Work Text:
Crowley had made the kilt from firmament, as he made all his clothes, although the tartan belonged to no earthly clan. Black crossed charcoal under narrow lines of scarlet. The colours shifted when he moved, darkening in the rain, and the pleats swung above mud-spattered knees.
Aziraphale had been looking at those knees for some time.
“See anything you like, angel?”
His gaze flew upwards. “I… was admiring the craftsmanship.”
“Admire all you like.” Crowley smoothed both hands over the tartan. Firmament followed his palms, tightening briefly across his thighs before settling again. “‘S a fine example of demonic tailoring.”
Aziraphale swallowed. Behind him, Culloden Moor stretched into rain and low cloud, the heather flattened beneath thousands of boots. Peat water filled the deeper ruts. Red-coated soldiers waited beyond the drifting smoke, while the Jacobite line gathered across the sodden ground.
“Aren’t your knees cold?” Aziraphale asked.
“They’re quite warm. Want to check yourself?”
“I… how do you mean?”
The first cannon spoke before Crowley could answer. Its force travelled through the earth and up his legs. Men shouted. A horse screamed somewhere beyond the government line, and Aziraphale’s face tightened.
They had spent the morning interfering. Aziraphale had blessed boots against the sucking mud and turned bullets aside. Crowley had dampened powder, snapped musket straps, and filled several officers with an urgent desire to retreat. Their miracles moved through the battle in small increments, saving whoever came within reach.
Small increments would never be enough.
The moor had become a confusion of wool, peat, and steel. Wind dragged powder smoke across the Jacobite line. A blue bonnet lay crushed beside a broken wheel, its owner lost in the murk.
“Fog’s coming,” Crowley said.
Aziraphale looked towards the cloud bank rolling down from the hills. “That is yours?”
“Most of it.”
The fog reached them in a pale surge. It swallowed the soldiers first, then the flags and trampled moor, until Crowley could see only Aziraphale. Cannon fire continued beyond the whiteness, muffled by distance.
“Clever,” Aziraphale said. “Heaven may notice, though.”
Crowley shrugged. “‘M sure they know I’m here anyway.”
They had always lived under observation, or the threat of it. Each meeting was strictly business, and every glance had to end sooner than Crowley wanted.
This one had lasted centuries.
Crowley stepped closer.
“What are you doing?” Aziraphale asked, though he stayed where he was.
Moisture jewelled his lashes. A curl had escaped beneath his hat, and Crowley wanted to touch it with an ache that felt older than Scotland. He raised one hand, giving Aziraphale time to refuse, then rested his fingers against the angel’s cheek.
“Something dangerous,” he said.
Fear moved through Aziraphale’s expression. Crowley knew its shape because he carried the same fear, sharpened by memories of sulphur and falling. Being caught would mean punishment for them both.
Aziraphale leaned into his hand.
Brave angel, Crowley thought, and he closed the distance to place his lips on Aziraphale’s.
The angel’s mouth was cool from the rain. Surprise held him still for a moment before his hands closed around Crowley’s coat, firmament bunching beneath his fingers. Then he kissed Crowley back, soft and hungry. His mouth slid and pressed against Crowley’s until the battlefield receded, leaving the world to contain only them. Their mingled breath and growing warmth.
Aziraphale tasted of rain and the faint sweetness of cocoa miracled before dawn.
Crowley had imagined triumph whenever he entertained the possibility of taking the angel. This felt closer to surrender, except Aziraphale surrendered too.
The fog shifted. A dark figure passed several yards away and vanished. They broke apart, breathing hard, Aziraphale still gripping Crowley’s clothes.
“We could be seen,” he whispered.
“We weren’t.”
“We could be punished.”
Crowley brushed his thumb over Aziraphale’s lower lip. “It was worth it.”
The angel’s eyes gleamed through the mist. “Crowley.”
“Angel.”
Aziraphale glanced towards the hidden armies, then pulled Crowley close by his miraculous black coat.
“I want this,” he murmured, and kissed him again.