Archive of Our Own

Crowley likes London. It’s always busy, always rushing along into the future and always on the edge of a fight breaking out. Good mix of people, good entertainment and night life, even if it does rain too much for his personal tastes. But sunny Spain, for example, had left a lingering sourness in his mouth that he’s still not quite forgotten, and anyway there’s something almost gravitational about London. About England in general these last few centuries, but especially London. He’s considering sticking around for a bit.

That England, and London in particular, has been Aziraphale’s main stomping ground for roughly a millennium is probably not a coincidence.

They walk in St James’ Park—newly public and re-landscaped since their last foray at court—a sort of amiable stroll in the wake of business matters duly completed. Twilight is falling, their shadows lengthening ahead of them, close enough to be arm in arm. All around, as far as Crowley can see and sense, the human landscape is shifting. Milk maids and nurses and nannys lead their charges away from the grounds, to candlelit spaces with sturdy walls and tiled roofs, and in their place come London’s night people; the criminals and secret keepers, cleaners and prostitutes, plying trades less welcome in the blazing judgment of a sunny day.

“I miss the aviary,” Aziraphale says. He’s looking over towards Birdcage Walk in a wistful sort of way, his mug of new milk and mulled wine still held half-full in one perfectly manicured hand. “The birds are beautiful. Such variety and color.” His hair falls in curls to his shoulders, drifting lightly around his face in the breeze, and Crowley can almost see him thinking about plumage, and preening, and—

“We could sneak in,” Crowley offers, halting at the edge of the path. It’s been--how long? Nearly a century? More? Since he last watched rainbows dance off angel wings. “No one’d notice.”

Aziraphale’s mouth scrunches up in indecision. The aviaries are on private land, exclusive to the King and his guests, of course. It would be Breaking A Rule, but a human one. And Crowley doesn’t need millennia of practice to see how the angel wants to.

“This time of year, they’ve probably got chicks,” he coaxes.

Wrong move. Aziraphale sighs and shakes his head. “And this time of night they’ll be sleeping. Better to let them get on with it, I think.” They start walking again. “Still, it’s a shame about the menagerie.”

“Elephants,” Crowley says, trying to scrub that wistful slant of the angel’s mouth out of his mind. There’s something there, some want, he just hasn’t found the right hook for it. “The elephants were good. And the crocodiles.” He grins at the sharp look shot his way. “Kept people on their toes.”

“I’m sure you don’t miss the camels,” Aziraphale says archly, pointedly not looking at him even as a smile tugs at his lips.

“No one misses the camels, angel.” They both of them have enough memories of musty camel smells and trudging through sand at the dawn of the world for several lifetimes, no reminders necessary.

“True.” Aziraphale agrees, and then, as if he’s been looking for something,  “Ah, here we are.” 

He veers off the path slightly, drawing Crowley in his wake to settle on a wood slat bench next to the water, just slightly hidden from casual view by a bushy fig tree that somehow escaped the most recent razing.

It’s all very … illicit, Crowley can’t help but notice. Fig tree. Twilight. London is never really quiet, but the noise seems somehow muffled here, too. And the park itself has a reputation these days. For—things. Of a decidedly non-angelic nature. That have very little to do with feathers.

Aziraphale shifts his weight until their knees are not-quite-touching, and Crowley watches him carefully. There’s a question lurking in the back of his throat, not quite parsed into words. Why are we here, perhaps, or You have something in mind, I can tell, don’t try lying to me. Unvoiced is fine. Unvoiced is better. He’s not going to muck things up twice in one evening if he can help it.

“You really should try this.” Aziraphale holds out his mug, keeping eye contact now. “It’s quite good.”

Crowley doesn’t say, What are you up to, angel? He takes the mug. He sips at the contents. It’s alright. He’s never really been much for the taste of milk, which Aziraphale knows. He passes the mug back.

“Such interesting things they come up with, aren’t there?” Aziraphale says, apropos of nothing, and takes an apparently enjoyable swallow of his own.

And then holds the mug out again, insistent even when Crowley tries to wave it away, so he accepts it with a resigned sigh.

Oh.

Mead. It’s mead this time, sweet and sparkling on his tongue. Reminds him of—Iceland, 13th century. Each of them entirely turned around and frustrated by the prospect of trying to find a specific individual human in the middle of a civil war. The autumn had been particularly stormy, he remembers. They’d spent a long night sheltering in a turf-built farmhouse. He doesn’t remember what they talked about. Sagas, maybe. The angel had been big into sagas. Probably still is. He passes the mug back and Aziraphale smiles like he has a secret. The pale creams and golds of his clothes make him look luminescent in the brightening starlight. Crowley is fading into near nonexistence in his shadow.

The next sip is rice wine, light and smooth as a spring morning in a Japanese garden, and it too carries a memory: stolen glances, watching dawn spread rosy fingers over Aziraphale’s cheek. Then a Riesling, cool and lazy as the Rhine; the high, ringing tones of a dulcimer and Aziraphale’s soft curls tumbling over his hands. Yarrow beer, bright and sharp as shared laughter and a warm shoulder leaning into his own. Conditum, rich with pepper and saffron and the sense of hands smoothing over his wings. A heady brandy and a snatch of song whispered in his ear. Pomegranate wine, achingly sweet as the sight of Aziraphale licking honey off his fingers.

They’re not even touching but oh, Crowley wants. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. Temptation is his job. He slouches lower and extends one arm along the back of the bench. Closer. Closer. He sends back Macedonian wine and fermented date liquor. Barely beer and cider heavy with cloves and cinnamon. He watches Aziraphale drink, watches the movement of his throat as he swallows and his tongue as he licks his lips. The mug comes back and it’s the bloody syllabub again, frothy with too much cream, but this time, this time it comes with the press of sugared violets against his mouth and the sight of his own face, like looking in a mirror except he’s never felt like he wanted to ravish himself, looking in a mirror.

The mug falls from his fingers. Aziraphale makes no move to catch it and it bounces to the ground between their feet, leaving a little half-circle of milky wine in the dirt that matches the curve of the moon. Aziraphale is just … waiting. No deflection now.

“Angel,” Crowley whispers, inching closer, and Aziraphale meets him, lays a finger against his lips. No words. They’re not talking about this.

Late nights and stolen mornings, like feathers under his hands and curls brushing his cheek. They’re not talking about it. But Aziraphale’s finger is replaced by Aziraphale’s lips, and his hands are steady and sure, and his tongue tastes of violets.

It’s enough, Crowley tells himself, to just hold on and kiss him back. To revel a bit, in the moment of temptation realized, and to layer new memories over old ones with the glide of his tongue and the gentle nip of his teeth.

It’s enough, for now.