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The angel’s heart fluttered at the sound of a familiar voice among the caupone’s merry crowd. It wasn’t an all-together unpleasant experience, the fluttering, but quite a sudden one.
All the taverns in all the cities in all of Creation, and the demon slithered into Aziraphale’s.
Well, not Aziraphale’s Aziraphale’s. More the tavern where he presently rented a room and stabled a horse he never used but kept quite happy.
Could it truly be his old acquaintance, just when he’d been so wishing for company? It seemed possible. He’d noticed that the two of them had a knack for it, the whole being in the same place at the same time. Normally, when they crossed paths, it felt like catastrophe was around every corner. A moment of anxiety spiked in the angel’s chest but then he calmed. No. Heaven would have given him ample warning if it was to be another Earth-shattering occurrence. No floods or plagues or the like.
Perhaps there was only a small amount of wiling at play on the demon’s part? Aziraphale was only using minor inspiration on his mission to influence the Emperor's nephew, nudging the boy Nero toward a love of music. If misery wasn’t imminent then… Then it couldn’t hurt to make sure his ears did not deceive him, could it?
Light and hopeful, Aziraphale stepped away from his lonely game of Terni Lapilli and followed his bright heart toward the sound and sense of his old friend.
Acquaintance.
And there was no mistaking the demon. All mourning black wrapped and hellfire haired, slouching towards inebriation, there could be no other. There never would be.
Oh gosh, oh yes. That’s definitely Crawley. Crowley! They’re Crowley now. Not Crawley. Definitely not Crawley. Don’t call them…
“Crawley?”
Oh, I...
“Crowley! Oh!” Aziraphale tittered, flustered by his blunder. “Fancy running into you here!”
It hadn’t even been a decade since they’d last crossed paths. Since that nasty business in Golgotha, Aziraphale thought somberly, remembering a reeling demon and several amphorae of terrible wine. Heaven was so oddly pleased when Aziraphale had reported back that he assumed Crowley had failed spectacularly at whatever had been their objective. Certainly Hell had been merciless in their review.
Maybe they let Crowley go. That’d be something, wouldn’t it?
Aziraphale eagerly sat on the stool beside Crowley. “Still a demon then?”
Crowley snapped a scowl his way. “What kind of a stupid question is that? ‘Still a demon?’ What else am I going to be? An aardvark?”
Their words struck out like the snake-shaped being they had once been but Aziraphale, unperturbed, simply miracled himself a cup of wine. Still a demon then, but no one had told the angel to keep an eye on any Hellish influences. Perhaps, with him doing the approaching for a change, they could just be... social.
Aziraphale raised his cup to Crowley’s own. “Salutaria!”
They toasted. If Aziraphale wasn’t paying attention, he wouldn’t have noticed the slight shift in Crowley’s slim shoulders, the loosening there, the breath exhaled to share a drink where they otherwise would have kept solitary company and called it fine.
But Aziraphale was paying attention. Rapt.
“In Rome long?”
“Just nipped in for a quick temptation,” Crowley said. “You?”
Let’s not talk of work. Not when I haven’t seen you in so long. How did seeing your face in this town make eight years feel like a lifetime? Aziraphale sipped his drink, washed down his eagerness. “I thought I’d try Petronius’s new restaurant. I hear he does remarkable things to oysters.”
The silver laurels on Crowley’s head caught the light as they dipped their head in thought. “I’ve never eaten an oyster.”
Aziraphale’s eyes sparked at the revelation. “Oh! Oh, let me tempt you to—”
Crowley pinned a look on him like he’d never seen before.
Was that a bit of scandal caught against the demon’s jaw? Aziraphale would take it and fly it high like a kite. He held back on going so far as winking as he said, just a bit coy, “Oh. No. That’s… That’s your job, isn’t it?”
Call me out, you old serpent. Let’s do this dance, shall we? I’m not very good at the steps, but for you? I would stumble a thousand times and be glad of it.
The warmth of Crowley’s smirk settled across Aziraphale’s cheeks. Spirits lifted and drink to their lips as well, Crowley’s rumble of a voice fluttered in the small space between them.
Aziraphale leaned in to hear.
“If I… happened to be going there…”
Yes?
“Well,” Crowley purred, “that’s not really a temptation on your part. Is it?”
“I don’t suppose it would be.”
“And if we happened to sit at the same couches, that’s nothing to write to Head Office about. Is it…?”
“Barely worth drafting a memo, I’d think.” Aziraphale finished his drink, just to show how disinterested he would be in the whole report. If anyone did ask, he could chalk it up to a well-timed thwarting.
“We’d be keeping an eye on each other. Mmyeah?” Crowley’s goldspun eyes snagged the angel’s over those charming dark glasses.
Aziraphale may have lit up the whole tavern with his delight. “What do you think of sea urchin? I bet they’ll have them. The moon being what it is.”
Crowley smiled, tight lipped against some amusement. They settled their mug on the counter, earning a sharp look from the barmaid. With a quick gesture, Aziraphale blessed the young woman—health and happiness, yes, yes—and whisked the demon away. They paused at the arched doorway, where Crowley lifted the pitch-black Greek chlamys from their tantalisingly exposed neck and shoulders to a more modest position covering their hair. Aziraphale’s eye caught the red, looping serpentine lines woven broadly at the edge of the linen. It went nicely with the silver brooch pinning their wrap, though he didn’t recognize the style.
“Shall we?”
“Lead on,” said Crowley.
Out into the January afternoon sun, the pair ventured with Aziraphale bubbling over about the menu, spilling his interests in hopes that Crowley was like a ready crust of bread. He set forth options on wine, of which he had become a bit of a connoisseur about those parts—oh, he had he let Crowley draw their own conclusions those eight years ago when they shared the amphorae they kept miracling up, miserable to match miserable, before Aziraphale had done exactly what he stopped himself from doing right then: touch. Reach out. Not to comfort through questions and tears and horror, but for the joy of it. Of seeing Crowley, the one face that remained steady and there across four millennia.
Aziraphale silently admonished himself: it was more than simple familiarity. Gabriel was familiar. Uriel was familiar. Sandalphon. None of them had ever inspired Aziraphale to seek them out. Quite the opposite, if he was being completely honest. Trips to Heaven were increasingly a bother; and when The Messenger arrived with divine orders, Aziraphale’s heart raced with no amount of fondness.
It was so different from what he felt around his should-be enemy. He hungered for every minute the other being would allow, every story he might find wedged beneath their fingernails. Tell me where you’ve been, who else you’ve dined with. Who has heard you laugh the loudest? Who broke open your smile? Tell me, have you cried since Jerusalem? Did you know my side didn’t mourn? ‘Stiff upper lip, Aziraphale’, they said. Imagine that.
However strange it was, Aziraphale was absolutely certain that if he mentioned his own struggles, the demon would listen. Unlike certain angels. Which was, well, all of them. Not a single member of any heavenly choir seemed to regard him as more than an oddity ever since he was admonished after Eden.
It had taken him several dozen centuries to settle on his own self-posed question, but Aziraphale knew with certainty by then that, if Someone offered him a chance at those first days all over again, he wouldn’t change any of it.
Certainly it didn’t hurt that Roman life had been especially advantageous to Aziraphale’s theory that the earth was brimming with goodness. All the mortals he worked with treated him pleasantly, seeming enamoured of his blond hair and easy smile. In turn, he adored their music and theatre. The shows of skill and strength were always a treat to behold. Naturally, he could have done without the public executions and that copper-tinged thirst that hung in the air deep into the nights around them.
Ah, but there were the parties! All glittering in the lamplight with feasts mounded on long wooden tables. And of course, there were the orgies. Hard to forget. Equally difficult to politely turn down, once a dinner party revealed itself to be as much about the pleasures of the flesh as they were of the plate. Aziraphale always did his very best to extricate himself from those evenings, but well… If he was going to be living among the humans, best to keep up appearances.
Not that he hadn’t met his fair share of celibate mortals over the millennia, by religion or choice or divine design. But there really was something to be said of experiencing all the wonders of humanity for himself. More and more, Aziraphale’s protests that he should be getting home became about plausible deniability over any angelic chastity.
Idly, Aziraphale wondered if Crowley had ever been to one, a Roman orgy? Seemed the sort of environment a demon might work well in. Encouraging lust and all that.
But they’re new in town. Probably not here for anything like that then, or they mightn’t have taken me up on dinner. Aziraphale would make mention of it later. Could recommend a nice group of artists who were always throwing the most debaucherously lovely affairs. He could even get Crowley an invitation if they wanted.
Aziraphale laughed at himself. He wanted to share so much with his old acquaintance, and yet when had they ever spent more than a few hours in each other’s company? Always some edict hung over their heads, calling them back, pulling them apart.
“You know,” Aziraphale said softly as he led Crowley toward the restaurant, hoping there might be a table with a good view, “this is the first time we’re not in any rush.”
“Hmm?”
“Do you… have somewhere to be?”
“Don’t suppose I do. You?”
He beamed as he said, “I am exactly where I need to be.”
The demon’s dark brows lifted, furrowed and unsure. Molten gold eyes poured over silver-edged glasses, casting against Aziraphale a moment too long, a fraction too deeply, before cooling once more.
The angel’s heart thrilled in his chest, the foolish thing. How do I make you look at me like that again?
But the moment had passed and Crowley was grousing. “Well. It’s going to be a mess around here soon enough, I’m sure.”
“Why would you say that?”
“The two of us? Here? Can’t be coincidence. I mean, somebody’s got to be setting up a big to do that they're not going to like.” Crowley gestured broadly at the throng of people.
Aziraphale took the opportunity to observe the chattering, rushing crowd. He smiled at the families, the friends, the courting couples. They were all so alive; it filled him to bursting.
To Crowley, still scowling at the mortals, Aziraphale explained, “Beyond one boy in particular, I’ve only been under a vague order this time. Generalised inspiration and the like, spreading goodwill, love, that sort of routine maintenance. You?”
“Nn… I…” They kept their gaze averted. “Nothing Good. That the restaurant up there, yeah?”
Aziraphale followed their gaze. “Oh yes, quite!”
Restaurants had become a fast favourite of the angel’s. He could try fascinating new foods from all over the world—or what the Romans considered the world—without ever leaving his post. And the chefs were always experimenting with every piece of meat and fruit and vegetable imaginable. As Crowley stepped in at his side, commanding in their regard for the crowded setting, he noted that what he’d been lacking was the right company.
“Sir. Uh, madam, uh,” said a young woman, stumbling over Crowley’s non-traditional mix of attire. “Folks. We’re full up tonight.”
Aziraphale gasped. “Goodness! Really?”
He peered past the young woman and tutted. It was absolutely packed. Tables overflowed with bread and wine and silver boats of delicacies, while men and women crowded in, near raucous. Of course: the Sementivae festival had brought in the tourists.
His shoulders dropped, all of the jubilance leached from him in an instant. “I’m so sorry, Crowley, dear. I shouldn’t have talked up this place as much as I did. I practically made you promises, and now I’ve no way to fulfil them.” He wrung his hands together and frantically ran through their options. “There are a few takeaway stalls that aren’t terrible if—”
“Youshouldaskagain.”
“Pardon?”
Crowley was pretending to inspect a series of small sculptures—patron deities protecting the building—as they whispered urgently through their teeth, “Ask them again.”
“What? No. I won’t demean myself over a few lost oysters.”
They craned their head toward the young woman, who was turning away a trio of hopeful patrons. “I’m telling you: you should ask again, Aziraphale.”
The angel rolled his eyes as Crowley snaked closer. “They are obviously booked solid—”
“Jussst…” Crowley flexed their hands, looking for something to grab and finding nothing. “Humour me, would you?”
Aziraphale’s lips set into a hard line. He studied Crowley, wondering what the demon would get out of this humiliation. Probably laugh about it with their demonic cohorts over the water cooler for a few decades. Fine. If that was the price for disappointing them, he would do as asked. But he needn’t do so happily.
In a dramatic huff, Aziraphale turned on his heel to the young woman. As he expected, she was unimpressed to see him again.
“Yes, hello. I know you said only a moment ago to my companion and I”—Aziraphale tossed a judging look at Crowley to let her know whose idea this was—“that there are no available couches, but… Might you look one more time? Please?”
The put-upon young woman turned to the dining space while Aziraphale watched Crowley for their reaction.
They were suppressing a smirk.
Well, of course they are. What demon wouldn’t enjoy watching an angel’s embarrassment?
Then Aziraphale heard the young lady behind him saying, “That’s… odd. That…”
His attention snapped to the words. Beyond her, in a more shadowed corner, several men were arguing and storming off from each other.
She shook her head. “Looks like the senators are popping off early. Table won’t be a minute.”
Aziraphale’s mouth dropped so that their heart didn’t. How many times did he look back to Crowley before he was finally able to whisper, “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Ehhgg. You would have been insufferable otherwise.”
“I would not!”
“I’ve already had a miserable enough time in this city without you pouting all night. Just take the seats, Aziraphale.”
With his lips twisted into a frown, he followed the young woman to the cleared couches and table. He ordered wine reflexively when prompted but kept an eye on his guest. Aziraphale never would have used a miracle like that on himself. He wasn’t sure how to feel about the demonic influence now settled over those unsuspecting men. They’d certainly been riled up quickly. But now he had an open table at the hottest dining establishment in the city.
Was Crowley being kind or mischievous? He watched as the demon scanned every other face in the room, once, twice.
They’re nervous, Aziraphale realised. “Are we, uh, being watched?”
They went to answer when the server showed up with wine and water.
“Such service,” Aziraphale offered tightly. “Thank you.”
He ordered the oysters—and the sea urchin, too, when he saw that they were in—then waited for the mortal to scurry off.
Crowley answered at last, “Seems clear.”
They both visibly relaxed in their little corner. It was not the table Aziraphale would have chosen, but he was glad for the lower light and how no one gave them a second thought, tucked away as they were. A secret in plain sight. An angel and a demon, dining at Petronius’s.
“This really is much better than if we’d ended up at one of the stalls,” Aziraphale said, chuckling at himself and cutting the wine with scoops of water. He lifted a glass to Crowley. “Thirsty?”
The serpent blinked. “Gasping for it, yes.”
Aziraphale happily poured the wine, a strong glass for each of them. They toasted a second time in one day.
Crowley barely took their eyes off Aziraphale when they didn’t have to. And, with the angel doing all of the ordering and thanking the mortals who bustled about, that meant Aziraphale spent most of the meal under that increasingly fond gaze.
When did this happen? Aziraphale wanted to ask in the lulls that never showed in their conversation. Are we friends? I hope you think so.
He relished explaining the oysters. Some, though not the ones at their table, came to the empire packed in snow and carted over the mountains from the far northern reaches.
“Albion,” Crowley filled in, sounding pleased with themself.
“What’s that?”
“I’ve been. You know, up north? For a time now. Albion they call it. Probably getting those oysters from the Isles.”
Aziraphale grinned. “And you’ve never thought to try them?”
The demon twirled their skinny bone fingers at the angel, encouraging him to continue, and sipped more of the sea dark wine.
Aziraphale had learned the fine art of eating oysters over dozens of dinner parties and took great care and joy in imparting that knowledge to Crowley. The tapping, the firm close of the living, the clacking of the dead—only one in their pile. The short blade meeting tight hinge, the dig and vibration against the razor-sharp shell. Twist it there, feel the pop, slide the blade to cut the meat.
Crowley watched Aziraphale demonstrate, wincing ever so slightly when the shell separated. “They’re still alive.”
“Only until they’re opened.”
“But you’re… killing them? You?”
“This is food, Crowley.”
The demon looked like they were committing the comment to memory, and who was to say they weren’t?
“They spoil very quickly otherwise,” Aziraphale added. “You can get sick.”
“You don’t get sick.”
“If you don’t want to eat them, you can just say so.”
That seemed to do the trick. Crowley motioned for the blade. “Give it here.”
It only took a few tries, and a blessing on Aziraphale’s part, but Crowley did not cut themself on the blade or the shell. The oyster popped open, revealing the saltlick brine.
“Very good,” Aziraphale said, indulgent. He waited as Crowley contemplated the creature about to be devoured. “You can drink the water first but then take the whole of the flesh in your mouth. Be sure to chew. The true flavour experience is in the chewing.”
“I’m n-not sure about that.” But then shaking fingers brought the oyster to parted lips and teeth. The juice trickled along the purple edges, spilling, until the demon caught it, tongue flicking. At last, the dainty oyster slipped and tilted and found its way home.
Aziraphale breathed in, waiting again.
Crowley made a show of chewing, smiling at the corners as they finished. They reached for the wine and took a deep swig. “There,” they said, softly. “Now I’ve eaten an oyster.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale said, caught on the way the demon’s throat looked as they swallowed. He blinked away whatever thoughts were about to surface for air. “Yes! Yes, so you have. What do you think?”
“Yeah, not bad. Salty. Green?”
Aziraphale nodded and went for his own half-shell to stay distracted from the thoughts he definitely was not having. “I’m so glad. Thank you for indulging in me. In indulging me. In eating. The oysters.”
“The oysters,” Crowley repeated, and downed the rest of their glass to fill another.
Aziraphale hid behind his oyster, chewing and swallowing, and barely remembering to enjoy it, hoping his cheeks were not actually on fire.
When the sea urchin arrived with bread and broth, Aziraphale contemplated just calling it a night then and there. Caught in Crowley’s gaze as he scraped the bread against the shell, getting at the mint and garlic, Aziraphale felt he was the one being eaten alive.
It was small bites: the turn of a lip at a joke, the flash of sun-yellow over smoky quartz, of amphora red curls unwinding. In earth tilling fingers playing with the edge of a clay glass. In laughter slipped through unrestrained before it was carefully wrapped back in the wool that keeps it cool over the mountains.
None of them, not oysters nor urchins nor angel, were eaten to satisfy anything other than taste and smell and sight. It was the experience that was key. It was the company they kept.
All the while, Aziraphale led the conversation. He had to. He’d choke and sputter if he didn’t. And wasn’t Crowley looking happiest when they were listening? They didn’t eat more than Aziraphale encouraged, and didn’t eat when Aziraphale wasn’t. They drank readily, as if hungry for the wine. And maybe they were. There could be many differences between an angel and a demon.
But Crowley certainly seemed to fill up on the conversation.
Kiss them.
“Ha ha.” Aziraphale coughed against his thought. “So you, uh, you’ve cut your hair.”
Crowley self-consciously reached to the shorn short back. The hair feathered at their long-fingered touch. “Yeah,” they drawled, “needed a change. You know. After recent events.”
“It’s quite fetching,” Aziraphale said. Then he gestured to one side of his own face, indicating the coiling serpent that forever whispered in Crowley’s ear. “Shows that off nicely, I’d say.”
Crowley stammered, turned away, shrugged, couldn’t seem to decide what to do next, and finally settled on drinking more.
There were still several oysters waiting to meet their end. Aziraphale pointed. “You didn’t like them?”
“They’re fine.” There came a sad turn of their lips and a long gulp of the dwindling wine.
“If you’re not partial to the oysters, there’s always snails on the menu.”
“Snails?”
“Mm, oh, yes. Fattened on milk and bay leaves and… Ah, but I do keep assuming your tastes . I apologise. Do you like snails?” Do you remember how they’d make dye from them? Tyrian purple, like the night sky just around dusk when the stars are peeking out. You would look lovely in it. Luminous.
Crowley was smirking again. “I’ve been known to enjoy snails. When I have them.”
The delight beat against Aziraphale’s breastbone. “Ah, excellent! Shall we order some then?”
“The oysters are fine, Aziraphale.” Crowley laughed, softened by wine and conversation. “Really.”
“But you’re hardly eating.”
The clay cup went up, another deep sip. The wine stained their lips. Aziraphale could not look away as Crowley said, “I hardly eat.”
It was probably the alcohol talking, but those sounded like the saddest words he’d ever heard. He couldn’t press for more, though. Instead, Aziraphale gestured to the shells with their briny secrets tantalisingly hidden. “You don’t mind then, if…?”
Crowley sighed, content. “All yours.”
“So you’ve been north?”
In the space Aziraphale carved out, shucking the remaining oysters and coaxing the silky meat from the deep scoop of their shells, Crowley filled in with words of their own at last.
“The Isles,” Crowley said, reverent. “I gotta say, being on the outskirts of the so-called civilised world? Highly recommend it.”
“Isn’t it cold though?” He placed each shell down-turned on the mountain-chipped ice, which was mostly water by that point in the meal. How many corners of the world must have folded inward upon themselves to gather us here?
“Mm, well, yeah? But it’s... It’s nice to warm up. And at least you can! Too hot here. Too crowded.” The demon shook their head at the slowly thinning crowd in the high-class restaurant. “Not much can be done here. I mean, just look at it?”
“I like Rome.”
“You say that now.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“No, no, if you haven’t run up with its seedier underbelly, far be it from me to pull back the veil.”
Aziraphale pointedly licked along the edge of his current oyster’s shell, glaring.
“Nngg… Anyway! I’m heading back there when I’m done. You could, I don’t know, look me up. If you’re in the area.”
“If I’m in the area…?”
“If you wanted to… you know, make a better show of… good deeds and all that. Lots of potential there. Plenty of, uh, influences to be made. On humanity.”
“I very much doubt that,” Aziraphale said primly. “Rome is the height of the modern world. I’m quite happy here, thank you.”
Crowley shook their head, though it was clear they were not upset with Aziraphale. “Well, it’s certainly the height of something. Head Office dragged me out of my n-nice little house very sssuddenly and said they wanted me in Rome. To tempt an… an emperor of all people.”
“Yes, you mentioned,” Aziraphale said, very carefully. “Caligula.”
Crowley groaned. It was a wreck of a sound. “Frankly, he doesn’t actually need any tempting to be appalling,” Crowley said between running their fingers over their face. “Going to report it back to Head Office as a flaming success.”
Aziraphale decided then that he wouldn’t recommend the parties he was thinking of earlier. Nor would he assume those get-togethers were nearly so excessive in comparison. Anything that could leave a demon reacting like that? Must have been well and truly awful.
Kiss them.
“The bill! Yes. I’ll get the bill. And what do you say to another jug of wine while I’m at it? We can take your very delicate conversation about the emperor out of earshot from anyone you might not want hearing it, hmm?”
Crowley waved at him, lost in whatever tragically uncouth memory had thrown them off while Aziraphale got the attention of one of the employees.
“We’ll take the wine with us, and the bill if you could be so kind.”
The man glanced between the two and then said. “But you’ve already paid?”
“Oh.” Aziraphale reclined on the couch. “Yes, of course. Silly me. Must have forgotten. Quite the vintage you have here!”
The server left to get an amphora for them—wondering if they really should be having it at all—and Aziraphale toed at Crowley’s leg.
When the demon leered up at last, he said, “You didn’t have to do that.”
Kiss them.
They sneered. “Well, don’t complain about it.”
The insistent, thrumming thought of kissing Crowley was more than Aziraphale could handle as it stuck in his belly. They walked through the city streets with the water-cut wine, passing it between each other, and the angel let his companion rant about the scene they had been forced to work through. He nodded where appropriate, looked scandalised at others. He did not let his neatly manicured fingers linger as they brushed across the tender shoots of the demon’s own. He filled their mouths with the drink instead and led Crowley back to his rooms at the caupone.
Aziraphale lit the lamps in the room with a quick miracle. Crowley draped across the nearest piece of furniture—the straw-stuffed bed with its layers of wool blankets, the only place big enough for two—and the nearby wall. When the demon reached toward the wine, Aziraphale sat beside them.
He watched them drink, waiting. For the wine to be gone. For them to feel better for having vented.
“Here,” Crowley said and passed the amphora back.
Aziraphale regarded it, took the jug, and set it aside. A moment later, Crowley tossed the silver laurel from their crown, skipping it across the floor with a clatter and clink.
Kiss them…
Aziraphale turned back, ready to confess.
But Crowley was there kissing him instead.
Wait…
He was kissing Crowley. His lips parting and tongue searching. Finding the taste of them together, the soft gentleness of starving.
What is…
Crowley pulled him closer. Aziraphale dragged them onto his lap.
What is going on?
Aziraphale’s head fell back in the moment, trying to catch his breath as Crowley’s mouth moved to his cheek.
“Crowley,” he whispered, half-gasping. Aziraphale shut his eyes to the warm heat of a slightly forked tongue lavishing along his jawline. He could feel the bitter wine from both their tongues, the salt from the ocean of time from whence they’d washed ashore.
“Angel…”
A simple word, a prayer. And just like that! It cut through the haze of yearning. Aziraphale’s eyes opened. What would they do to you if they heard? I mustn’t let them.
“Crowley?”
When they didn’t stop kissing his neck—oh don’t stop, please, never stop—Aziraphale hovered a hand between them. Crowley grabbed that hand in theirs, pressed his fingers to their chest, the sweet beating heart of them.
Firmer, and hating to, he said again, “Crowley.”
Crowley stopped. Everything about them stopped. They damn near froze in Aziraphale’s lap. They pulled back enough from Aziraphale that he could see those golden eyes over the tops of their dark glasses, wide but controlled. The past few moments slammed into them then with audible force.
“Shouldn’t have… I…” Crowley recoiled sharply. They became a whipcord of terror, guilt, shame. Their eyes flickered to Aziraphale’s hand like he might… like he might hurt them.
Oh Lord, no, I could never! “Crowley,” Aziraphale said, even more gently, “my dear, you’re drunk.”
Crowley exhaled. They weren't drunk. They had been, and they’d sobered up somewhere. “Nn-Must be. Can’t believe I… Ruined a perfectly good night, sss’what I did. I’ll…”
Crowley moved to stand but found it hard to get their footing. Anywhere they could go required touching Aziraphale and oh, Aziraphale wanted them to stop worrying and touch him but he’d just ended everything and...
“Shouldn’t have done that. Tempting,” they said, dismissing whatever emotions were streaked on both of their faces. “I’ll sssee myself out, yeah?”
“Absolutely not.” Aziraphale rested a hand on Crowley’s shoulder as the demon—I am an angel, they are a demon! What am I doing?—tried to move past him.
Crowley looked ready to shake apart from the hope mingling with their fear. They were still so scared, so scared of Aziraphale, he could see that. His heart might shatter if he had to keep seeing that look on his friend’s face.
Aziraphale moved to touch their hand and they flinched. But he took it, needing to prove it to both of them that he was not going to hurt anyone.
He forgot there were other ways to hurt.
Aziraphale laughed despite himself. “The oysters,” he said, even though he knew it had absolutely fuck all to do with the oysters.
“Wut?” Crowley looked at their hands touching.
“Aphrodisiac,” Aziraphale added quickly. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think you—we!—would be, uh, susceptible. To the effects. Of the oysters.”
“Oh. Right.” They blinked and looked away. There was some measure of gratitude as they breathed and swallowed, as though Aziraphale had done some endless mercy. They took their hand away to push up their glasses along the curve of their nose, barely concealing their eyes much further but it seemed to help. “Must’ve been the, yeah, the oysters.”
I’m being terrible. Why are we lying about this? Why must I be terrible to you?
Crowley attempted to lighten the moment with, “Sh-should’ve had the snails, I guess, huh?”
You’re still being so kind to me. How do you do that? Why?
“A-Aziraphale?” Crowley tilted their head to peer over the silver edges of their glasses. “You all right?”
He wiped delicately at his eyes, the stinging water of him pooled there. “That was cruel of me.”
Crowley shook their head. “Oysters, ‘member?”
“No. No, that’s not what—” Aziraphale stepped away from the bed, digging his fingers into the white fabric draped at his sides.
You think you’re the only one who is unforgivable, don’t you? If I go against the Plan, I won’t be forgiven. Caring has yet to be unforgivable, do you see? Could caring for you be a sin? I don’t believe it could, but it’s never been mine to decide. To question. I have so many questions when you’re around. Oh, to Hell and back.
Aziraphale miracled the evening’s drink from his corporation. The world swam but he steadied on. He remained standing, staring.
They’d barely kissed and somehow Crowley looked half ravished.
“Listen, I understand if you’d rather I didn’t. But…” Aziraphale took a shaky breath. “Might I be given a chance to correct this? Please?”
“H-how exactly?” He’d blanched Crowley. Dropped them into the boiling water.
Aziraphale reached again and this time Crowley didn’t flinch. It was something. He took their hand. “Crowley, would it be all right if I kissed you?”
Dunked in the ice bath. Chilled. “But you’d…”
Crowley cut themselves off sharp, the blade between their hinge threatening to pry them open.
“I won’t,” Aziraphale said, not sure if they were each having the same thoughts but needing to assure Crowley all the same. It was clear neither of them could stand to think the words let alone say them aloud. So Aziraphale said again, “I won’t.”
All Crowley could manage was to swallow down the salt crystallised in their throat. Lips parted, their stony shell peeking open, tongue glancing to dampen their driest edges. Inviting.
It’s not a temptation, Aziraphale thought firmly, if I happen to meet you there.
He knelt on the bed. Crowley sat away from the wall to join him, steadying a hand beside his.
Just a kiss, gentle, just a taste. A promise.
Crowley shut their eyes and leaned into Aziraphale’s hand on their shoulder. A soft sound trickled through their throat and Aziraphale felt when their knees buckled. He deepened their kiss, the touch of warm meeting warm, nothing of Heaven or Hell between them there on that small Roman bed.
I cannot be satisfied by this small taste of you. If I’m not terribly careful, I could devour you whole, drink you from existence. I must savour you. Must be satisfied that we are sharing this together.
He was loath to sit back but he had to. Crowley stared at him like the holy creature he was and Aziraphale couldn’t stand it. He rested his forehead against his friend’s.
“Thank you.” You’re still alive. I’ve got you.
Crowley nodded, wordless. Choked. A hand covered their mouth.
I swallowed your words, didn’t I? No worries. I shall keep them here, beneath my tongue, for when we can speak them together.
Hesitantly, Aziraphale pulled them down against the bed. To lay there, wrapped in the heavy blanket together. Crowley sighed against his neck and they were not flinching or afraid.
It was going to be alright.
Against the undone curls of Crowley’s hair, Aziraphale whispered, “If you’re still here tomorrow, we could go to Palatine Hill for the games. If you’d like? I hear the fourth day is the most splendid.”
“Sure, angel,” Crowley said, sounding exhausted but content. “N-no harm in that. Games.”
“Good. I hope you’ll be here in the morning then.”
And they were.