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The biggest assignment Crowley had been handed in decades, and so far it was going totally groovy, baby. He’d already managed to have the venue changed at the last minute, which had naturally led to a general increase in anxiety amongst both the event organizers and the tiny community that would now be subjected to it, not to mention allowing for the projected attendance to balloon well beyond anything manageable. It was going to be a disaster.
Crowley settled back against the Bentley’s windshield, his legs stretched out on the picnic blanket he’d thrown over the hood. He’d done all the real work in the preparation stage. Now that he was actually here, there wasn’t much to do but enjoy himself. His backseat was full of snacks and booze, he was surrounded by tens of thousands of mischievous humans, and Arlo Guthrie was on the stage. It didn’t get much better than this.
And then Arlo started singing Amazing Grace.
Crowley sat up so fast he slid right off the Bentley’s hood and landed in the grass with a thud. “What the—” He adjusted his glasses, settling them back on his nose, and stared at the stage in disbelief. Of all the songs he could have picked, he’d gone with that? Why in Satan’s name would—
And that’s when Crowley spotted him. One face in a sea of thousands, but the one that would always stick out to Crowley like a beacon against the void. Aziraphale.
It had been nearly two years since he’d seen the angel. Two years of throwing himself into work, criss-crossing the globe—anything to forget the words, “Too fast.” It was like Crowley had taken those words as some kind of challenge, filling himself up with caffeine and adrenaline, racing towards some unknowable destination. And now here he was, an ocean away from London, and the angel had the gall to show up. And then he realized.
Shit.
They’d done it again.
Crowley sighed, running a hand through his hair. He was suddenly glad for the new look. Aziraphale had always liked it long, and the braids were a nice touch. He tugged on the lapels of his black denim jacket, straightening his shoulders as he sauntered down the hill and into the crowd. He planned to appear behind the angel, catching him off guard, but nearly choked when he looked up to see Aziraphale with a cigarette that was absolutely not a cigarette halfway to his lips.
“Angel!” He cried out. “Don’t!”
Aziraphale turned around, a smile spreading across his face. “Crowley!”
He was beaming, his cheeks ruddy pink and practically glowing with an inner light. Fuck.
“Oh,” Aziraphale said, holding out the hand-rolled cigarette towards Crowley. “Would you like some? Or, there was a water pipe being passed around here somewhere, if you’d rather have it that way.” He shook his head, chuckling. “I’ve already had plenty. High as a kite, I am.”
Crowley slapped the blunt out of Aziraphale’s hand, stamping it under his heel. “A bong, angel. It’s called a bong. And no, I don’t want any. What are you doing here?” Before Aziraphale could answer, he turned, thrusting his arm toward the stage where Arlo was still crooning through his blessed set-ender. “Did you do that?”
Aziraphale shrugged, hugging his arms to his chest and grinning from ear to ear. “Possibly.”
“You—” Crowley frowned, looking Aziraphale up and down, taking in the playful twist of his shoulders; the sheepish grin. “Satan’s sake, angel,” he said. “You are high.”
Aziraphale giggled, his hands coming up to touch his face. “I really am. I may have overdone it.”
“You’re wasting your time, angel,” Crowley shrugged. “I’ve been working on this one for weeks. Anything you do is just gonna get cancelled out.”
Aziraphale’s face fell. “Do you mean to tell me that you’re here on a job, too?”
“Well,” Crowley growled. “I’m certainly not here for a good time.”
The song ended just then, and the crowd roared, people rising to their feet, shaking tambourines and clapping their hands together in a cacophony of sound as Guthrie left the stage. Crowley winced, putting his hands over his ears, and nodded toward the nearby hill where he’d parked the Bentley.
Aziraphale followed him through the crowd, positively dancing over the grass as they went. When they were finally out of the chaos and could hear themselves think again, he sighed, shrugging off his outer layer.
“It’s so warm here,” he said, tugging at the collar of his shirt. “I don’t know how they stand it.”
“They don’t insist on four layers of clothing, for one thing,” Crowley said, indicating his own outfit: a loose grey tank over black jeans. The denim jacket with the cut-off sleeves was the heaviest of his garments. “You’ve got to dress for the occasion, angel. It’s August.”
Aziraphale pursed his lips, draping his coat over one arm. “I am a creature of habit, Crowley,” he fussed. “You know this. Maybe you can go around changing your look willy-nilly, but I—” He trailed off, leaving Crowley to look up at him, curiously.
Too fast, the words came unbidden to his mind. Too much change, and too soon.
Well, it wasn’t as if he’d asked the angel here. He’d just shown up, unannounced. Uninvited. High.
“Yeah, I know,” Crowley said, grabbing the blanket off the car’s hood and spreading it out on the grass. He slumped down onto it, leaning against the front tire. “Look in the backseat for me, will you? There ought to be something drinkable in there.”
Aziraphale returned with the ice chest a moment later. He began pulling out bundles, bottles, and delicious smelling packages full of refreshments, laying them all out on the blanket around them. “I do like it, by the way,” he muttered, looking anywhere but Crowley’s face.
“What?” Crowley asked, digging a corkscrew out of the chest to open a bottle. He set a little plastic cup full of wine down in front of the angel, careful not to let it tip over.
“Your new look,” Aziraphale said, popping open a Tupperware container. “It’s nice.” Before Crowley could answer, the angel’s attention was drawn by the box of mini quiches now open on his lap. “Oh, my dear boy,” he marveled at them.
“Got the munchies now, have you?” Crowley teased, sipping his wine. “Serves you right.”
Aziraphale snacked on quiche while Crowley launched into a rant about all the unlikely musical acts who’d pulled out of the festival. He was particularly distraught over the absence of Led Zeppelin.
“The last minute venue change probably had something to do with it,” Aziraphale mused, helping himself to another glass of wine. “I wonder what caused that, anyway.”
Crowley stared into the bottom of his own plastic cup, then held it out toward Aziraphale. “Pour me another, while you’re at it.”
They sat there into the wee hours of the morning, listening to one act after another, until only one remained. By the time Joan Baez was halfway through her softly strumming guitar set, Crowley was fighting to keep his eyes open. He turned to say as much to Aziraphale, and found the angel staring at him.
The balmy summer night had grown quiet, and sweet guitar music floated light on the air. “Let me wrap you in my warm and tender love,” Joan crooned from the distant stage.
“What?” Crowley asked, frowning at Aziraphale.
The angel looked down at his hands, fidgeting. “I’m sorry.”
“What are you sorry for?”
The music went on. “I’ve loved you a long, long time. Darling, please say you’ll be mine…”
“Oh.” Aziraphale squirmed, sitting up straighter to tug on his waistcoat. “Don’t play stupid. You’ve never been very good at it.”
Crowley cleared his throat, leaning back onto his elbows and stretching his legs out in front of him. Joan carried on singing. “Let me wrap you in my warm and tender love…”
“You’ve been abroad for some time, yes?” Aziraphale continued. “Kept thinking I’d bump into you. But you’re always away, it seems.”
“Oh, I love you. Oh, so much. Come on. Bring me, your loving touch…”
Crowley reached for his wine glass, downing the last of it. “Yeah.” He shrugged. “Lotsa demonic stuff going on, ya know.”
“Let me wrap you in my warm and tender love…”
“Of course,” Aziraphale said quietly. “I understand. But, you didn’t have to stay away for so long.”
A beat passed, and Crowley contemplated pouring another cup of wine while the crowd clapped and cheered. From the looks of it, a lot of people had already fallen asleep, little cuddle piles of bodies strewn across the field below. Some were tucked inside tents, but most just laid out in the open, curled in each other’s arms.
“Just seemed easier,” he said finally.
Something moved in Crowley’s peripheral vision, and the sensation of warm lips pressing against his temple caught him off guard. When he turned to look, the angel was staring mournfully in his direction, like he hadn’t just fucking kissed him.
There was some deep, unknowable sorrow in Aziraphale’s eyes when he spoke again. “Was it? Easier?”
Crowley had no answer for that.
“It’s getting late,” Aziraphale said suddenly. “Aren’t you tired?”
Crowley blinked, having never felt less tired in his life.
Aziraphale shifted, sitting back against the Bentley’s fender, and held out a hand. “Come here.”
Seeing no reason to object, Crowley crawled across the blanket, leaning into the offered arm, and let Aziraphale guide him down by the shoulder. He rested his head on the angel’s lap, unable to ignore just how soft and yielding that pillowy thigh felt under his cheek. Just when he thought he was fine, Crowley felt Aziraphale’s hand on the back of his head, his fingers actually trailing through braids of hair.
“A-angel?” He stammered nervously.
“Yes, dear boy?”
“Aren’t you worried someone might… ah, notice?”
“There are half a million humans down there, Crowley. No one is paying us any attention.”
“That many?” Crowley raised his head, looking at the crowd again. Aziraphale was right—their numbers had grown in the time they’d been sitting here, watching. The angel gently pressed on Crowley’s head, easing him back down. “Rest, my dear.”
He lay there for a while, letting Aziraphale pet him while Joan sang through the last of her set. As the music faded away, Crowley was dimly aware of a dandelion in the grass next to his face being plucked by an angelic hand. “I never meant to push you away,” Aziraphale said, working the dandelion into one of Crowley’s braids. “You must know I wish things were different.”
Crowley couldn’t move; could barely breathe. “Me too, angel.”
“But, we’re here now,” Aziraphale said as he reached for another wildflower. “We’ve got plenty of food, plenty of wine, and three days of music to look forward to.”
“I thought you didn’t go in for modern music,” Crowley muttered, smiling against Aziraphale’s leg.
“I’ll survive,” Aziraphale said. “Now, do try and get some rest, won’t you?”
Crowley hummed, curling deeper into Aziraphale’s shared warmth. “Night, angel.”
“Good night, my dear.”
Crowley drifted off to the soothing guitar sounds and the feeling of warm, capable hands braiding flowers into his hair.
He was content.