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The day was warm and sunny, but not too warm as to cause uncomfortable sweating–and not too sunny as to cause eyes to squint against the brightness.
The city, however, had become stifling.
In a flurry of heat-soaked desperation Crowley had leapt off the couch, jacket long since abandoned, and vest and shirt hanging open down to the undershirt in an urgent– so far unfulfilled– hope of ventilation. He stalked over to Aziraphale who, as he so often did, was sitting calmly at his desk writing something in one journal or another.
Crowley planted himself in front of the desk, hands on his hips, acutely aware down to the atomic level of every drop of sweat trailing its way torturously down his neck and between his shoulder blades.
Aziraphale gave a faint sniff, and his pen continued its steady scratch across the page. Crowley narrowed his eyes and briefly entertained the notion of just simply closing the book, but that had not gone particularly well the last time–somewhere around 1893, if memory served.
Instead he contented himself with shifting from one foot to another and trying not to die of heatstroke.
How can an angel be immune to this heat? I’m a demon of Hell and I’m not immune to this heat?!
Another few minutes crawled by, each tick of the clock settling more heavily across Crowley's shoulders. Sweat trickled down his spine. The air sat like a thick blanket refusing to move.
With a furious hiss through gritted teeth, he gave up.
Reaching into the ethereal plane, he summoned his wings. Sleek midnight black feathers burst into existence behind him, filling the cramped bookshop, brushing the shelves as he stretched them to their fullest. He let out an almost indecent sigh of relief as they beat slowly against the stagnant air, stirring a deliciously cool breeze over his overheated skin.
The draft swept through the room, lifting loose papers from the desk. One fluttered across the open journal, settling squarely over the page Aziraphale had been writing on.
The pen’s scratching ceased.
With a fond patience tempered by enduring six thousand years of one particular demon’s theatrical antics, Aziraphale laid the pen neatly beside the journal and looked up over the rim of his spectacles.
“Good heavens Crowley, you look frightfully undone–do you need something?”
“Ngk–angel, I need to get out of here.” He stepped forward and held out his hand.
Without questioning he slipped his fingers into Crowley’s and rose, giving the smallest of nods and a faint smile at the corner of his mouth, almost hidden. The feather light touch of his hand against Crowley’s sent a shiver through him despite the oppressive heat. Aziraphale summoned his wings and with a flash of crystalline light they unfolded with practiced precision before folding neatly against his back mindful of the papers and precarious stacks of books around him.
Crowley’s breath caught.
Sunlight streamed through the window, setting every ivory feather aglow until they seemed almost incandescent. The same golden light caught in the soft curls framing his angel's smiling face, and for one impossible moment Crowley forgot entirely about the heat.
“Where shall we go?” the angel’s question snapped Crowley from his fascination, a wicked grin spreading across his face.
“Follow me… if you can keep up!” With that he tightened his grip on Aziraphale’s hand and shot out through the front door and up into the brilliant summer day, the angel laughing as he followed.
Crowley let out a triumphant howl as he beat his wings fiercely climbing high above the streets of SoHo–the sun still blazing but tempered by the wind that roared in his ears soothing something deep within his soul. He felt the angel behind him to his right, keeping pace admirably. Celestial physics being more of guidelines than actual rules meant in only mere minutes they found themselves looking over an endless, beautiful meadow of wildflowers dancing in a much cooler breeze.
Aziraphale drifted alongside him, smiling at the sprawling carpet of wildflowers stretching to the horizon. His cheeks were pink with sun and exertion, golden curls tousled by the wind, and he looked as though he'd been made for days like this.
“Do you feel better?” he ventured.
Crowley swallowed every clever remark that rose to his lips and simply stared at the angel before him, feeling an entirely different kind of heat begin to creep through his body.
"How—" He swallowed again, trying to gather his thoughts. "The heat—how do you not—"
The words failed him as he struggled to catch his breath.
With a delighted little laugh, Aziraphale dove toward the meadow, disappearing among the flowers. A minute later he reappeared with a handful of fuzzy dandelions, holding them out toward Crowley.
Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Weeds?”
Aziraphale chuckled. "Wish puffs."
He took one back, closed his eyes, and blew gently. The delicate seeds lifted in a cloud of tiny white stars, dancing on the breeze around them.
Crowley's heart skipped a beat.
It was ridiculous, really. After six thousand years, all it took was the sight of those soft lips pursed around the smallest breath to leave him utterly devoid of a single thought.
“Wish. Puffs…?”
“Yes, one summer centuries ago I made a wish–on a lark–it was a summer day hotter than this, and yeah–no more problems with the heat. You see you are a creature of heat—”
“M’kay–yeah yeah, I’ll give it a go.” Crowley selected a dandelion from the cluster and turned it over in his fingers, studying it with an expression of cautious curiosity. After a moment of dramatic consideration, he closed his eyes and blew gently.
“Did you make the wish?’
Crowley was about to make a snide remark when a cool sensation swept over his skin. It was like a breeze, yet softer—more intimate—as though gentle hands were smoothing away every trace of the oppressive heat until relief settled through every part of him. He exhaled softly as the tension drained from him.
"Hmm." He smiled despite himself. "Wish puffs."
Chuckling, he gathered the remaining dandelion heads, intending to toss them into the air.
Then he looked up.
Aziraphale was hovering only inches away. The eddies stirred by their wings tangled together, tousling the angel's pale curls into delightful disarray–the beauty of this uncharacteristic sight made something deep in Crowley's chest give a painful, yearning twist.
Without a word, Aziraphale slipped his hands lightly around Crowley's waist. The touch was tentative, almost shy, yet it sent Crowley's heart racing until it seemed to beat in time with the quickening rhythm of his wings. Before he could make sense of any of it, Aziraphale leaned forward and pressed his lips gently, but with quiet certainty, against Crowley's own.
Crowley leaned into the angel instinctively, the gentle kiss deepening with a sudden urgency born from centuries of wanting and wondering. Heat and longing flared through him once more and his hands found Aziraphale's arms where they held him. His heart hammered wildly in his chest, needing the reassurance of something real beneath his fingertips.
His angel tasted of sweetness, like honey and sunlight, and Crowley wanted to memorize every moment of it—to hold on forever. He found himself breathless, overwhelmed by the simple impossibility of finally having this.
Aziraphale drew back only slightly, just enough for their foreheads to rest together. Their wings shifted around them, brushing the air in slow, unsteady rhythms as they enclosed around them.
Then, barely above a whisper, the angel said, breathless and warm.
"I made a wish too."