Archive of Our Own

They’ve been drawing a significant amount of stares as they walk to the park. In part due to the black skirt Crowley is happily strutting around in, it’s longer at the back and sways with his never-still hips rather well. Aziraphale, for one, is staring for entirely the right reasons; though it does take an effort to look away from Crowley’s proudly smug smile to take in his outfit. But the rest of London doesn’t always look on so kindly. 

People in the park are the same. Except for one couple feeding the ducks, two girls with rainbow pins on their rucksacks. They look over to Aziraphale and Crowley walking hand in hand, their eyes lighting up and lips stretching into grins as they look at Crowley from head to toe then at each other. Aziraphale can feel the pride rolling off Crowley as the girls nervously pull each other closer, arms around each other’s waist. It’s extremely sweet. And he knows that it’s at least one of the reasons Crowley refuses to dress in any way other than how he wants.

They detour from their bench to sit somewhere quieter with their picnic blanket and packed goodies. Crowley sheds the soft jacket he’d been wearing and ties up his growing hair into as much of a bun as he can manage whilst Aziraphale lays down the tartan blanket and sets out the wine glasses. Technically not allowed on park grounds, as far as he’s aware, but it’s extremely unlikely that anyone is going to wander over and check. Even less likely that they’d do anything about it. 

So they settle down. Aziraphale leans into the arm around his shoulders, letting Crowley feed him some of the finger-food desserts they’ve packed. Little chocolate brownies. Bite-size custard slices that he’s pretty sure have been hand cut from larger ones. They sip their white wine and laugh over the folly of the people passing by, lower down the stretch of grass. Well, Crowley laughs at them. Aziraphale laughs when he gets to point out all the times that Crowley’s done the exact same things as these humans, often as a repercussion of the demon’s own meddling coming back to bite him in the ass. All in all, it’s a brilliant way to spend their early Wednesday afternoon.  

Eventually, as the wine runs dry and neither of them think to miracle up some more, Crowley hands Aziraphale a book and drops his head onto the angel’s shoulder. 

“Read to me?”

Aziraphale smiles down at the choice of book. “Of course, my dear. Though if you’re going to stay like that, can you take the glasses off? They dig into my shoulder a bit too much to be comfortable.”

“Eyes, angel,” Crowley points out, not waspishly for once. 

“Close them then. You can put them back on after.”

Crowley accedes this point and the glasses are folded away, left on the blanket by the basket. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphael says as Crowley reassumes his position, legs tucked to one side and leaning heavily on one arm behind Aziraphale’s back; he’d have thought the position would only lend itself to becoming uncomfortable in no short time at all but Crowley would move if it did, so it clearly was not the case. 

It isn’t until a troupe of young kids arrived in the park, unsupervised by the looks of it, that things became less easily relaxed. They are clearly bored and looking for something to do. Which, inevitably, erupts in a game of tag. Crowley doesn’t even blink an eye open at the squealing laughter and yelling though Aziraphale trails off his reading to watch the kids. That is until one of the kids, a young lad being chased by a girl with near perfect running form, spends more time looking over his shoulder rather than where he’s going and collides with the corner of their blanket which pulls taught thanks to Crowley’s curled round legs. The kid falls onto their blanket and startles Crowley something awful. 

“What the fuck? Who? What? Angel?” Crowley snaps, head turning this way and that as he tries to take in what’s happened, yellow eyes wide open. “Kid?”

The child in question looks up from his sprawl into Crowley’s wide eyes, Aziraphale is behind him trying to grab the sunglasses a few seconds too late, and the boy promptly squeals in shock, pitching backwards as fast as he can. The girl arrives just as Crowley is harshly tugging his hair free so it hides his eyes, as well as turning his face away. She apologises profusely but neither of them are listening to her. Aziraphale is sliding Crowley’s glasses back into place, biting his tongue from reprimanding the boy as he walks away hissing into the girl’s ear about the ‘monster’ he swears that weird man is. Crowley stands as soon as they’re back on, brushing his skirt down with far less care than he’d previously shown to the new garment. It makes Aziraphale’s heart ache as he kneels in the aftermath, watching Crowley pile up wall upon wall. He prays that they won’t lock him out too.

Walking back to the bookshop involves a lot of silence, more subdued swishing about from Crowley with those serpentine hips and no hand holding. 

Aziraphale sets the basket down by the locked doors when they get in. Meanwhile Crowley paces up and down the centre of the circular space. Aziraphale hovers on the outskirts, unsure how best to approach this and ultimately deciding to give him space. Until Crowley hurls his glasses into a wall with a guttural noise. He swoops in quickly after that, hands running down from Crowley’s shaking shoulders to his wrists. He raises one to press a kiss to the thin skin there, the frantic beating of Crowley’s heart against his lips. 

“I’m fine,” Crowley hisses out on an exhale, more shaky than blunt as he’d likely wanted. “Just a stupid kid.”

Aziraphale lowers his wrist again, looking up into those beautiful eyes staring burning holes into the bookshelves behind Aziraphale. “Do me at least a little credit, my dear, I know by now that the kids are the worst.”

Crowley’s grunt is offended but he slumps into Aziraphale’s embrace, forehead pressed against the angel’s own with his eyes fluttered closed. “Should be used to it.”

“No,” Aziraphale says, brushing a hand up and down Crowley’s spine, “no, you don’t have to be. Don’t have to ever be.”

“Why can’t they do what you did?” Crowley asks plaintively. 

“What did I do?” 

Crowley huffs a laugh and steals a featherlight kiss from Aziraphale’s lips. “You, angel, didn’t give two shits.”

Now it’s Aziraphale’s turn to laugh, hands stilling in their movements. “I did care though, but because you’re exquisitely beautiful. Your eyes especially,” he trails off into a whisper before leaning up into a much longer kiss than before, Crowley’s pleased hum and comforting hold more than enough of a response.