Archive of Our Own

Something in Aziraphale had changed after Uz. Well, a lot of things had changed, actually. He’d gone from spotless—no, that business with the flaming sword didn’t count—to a liar. From seeing the demon Crawley as a threat to God’s Plan to regarding him warmly in memory. But most importantly, his stomach had gone from merely an organ his body had been made with to something… hungry. Ravenous.

He’d tried to resist. Really, he had. His resolve had lasted all of a week—a week in which the inner workings of his painfully human corporation had gnawed at themselves and rumbled impatiently—, until, during a simple blessing assignment, he’d strolled by a bazaar. 

The smells made his mouth water. He deviated from his path without meaning to. 

Immediately, he was assaulted by the sounds of merchants plying their wares, the people walking around him to trade for food and trinkets, the sights of everything the sellers had to offer. Plump dates and brightly coloured spices rested amongst roughspun weaves and warm-coloured clothing. Jugs of milk and sesame oil threatened to topple over at every corner. Aziraphale watched as a small group of lively young people gathered around one of the biggest stalls, poking at the ripe figs. 

His up-until-now-useless stomach grumbled pitifully. It was almost painful, the new feeling. Not for the first time since that fateful day in Uz a week ago, he spared a thought for the Serpent of Eden.

What did you do to me?

A melodic hum caught his attention, a woman setting a few strips of meat to dry over the tiny fire next to her stall. Aziraphale remembered the taste of meat, the greasy texture of it, the way it tore under his teeth and nearly dissolved on his tongue…

Surely it wouldn’t hurt if he tried something. Just a nibble, really. To blend in with all the humans around him that were doing the same. Surely it would be fine. 

(Is lying to oneself worse than lying to an Archangel?, he thought bitterly). 

He approached a stall. 

The man behind the counter was all too happy to steer him towards… well, everything. Pungent roasted mullets and sweet dates, handfuls of colourful lentils, even some goat, when Aziraphale had made it clear that coin wouldn’t be a problem. As the angel tried to finish up his payment—he’d taken the spiced goat meat and some dates—the man made one final bid. 

“You should try those,” he said, pointing at a basket of thin white slices. Aziraphale peered inside, curious. 

“What are they?”

The man’s brow furrowed in confusion at his question, but answered with the same solicitous smile, “Dried apples. The best you’ll see at the bazaar,” he added, conspiratorially. 

Aziraphale’s heart sank. He peered at the innocent-looking slices with newfound mistrust. 

“No, thank you,” he said, forcing a small smile onto his face. The goods he’d acquired suddenly felt a thousand times heavier in his hands; the merchant’s easy smile looked more like a mischievous, satisfied smirk. 

Angels can’t be tempted, can they? 

Aziraphale rather feared they could, and that he’d fallen hook, line and sinker for a demon’s wiles. 

He left the market in a hurry. 

Later that day, back in his lodgings, he carefully laid the food on the table, on plates that hadn’t been there until he’d wished for them. For a moment, he just stared at it, feeling as if he’d swallowed a stone.

Crawley didn’t hurt you, he reminded himself. He had his opportunity, and he let you go. And in any case, he isn’t here. 

It felt as if he were, though, citrine eyes boring into him, glinting in the darkness. A snake’s smile. 

You’re free to try the food.

He took a tiny bite out of a date. Nothing happened. No dark pit opened beneath him, no trumpets heralded the arrival of the Host. Children shrieked outside, as their parents called them back home. Life went on.  

Relief settled in first. And then the flavour hit him. 

It exploded on his tongue, sweet and syrupy. Aziraphale hummed, pleasantly surprised. It was nothing like meat. He took another bite. 

The guilt chipped away, bit by bit, as he finished up the food, delighting in the new flavours and textures. The wolfish hunger finally abated. And so, too, did Aziraphale’s qualms die down. The memory of Crawley’s dark, persuasive tone was replaced with the unexpected lenience he’d offered on that beach. 

I’m not gonna tell anybody. Are you?

No, he wasn’t. It wasn’t as if this was a huge moral wrong anyway, nevermind that it was born from a demon’s coaxing. Eating wasn’t considered sinful for humans, apart from the apple, long ago. He would simply steer clear of that fruit, for the symbolism it carried if nothing else, and everything would be fine. 

Yes. Absolutely fine. 

“So they’ve got me meddling with droughts, disease, volcanic eruptions… you know, the works.”

Aziraphale hummed disapprovingly, munching on some olives. He was walking through Mycenae with his… long-standing acquaintance, the demon Crawley. The infernal creature had been the one to seek him out, spotting him in the street and beelining for him. Aziraphale had tensed at the sight of the black-clad figure for all of three seconds before he’d registered the sincere grin on his adversary’s face.

“Hey, Aziraphale,” he’d greeted amiably. “Fancy a walk?”

So here they were, much to the angel’s anxiety. At first, he’d kept subtly glancing up, until Crawley had tutted and said, “Don’t you know by now? They rarely check.” One thing had led to another, and, gradually, Aziraphale had found himself relaxing as he and Crawley caught the other up to speed on their whereabouts during the last three centuries or so. It was such a casual, laid-back conversation they were having, that it didn’t even feel blasphemous. Aziraphale supposed he ought to be more worried about that.

“It’s not like I want to, either,” Crawley continued. “Do you know how hard it is to make a volcano erupt? But Hell’s dead set on this ‘Dark Ages’ thing, so…” He shrugged. “Gotta comply. What about you? Anything on that from your end?”

“Not really. I’ve heard of the Dark Ages, but I don’t have any direct orders to counteract them, so I guess it’s all part of the Plan.” He and Crawley turned a corner in synchrony, passing by one of the temples erected in the goddess Demeter’s name. Cautiously, Aziraphale asked, “Thera was your doing, then?”

“Thera?” Crawley looked puzzled. “No. That was a while back, no?” A few decades, yes. Aziraphale had been far from the island then, but he’d heard of the devastation the eruption had wrought. The humans had wondered at divine punishment. He’d wondered, too. “Unless your side was involved, I think it was just nature. It’s where Hell got the idea that more volcanoes going off are needed, really…”

Crawley trailed off. A few offerings had fallen off a supplicant’s bowl as they went up the temple’s steps, bouncing down to them. As the frustrated human went in, the demon bent to pick up the fruit that had rolled up to his sandals and polished it with his black chiton’s sleeve.

It was a small, misshapen apple, pale gold streaked with brushes of crimson. He tossed it up with a thoughtful hum. Aziraphale expected him to bite. Instead, Crawley turned to him.

“You want it?”

A sudden chill went up the angel’s spine, banishing the sun’s warmth from his body. It wasn’t the same. The apple Crawley had offered Eve had been red, luscious. He hadn’t even offered, really; he hadn’t had hands to do it with. Yet it was still close enough to make his throat constrict.

What was he doing, strolling with the Enemy as if he didn’t have better things to do? Such as… Patrolling, or something. Good was, after all, ever vigilant. 

He just hoped all the other agents of Good weren’t vigilating too hard in his direction at the moment. 

He smiled. It was tight. He could see its reflection on Crawley’s sunglasses. 

“No, thank you. You can have it.” Despite everything, he didn’t want to be impolite. He doubted Crawley had meant the gesture like that. The offer seemed genuine enough. And in any case, if Crawley wanted to damn him, the olives or anything else Aziraphale consumed on the daily would be enough evidence for the demon to spin in his favour; he was good at that. And yet, and yet, and yet… “I, um. Need to go. Loads of assignments to tend to, you understand. I’ll… see you around.”

It wasn’t a fond farewell, he told himself as he walked away, the back of his neck prickling with the knowledge that Crawley’s gaze fixed on him, merely a stating of fact. It was impossible that he wouldn’t see Crawley again. Earth was still in its early stages, and they both had roles to play. 

He just hoped that, when he did see the demon once more, the angel would be better at sticking to his.  

That didn’t happen. By the first century of the Roman Empire’s dominion, he’d let Crawley—no, Crowley, now, he should remember—tempt him to alcohol, on top of food (the Crucifixion had been hard on them both, Aziraphale reasoned. It was understandable that he’d lowered his defenses that night. He had no excuse for the amphorae he’d acquired after, though. And he was increasingly worried that the urge to find an excuse was less and less urgent each time). Worse than that: he didn’t know how, but he’d begun to see the demon less as the black pawn to his white one in the great cosmic game of chess¹, and more as a grey misfit piece—one that provided great entertainment and conversation. 

The point was, after having invited Crowley for lunch at Petronius’ a few days back, during their non-treasonous intel exchange, they’d found out they’d both be going to the same celebratory cena at an influential senator’s domus. They had different targets for their respective blessings and temptations, at least. Crowley had suggested that, since they’d both be in attendance, they could go together. He’d heard there would be high-quality mulsum, he’d said, and he wanted to see Aziraphale’s face when he tried it, just like the angel had made him try the oysters. He didn’t even sound malicious about it, just genuinely curious. 

Aziraphale didn’t know what was worse—that he was thinking of a demon as not malicious, or that he genuinely believed it. 

So, he’d caved in, and here they were, walking to the residence, strolling through a fragrant orchard full of ripe quinces and figs, and olives in bloom everywhere they looked. Even Crowley, picky as he was with plants, as Aziraphale was beginning to learn, hummed in approval. 

Work went by quickly. By the half-hour mark, when the servants were starting to bring out the gustatio, Aziraphale found himself seeking Crowley out in the corner the demon had commandeered for himself. Purely out of practicality, of course; the two divans around the demon were unoccupied, whereas if Aziraphale went to one of the other recliners he’d be surrounded by the very eager, very morally dubious Roman elite. At least with Crowley he knew what he was getting into—and, knowing the demon’s distaste for those of imperial persuasion, there was a high chance they’d be left alone. 

The hours passed by quickly. Far too quickly, in fact. It seemed they’d barely started their conversation when they’d already got through the first course of fig-stuffed boar, the dancers had left the spotlight to the poets, and it was time for dessert. Aziraphale swirled his glass of honeyed wine as he focused one ear on Crowley’s recounting of his latest misdeeds spreading discontent about Emperor Tiberius, and the other one on the lyrical spin on The Judgment of Paris. Everything felt too much, too indulgent. Not precisely bad, though. Not in the little corner he and Crowley had chosen for themselves—the other dark corners he didn’t want to look at too much. 

“Anyway,” Crowley was saying, languidly reclining on his lectus. “I’d say unrest is stirring sooner rather than later. My people want to ensure that bloke Caligula gets command next.” He wrinkled his nose. “It’s a shame for these people,” he nodded at the room in general. “They know how to party.”

His voice had the same nonchalant-yet-brittle quality to it that Aziraphale had heard at the tavern where he’d stumbled upon the demon a few days back. Before he could bring attention to it, however, a set of bowls was deposited at their table, and Crowley all-too-eagerly changed the topic.

“Well, they certainly didn’t skimp,” the demon whistled as he leaned close to the sweets. Figs, candied nuts, slices of hard cheeses dripping in honey. Aziraphale’s mouth watered, his eyes jumping from one delicacy to the next, until they fell on the centerpieces. Wrinkly and strikingly red, cored and stuffed with walnuts, smelling strongly of cinnamon, a show of luxury on their host’s part. They dripped in syrup, glistening so temptingly in the low light…

Aziraphale quickly grabbed a common, unadorned fig instead.

He wasn’t sure how he could tell, but Crowley’s eyes seemed to track the movement under his sunglasses.

“You’re going for the fig?” Crowley seemed confused. “Thousands of those outside this villa. I thought, with your sweet tooth…”

“Oh,” Aziraphale shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant and ignore the pang of hunger in his stomach at the sight of the exquisitely baked fruit. It was probably still warm... “It’s just I’m- quite full, after the roast and all.”

Crowley’s face had gone inscrutable. Aziraphale’s alarm spiked.

Demon, Serpent, tempter. I’m a fool–

“Are you sure? You know, they bring the cinnamon from the East. You probably won’t have an opportunity to taste it again soon…”

“I’m fine,” Aziraphale answered, sharply. Crowley immediately silenced. Guilt gnawed at Aziraphale’s insides, one of a different kind, now. He tried to remedy his blunder, “Tell me about this Caligula fellow you’re influencing…”

For a moment, he thought the demon would argue. But Crowley only stared a moment longer before he groaned, long-sufferingly, and flopped back down on his lectus. “Ugh. The things I’ve seen, Aziraphale…”

They continued talking well into the night, until the party was over and the only thing that remained of the scrumptious dessert were the apples cooling in their bowl.

Aziraphale dabbed the sweat from his brow, firmly sitting himself down onto the ground, his back to a sturdy old tree that shaded him from the harsh sunlight. At his side, Crowley tilted his head to smile sardonically at him. 

“Your lot’s in on this, too?”

Aziraphale winced. They hadn’t planned to meet here. He’d been on the far outskirts of the battle, observing without interference, as Heaven had told him to, when he’d spotted the black-clad figure up the hill and decided he could do with more stimulating conversation and less cries of the dying. 

“Apparently,” he said, trying to ignore the clashing of swords and neighing of horses down in the plain, “it will be good for this region in the long run. The Normans will hasten the end of slavery here, I’ve been told.”

Crowley shrugged. He was cradling a two-handled pottery mug with something fruity-and-alcoholic smelling inside. 

“Eh. My people are just glad there’s a skirmish or two. Conquest’s always good for business. Ruins a lot of lives.” He toasted to the far-away humans, drinking deeply from his mug. Aziraphale noted the liquid didn’t seem to diminish. Crowley’s eagerness to drink copiously this early in the day was a telltale marker that he wasn’t enjoying whatever job Hell had thrown his way. 

Curiosity won out. “What’s that?”

“Huh?” Crowley looked at his mug as if it was his first time seeing it. “‘S called cider. Something they drink.” He nodded to the Norman army down in the plain. “It’s nice. Sweet.” He passed the mug over distractedly. “You want some?”

Aziraphale grabbed it. It did look quite enticing, a warm, golden colour that reminded him of Crowley’s eyes for a fleeting moment. 

“What’s it made of?” he asked, as he brought the mug to his lips.

“Fermented apples.”

Aziraphale immediately brought the mug down, the drink barely brushing his lips. He didn’t sputter because he had dignity, but he certainly felt like doing so.

Crowley frowned at him. “What’s wrong?” he peered down at the mug. “Is there a bug?”

“No, no, no bug. It’s just,” Aziraphale passed the mug back to the demon as if it were a ticking bomb, “I remembered I shouldn’t be drinking. I’m supposed to be observing. Er. Them.” He gestured at the battle. “I can’t be distracted.”

Crowley looked even more confused at that.

“It’s got very low alcohol content, if that’s what you’re worried about. Plus, it’s not as if there’s much to watch,” he drawled. “They’ll go at it for a few hours until someone important is killed, then bam. We can report success back to Head Office.”

Aziraphale, heart still pounding at his almost blunder, turned his head to watch Crowley attentively. He’d grown comfortable with the demon in the past centuries. The more time passed, the more he doubted Crowley was out to get him. In fact, he could be disarmingly kind, on occasion. And yet this, this, still made him feel as small as when he’d seen him approach on that beach in Uz, thinking he was about to be dragged down to the darkest pits of Hell. His mind flooded with one ringing question. 

Is he trying to tempt me? 

And increasingly, he found there was a part of him that clamoured for attention amidst the doubt, that whispered a little louder each time, If he wanted to damn you, don’t you think he would have by now?

“Still, dear fellow,” Aziraphale said placidly, doing a stellar job out of hiding his anxiety. He’d had millennia of practice, after all. “I’d feel more comfortable if I was entirely alert to understand who is winning.”

For a moment, the only sound was the wind rustling the leaves of the tree above them. Then Crowley took the mug back and drank. 

“Suit yourself. You’re missing out.”

Aziraphale felt an unexpected pang of uncertainty at that. He couldn’t deny that Crowley was right, in a way. He’d been thinking about those apples back in the Roman villa for months after the fact. He’d never seen any preparation like it again, not in Rome and certainly not after the Empire fell. Now there was a new drink, common enough amongst the Normans, if Crowley was to be believed, that Aziraphale would have to look at and dream of tasting, without ever allowing it to enter his mouth. And all for what? Some silly hang-up he had on a piece of fruit?

“That’s three times now, angel,” Crowley said, softly. His glasses were fixed on the humans, but he might as well have been staring him down.

Aziraphale didn’t have to think too hard to know what he meant. Three times he’d refused apples in the demon’s presence. 

He’s counting.

That alone convinced him. There must be some significance to it for Crowley, too. He wasn’t going mad. He imagined it would be quite the feat, for the Serpent, to get an angel to sample the forbidden fruit.

Well, he refused to give him the satisfaction.

They watched the rest of the battle in silence. When it was over, Crowley got up, dusted his clothes, said, “See you soon,” and took his leave. Aziraphale was left in the company of an ancient tree, a retreating army, and an empty mug lying on the grass. 

“Are you afraid of me?”

They were sitting in a dark corner in one of Florence’s nicest taverns. Aziraphale couldn’t pinpoint the moment lunching with his supposed adversary had become ritual. Maybe because if he thought too much about it, he started spiralling, and then he wouldn’t touch any food for an amount of time that had, at the worst of these fits, gone on for a week. (Just the once. Nowadays the maximum was around a day and a half). 

He blinked, bringing his gaze up from the scrumptious roast on his plate. 

“What? Of course not,” he said, bewildered. “Why would I be afraid of you?”

Crowley straightened in his chair. 

“Oi, no need to say it like that, either. I’m plenty fearsome.”

Aziraphale smirked. 

“You tell yourself that, dear boy.”

“I am! That’s not the point, though. The point is…” Crowley nodded to the only plate on the table, Aziraphale’s. While intel-exchanging lunches had become commonplace, the demon rarely ate himself. He was more of a drinker. 

Aziraphale looked down then back up again, even more confused.

“What of it?”

“What of–? Look!” Crowley picked up the useless fork on his side of the table and poked at the angel’s food, earning himself a glare. “This.” He repeated, and did it again, pushing at… Ah. “The apples. You never eat them when you’re with me.”

Aziraphale delicately put his own fork down. His throat had closed up all of a sudden. 

“To be fair,” he said, lightly, his eyes flitting over the candles instead of Crowley’s face. “I also don’t eat them when I’m not with you.”

Crowley huffed. “That’s my point! You’ll eat anything else. Slimy sea creatures, fermented who-knows-what, even a bug, back when we were in– in— Don’t remember. But never apples.”

“Am I not allowed to dislike a fruit?” Aziraphale asked, icily. 

“Of course you are,” Crowley agreed, smooth. “If you’ve tried it. Have you?”

He couldn’t say why, but, suddenly, Aziraphale’s temper flared. 

“And why is it so important to you if I did?!” he snapped. “It’s be a real feather in your wing, I imagine, getting an angel to–“

He cut off. He’d said too much. And it was confirmed by the way Crowley immediately leaned forwards, long fingers crisping on the table. 

“Ooooh. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s what bothers you.” Crowley’s voice dripped poison. “You know there’s no Tree of Knowledge anymore, right, Aziraphale? It’s just a fruit. Why would I put any effort in getting you to eat it, when you already stuff yourself full of everything else?” He sneered. “Do you think it’s any more sinful than your tarts, or your crêpes, or the ox ribs, for that ma–“

Aziraphale stood up with a screech of his chair. Surprise flitted across Crowley’s features behind those detestable glasses, before it hardened into something else. The demon was clearly ready for a fight, to verbally spar like they had during countless other arguments, in which Aziraphale always had the last word, Crowley stormed off, and matters were settled as time passed.  

The angel drew himself tall. 

“I need to see to that issue with the Medicis,” he muttered. He was aiming for anger, but his voice was too weak and shaky for that. He set some coins on the table. “This should pay for my half.” He turned his gaze away. “Take care, Crowley.”

The demon deflated. 

“Aziraphale, wait. I’m–“

But he’d already left.

He didn’t make it far. He leaned against the wall outside, breathing heavily as if he’d run a marathon. Crowley’s words echoed in his ears. 

A thousand little transgressions. More, even. He’d eaten food made from earthly matter, and drank its influencing drinks, and enjoyed it all deeply. All born from Crowley’s first offer of meat so long ago. A single taste that he hadn’t stopped chasing since, in everything except apples, because he’d deluded himself that if he kept away from that single, marked symbol, then what he was doing wouldn’t be so wrong. A sacrifice of sorts. A penance. 

It wasn’t as if the other angels ignored what he was up to. They’d made remarks; they just hadn’t cared about it enough to seriously reprimand him. And Aziraphale had convinced himself it wasn’t that bad, then, that it was just a little eccentricity, that it was good, even, appreciating what the humans had to offer…

Would Heaven think it as harmless, Aziraphale thought, if they knew the Serpent of Eden is responsible for my little vice? 

He slid down the wall and sat on the cold cobblestones, burying his face in his hands. 

It was just like in Uz. He was a liar. He was tainted. There was something wrong with him, and if he hadn’t Fallen already it wasn’t in spite of Crowley’s efforts, but because of them. The fiend was more merciful than Aziraphale gave him credit for. He saw all of Aziraphale’s sins, even when the angel had deluded himself, yet let him stay on Earth all the same. But he’d been counting, hadn’t he? He’d taken note of Aziraphale’s sins for what they truly were, he wasn’t lying to himself…

When the soft, well-known footsteps of leather boots on stone approached him, Aziraphale didn’t look up, not even when he felt Crowley sit down next to him.

The sound of paper rustling. Something set at his side. 

“You left before dessert. I figured it would be a waste not to bring it to you, since you dragged me all the way here for their schiacciata alla Fiorentina.”

Aziraphale tensed. Crowley’s voice was soft, but he couldn’t help but see it as another glaring sign of his failures. Too eager, too craving, too much.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You can save it for later.” A sigh. “I was out of line back there. I’m sorry.”

Aziraphale slowly looked up from his hands. Crowley wasn’t looking at him, instead examining the opposite street. 

“You were right.”

Crowley shook his head. “I wasn’t. I made it sound like you enjoying yourself is bad. Like it’s a victory for me. A conquest.” He picked up a pebble, fiddling with it. “I thought you knew by now that I’m not trying to corrupt you.”

Aziraphale swallowed. 

“You’re a demon, Crowley.”

Crowley’s fiddling stopped for a moment before resuming. “I am. Which means I know what it is to Fall.” He stood up with a low groan. “I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”

Before Aziraphale could even begin to process that, however, Crowley was already speaking again, “You can think what you like, angel. Just don’t stop eating on my account. Your people know, anyway, so there’d be no point to it. It would only make you miserable—and that would be a win for Hell. That’s all I wanted to say.”

Oh. Crowley sounded so… dejected. Aziraphale opened his mouth to speak, to apologise, but his mind was still a mess. 

“Crowley, I– Will I… see you next week for the festival?”

In the darkness, he thought he caught a tiny smile. 

“See ya there, angel.”

Time went on. 

He and Crowley met up for the festival. They met for theatre, for music, for anything that caught their fancy, really. Florence was buried underneath the memories of a hundred, a few hundred, perhaps even a thousand other encounters.

Aziraphale indulged in food and drink again. Occasionally, the demon was the one to offer. He bought something from the costermongers down on the docks, a sweet treat before a showing of a moving picture, a novel snack he’d heard about. He knew Aziraphale’s tastes by heart, just as the angel learnt his.²

When it was cold out, it wasn’t unusual for Crowley to come by the shop with sly temptations of mulled wine. 

When it was hot, Aziraphale could trust their reconnaissance meetings in St. James’ Park would end at one of the ice cream trucks. 

A brief venture into a British-Bangladeshi restaurant had Crowley dying of laughter after getting Aziraphale to try Phaal curry. Not to mention that dark day they’d got drunk on absinthe.

One time, after Aziraphale had had a rough day, when Heaven’s barbs had dug in deeper than usual, the demon had showed up with a cup of hot peppermint cocoa.

And nothing he ever offered had any trace of apples in it.

It’s been so long, now, that the avoidance of the fruit was really just a habit, for Aziraphale, instead of something conscious. And the avoidance of Crowley’s wiles? Well…

“Angel!” 

Aziraphale looked up from his book, towards their garden, where Crowley had been spending most of his time since moving in together a few short weeks ago. 

“Yes, dear?”

“Come help me with something, will you?”

The angel set the book aside, groaning as he stood up. He glanced at the clock. Oh, it had been three hours since he’d sat down to read. That explained why he was feeling a bit peckish…

He dusted off his clothes as he stepped out into the garden. “What is it you need?”

The demon’s top half was hidden in the copse of the huge tree he kept at the back of their garden, balancing on his tiptoes on a rickety staircase, but his voice rang clear, “There’s a basket down there. Could you hold it up, please?”

Aziraphale did. He grabbed the basket up with one hand, the other stabilising the stairs in case Crowley went toppling down. It would be inconvenient if he were to discorporate from such a small fall, not to mention embarrassing. 

He felt something—several somethings—being dropped into the basket before Crowley hopped down. “Thanks, you can put it down now.”

The angel peered inside at the bright red, round fruit Crowley had been picking. 

His eyebrows shot up.

“It’s fruited quite quick.” In a great cosmic joke, the tree had already been there when they’d moved into the cottage, but it had been a shrivelled up, sad thing. Like every plant under the demon’s particular brand of care, it was now flourishing. 

“It has,” Crowley said, proudly, patting the trunk with a distinct air of menace. “Because it knows what’s good for it.” He flopped down onto the grass, patting the spot next to him for Aziraphale to join him, and grabbed one of the apples, biting into it with a joy he reserved for very few dishes, like devilled eggs or devil’s food cake.³ 

Aziraphale sat down next to him, their shoulders brushing. Bees buzzed lazily in the summer heat, over the flower beds Crowley was whipping into shape. Birds sang their harmonies as they fluttered over the tranquil South Downs. A fluffy nightingale trilled its call from the branches of the apple tree. 

Aziraphale rested his head on Crowley’s shoulder.

“You’re doing a great job out here.”

Crowley waved his hand dismissively. The apple core he held vanished into thin air. 

“I can’t get rid of the patch of wild mint in that corner” he grumbled, taking his sunglasses off and folding them into the pocket of his black shirt while he nodded in the indicated direction. “And I want to grow a few more plants there where it’s empty, just haven’t decided what yet. But it’s coming together.” His head rested on Aziraphale’s. “How was the book?”

“Oh, I haven’t finished it yet. But I think I’ll stop for a bite before I continue.”

Crowley smiled fondly, turning knowing, serpentine eyes the colour of molten honey towards him.

“Got peckish?”

Aziraphale smiled back. He shrugged. 

“You know me.”

The angel’s eyes fell to the apples. It wasn’t the decadent dessert the Roman senator had once displayed, but their smooth, red skin was indeed… tempting. 

Six thousand odd years, and he still didn’t know what an apple tasted like. 

He could feel Crowley’s gaze on him. Curious. Not unnerving. Never unnerving. Not anymore. 

He’d defied Heaven to save the world with this demon. Twice. He’d been best friends with him for—he could now, finally, admit to himself—millennia. He’d moved in with him, to a place of their own, where they crammed their life full of little human indulgences every day.

If he hadn’t Fallen already…

He took an apple. It didn’t weigh much. Aziraphale examined  it for a few moments. And, then, slowly, finally, he bit into it. 

It was crisp. It was fresh. It was less sweet than he’d thought, truth be told.

It was perfect. 

One glance at his side revealed the Serpent of Eden smiling wide at him. The fiend leaned in closer and dabbed at the juice dribbling down Aziraphale’s chin with his sleeve. 

“And…? What do you think?”

Aziraphale swallowed before answering. 

“It’s… good.”

“Underwhelming?” Crowley pulled his hand back, though he remained very close. 

“Surprising.” He took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. “I thought it’d be more…”

“Scandalous?”

“In a way.” He spun the half-eaten apple in his hand, the dapples of sunlight catching on its attractive, smooth skin. “More rich, maybe. But I quite like it.”

The demon smirked, watching attentively as Aziraphale finished up the apple. 

“So…” Crowley plucked the core from his hand, and  it suffered the same fate as his own before, “you’re not afraid of the forbidden fruit anymore?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. 

“I think I’ve committed much worse transgressions than nibbling on a bit of fruit, dear boy.”

“Well…” Crowley shifted, tilted his head, all languid, lazy grace. The wind made a soft hiss through the apple tree’s leaves. “I’m not gonna tell anybody,” he murmured. Softly. Mirth and something warmer shone in the depths of those eyes. “Are you?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer. He’d have been hard pressed to, busy as he was kissing his loving partner. 

Up on its branch, the nightingale fluffed up its feathers proudly and poured its little heart into song, though it was wasted on its otherwise preoccupied audience. 

Crowley’s lips, careful and tender and soft, tasted—as they always did—of safety. Of happiness. Of ‘our own side’ and ‘us’ and temptation that politely knocked on your door. And, beneath it all, of something Aziraphale had never been able to put his finger on until now. 

Beneath it all, Crowley tasted of fresh apples. 

Footnotes:

1. Humans hadn’t invented it yet, but Aziraphale knew what chess was. In the same way that he knew what a balloon was. Or a car. Or an ATM machine. In future years, he’d wonder at why God hadn’t seen fit to bestow him with the knowledge of upcoming wars and disasters, but thought the ATM machine critical. Return to text

2. Crowley, when he deigned to eat, had expensive tastes and a mighty sweet-tooth. It wasn’t all that surprising to Aziraphale, who’d once seen him down three fermented date-palm cocktails in a row. Return to text

3. Crowley, when he deigned to eat, also greatly appreciated irony. Return to text