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The summer of 1921 was the hottest on record in the south of France.
Crowley slouched languidly atop a low stone wall, a line of gleaming red-black scales visible along the length of his throat and neck. It was hard not to be a little snake-like, basking in the sun.
The air shimmered with heat; it smelled of fresh-harvested hay and ripe fruit and sang with the low hum of insects drawn to sweetness. Rows and rows of grapevines, weighed down with burgeoning clusters of fat, blue-purple grapes, striped the gently rolling landscape all the way to the horizon, where a line of poplars stood, tall and golden and a little hazy from distance, straight out of an Impressionist painting. In the foreground was a large, shallow wooden basin, filled halfway with grapes, bursting with deep purple juice. And in the center of the basin stood a barefoot angel, stomping on the grapes with gleeful abandon. His feet and ankles were stained with sticky, bruise-dark juice, and splatters of it decorated his pale, plump calves like jewels. The fine, pale hairs dusting his forearms and the small, exposed sliver of chest at the open neckline of his linen shirt glistened, soft silver-gold in the sunlight. His trousers, rolled up to the knee, were a completely impractical white, but the grapes knew better than to stain them, even the tiniest bit.
"Nobody makes wine like this anymore, Angel. They've got all these machines now. Presses. You just turn a crank and … splat. Efficient. Ingenious."
"I enjoy the process. They did it this way in Rome."
"Seems messy."
Aziraphale paused in his trampling for a moment, a broad, joyful, open smile on his face, and held out his hand.
"You know, you could join me, if you like."
Crowley was not, he decided, necessarily opposed to getting messy. The wine stains were a good look anyway. Decadent. Tempting.
Besides, the afternoon was hot and the thought of cooling his feet was pleasant. Before he could second-guess himself, he swung himself into an approximately seated position, bent down, and removed his shoes[1]. He glared at his trousers and they obligingly rolled themselves up, despite being too tight to do so. He took Aziraphale's warm hand and allowed himself to be pulled up. The grapes squelched, cool and wet and slippery, between his toes, and a rich, fruity scent rose up as juice swirled up and splashed against his ankles. He took one tentative step forward, and then another. His toes brushed up against the side of Aziraphale's bare foot.
Aziraphale's mouth tasted like late-summer grapes: sun-warmed and sweet, promising a vintage beyond compare.
In all the years that he had dabbled in winemaking, Aziraphale had never deliberately used a miracle. It was not in the spirit of the exercise, after all. But vineyards that have been suffused with love – with care and respect and jolts of pure, undistilled affection – that was another thing altogether.
[1]Presumably.return to text