Chapter Text
The weeks meandered on after two occult-correction, ethereal-beings had helped save the world from annihilation. And almost instantly the pair had, without discussion or explanation, begun orbiting around the other even more closely than they had for the last eleven years.
Had it been boredom? Was it the sudden lack of responsibilities? Could it have been the realization that they could relax, and not worry so much about the opposing sides that had brought them together in the first place? Was it simply the unspoken desire to be by each other's side?
It was all of those things, so deeply felt, yet never given credence: the verbal manifestation that danced on their tongues in so many other words, so many other ways, rather than the intensely honest words they felt forming in their hearts.
One such evening, while Crowley lounged unceremoniously across the old leather divan, his sunglasses long-forgotten on the coffee table, the Angel had gone off to fetch their now-customary aperitif.
This night, Aziraphale returned to the sitting area with a bucket of ice and-surprisingly-a bottle of white. As he placed a towel down, the ice rattled against chilled glass of the mystery bottle in the black metal bucket. The demon eyed him curiously with a lift of his brow.
"What've you got there, Angel?"
The principality furrowed his brow, setting the chilled wine glasses with a light scoff.
"Wine, dear boy, what else would it be?"
Crowley sat up and leaned over to get a closer look at the angel's offering.
"Of course it's wine," he retorted, rolling his eyes. "I meant that usually it's a red, or a port, or even the occasional scotch or brandy," he supplied in his defense, gesturing toward the bottle on ice before him. "S' not like you to go with a white, is all."
Understanding shown on Aziraphale's face, in agreeance with his companion's assessment.
"Ah, yes, well, while you had gone to Mayfair to check up on your plants, I headed to that little wine shop a few blocks over that's just opened." The blond fiddled with the corkscrew as he spoke. "And, well, they were sampling wines from all over the world, so, of course, I indulged." He removed the cork with the softest pop as he continued on and poured the glasses. "This particular white is called a Torrontes," the angel announced with an exaggerated roll of the 'R'. "It's from the Andes Mountains in Argentina...and this one happens to be made by a woman in a town over a mile above sea level!"
The demon's lips pursed in thought. "What these humans won't do for a bit of drink, eh?"
"Oh, but Crowley, dear, do try it!" Aziraphale exclaimed with a flourish. "It's quite refreshing!"
The angel nosed his glass and inhaled the scent before taking his first sip. He relished it with a smile. Crowley decided it was safe to follow suit.
With a tentative sniff, he caught a hint of something old and familiar. Fruit Trees. He took a sip and the flavors and sensations that bombarded him made him realize exactly why his counterpart loved it.
"Sunshine..." the demon uttered.
Aziraphale halted, blushing, unsure as to what or whom he was referring. "Err, um, what was that?"
"This wine quite literally taste like sunshine, angel. Like I should be lounging by the seaside in summer, or in a grassy field-"
"Under a tree, perhaps?"
"Precisely."
"Funny you should mention that, Crowley..." Aziraphale paused long enough for Crowley to give him a questioning arch of his brow.
"Wot?"
"Lounging in a grassy field under a tree, as it were."
Crowley started to get that antsy, "is-this-THAT-moment?" feeling, in which his heart never felt ready to confront the elephant in the room.
He slugged back the remainder of the contents of his glass, looking to calm his nerves. One hand gripped his glass, the other, the arm of the divan. Looking up at Aziraphale, he knew it was too late. The angel had sensed his panic and reached out to him.
A warm hand covered his own on the arm rest. And there was that look. The secret one his angel would bestow upon him occasionally which had, in recent days, become an almost daily occurrence. It melted him into a puddle of "Whatever you wish, Angel." And lately, he wondered if it would just become his permanent state of being. Not to mention, it also softened his demeanor and his affections tended to slip out through the cracks in his well-crafted mask in the form of glances, smiles, a casual touch, or in the tone of his voice.
Aziraphale knew precisely what he was doing. He could sense Crowley's internal battle, with love still winning out over all else. He patiently awaited the day that his demon would drop his defenses. But for now, he set his goals for "one-step-at-a-time." And in this case it would be taking a few more bottles of this wine and cashing in a long-awaited rain-check.
"My Dear Boy, perhaps you don't recall, but I had once mentioned going on a picnic together."
"1967, the night you went against your better judgment and gave me the holy water. How could I ever forget that moment, Angel?" That, along with the Angel's desperate words that echoed in his mind. Even now, it made his heart hesitate. "In my defense, I've taken you to the Ritz multiple times now."
"Indeed, and every time has been an absolute delight," he replied, giving Crowley's hand a squeeze. "But I've never been on a proper picnic before, and it just seems so romantic! When I tasted this wine the other day, I pictured you and I on a tea-time picnic, in the shade of a tree on a sunny day."
Crowley swallowed hard. The Angel had gone and said it...
"So, what do you think? Could we do that before it gets to chilly to do so? Perhaps we could drive out to Sussex or Hampshire? The Downs, the Seaside...unless you rather stay inland in the countryside..." The Angel rambled a bit while a demon attempted to wrap his mind around this picnic possibly being...'romantic'.
"Do you really mean that, Angel? You want me to take you on a romantic picnic?"
Aziraphale brushed his thumb over Crowley's knuckles, smiling at him in that "I'll adore you forever" sort of way.
"Of course, I have been waiting for over fifty years now, you know," he said coyly, his glance playful.
And in a sudden switch of gears, Crowley started planning it all out: he would have to get a basket, buy more of that wine, plan a little menu...which spiraled into desserts, flowers, some kind of present, or-Oh, Satan-a confession six millennia in the making? Did that mean he needed a new suit? When had his last hair cut been?
Trying to pull himself together, he managed to distract the angel by gesturing to him with his glass.
Aziraphale finally released the demon's hand, which was warm and clammy with his corporation's betrayal of his mental state, to pour him another, fuller glass.
"It's a date, then."
The both paused, realizing the double entendre that just fell from Crowley's lips.
The angel smiled enigmatically and raised his glass.
After looking at the app on his phone, he realized that tomorrow, a Wednesday, was the bookshops "early close day" and that it was in fact going to be a gorgeous, sunny twenty two degrees Celsius.
At the back of his mind, something told him Someone was watching and playing a little game, but he shut that down as quickly as he could. But that just meant Crowley needed to go. NOW. He needed to get his shit together and be the coolest, most romantic demon an angel could ever ask for. He stood, surprising the blond, who had finally say back to enjoy his wine.
"What's wrong, Crowley?"
"I need a haircut, Angel," he threw out there, it being one of the many parts of his brand new game plan.
"Your hair's fine, Crowley. It's always lovely," Aziraphale countered. "Are barbers even still open after 5 p.m.?"
Crowley grabbed his coat, turning for the door, attempting to cling to his excuse like a life preserver. "There's gotta be one that is."
Aziraphale stood and followed behind him.
"Crowley, please just...stop. You're panicking. I'd know that look anywhere. Tell me what is wrong, please."
"Tomorrow is apparently a miraculously perfect day. If I'm doing something, I'm doing it all the way. I'm doing it with style." Crowley gave a little flair of his hand. "And that means a haircut."
"Crowley, dear, I love your hair. It's perfectly fine," the angel says, a pout appearing on his lips (and the demon is paying close attention to those pouting lips). "Besides..." Aziraphale looks away, a blush dusting his cheeks prefacing his confession. "I always rather liked your long hair." Aziraphale reached up and, for the first time in their six thousand years on earth together, dared to reach up and touch Crowley's hair. He gently took a thick strand between his thumb and forefinger, delighting in its softness. "Always blazing in the daylight, like a radiant auburn sunset...I wish you hadn't cut it." He pondered aloud as he combed his hand through those fiery tresses. "But I know, it's been centuries since those days. I think back in the Elizabethan era was the last time you had such long hair." His touch vanished as suddenly as it had happened, burning little trails of sensation over his scalp, leaving Crowley in a daze.
The demon was shocked by that little confession. He had never realized the angel found it attractive. He remembered how hot it was having such long hair. Cutting it short in the days of the Roman Empire had been a weight off his shoulders-quite literally. But even in recent decades, he had started growing it long again. Long enough to put up and out of the way if necessary, just to change it up. If only he'd known...
"Well, you know me. Gotta keep with the times, keep up with the latest styles and whatnot...Besides, What about like the last couple decades? I had started growing out my hair. It was down at my shoulders." He said, feeling a little indignant.
"Yes, I thought you were going to keep growing it. Then you cut it again." Another pout began forming on the angel's plump (kissable) lips.
"Noted." That was about all the poor smitten demon could manage. It had been quite an unusual evening. In a matter of ten minutes, his whole world went topsy-turvy over a bottle of white wine.
And he was taking the angel on a romantic picnic tomorrow.
And Aziraphale thought his long hair was attractive.
"Angel," he said taking Aziraphale's hand in his. "Let me be off to take care of preparations for your picnic. Cancelling dinner tonight will be worth going on an outing that you have waited fifty years for, " he smiled, lifting the angel's hand. "I promise."
There was a brush of lips against pale knuckles, and the demon was out the door.
Aziraphale clutched the hand blessed by his kiss in the other against his chest where his heart pounded in his rib cage.
"Oh Lord, Bless his sweet, loving, passionate heart."
Little did the Angel realize-Someone was listening.