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"Good heavens, is that a nightingale?"
"I think so."
"Well, what on Earth's it doing here?"
They were taking a turn through Berkeley Square after their luncheon at the Ritz; it was in the opposite direction from Crowley's flat, but only by five minutes, and anyway, the weather had cleared up beautifully since morning and they felt like meandering.
Lunch had been wonderful. It was far from the first time they had dined together, nor even the first time they had dined at the Ritz, but it was the most relaxed meal either of them could remember sharing. It was also the first meal in a very long time—and a very long time for them was a very long time indeed—that one of them had treated the other to without some excuse. Typically, they split the bill; if not, a reason was always offered: Aziraphale owed Crowley for the rescue, Crowley owed Aziraphale for the previous lunch. Today, however, Crowley had picked up the cheque without hesitation or justification, prompting a smile from Aziraphale so radiant it almost hurt to look directly at.*
There was, in point of fact, magic abroad in the air that certain afternoon, as further evidenced by the unexpected specimen of Luscinia megarhynchos singing rather confusedly at them from a nearby plane tree.
Crowley squinted at it through his sunglasses. "Metaphysical fallout?" he suggested. "Could still be some aftershocks, buggering up probability. Not rain-of-fish level, just…" He gestured at the bird.
"…nightingale-in-Central-London level," Aziraphale concluded. "Hmm, yes. We ought to keep an eye out for any more effects. Sort them out, if possible."
"What are we, the clean-up crew?"
"Have you got anything better to do?" Aziraphale countered. "Any big temptations scheduled? Oh, that's right…"
Crowley gave him a glare of irritated adoration. It was an unusual expression, but he had long since mastered it.
Aziraphale smiled brightly in return. "Let's start with this little fellow, shall we?"
"Start with it how?"
"Return it to its proper habitat, of course." The angel held out a finger, and the bird fluttered down to perch on it as though Aziraphale were a Disney princess, or at least her jovial uncle.
Crowley gazed upon this adorable tableau and tried his best to feel nauseated. "And this is a we task because...?"
"Well, I'd rather not try to miracle it home, all things considered. The poor thing's dealing with enough as it is, and I'm still not sure where I sent that soldier."
"You want me to drive a bird home," Crowley said flatly.
"To a suitable environment, anyhow," Aziraphale agreed. "What about Epping Forest? That's not far at all. Lots of lovely woods and meadows, Special Area of Conservation, it ought to be very comfortable."
Crowley leveled an inscrutable look at him. Aziraphale countered it with the hopeful puppy-dog expression that had never once failed to get him his way.
After a full ten seconds, Crowley turned away. "I'm not driving out there just for a blessed bird," he declared.
Aziraphale's face fell. "Oh, but Crowley…"
Crowley cut him off, speaking even as he started to walk away. "I'll pick you up at the bookshop in an hour. Bring a blanket."
"Wait, what? Where are you going?"
"Fortnum & Mason. You've got a picnic basket, yeah?" He didn't wait for a reply, but sauntered off to the southeast, leaving Aziraphale with his jaw working soundlessly.
"Well," said Crowley, looking Aziraphale up and down. "That's certainly very… you."
Aziraphale beamed. He had decided that his usual attire, while obviously perfect for city living, wasn't quite the thing for a pastoral excursion, and had changed into something more suited to the occasion. Being Aziraphale, this meant he had gone full tweed, complete with flat cap. An old dustcloth was draped over his shoulder to allow the nightingale to perch there without soiling his Norfolk jacket, leaving his hands free for a picnic hamper and blanket in traditional red and white check.
Crowley gazed upon this vision in beige herringbone, and said, "Right, let's get that lot loaded up. Food's in the boot."
"What a marvellous idea," Aziraphale said, toting the hamper over to the rear of the Bentley, which was parked in a way that could be generously described as casual. "The Ritz and a picnic all in one day; you'll spoil me."
Crowley forbore to comment on just how spoilt the angel might or might not be already, and instead said, "Weeeeell, we've got a lot to celebrate, haven't we? And you did say you'd like to."
"Like to…?"
"Go for a picnic."
Aziraphale cast his thoughts back. And further back. And… "Oh. Yes, I suppose I did." His expression went rather wobbly, but Crowley, in the process of opening the boot for him, seemed perfectly nonchalant.
The grocery bags proved to contain scones, jam, and clotted cream; an assortment of sandwiches; scotch eggs; grapes; strawberries, whipped cream, and a package of meringues; a thermos flask, presumably of tea; and a bottle of champagne which, judging from the way Crowley was frowning at it, might not actually have been Moët & Chandon when it was placed in the car.†
"Didn't we just have champagne?" commented Aziraphale, transferring the food to the hamper.
"That was lunch. This is tea."
"Ah, well, then."
There was also a five-pound bag of birdseed.
"Why, Crowley, one might almost call this generous."
Crowley responded with an unusually sincere smile, even as he said, "Don't read too much into it, I've got plans for whatever Tweety there doesn't eat."
"Nefarious plans, I take it?"
"The nefariousest."
"That's not a…"
"I know it's not a word, shut up."
Hamper loaded, grocery bags tossed into the street by Crowley, and a gentle breeze summoned to blow them neatly into the nearest bin by Aziraphale, the party set forth.
According to Crowley's phone, the estimated driving time from Soho to Epping Long Green in the middle of the afternoon was roughly an hour and a half, most of which was occupied with simply getting out of London. Crowley was able to cut that time by two thirds, and reckoned he could have shaved off even more if Aziraphale hadn't kept clutching at his shoulder in between feeding the bird. The nightingale wasn't going to get any more bewildered than it already was, having found itself in the middle of a major population centre and possessed of an inexplicable urge to provide romantic ambience, and in fact continued singing gamely between seeds, but Aziraphale murmured comfort to it anyway, more for his own benefit than the bird's.
"Handling all right, then, is it?" he managed to ask during one of the less harrowing stretches.
"Possibly even better than before. I think he may have improved the mileage, too."
"You don't use petrol."
"What's your point? And the bookshop? Anything I overlooked?"
"You did only give me an hour, I'll need to do a thorough inventory, but from what I could tell, it's as you said. Assorted boys' classics, all first editions, as new or fine, and some whimsical knick-knacks on the themes of pirates and robots and the like. Not what I'd have chosen, but all surprisingly tasteful. Nothing missing or damaged. If you hadn't told me about the fire, I'd never have thought it."
"He turned out all right."
"No thanks to us," Aziraphale agreed cheerily.
Finally, they came tearing up the B181, rocketed past a garden centre (which Crowley noted for future reference), swung round a corner, and screeched into a pub car park which was almost certainly meant for customers only. Aziraphale sagged in relief for a moment before recovering his composure.
"Oh, good," he said brightly, taking out his pocket watch. "Just in time for tea."
Aziraphale took the hamper, Crowley took the blanket, and they trekked up what the little green plaques proclaimed the Forest Way path until they deemed themselves sufficiently isolated. Crowley stopped under an especially picturesque tree and gave the blanket a flick of the wrist; it obediently spread itself out. He immediately plopped down onto the sunnier half and Lounged.
"Here we are, my little friend," Aziraphale said, giving an encouraging sort of shrug. "Go on." The nightingale flew up into the tree, where it sang with renewed vigour. Aziraphale smiled and set down the hamper before removing the cloth from his shoulder and tucking it into a pocket.
"Mission accomplished," Crowley declared, managing a sarcastic little shimmy despite his mostly-supine position. He looked more ready for a Roman banquet than a picnic in the English countryside.
Aziraphale performed a minor banishment to keep any insects at a distance for the next few hours, and began to unpack the food and plates. "It doesn't give you any satisfaction?" he asked pointedly. "Deep down?"
Crowley merely smirked. "I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing," he declaimed.
Aziraphale smirked back; Crowley always had liked the comedies, and showed it at the oddest times. "Are you still afraid for your reputation, sweet Beatrice?" he retorted, pouring the tea. "Trying to preserve your, what do they call it? 'Street cred'?"
"Touché, Signor Benedick, touché. You are 'fall'n into a pit of ink,' and I'm… hmm." He considered.
"A vat of bleach?" Aziraphale suggested.
"There you go." Crowley accepted a cup of tea from Aziraphale, along with a scone, which he proceeded to liberally cream and jam.
Aziraphale sipped his own tea thoughtfully. "I don't feel stained, you know. Quite the opposite. But the point is, if I wanted to be a bit wicked, or if you wanted to be a little, dare I say it, nice, it'd only support what they think of us now."
"And do you? Want to be?"
"Well." Aziraphale's eyes flicked upwards out of habit before he allowed a smile to spread. "Perhaps just a little. This morning was immensely fun. The last part of it, anyway."
"The part where you were the scariest thing in Hell, you mean?" Crowley grinned at him over his scone. "You terror, you," he purred before taking a large bite.
Aziraphale gave a happy little wriggle. "And you, Mr Fire-Breathing Dragon with cream on his nose?"
Crowley stuck his tongue out just a bit too long and licked it off.
Aziraphale raised his eyebrows but continued without comment, "Did you enjoy having the moral high ground in Heaven?"
Crowley lay motionless for several seconds before relaxing another degree and grudgingly admitting, "I… could get used to the view."
"It's not as though you didn't spend the last eleven years working for the greater good," Aziraphale pointed out. "Or trying to, at least."
"Yes, yes, guilty as charged," Crowley sighed. "Though in my defence, I did have selfish motives, too."
"Granted, granted. No more classic cars, for one."
Crowley nodded and pointed at him in a there you are, then kind of way.
"No more espresso," Aziraphale continued, "no more Turkish coffee. No more cinematic shootouts or situation comedies. No more Fashion Weeks. No more uncategorizable neckwear…"
"I told you, it's a scarf."
"How is that a scarf? It's made of metal."
Rather than offer an answer, Crowley made a face and taunted, "No more bickering."
"No more bizarre tangents," Aziraphale teased back.
"No more complaints about my driving."
"No more inability to let go comments from an hour ago that weren't important then either."
"No more inane dramatics or ridiculous magic tricks."
"No more questionable interior decorating trends."
"No more smug virtuousness…"
"No more snide little head-waggle…"
There was a pause, as Crowley suddenly seemed at a loss for a retort. A building tension was making itself felt, like rising humidity. Aziraphale unconsciously leaned forwards slightly.
Then Crowley cleared his throat and turned his head. "Point is, we both had selfish and altruistic motives." He wriggled a shrug. "You can have both."
Aziraphale bit his lip and sat back. "Yes. Yes, I daresay you're right. I don't think it's a bad thing, to tell you the truth."
"I'd say it's a downright good thing, or at least a productive one. More motives are more motives, right? Okay, so one's 'purer' than the other, but that doesn't mean they have to cancel out. They can reinforce each other."
"I see what you're saying. It would be ideal for altruism alone to be sufficient, but the baser feelings in combination with it help to keep one personally engaged, yes?"
The tension eased. The conversation lulled a bit as they finished their scones and made inroads on the sandwiches. The nightingale took a short breather. Aziraphale assured Crowley that he didn't need to impress him by swallowing an entire scotch egg whole, thank you very much.
As the sun inched its way across the sky, Crowley wriggled along the blanket to stay out of the tree's shadow.
Aziraphale smiled fondly. "Whoever came up with the image of demons as creatures of darkness clearly never met you."
"Solar-powered, me," Crowley agreed, stretching. "I can do darkness. I like a nice warm night. But there's nothing like a good bask."
"Is that why you got in the habit of sleeping at night?"
"Wasn't the only reason, but you remember what nights are like in the desert. Put me in a right torpor."
"How much of that is you and how much of it is your body, do you suppose?"
"Good question. Did you feel any more sensitive to cold while we were swapped?"
"Hard to say. The bath was a bit chilly, but I was rather focused on other things."
"Fair enough."
"Like trying to walk in those gas-pipes you wear."
"Oi!"
"Frankly, I'd have found walking difficult in your body even with acceptable trousers. I'm sure you're used to it, but I felt like I was held together with elastic bands!"
"Not like I had an easy time either, the way you've got the spine calibrated. And the centre of gravity was all different. It was like…" He grasped for a comparison.
"Rather like being accustomed to a vintage Bentley and suddenly finding oneself driving an American military vehicle, I should imagine."
"...very much like that, yes," said Crowley, a bit surprised.
"I do appreciate the loan, of course, and it's nice to know we can pull it off when the situation warrants, but barring that sort of emergency, I'm glad to stick to mine. I much prefer yours from the outside."
Crowley, not one to pass up a good opening when it was handed to him on a platter, leered over the edge of his teacup. "Oh, do you?"
Aziraphale rolled his eyes a bit, but smiled warmly. "I do. It's a very nice one, and you wear it so much better than I ever could."
The leer retreated, leaving Crowley looking almost bashful by contrast. "Oh… wuh… uh… thanks," he mumbled, and took a sip of tea to cover his face.
"I'm particularly fond of the hair. I'm always curious what you'll have done with it next time I see you."
"Yeah? Any favourites?"
"The way you had it half pulled back five or so years ago was rather fetching, and there was that updo you wore in, hmm… oh yes, in Attica. You know, with the diadem. But it's the surprise that's the fun part."
"I'll have to bear that in mind," said Crowley with a smile which promised something interesting in future.
"And on the other hand, there was 1793…"
"That was camouflage."
"It was frightful."
"I literally had to save you from decapitation over your fashion choices, I don't think you get to judge."
"Oh, that's right!" Aziraphale exclaimed in recollection. "They took me for an aristocrat. I never did get that outfit back."
"You seriously didn't remember almost getting beheaded by the sans-culottes?"
"I remembered that you rescued me from some pickle or other, so I treated you to crêpes and coffee. We had a lovely afternoon. How we got there didn't seem as important."
"As important as crêpes?"
"As important as spending time with you," Aziraphale said softly.
Crowley's mouth opened, but nothing came out. There was that sense of rising humidity again. Soon, one felt, it would have to precipitate.
"You do seem to get me out of an awful lot of scrapes," Aziraphale said, almost wistfully. "My knight in blackened armour."
Crowley took a loud slurp of tea. "Say, how'd Madame Tracy's body treat you? Wasn't a bad look for you. Bit Bohemian."
Once more, the pressure eased. Aziraphale suppressed a look of disappointment and replied in mild tones, "Tolerably well, but of course we were sharing, so I had her help with the motor skills. She did have some aches and pains, mind, standard wear and tear. I left her a small blessing which should help. Least I could do, she was a very gracious hostess under the circumstances. I really ought to send them a nice material gift."
"Do they have 'sorry for trying to make you shoot a kid' greeting cards?"
"Goodness, I hope not."
"Have you given any thought to what we're going to do after this?" Aziraphale asked.
Crowley quirked an eyebrow. "I like what we're doing right now."
"As do I, my dear, very much so, but it can't all be champagne teas. I certainly wouldn't say no to a good long holiday, but sooner or later we're going to need some sort of occupation. Even retired humans need something to do with their time, and we have so much more of it than they do."
Crowley hummed and nodded thoughtfully. "You were talking before about sorting out any after-effects."
"Yes, but I don't expect that'll take very long."
"You could always—and I'm just putting this out there—run your bookshop like, you know, a bookshop. Keep regular hours. Actually sell books."
"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," said Aziraphale with great dignity, selecting a cucumber sandwich.
"Right, dunno what I was thinking," Crowley muttered. "Well… this seems like an opportunity to try something new, doesn't it? Branch out a bit."
"It does rather. But on the other hand, after having saved the humans—"
"Helped save."
"—yes, thank you—"
"Barely."
"—thank you—I don't want to neglect them. It rather feels like it'd be missing the point. And I'm certainly not abandoning my protectorate, they need all the help they can get."
"So you want to do, what, freelance miracles? Pro bono blessings?"
"Something like that. Possibly. I'm open to alternatives. I just… I want to work towards the good of the world as I see it, not Good as dictated by Management. Help in the here and now, not with an eye to the Hereafter."
"Give aid and succour to the masses while getting up Heaven's nose good and proper."
Aziraphale tried to look innocent, but actually veered more towards smug. "Well… not in any actionable way."
Crowley smiled widely at him. "You really are brilliant. A brilliant, beautiful, benevolent bastard."
"Oh, my!" Aziraphale was immensely pleased. "I'll have to come up with an alliterative compliment for you now." He considered. "Not using S."
"Ooh, hard mode."
The angel thought for a few moments before saying, "I'll get back to you on that, I want it to be a good one. So what about you? What would you like to do with your time?"
"Oh, I'd like to nonactionably get up Heaven's nose too," said Crowley without hesitation, eliciting a titter from Aziraphale. "And Hell's. I would like to just royally piss off everyone in the entire organization, individually if possible, without actually acting against them in any way they can pin down. That is what I'd like to do." And he stuffed another triangle of sandwich into his mouth and chewed defiantly.
Aziraphale was by now caught in a proper fit of the giggles, but he managed to collect himself and say, "That sounds like quite a project!"
Crowley swallowed. "Could take a while, yeah."
"Would you… wish any assistance in this endeavour?" Aziraphale asked with a gleam in his eye. "Or a moderating influence," he added, injecting a little common sense, "to make sure you don't carry it too far."
Crowley gave this due and exaggerated consideration. "Could do, could do. Does this fall under 'lend a hand when needed'?"
"I expect that the terms of the Arrangement are due for some renegotiation."
"Seems likely."
"In fact, under the circumstances, words like 'arrangement' and 'agreement' seem a bit…"
"Pointlessly coy?"
"As you say."
"D'you have something in mind instead? 'Alliance'?"
Aziraphale took a deep breath. "'Partnership'."
Crowley levered himself up on one elbow. Behind his sunglasses, his face flickered through something complicated which ended with him cogently replying: "…yeah?"
Aziraphale licked his lips nervously. "We are on our own side. And I have enjoyed working with you. Whatever we choose to do, I want to do it together, not merely not in opposition."
Crowley gave a series of rapid, shallow nods. "I mean… we do need to watch each other's backs…"
"Is that a yes?"
"I, uh, yeah, I'd be up for some… joint projects. Sure."
Aziraphale was expectantly silent for a few seconds, but when nothing more was forthcoming, he broke into a slightly brittle smile. "Excellent! That sounds like as good a cue as any for the champagne, wouldn't you say?"
"Absolutely!" said Crowley, relaxing somewhat. "Bring on the bubbly!"
Aziraphale turned to the hamper and fetched out the Moët and two flutes which neither of them had actually bothered to pack. They clattered together a bit as he set them down.
"Bird's getting awfully loud," Crowley commented.‡
Aziraphale nodded as he peeled the foil off the cork.
"You all right?"
"Just… thinking. How astonishing it is to actually be… here."
"Here still alive, here on Earth, or here in Epping?"
"All of the above. Alive and present and picnicking and… and at this point in our lives. Not minding who sees us together. Free to form a partnership. Free to speak our minds, to say things we've… never dared to before." He fidgeted with the neck of the bottle, foil removed but cork still secure, and darted little hopeful glances at Crowley.
Crowley responded with a rather flat laugh. "Like what a tosser Gabriel is? Go on, you know you want to."
There was a crack.
In the silence that followed, the air shivered as Aziraphale repaired the fractures in the glass before the bottle could burst from the internal pressure. He seemed to be in a similar situation himself. "No, Crowley," he said in strained tones, "true as that is, it is not what I had in mind."
Crowley swallowed. "Angel…" The nightingale had stopped singing altogether, clearly feeling that this was not in its job description.
"I can't figure you out right now," said the angel, putting the bottle down and fidgeting hard with his hands. "Here we are, on what is manifestly a date, don't try to deny it, and one which you whisked me away on because of something I said more than fifty years ago! And I am enjoying your company very much, and you certainly seem to be enjoying mine—"
"Always, don't ever think I'm not." Crowley pushed himself up into a sitting position.
"You've certainly been flirting hard enough. And it's not as though I'm not… aware of your feelings towards me. And I believe you know mine."
Crowley made a vaguely affirmative noise.
"And yet every time I try to broach the subject, or even nudge things in that direction, you withdraw, except I can't even read that clearly as discouragement because you go right back to flirting. What am I supposed to take from this?"
"I'm sorry, this whole thing was a terrible idea…"
"It was a marvellous idea," snapped Aziraphale. "Don't you dare think otherwise. And more to the point, it was your idea, which is what has me so flummoxed! Do you not want this?"
"Of course I fucking want thisss!"
"Then what's the matter?"
"I, we, I just, I, hnnnngh..." Crowley's entire face screwed up as though collapsing into the vacuum that should have been filled by coherent speech. "If, if we do thisss, if we sssay it, it'll all… feel more real…"
"And that would be bad?!"
"That would be wonderful," Crowley said in quiet anguish.
Aziraphale fell silent.
After a moment, he reached for the thermos. "Pass me your cup, please."
"Could really use sssomething ssstronger," Crowley mumbled, sliding his teacup across the blanket.
"Champagne is for celebrating, not for Dutch courage," Aziraphale said gently but firmly, pouring.
"If you sssay ssso." Crowley took his tea and sipped it. It helped a little.
"Perhaps we'll still have use for it today?" the angel suggested, pouring himself a fresh cup as well.
"Yeah?"
"I certainly hope so."
"I… me too."
"But first, we need to resolve… whatever this is."
"You won't like it."
"I took that as a given. Please, Crowley, you're always so open with me. I haven't given you enough credit for that. Help me to understand."
Crowley nodded. He pulled his sunglasses off in a sudden, hurried movement, before he could change his mind; then, more carefully, he folded them and set them down next to his plate. "I'm just ssscared that…" He stopped and tried again. "I don't want you to say it unlessss…" No. He hissed in frustration and pulled a hand down over his mouth and chin.
"Take your time."
"Yeah." Crowley sat silent, inhaling the steam off his tea and staring at, or through, the scotch eggs.
Aziraphale sipped his own tea and waited.
Finally Crowley raised his head and made eye contact. "Can I trussst you…"
"Of course you can trust—"
Crowley held up a forestalling hand. "Can I trust you," he continued, "to trust yourssself?"
Aziraphale's brow furrowed. He waited.
"How many times have you claimed we're not friends?" Crowley rubbed his temple and the bridge of his nose with a thumb and middle finger. "It used to be funny, but…"
"Oh, Crowley… I never meant…"
"I know you didn't, that's the point. You were ssscared. Or ashamed."
"No, Crowley, no…"
"Ssstop that, you know you were. I'm not blaming you. They got in your head. Let's be clear about that, I am absssolutely, 100% blaming those ssself-righteous arseholes." He jabbed a thumb skywards, then thought better of it and switched fingers.
"I understand why you were ssscared," he continued. "And I'm not trying to hold the past against you, that's not what this is. That was the old world."
"But," Aziraphale prompted.
"But that kind of thing can be hard to shake off. So don't sssay it unlesssssssss…" He got control of his tongue and tried again. "If you sssay it, you're committing to it, all right? I'm not asking for any eternal vows or anything, but you don't get to turn your back on me, on usss, the next time you get ssscared or second-guessss yourself. I can't…" He swallowed. "I can't take that again."
Aziraphale nodded in mournful understanding. "And I gather you won't be taking the lead on this."
"I will not. Unlessss you're ready, really ready, unless you're prepared to trust yourself and ssstand by your decision…"
Aziraphale smiled sadly. "'I confess nothing…'" he recited.
Crowley huffed a laugh. "'...nor I deny nothing.' Exactly."
They sipped their tea in stiff silence. The nightingale cleaned its feathers.
Aziraphale darted glances up at Crowley through his eyelashes.
Crowley raised an eyebrow at Aziraphale.
Aziraphale gave Crowley a tentative smile.
"Well," said Crowley, "this is bloody awkward."
Aziraphale chuckled. "It is rather."
"Pass the grapes?"
"Of course."
Crowley looked up into the tree and waved a hand impatiently at the nightingale. "Come on, then, hey?" The nightingale hastily smoothed down its feathers and resumed twittering. "Can't get good help these days," the demon muttered, popping a grape into his mouth.
"Don't listen to him," Aziraphale assured the bird, "you've been nothing but delightful."
Crowley chewed, swallowed, and sighed. "Sorry for bringing the mood down."
"No, no. You raised a valid concern, and I owe it to both of us to think about that before moving things forwards. I'm sorry for…" He laughed abruptly. "For going too fast."
Crowley gave a single bark of laughter.
"Ironic, yes?"
"Eh, not as much as you might think. I'm worried you'll go too fast for you."
Aziraphale nodded. "The excitement of freedom and all."
"Yeah. I don't mind the speed one way or another, I just don't want you pumping the brakes."
Aziraphale winced and put one hand to his chest and the other to his stomach. "An apt analogy. Oog."
Crowley smirked and sipped his tea.
"This… is still a date, though?" Aziraphale said hesitantly. "I mean, are we allowed to acknowledge that? There is some degree of courtship going on here?"
Crowley opened and closed his mouth a few times before turning to look out across the green. "Yeeeeeah, 'course it's a bloody date," he said, trying to sound dismissive.
"Oh, good. And… flirting is still on the table?"
"We don't have a table."
"On the blanket, then," retorted Aziraphale, taking this as a yes. "So, for example, if I said that your eyes are absolutely stunning…"
Crowley turned to let him see said eyes properly and ran one long finger around the rim of his teacup. "Hmm, do go on."
Aziraphale sighed happily. "Captivating. Like the finest honey. I was surprised you had them uncovered yesterday at the air base." Although it was spoken as a statement, his face and the angle of his head held the question.
Crowley grimaced. "Eh, Hastur broke my shades."
"You know, I really do not like him. Dreadful fellow."
"Strong words. Yeah, and after that there was the M25, and all my spares melted, and I didn't have any power to spare to make new ones while holding the car together, and… then I just had no more fucks to give, you know? All my fucks were elsewhere."
"Ah. And your fuck supply has since been replenished."
Crowley gaped at him. "Angel!" he said in tones of scandalized delight.
Aziraphale smiled and sipped his tea demurely. "So this isn't the start of a new trend? You haven't suddenly decided you don't need them?"
"Nah. One-time thing. Sorry to disappoint."
"No, no, quite all right. It makes it all the more special." The row of little creases along the angel's brow line made its appearance, like ripples emanating from the epicentre of thought. "Do you always wear them when you're visiting your head office?"
"Not likely to come up much anymore, but yeah, why?"
"I took them off; I hope that's okay. It seemed odd to leave them on when disrobing."
"Oh, yeah, no, that's fine," Crowley hastened to assure him. "Not a problem. I'd have more of an issue with the disrobing part, except it sounds like you actually managed to make that pretty badass."
"Well, one tries," Aziraphale said absently. His face had gone the way it did when he was mulling over a prophecy or solving the Celestial Observer crossword. "What about when you're home alone?"
Crowley paused with a grape halfway to his mouth. "What? Disrobing?"
"No, do you wear your sunglasses at home? Habitually."
"No, I…" He trailed off.
Aziraphale's own eyes began to shine, and his lip to wobble.
Crowley put the grape back down. He reached for his glasses, then withdrew his hand, looking suddenly lost.
Aziraphale pressed his lips together hard, as though to keep his face from splitting in two, and squeezed his eyes shut tight.
"Angel?"
"By my sword, Crowley," Aziraphale breathed, opening his eyes, "thou lovest me."
Crowley stared at him, unmoving, unblinking, for fully twelve seconds before replying through gritted teeth, "Do not swear, and eat it."
Now that his decision was made, Aziraphale was strangely calm. "I will swear by it that you love me; and I will make him eat it that says I love not you," he said in a tone that brooked no argument.
"Will you not eat your word?" The demon's voice was rough, his expression raw and desperate.
"With no sauce that can be devised to it." The words were full of tenderness, but even more, of determination. "I protest I love thee."
They held each other's gaze, quite literally breathless.
Crowley licked his lips, leaned forwards, and proclaimed feelingly: "I am not saying the next line."
Aziraphale laughed. "Wouldn't dream of asking. Good old Will."
"He knew what he was about," Crowley agreed. "Well."
"Well."
"That was a fast decision."
"Yes," Aziraphale said simply, "it was."
Crowley smirked. "By your sword, eh?"
"Yes, well, wherever it is."
The smirk turned sincere. "Good enough for me. Of course I love you, angel."
The nightingale stopped singing, uttered a single loud chirp**, and went to sleep.
Angel and demon stared up into the tree, both somewhat taken aback.
"I suppose it was up well past its bedtime," Aziraphale said finally.
"Is all the fallout going to take major emotional resolutions to deal with?" Crowley demanded. "Because I don't know how many more I have in me. That was exhausting."
Aziraphale chuckled. "It was rather draining, wasn't it?"
Crowley groaned loudly in confirmation, and flopped dramatically back onto the blanket with one arm over his eyes.
"My poor darling," Aziraphale said, his solicitous tone just pushing the edge of sarcasm. "Do you need a nap as well?"
"I might."
"I had been thinking that this seems like the time for that champagne, but if you're too tired…"
Crowley promptly rolled onto his side and resumed his customary lounge, looking relaxed, cheerful, and prepared to deny all allegations to the contrary.
Aziraphale tutted but could not help a small smile as he picked up the bottle once again and loosened the muselet. "Do sit up properly, Crowley. It's champagne, not Falernian."
"Maybe you should get down on my level for a change," Crowley retorted, crooking a finger. "Darling," he added, making it sound somehow indecent.
Aziraphale only responded with pursed lips and a "Hm," as he gave the bottle an expert twist.†† After pouring two careful half-full glasses, however, he proceeded to rearrange plates and containers to leave a stretch of clear space in front of Crowley. "Budge up, then," he ordered the surprised demon.
Crowley wriggled back to the edge of the blanket. Aziraphale set the flutes between them, along with the plate of grapes, and lay down somewhat gingerly parallel to the demon.
"Wasn't actually expecting you to go for it," remarked Crowley.
"I'm feeling daring lately."
"I should say so; you've been daring all over the place, with your just-one-questions and your rubber duck."
Aziraphale wiggled his shoulders at Crowley's admiring tone, then picked up his flute and considered. "To new beginnings," he suggested.
"To new beginnings," Crowley agreed, raising his own. He tinged it gently off Aziraphale's, but rather than drink, he extended his glass to the angel.
"Oh!" Aziraphale held his own champagne out for Crowley, and they attempted to drink from each other's glasses.
It went about as well as could be expected, which is to say, about half the wine went down their chins, soaking the blanket and Aziraphale's tie. Their resultant laughter sent champagne up Aziraphale's nose, making him yelp, and down Crowley's trachea, sending him into a coughing fit before he had a chance to suppress the reflex.
"Oh, blast. Here, allow me." Aziraphale reached over and laid a hand on the demon's throat, removing the misplaced liquid and soothing the irritation.
Crowley took a deep breath. "Thanks," he croaked.
"I swear, whosever idea it was to have the digestive and respiratory tracts intersect…" Aziraphale muttered, miracling away the rest of the mess.
"Sorry about all that. Drinking that way's supposed to be romantic."
"I daresay it takes practice. And perhaps a more upright posture."
Crowley made a noise of grudging agreement.
"Chin up, it was a lovely idea."
"Better if it'd worked."
"Perhaps we'll have better luck with solids," Aziraphale suggested, selecting a grape.
It is difficult, Crowley discovered, to maintain a proper sulk when your lover is hand-feeding you grapes. His lounge became even more luxurious, and he was considering miracling the peels off the whole bunch, when an even better idea occurred to him. He reached for the grapes, signaling that it was his turn to do the feeding, and pumped a tiny bit of power into one before pressing it to Aziraphale's lips.
Aziraphale bit down, and his eyes widened as the grape burst in his mouth with a fizz. "Did you just…?" he asked, the words muffled by grape solids and sparkling wine.
"Carbon dioxide's a byproduct of ethanol fermentation," Crowley said smugly. "Be harder not to make it fizzy."
Aziraphale swallowed. "I do believe that wins the prize for Most Frivolous Miracle," he teased, clearly not actually complaining.
"On the contrary," Crowley murmured, "I'd say it was absolutely essential."
The angel smiled in a way that made Crowley a bit fizzy on the inside as well. "Well, frivolous or not, it was terribly clever… Oh!" And he abruptly lapsed back into his crossword face.
"What's—"
"Shhh." Crowley snorted in indignation as Aziraphale held up an index finger. The angel murmured under his breath for a minute, then nodded in satisfaction and lowered his hand. "Got it!"
"Got what?"
"You, my dear, are a clever, coltish, callipygian colubrid."
Crowley's mouth opened and closed fruitlessly several times, while Aziraphale looked his most self-satisfied.
"I already said I love you, Aziraphale," Crowley finally managed, flopping onto his back again, "you don't have to seduce me like that!"
Aziraphale laughed merrily.
"Just… pass the meringues."
Aziraphale did so, and dolloped whipped cream into the bowls while Crowley viciously crumbled meringue into them. Strawberries were added, and Eton mess was achieved.
With his eyes uncovered and nothing more to hide, Crowley watched Aziraphale eat with naked fascination.
"What?" Aziraphale demanded, laughing. "Have I got cream on my nose now?"
"You've raised that to an art form, you have."
"What, eating pudding?"
"Appreciating it. It's, ah…" Crowley waved his spoon in the air. "You remember the theory that all art is a conversation? That the audience's experience is as much a part of the art as the work itself?"
"I remember you trying to spin it into an argument that all art is interactive, which certainly doesn't…"
"And you remember what you told me about how anything that doesn't only serve the ends of survival or reproduction is art?"
"Scott McCloud, Understanding Comics, 1993. One can certainly still debate the merits of…"
"The point is, food may be a matter of survival for mortals, but good food is also art. You said that. So enjoying the food must be part of the art, too. That's what you do."
Aziraphale looked like he couldn't decide whether to be embarrassed or pleased, and finally settled on quizzical. "When did you come up with this?"
"The Tate Modern restaurant, after the Rothko exhibition," Crowley admitted.
"Oh, that was good." Aziraphale closed his eyes in pleasure at the memory, then cracked one open to catch Crowley drinking in his expression.
Crowley winked. "Almost made up for the art, right?"
"I don't wish to insult it, I know you enjoyed it. I simply prefer paintings with a bit more… shape."
"Rectangle's a shape."
"You know perfectly well what I…"
"Yeah, I know. Anyway, I'll admit his later work doesn't exactly take long to absorb. But watching humans look at Rothko, that's fascinating."
"He does produce strong opinions, doesn't he?"
"I've seen fistfights break out."
Aziraphale chuckled, and took a very deliberate spoonful of mess.
Crowley hummed in admiration.
Aziraphale smiled, bashful but intensely pleased, his eyes flickering between Crowley and his bowl. He was using that smile a lot today.
"How will you make doubters eat it?" Crowley asked abruptly.
Aziraphale's expression turned to one of utter confusion. "The Eton mess?"
"Your sword. How're you supposed to make him eat it that says you love not me if you haven't got it?"
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "I will figure that out if and when it comes up."
"Fair enough." Crowley smirked. "You do know what Shakespeare meant when he said 'sword' most of the time?"
"I'm aware, yes."
"So what you're really saying is that haters can su—"
"I am aware."
"Not that that helps much."
"Will you please just eat your blasted pudding?"
All the food had been eaten. The remaining half-bottle of champagne (they were both, they found, extraordinarily happy to remain sober) had been carefully re-corked. All evidence suggested the picnic was at an end.
There was a bit of an awkward silence as neither of them made any move to pack up.
Aziraphale fidgeted. "So… what now?"
"You're asking me?"
"You did arrange all this."
Crowley looked scornful. "Like I've had the least idea what I was doing all afternoon."
Aziraphale laughed. "I suppose not. The picnic's finished, I… suppose you drive me home now?"
"Home. Right. Yeah." Crowley toyed with one arm of his sunglasses. "Which, uh… which home did you have in mind?"
"What?"
"Well, I… you know… when I said you could stay at mine… didn't really have a time limit in mind."
Aziraphale's eyes shone.
"I know you don't need to anymore, but…"
"Oh, my darling." Then, gently, "Not tonight, I think. Having the bookshop back, after… I would like to stay there tonight. And there's that inventory to do."
"Oh, yeah, of course!" Crowley was sincere, but obviously clamping down on disappointment. "Tell me if you find anything good, yeah?"
"Certainly, if you like. But, you know…" Aziraphale gave him a canny look. "…it'll go much faster with help."
Crowley's eyebrows shot up, and a slow smile creased his face. "That's a lie. It'll take three times as long, easy. I'm told I'm terribly distracting."
"I daresay. Still. Would you like to? Spend the night? You're welcome to the sofa, if you feel like sleeping. Or simply," he waved a hand at Crowley's length, "sprawling."
"I do enjoy a good sprawl," Crowley allowed, making a show of thinking it over.
Aziraphale gave him the quietly imploring look that always served him so well.
"Put the eyes away, angel," said Crowley, abandoning the act. "You couldn't keep me out."
"Oh, good. Now that I've got you, I… don't want to let you out of my sight just yet."
"Aziraphale. You've had me for a long time."
"I know. But…"
"Yeah. Same here."
A few seconds' stillness passed.
"I'm still in no hurry to get back, though."
"Did you have something else in mind?"
"Well, we did talk about getting out of the city, and here we are. Perhaps you could show me some of your old work."
It took Crowley a second to remember what they'd said the previous night. "Stargazing? Still a couple hours before that's an option, aren't there?"
"We could go for a nature walk?" Aziraphale suggested.
"A nature walk."
"Some of us are dressed for it," the angel said pointedly. "Come on, Crowley, you like plants. And there's a path right here. We can have a nice stroll until sundown."
Crowley gave a long-suffering sigh. "Yes, yes, all right." He gave a great stretch, and his footwear reconfigured itself into snakeskin hiking boots.
Now that it didn't signify the end of their date, Aziraphale happily bundled the plates and containers back into the hamper. "What did you have in mind for the rest of this birdseed, anyway?"
"Hitchcock reenactment."
"Ah." He continued packing, thoughtfully.
"What?" Crowley demanded, when the silence had reached the point of discomfort.
"Not that I am in any way encouraging this behavior, you understand, but… did you have a particular location in mind for these amateur dramatics?"
Crowley paused with his sunglasses halfway to his thoroughly incredulous face. "Not yet. Are you implying that you have a suggestion?"
"I may," Aziraphale said slowly, closing the hamper, "know the habitual location of a street-corner preacher who is prone to spout particularly hateful rhetoric. Far be it from me to suggest that anyone deserves to be mobbed by urban wildlife, but perhaps a small… sign might not go amiss…"
"Say no more," said Crowley, grinning madly. "A reverse Saint Francis, that what you had in mind?"
"Something along those lines, yes." They both stood and stretched. "It might help to discredit him, and perhaps even make him reconsider his stance on certain issues."
"If this is our first joint project, I like where it's heading. Leave it," he added, as Aziraphale made to pick up the hamper. "We'll want the blanket later anyway." He laid a subtle dread on the site, to ensure their things remained undisturbed, and they set off down the path. "You planning on having more ideas like this?"
"Not so much planning to have ideas…"
Crowley looked at him in awe. "You've got a list, haven't you?"
"Merely a series of observations."
"Observing who could use a good kick in the teeth."
"Corrective guidance."
"You say potato…"
During their walk, they hashed out a tentative plan for their self-employment.‡‡ Aziraphale was able to think of enough mortals deserving of either correction or encouragement to keep them busy for a decent trial period, and Crowley had a great deal of fun suggesting rewards and punishments that would be situationally appropriate or just plain entertaining. Many of them technically fell under Aziraphale's purview as a principality, which he considered all the better.
Later, they lay side by side on the blanket and Crowley pointed out various celestial bodies he'd had a hand in.
"It's a shame I didn't know you back then," said Aziraphale.
"Eh, probably for the best. Might've made things weird, meeting afterwards."
"Yes, because nothing about our relationship has ever been in any way weird."
Crowley laughed.
"I'm sorry it took us so long to get here. Truly I am."
"I do understand why. But… thanks. Or apology accepted. Or… hrgk… whatever, I appreciate it."
Aziraphale gave a small smile into the darkness. "Did your lot… get in your head… regarding me?"
Crowley made an "ehhhhhh" noise and lifted a hand to tip it back and forth: sort of. "It wasn't loving you I felt ashamed for, it was loving. At all, you know? You being an angel was just the icing on the cake."
"I think I see. You know, when I first felt your love, I thought I must be mistaken, or tried to convince myself that I was. That a demon couldn't love. Obviously that hypothesis didn't last long in the face of the evidence."
Crowley grunted. "Common misconception. Falling doesn't eliminate an angel's capacity for love, it twists it. Hate, obsession, jealousy, all that fun stuff. I just got untwisted a bit."
"Huh!" said Aziraphale, fascinated. "That does make more sense. I daresay I've developed the odd kink myself, over time."
Crowley snickered.
"Oh, will you… Not like that!" Aziraphale rolled slightly onto his left side so he could swat Crowley, who just laughed harder. "Honestly," mumbled the angel with a bit of a laugh himself, settling back down.
"Just remember, you wanted this," Crowley said smugly. "Swore by your sword, you did. No take-backs."
"What would you swear to me by?" Aziraphale asked, a slight teasing note in his voice. "The stars? Not that I need you to. But if I did."
"Nah, not by the stars. They're good work, I grant you, but sooner or later they burn out or go supernova, and then where are you? No, I think I'd swear to you by hydrogen."
Aziraphale's brow creased. "You're going to have to walk me through that one."
"Most abundant element in the universe, yeah? Main ingredient in stars. Three quarters of everything, hydrogen. They had us churning the stuff out, in the beginning. Whenever we weren't busy with something else. Like a woman with her spindle. Got some free time, having a bit of a natter, you're also making hydrogen. Something to do with your hands, yeah?"
"With you so far."
"That stuff is everywhere. It's the most obvious in the stars, of course, hard to miss a giant ball of plasma, but it is literally everywhere. Even in the blackest, emptiest void. It's spread out thin, but it's there. First physical substance in the universe, and it'll probably be the last. Building block of everything else. Not bad for a few quarks and an electron. So, yeah, that's what I'd swear by. If you needed me to."
They stared up at the stars and the vast seas of interstellar medium.
"Well," said the angel, "now I feel rather shown up."
Crowley laughed loudly. "Gonna make up the difference to me?"
Aziraphale giggled. "Come," he said grandly, "bid me do anything for thee."
"Drinks at that pub before we leave? It's your turn anyway."
"Now?"
"Mm. No rush."
Above them, the nightingale woke up, twittered a bit, and flew off.
Footnotes
*That money was no issue for either of them and never had been was beside the point. [return to story]
†Crowley, who had never planned a picnic before and could not rightly be said to be planning one now, but who knew very well indeed how to be a terrible customer, had simply gone striding into Fortnum & Mason, demanding picnic food, and terrorized a clerk until he had amassed a sufficient quantity. [return to story]
‡The bird, if either of them had noticed, was by now managing a surprisingly passable rendition of the love theme from Tchaikovsky's Romeo and Juliet and was getting extremely frustrated. If they didn't sort this out soon, it was going to have to attempt some Barry White covers. [return to story]
**Roughly translated, "Bleedin' finally." [return to story]
††Aziraphale could be relied upon to open a champagne bottle carefully, with a sigh rather than a pop. Crowley could be relied upon to shake the bottle before opening. [return to story]
‡‡Aziraphale called their new line of work poetic justice. Crowley called it instant karma. Aziraphale pointed out that this was the wrong religious framework entirely, and would Crowley please stop humming. [return to story]