staring at one another, closer than they’ve ever been. Everything in Aziraphale’s awareness seems to be white and red, yellow and black, the choice he’s already made and the serpentine eyes watching him to confirm it.

Almost without thinking about it, he wets his lips with the tip of his tongue. Without glancing away he reaches up to curl his fingers around Crowley’s wrist, holding his hand exactly where it is, gently but firmly. (Just under the pads of his fingers he can feel a pulse beating as fast as his own, and a current of electric excitement as the anticipation between them finally begins to blossom.)

“Quite sure,” he says, his voice soft and resonant, and he leans forward and takes the end of Crowley’s finger into his mouth.

Gently he swipes away the aril and the cream with his tongue, sucking just a little, a suggestion and a promise. He can’t help making a pleased sound: not just because he’s added exactly the right amount of sugar to the whipped cream (he has) or because the aril is perfectly ripe (it is), but because this is the first time he’s ever tasted Crowley’s skin, and it’s so much richer than he could ever have imagined.

*

Crowley stops breathing.

His world has narrowed down to one single point of focus, his finger in Aziraphale's mouth. The heat of it, the way Aziraphale sucks on it, licks at the taste of cream and skin. The small noise he makes. There's nothing else. If an invading army marched by outside the bookstore he wouldn't even notice. 

*

He can feel Crowley go still, and a jolt of triumph begins to sizzle through Aziraphale’s nerves. This is exactly what he wanted, this undivided focus, his snake totally enthralled. When he opens his eyes he meets that golden amber stare, only now he knows his own gaze is the one holding Crowley where he is.

In this moment, he realises he can do anything. He may have been the one to take the offered bite, but he has Crowley eating out of his hand, may he be forgiven for the pun.

Well. Considering Persephone, and contracts, and symbolism, there’s really only one course of action Aziraphale wants to take.

Without breaking eye contact he reaches down, carefully scoops one of the arils and a smidge of whipped cream off the surface of the crêpe. The air between them smells like sugar and apples and vanilla, heady and warm. And though he pulls his mouth gently off of Crowley’s finger, he doesn’t break contact altogether, his lips pressed to the tip of it in an almost-kiss.

Silently he holds out his own offering, a fruit no longer forbidden. 

*

With a movement as slow as centuries, Crowley bends forward and takes Aziraphale's finger into his mouth. His tongue darts, tastes the whipped cream, scoops up the aril. Wraps around the digit, tightens as he sucks a little. His eyes never leave Aziraphale's as he makes a thorough job of licking his finger clean, and he never blinks.

Finally he leans back, letting Aziraphale's finger slide out of his mouth with a pop . "Two pomegranate seeds," he says hoarsely. "Does that count as two months total, one for each of us, or do they cancel out?"

*

Aziraphale’s heart fizzes like a firework as Crowley accepts the aril, and his clit actually throbs at the sensation of a wet mouth closing over his fingertip. It’s all he can do not to moan like he’s the one who’s just had a first exquisite bite of dessert.

(In a way he has, actually. If what he’s doing now falls under the general ‘dessert’ umbrella.)

The rough edge to Crowley’s voice only adds fuel to the flame.

“There are twelve of them.” His own voice sinks low, into the deeper part of his register. “Which is six for each of us.”

Persephone only gave half her life away, dividing herself between two worlds. Aziraphale can’t think of a world he’d rather inhabit for the rest of his existence than one with Crowley in it beside him.

*

"Does that mean six months together or twelve."

It sounds like he's being a pedant, but he wants to know. It's an important question. And at the same time it isn't, because either is a win, comparatively. Aziraphale can be with him for six months and go read for the other six while Crowley naps, he'll take what he can get, but he wants to know what he's in for here. What's on offer.

He completely ignores the spoons waiting delicately by the plate and instead scoops up another bit of cream and aril on a finger, blatantly thrusts it towards Aziraphale. Offering it up, offering himself. As much time as Aziraphale wants. 

*

Without looking away from Crowley’s face he tracks the movement of his hand, the tension in his frame. He’s wound impossibly tight waiting for Aziraphale’s answer, probably not even breathing, his eyes burning gold. It’s one of the most beautiful things Aziraphale’s ever seen.

It’s exactly what he wanted.

He dips his own finger into the cream again (the crêpe is starting to look a bit disarranged, not that he cares at this point), swipes up another aril to offer to the demon. Still deliberately, though nowhere near as slowly as before, Aziraphale takes the offered taste between his lips, licks it up, watches Crowley watch him swallow before he replies.

“Twelve.”

*

Crowley must have started breathing again somewhere along the line, however shallowly, because his breath hitches at that.

He bends forward. This time he blatantly licks Aziraphale's finger, his tongue slightly forked, before sucking on the end. And then takes the whole finger into his mouth, all of it. He's not even pretending at this point that it's about the dessert, or even the symbolism of the pomegranate. It's about getting part of Aziraphale in his mouth, lavishing attention on it, sucking on him, dragging the moment out for as long as possible. He's visibly hard now and knows it and knows Aziraphale must know it, there's no hiding anything in trousers as tight as these.

*

They’ve ended up sitting across from each other but not at the table, seated at opposite corners without anything directly between them. Crowley takes Aziraphale’s whole finger into his mouth, and this time he does let himself moan. The sound seems almost shockingly loud to him; it’s also strangely more arousing to let himself voice it than to keep it muffled.

His clit throbs again at the slick rasp of Crowley’s tongue over his finger, the heat of his mouth. His eyelids flutter, and he glances down a little—he can see Crowley’s cock straining in his trousers. I did that, he thinks dizzily.

The pad of his thumb caresses the underside of Crowley’s jaw. He shifts forward in his chair (fuck, he’s so wet he feels slatternly), leaning in, bringing himself closer. There’s so little distance between them now.

Aziraphale’s free hand lifts, threads into the dark-red silk of Crowley’s hair. It’s much softer than it looks, and he allows himself to stroke it, fingers combing a slow sweep from his temple past his ear and down to the base of his skull. Each touch is another offering, another declaration: you can have this. I want you to have this. I want you.

His pulse races. He wets his lips. His thumb on Crowley’s jaw finds the swift tempo of a heartbeat, traces over a wildly fluttering vein and over muscles that shift when Crowley’s breath catches. 

*

Crowley's eyes almost roll up into his head at the sound of that moan. He's heard it before, and food was always involved. He's even fantasised about hearing it in contexts quite like this. The reality is better than he'd dreamed.

And then there's a hand stroking his hair, caressing his face ...

He whimpers. Later on maybe he'll feel embarrassed about that, but not now, not with a thumb resting just above his pulse point and a finger in his mouth and a hand on the back of his neck. There's no room in him for embarrassment, just a glorious growing need.

He pulls (slowly, slowly, slowly) off of Aziraphale's finger, again, but this time leans further in, reaches up to hold his wrist there, suspended in front of his face so he can kiss the palm, trace the life line with his tongue. It's slower and more deliberate tasting than he's done on any other course of the meal, and judging by the small noises and sighs Crowley keeps making, it's also the most to his liking.

*

He’s never heard Crowley enjoy food like this. Or… possibly anything. Drinks, music, anything at all. The needy little sound he makes when Aziraphale’s hand threads into his hair resounds in every thrumming vein and tingling nerve in the angel’s body. The tip of Crowley’s tongue slithers hotly against Aziraphale’s skin, soft and almost ticklish, lips dragging against his palm.

It takes so little movement to curve his hand back, to press that palm into Crowley’s cheek. To haul himself out of his chair, into Crowley’s lap (clumsily, since there’s so much more of his human shape than there is of Crowley’s and it’s all rather soft), tipping the demon’s head back so Aziraphale can capture his half-open mouth for a searing, hungry kiss.

(Did Eve taste the apple like this, driving her tongue deep and desperate into a flavour she’d never experienced? Did Adam? Was this what it was like, a rush of knowledge that could only ever be half guessed at suddenly flooding mouth and lungs and heart? Or is this more powerful, because it has nothing to do with Heaven or Hell, because it’s finally just the two of them?)

*

No one has ever heard Crowley enjoy anything like this, including Crowley. He'd be amazed about it all if he weren't too busy seizing the moment. The moment, and the angel. Lots of seizing going on.

Aziraphale might move clumsily but he's more than welcomed onto the demon's lap. Crowley wraps arms around him at once, pulls him in hard, fists against the top and base of his spine. Opens his mouth into the kiss with a needy moan he doesn't attempt to hide at all, tasting Aziraphale's breath and mouth with far, far more enthusiasm than anything they've eaten or drunk tonight. 

*

The sound Crowley makes into his mouth travels down Aziraphale’s throat, into his lungs and chest and stomach and limbs, waking strange confidence in him. Crowley’s never moaned like that, not ever, not for anything, and yet he lets Aziraphale drink the sound straight off his lips. His hands nearly grab at Aziraphale’s back, clutching him close as if Crowley needs the contact.

There’s so much more to the way Crowley tastes than the meal they’ve just shared, even if the capsaicin in the cocktail and several of the dishes lingers somewhat on both their already-reddened lips. Aziraphale can’t wait to spend hours untangling what these new layers of flavour are; already he can sense a hint of smoke, a metallic spark. It’s delicious. Crowley is delicious.

He’d say so, but that would mean breaking the kiss. And truth be told, he hasn’t got either the presence of mind or the desire to. His thighs squeeze a little either side of Crowley’s, his hips grinding downward, and the pressure steals his breath. (Not that he needs it, but it’s pleasantly dizzying.)

*

Another groan is ripped from Crowley's throat as Aziraphale grinds against him. They fit so perfectly like this, his arms locked around Aziraphale's torso, Aziraphale's thighs straddling him, and their pelvises meeting just...like...that...

He's so hard in his jeans, he can't remember ever being this hard before in his life, and they've only been at it for a scant few minutes.

No, not minutes. An hour at least. There's no question that Aziraphale set everything up with intentions and they've both been dining on those as much as food and drink. That's the best part. Though Aziraphale rubbing his cunt against Crowley's cock is a blessed close second, even with layers of clothing in the way. He can smell it, could as soon as he walked in, though it took a while to realise what he was noticing. It's clear now, so clear, a scent-picture that talks of soft wet heat, a welcoming place just aching for him to...

Another groan is swallowed up in another kiss as his nails almost claw at Aziraphale's back. Crowley has never been more starved.

*

There’s just a hint of pain, like the very edge of a knife, at the scrabble of those nails; Aziraphale welcomes it as wholeheartedly as the spice in anything he’s cooked tonight. It makes his cunt ache with a desperate need for deeper pressure; grinding down again relieves that ache a little, but only a little. Mostly it just makes him aware of how furiously his clit pulses for proper friction, how there’s a distinctly wet drag in the seam of his trousers as he moves, how the shape of Crowley’s cock feels against him.

A shivering wave of arousal moves up his spine, strong enough to make him break off their kiss with a gasp—though only just. The words he manages to rasp out are almost kisses themselves, still punctuated by flickering presses of lips and tongue.

“Starting right now. Everything. All of me.” It’s a promise and a plea. Aziraphale wants to be devoured in a way Crowley’s never done to any meal they’ve ever shared, wants to do the same in return. He drives the point home with another full kiss, hips pressing down again.

He doesn’t care if it happens in a bed or the floor or even right here in this chair. He doesn’t care how many times it happens. As long as they get their fill of one another, or at least begin to take the sharpest edge off this shared starvation they can finally end.

*

Crowley temporarily loses his mind.

It's the only way to explain what he does next. If he saw it in a Richard Curtis film he'd laugh himself silly, guffaw about the ridiculous, unrealistic things humans consider romantic and how they'd never happen (or at least, not successfully) in real life.

Nevertheless.

Starting right now. Everything. All of me.

He almost snarls his agreement. More understandable is the way he immediately moves his hands to Aziraphale's thighs, wraps legs around his waist as he stands, still kissing the angel furiously. It takes only a moment to turn towards the table, another moment to push whatever's on it out of the way.

(There's a crash as some part of their meal falls to the floor. Whatever it was, he'll fix it later. Though a tiny barely coherent part of his brain hopes it wasn't the alcohol.)

And then he's lowering Aziraphale onto the table, on his back, bent in half to keep kissing him. That frees his hands to fumble with trouser buttons, yank down with no finesse. Pull the pants down in their wake. Hold down Aziraphale's hips to make sure the angel won't move.

Crowley strikes like the snake he is, burying his tongue in Aziraphale's quim, licking and kissing and sucking and tasting, tasting, tasting. 

*

The whirl of movement as Crowley lifts him pulls a shocked noise from Aziraphale, a noise that’s lost in their kiss. It’s easy to forget, sometimes, that the demon is stronger than his corporeal form’s appearance might suggest. And even if he wasn’t technically on his feet, he’s almost certain this is what being swept off one’s feet is supposed to feel like.

He hears dishes clatter, barely registers the sound ^[22] before his back hits the table. Dizzy, Aziraphale grabs at the tablecloth, needing a fistful of some thing to cling to in the moment; he grips hard as desperate hands yank his trousers and pants down.

Then Crowley pins his hips to the table and nearly dives between his thighs, and Aziraphale makes a raw, ecstatic noise. One hand grabs at the demon’s hair, the other keeps a death grip on the tablecloth, because oh fuck, Crowley’s tongue flickers and darts and strokes in the most exquisite ways. Not just his clit but along his soaked lips, dipping into his cunt, making the most beautifully obscene wet sounds.

Aziraphale whimpers out a “yes” in some language possibly not currently in use on Earth, and squirms in Crowley’s grasp to try and fuck his mouth. 

*

Physical strength isn't an option Crowley usually needs to take advantage of, but it has its uses. Or maybe he’s just inspired by the moment. Hardly matters, so long as something got them here to this point, this utterly perfect moment. Exquisite as the meal was, Aziraphale tastes better. Michelin-starred chefs would weep.

Not that they'll have a chance. This, all of this, is just for Crowley.

He hooks his ankle around his chair, pulls it in place so he can sit back down. Means he's not bending over at such an awkward angle, which leaves him free to shove Aziraphale's thighs further apart, bury his face between them even more thoroughly. Aziraphale's laid out on the table as the final course of the best meal Crowley's ever had and he intends to appreciate every single nuance.

He teases, plays, explores, researches. Flicks his tongue over Aziraphale's clit, then kisses it. Circles the vulva with fingers and tongue and a ring of kisses. Presses his tongue deep into the cunt, replaces it with a finger when he withdraws to suck at the clit again. Anything that earns an approving or desperate sound gets repeated. Aziraphale rolls his hips against Crowley's mouth and makes rising desperate noises and Crowley loves it, would happily sit here for the rest of the night. All the nights.

Crowley feasts.

*

During lockdown Aziraphale had experimented with more human skills than cooking and programming and crafting. For about a fortnight during the summer he’d spent his nights reading several human books about self-pleasure and putting their techniques to use into the small hours. Ultimately it had gotten a bit lonely, so he’d gone back to once every few days, but he’d gotten to a point where he could tease himself for quite some time without losing control.

This is an order of magnitude hotter than anything he could do on his own, though.

Crowley slides a finger inside him (oh fuck yes his fingers are slim but they’re long and he can slide deep) and suckles his clit, and Aziraphale sobs out a rising crescendo of approval. His cunt squeezes tight and there’s pressure against a spot that makes his thighs shudder, and suddenly it feels like every swipe of Crowley’s tongue across his clit is a separate orgasm.

He can’t count them all. He can’t control himself. He loses track of the wanton things he’s whispering or shouting or begging. He just hangs onto Crowley’s hair and gives into the shattering ecstasy of being worshipped. 

*

He feels the first climax hit, which is a thrill. It's a fluttering around his finger, a change in the taste, more liquid to ease his way. It's Aziraphale crying out his name in a broken sob.

Crowley hums his approval, right against Aziraphale's clit where he knows the vibration will be felt, and keeps going. Aziraphale's fingers are buried in his hair, gripping and pulling, and he hums again for that, a quiet moan to show his own pleasure. Never occurred to him he might like having his hair pulled, but turns out he does, which is convenient.

Aziraphale is vocal, which is no surprise to someone who's shared meals with him for millennia. Yes and please and more , directions that Crowley follows, Crowley's own name. There's even a fuck or two, and sometimes it just dissolves into a quick whispered ohgodohgodohgodohgod . Such sweet blasphemy.

They stay like that for who knows how long, could be hours, until Crowley's tongue finally starts to tire despite himself. Even then Crowley doesn't stop, though he does remove his mouth and sit back. He wipes his mouth with his free hand while the other is still buried three fingers deep in Aziraphale, thumb gently pressing on what must be a hellishly (literally) overstimulated clit.

Crowley takes in the view with evident pride. Aziraphale's body is limp, blasted with rapture, but he still trembles at Crowley's ceaseless touch. "All right there, angel?" he asks quietly, satisfaction in each word.

*

If he were human he’d likely have begged Crowley to stop a while ago. But after literal ages of wanting, it takes quite some time for both of them to get to the point of needing a break. Though he groans when Crowley’s mouth pulls off of him, the sound is edged with gratitude.

The sight that greets Aziraphale when his hazy eyes find a focus is the most erotic thing he’s ever seen. Crowley’s jaw is almost dripping and his hair is a wreck; his own inner thighs nearly shine with wetness. His clit is swollen, red, stiff against the pad of Crowley’s thumb.

“Fuck,” he manages. Tries again: “Bloody hell.” A dizzy laugh. “S’incredible.” Does he sound drunk? He feels drunk. Not on alcohol, but on the sheer release of finally getting to this. (And however many times Crowley’s made him come. Dozens, it feels like.)

He grins down at Crowley, more satisfied than he’s ever been after any meal they’ve shared, any act of self-pleasure. “What about you?”

*

"Oh, I'm all right, angel. I'm more than all right." Which isn't what Aziraphale meant and Crowley knows it, but it's also true. He's more than willing to ignore his own hard-on for a while longer in order to appreciate the view. Crowley's eyes rake over Aziraphale with a mix of greed and smugness. "Just wish I had a photo of this. No, a painting. Think you'd be willing to pose for one of the Italian masters like this? Still-life with debauched angel? "

He leans forward and kisses Aziraphale's thigh. "I'd hang it on the wall and look at it for days ."

*

He shivers at the kiss—with his nerves lit up firework-bright by an unprecedented amount of stimulation, even a touch that nearly approaches chaste is enough to send little shocks dancing up to the base of his spine.

“And you’d let me languish in the meantime, would you?” he teases. The demon could bring him back to the brink of orgasm in seconds and they both know it, and yet some dizzy part of Aziraphale’s mind is just as eager for laughter as he is for sex. “What am I meant to be doing while you’re—ahh—staring at this painting?”

(Actually, he can think of a few things he could be doing, all of which make him almost painfully aware of the quick thump of his pulse in his clit.)

*

Greedy, greedy, sensualist angel. A dishevelled half-dressed heap on the table, ruined by countless orgasms, and already teasing about being deprived. No wonder Crowley can never get enough of him.

He grins and kisses Aziraphale's thigh again, a little further up. "Sitting in my lap, maybe?" he says, the words slow and thick like honey. "Keeping my cock warm." 

*

There’s a filthy delight in knowing their comfort with one another—and their banter—translates to flirtation and sex. Aziraphale grins right back, his head lolling on one shoulder, mischief in his eyes.

“It must be freezing now.” He doesn’t care whether he looks silly; he feels bold and wanton, tipsy with how much he now knows he’s desired. “I feel I’d be a terribly rude host if I didn’t offer to help you out with that.”

*

The best thing about spending time with Aziraphale has always been that it is, quite simply, fun . It's no surprise to Crowley that that extends to sex. Bit of a surprise that they've actually reached this point, but that's one thing he'll never complain about.

"Definitely not cold." He stands up, withdrawing his hand carefully, watching how Aziraphale whimpers with mixed regret and relief. He licks his fingers, making sure to capture every scrap of Aziraphale’s taste, then reaches for his belt. "If anything it's much too hot just now. Could probably do with an airing. Bit of a breeze..."

The sentence drifts off as he pulls out his cock because oh fuck , just having it freed from the confines of his denims and in his hand feels better than it has any right to. He's suddenly viscerally aware that he's been aroused for hours without relief, and the need to do something about it is overwhelming.

Crowley leans forward, one hand on the table next to Aziraphale's leg, to support his weight. He makes a fist with the other and begins slowly thrusting into it. "Fuck, angel—" he gasps, staring at the lewd vision in front of him. "You do look good enough to eat, you know. Just need—nghh—a few finishing touches—"

*

The second Crowley leans forward, Aziraphale scoots himself closer, almost to the edge of the table. He spreads his thighs a little wider, licks his lips—more for Crowley’s benefit than his own; after an evening spent teasing he wants to reward his demon as thoroughly as he can. Whatever that includes, he wants to provide.

“Tell me,” he purrs, low and commanding. Tell me what I can do for you now. He reaches out, manages to grasp at Crowley’s wrist—just to be able to hold on to some part of him. 

*

"Want to paint you," Crowley rasps. His voice is already ragged and no wonder, after so long being wound up and ignoring it it's no surprise how needy he is. This won't take long at all and he doesn't care. "Mark you up, splatter my come all over you like icing. You're the last course of this banquet, Aziraphale. Want to decorate you and lick it all off, and—ahh shit, fuck, fuck—! "

He'd started slow but sped up his fisting as he talked, and orgasm catches him by surprise, bending him over as he jerks and spills over his hand, Aziraphale's cunt and belly in long white stripes. 

*

Aziraphale watches the realisation hit, rapt, watches the wide-blown pupils of Crowley’s eyes roll upward and a beautiful warm expression blossom across his sharp features. He relishes the heat that bursts across his bared skin as he drinks in the most incredible sight he’s ever seen—the last course of his own private feast, and an appetiser for the bounty that he hopes the rest of his existence will be.

In a rush of tenderness, Aziraphale leans forward to pull him into a loose embrace, one hand cradling the back of Crowley’s head and the other stroking gently along his back. His lips write wordless praise on whatever part of the demon’s face or neck he can reach, kisses curved with an impossibly fond smile. Little tastes of the boundless affection he no longer has to hold back.

*

Crowley stays curled and panting for a minute, staring at the absolutely astonishing sight of his spend on Aziraphale's skin. For all his debauched fantasies and despite the past several...however long it's been...it still seems impossible.

Then Aziraphale reaches for him and pulls him down, taking some of his weight as Crowley leans limply (in more than one sense) against the angel. There's tender touches and strokes of fingers, and finally Crowley regains his senses enough to wrap an arm around him and hold him back. It's a ridiculous, uncomfortable position for both of them; they're both something of a wreck, and he can't help but laugh. "Fuck, Aziraphale." He turns his face, kisses Aziraphale's cheek. Breathes in the smell of him, cologne and sweat and sex-musk. "That was quite a meal."

*

“I’m so glad you enjoyed it.” Aziraphale’s smile is very nearly a grin, wide and beaming and giddy with pleasure. As awkward as the embrace is, it’s real, some invisible and imperceptible gap between them finally and blissfully bridged.

That sense of connection, along with the drunken rush of having finally (finally!) made his intentions known and confirming that his feelings were reciprocated, makes him braver than he’s felt in millennia.

“We didn’t actually finish the crêpe, but… we could have it for breakfast, if you like.”

*

Crowley belatedly remembers the crêpe, which he never properly tasted and then shoved onto the floor in his haste to get at Aziraphale. Whoops. Though he can't say he has any regrets whatsoever.

"Angel," he says, a slow brilliant smile blooming in his face. "Are you inviting me to stay for the night?"

*

No one else, Aziraphale is sure, has ever gotten to see Crowley smile like this: delighted, unguarded, unshadowed. This is just for the rare moments between them that matter.

“Seeing as the social distancing guidelines haven’t actually lifted, you’d better make it the full two weeks of quarantine.”

As confident as the words are, there is something hopeful in his tone, something that hints at, please? He’s already offered himself up—every month of the year, every inch of his body—but after millennia of longing capped off by nearly a year in lockdown, he’s greedy for all the new intimacy that comes with this change, including a certain degree of reassurance.

*

Aziraphale isn’t wrong. No one has ever delighted Crowley the way Aziraphale does, so no one else has ever inspired this sort of smile. Though the sight of it is almost immediately lost as Crowley lunges forward to take another kiss, deep and passionate.

After several minutes of that he leans back just far enough to breathe. "Crêpes for breakfast sound perfect. I'll feed them to you in bed, even, if you want."

Speaking of which.

*

“I’d love that,” Aziraphale sighs. “But we’d better clear the dishes first. And make sure the crêpe actually survived. I did make backup crêpes, but it’d be such a shame to lose that one before we’ve properly finished it.”

*

"Yeah..." Crowley's reluctant to let go, even for just a few minutes. But they both have their trousers around their ankles and are frankly a mess, even without the need to clean up after dinner. "Yeah, fair enough."

He stands up properly, stretches his back, pulls his denims back up and re-buckles his belt. Then he helps Aziraphale start putting himself to rights. "I'd apologise for ruining your dessert course, but given the circumstances I'm not in the least bit sorry."

*

A bright, merry laugh breaks free of Aziraphale, and he takes a moment to grip Crowley’s shoulder. Just to make sure he has the demon’s full attention.

“My dear fellow.” His eyes are fond, but his grin is smug. “You didn’t ruin dessert. You were dessert. And if I may be so bold, you were scrumptious.”

*

Crowley laughs, then bends in to take a kiss. Without the frantic need of earlier driving it's a simpler but confident thing, affectionate and sure.

"I think you were the dessert, personally," he murmurs. "After all, you haven't had a taste of me yet. But perhaps we can amend that, in a little while?" 

*

“In a little while,” Aziraphale agrees, and gives Crowley’s shoulder a gentle squeeze before letting go so he can finish buttoning his trousers. Not that he plans to keep them on for much longer, but cleaning naked is a bit of an awkward prospect. “Come on. The sooner we’re done tidying, the sooner we can head upstairs.”

*

Crowley groans as he looks over the mess on the floor. “Fiiiiiiiiine. But let’s make it quick.” He grins, quick and sharp. “I’ve still got an appetite.”

 

 

Footnotes

^1. While Heaven doesn’t officially have any book-banning policies, Aziraphale’s former superiors and coworkers made it clear they strongly disapprove of certain authors and subject matter. Romance novels and cookbooks are the primary recipients of such disapproval, though he’s heard disparaging remarks aimed at titles ranging from The Picture of Dorian Gray to the Dungeons and Dragons Monster Manual.↩

^2. It is tempting to pin the origin of the disease on Pestilence, who despite handing off their crown to Pollution has had a very active retirement as an anti-vaccination lecturer. However, as much as Pestilence would like to take credit for it, this one was an accident of nature compounded by humans being human.↩

^3. Aziraphale's first program is as follows:

10 PRINT "LET THERE BE TEXT!"
5 CLS
20 GOTO 10

He is extremely proud of it.↩

^4. While Crowley is not responsible for those alarm clocks that start moving as soon as they go off, requiring the hearer to get physically out of bed and chase them, he did put a note on the soul who had (they were clearly earmarked for Hell) stating that when they arrived Below they should be assigned to the Department of Diabolical Ideas.↩

^5. He doesn’t really need to carry a handkerchief for himself, but over his long career offering comfort to human souls, he’s discovered there are certain things that can be particularly comforting to the unhappy. Were Aziraphale able to carry steaming mugs of hot cocoa in his pockets, he’d keep those right alongside the handkerchief. ↩

^6. Regardless of what the Tory government tried to claim, and while Crowley could take some responsibility for the creation of the House of Lords, Boris Johnson was free of any demonic influence. Probably.↩

^7. It’s hard to beat an election season for pride, wrath, covetousness, and a whole host of sins both petty and deadly.↩

^8. Most particularly a large assortment of wristwatches, including the first official prototype of the Dick Tracy radio watch, which he would never admit to owning but privately gloats over possessing.↩

^9. Decade’s, at least. Crowley isn't really as clued into the minutiae of fashion as he pretends to be, largely because he knows fashion's biggest secret: wear black and act like you're the coolest person in the room and a surprisingly large number of people will believe it. That and the right sort of sneer does 90% of the work for him.↩

^10. While Aziraphale’s never gotten the hang of messing with time directly, he’s certainly quite proficient at making himself or objects move quicker or more slowly through time. During lockdown he’s gotten enough practice that he can now hand-beat egg whites, sugar, vanilla, and lemon juice into a fluffy meringue in less than ten seconds. Granted, the meringue always tastes a little startled when he does this, but he doesn’t mind.↩

^11. A would-be good samaritan attempted to cheer up the residents of Whickber Street with music through wireless speakers. This plan backfired terribly when said speakers were hacked by a prankster and made to blast ABBA for three straight days. As you can imagine, during lockdown three days of non-stop ABBA felt like three decades to everyone within the speakers’ radius.↩

^12. As a demon, 'rising' is not usually one of Crowley's strong points, but there are exceptions.↩

^13. The face masks have more potential for spreading envy and avarice than he'd realised, all those months ago. He'll have to think on that later. Though humans are probably a few steps ahead of him again. Still, could be fun.↩

^14. Literally.↩

^15. Which has been both shaken and stirred in ways openly disrespectful to the laws of physics and time to produce the desired effect in less than an hour.↩

^16. They’d been champagne flutes that morning, but the look hadn’t been quite right, so they’re martini glasses now.↩

^17. It turns about as over-the-top ridiculous as most of Aziraphale's efforts. They're quite well-matched in that regard really.↩

^18. By thanking them he means he’ll perform some small curse, like zapping any mould in their house. An easy little bit of destruction, plus he doesn’t have to bother with small talk. Besides, he hates mould.↩

^19. Of course Crowley likes pineapple on pizza. It's hilarious how angry people get over the issue, and while they're sweeter than he usually enjoys they're also acidic as hell and he likes tart things. Which also explains why he likes Aziraphale, come to that.↩

^20. It is stealing and not just taking, that’s a matter of a lack of principle↩

^21. Or straight espresso, or scotch, or taco truck monstrosities↩

^22. The bookshop knows its owner well enough by now to know what sorts of messes are welcome and what sorts are to be avoided. Which means that it’s one of the few places in the world where someone could drop their toast and have it land buttered side up. The dishes may fall noisily, but they know better than to break or to land face down.↩

Notes:

Goose’s note: "Lockdown did some weird things to me; naturally I envisioned it doing much the same to Aziraphale. I’m pretty proud of the menu I came up with and how the various dishes suit the two of them. Having been raised by foodies and spent most of the last two decades working in kitchens, it was a fun challenge to try and figure out what this kind of seductive meal would look like. (Big thanks also to my buddies who looked at early versions of the menu and offered suggestions!) And yes, I referred back to Neil Gaiman’s post about the difference between whipped cream and squirty cream. It was originally going to be a strawberry crêpe, but apple and Calvados was too tempting to resist.

If you played Kingdom of Loathing in the mid-2000s and brought a big jar of hot pepper-infused vodka to an East Coast KoL meetup event to make amor prohibido, thank you very much for the recipe!"

Ash: "All food credit to Goose, I just show up and eat things and then do the dishes afterwards. I very much appreciate his efforts. As did Crowley. ;)

Also, there is a room in Hell where people are forced to listen to Sofology's hold music. I spent more hours than I want to remember during lockdown doing exactly that and believe me, no crime is too heinous to merit such a fate."