Chapter Text
Crowley silently watched Aziraphale indulging in the ridiculously colourful, little macarons.
This was their first meeting after the dinner at the Ritz, right after Armageddon’t and their respective superiors’ attempts to kill them. During dessert, they had agreed to meet at Aziraphale’s bookshop the next weekend and then decide where to go from there.
They had prevailed against all odds, had prevented world’s end in a pretty flashy showdown - and so, after having spent millennia at a safe social distance (so to say), Crowley allowed himself a tiny bit of hope that these events might have been enough to finally alleviate their relationship to a higher level. Or rather, a lower one. Ground level, to be exact, and preferably horizontal.
He knew, of course, that Aziraphale loved him, alright. And the angel was certainly aware how much he meant to Crowley. The demon only wished this love would become a little more substantial than that. And if the past few months hadn’t glued their fates together, then he really couldn’t think of anything more spectacular which could.
Tonight, on his way to Soho, he had zoomed past a little French bakery. When he had glimpsed the huge pile of macarons on display, he had slammed on the brakes of his trusty Bentley and bought a whole box, although Crowley really had no taste for food. To him, it was just a waste of time and good money that was better invested in other things, the only exception being alcohol.
But he liked Aziraphale and the way his eyes lit up whenever he spotted fancy food. The angel enjoyed gross matter to a degree that could almost be called (and Crowley grinned inwardly at that) sinful. Hence, it was a purely selfish thing if he stopped and bought his friend a treat - otherwise, of course, it would be utterly undue for a demon like him.
Right now, Aziraphale picked up another macaron in blinding pink, lifted it to eye level and gazed at it with the same rapture with which the Almighty must have gazed upon Adam when She first inspected Her finished prototype.
With a blissful smile and the tiniest sigh of reverence, Aziraphale closed his eyes and inhaled the sickly sweet, artificial aroma that was supposed to be strawberry, as if it were the finest fragrance he’d ever smelled.
Even Crowley, sitting at least five feet away, caught a whiff of the pungent smell, and for a second his only thought was: the chemist who had engineered this had never eaten a real strawberry and had to go purely on imagination. Which he obviously didn’t have much of.
Aziraphale opened his mouth, eyes still closed, and sank his pristine white teeth into the saccharine bomb. His face – no, his whole being – radiated a beatific expression as he chewed slowly and with relish.
Immediately, Crowley’s mind turned away from uncreative scientists and rushed back to what he had been contemplating earlier: how goddamn (pardon me, in case You’re listening) hot the angel looked when he did that.
Aziraphale finished the macaron, hummed contentedly, swallowed and began to lick any remnants of the buttercream filling neatly from his fingers. From. Each. Single. One.
Crowley held his breath but otherwise kept perfectly still, although his trousers were beginning to feel distinctly too tight. On the one hand, he did not want to ruin this perfect evening by suggesting something he knew the angel would be shocked by; on the other, it bugged him immensely that he couldn’t freely express his thoughts. Self-restraint and demureness were not exactly his strong points.
But the most annoying part about the whole thing was that the angel didn’t even seem to notice what he was doing to him. Had Aziraphale been a demon, Crowley would at least have known that he was very likely being tempted on purpose.
For demons, sex was a perfectly normal and acceptable tool. And although he rarely got involved with humans (in fact, he had only done so twice in the last 6000 years, both times for business reasons, and had vowed to himself never to do so again), he had enjoyed messing around with other fiends every now and then.
For the demonic society, of course, sex had nothing to do with procreation. This maudlin aspect was mercifully reserved for mortals. Instead, it served other functions in Hell: as trade-off, appeasement, bribe, reward, threat – or sometimes just for fun. Whatever the problem, ‘sex’ was a possible solution.
In Heaven, unfortunately, it was not.
“What a treat,” Aziraphale sighed deeply and gave Crowley a most innocent, joyful smile. “How thoughtful of you to bring those dainty delicacies.”
The angel glanced lovingly at the small carton in his lap; another seven macarons in all the colours of the rainbow smiled back at him.
“Are you really sure you do not want to try any? They are so delectable. Oh, look, there’s even one in black! Wouldn’t that be just perfect?”
Aziraphale shoved the box under Crowley’s nose and put on his most winning smile.
“Not a chance, angel,” Crowley wrinkled his nose at the cacophony of scents invading his nostrils. “That’s your kink.”
Aziraphale’s smile faltered, he gave one of his short, nervous laughs and hastily placed the box on the table as if he had burnt himself on it. Without the carton to hold onto, his fingers fidgeted with his lapel.
“Oh, the wine! Silly me,” he said suddenly, his voice sounding a little higher than normal; a sure sign he was flustered. “I almost forgot.”
And with those words he all but fled the room.
Crowley sighed. A small word like ‘kink’ already made the angel run out of the room. If he knew even one of the other words, let alone images, that were floating through his head … well, he’d still be running right after passing Alpha Centauri.
Hell would sooner freeze over before Aziraphale would engage in a passionate dance with him, Crowley realised with a sinking feeling.
“Here we are,” Aziraphale returned from the back room with two bulbous wine glasses and three dark bottles, pretending nothing had happened. “May I present: a humble 1927 Shiraz, this is an elegant 1886 Bordeaux and my personal favourite: a beautifully matured 1762 Port.”
“It would be a miracle if these old gentlemen were still enjoyable today,” Crowley said with a glance over his dark glasses and raised his eyebrows, a smirk forming on his lips. “Angels would never waste their strictly limited quota of celestial miracles on something as mundane as preserving alcohol, would they?”
“Of course not,” Aziraphale smiled slyly and winked meaningfully. To any other angel, that expression alone would have been the epitome of ‘wicked and depraved’, but this one had no qualms about it by now. Crowley felt the stubborn, idiotic glimmer of hope rise in him again.
“They merely happened to be in the same spot as a priceless papyrus of the First Epistle of John when I cast a time-stopping miracle on it.”
The angel poured them generously from the Shiraz and during the next two and a half bottles they both pretended nothing was up, chatting about their daily routines which they had maintained despite the absence of superiors to report to. Old habits.
So far, neither Gabriel nor Beelzebub had approached them; but that didn’t mean anything. To believe that the powers of Heaven or Hell would simply forgive and forget that they had spoiled the show and spit them in the face afterwards was – well. Quite unlikely.
Blame it on the matured Port, but halfway through the bottle, Crowley finally felt bolstered (and desperate) enough to at least give it a try. To hell with prudence.
“Y’know, I was wondering,” he began, slowly circling the ruby liquid in his glass, “how do you feel about physical intimacy?”
Aziraphale blinked. “You mean … between humans, like Adam and Eve?”
“No, in terms of us demons and angels.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relieve and smiled, and Crowley’s hope shot through the roof. “Well, that is simple. It was never meant for us at all.”
Hope crash-landed again.
“So what?” snarled Crowley and made a dismissive gesture.
“What do you mean, so what? Unlike humans, it’s not an essential part of our nature, of how we were made to be.”
“Food and drink aren’t essential to our nature either,” he nodded at the three nearly empty bottles and the box of macarons, “and you still enjoy them a lot. Gluttony is even a cardinal sin, but though you’ve been feasting your way through the millennia, you haven’t fallen from Her grace because of it.”
Aziraphale looked into his lap, clearly ashamed. “That’s not quite true,” he muttered. “Gabriel did reprimand me for my lack of physical fitness.”
“Did he? Well, if even your boss says so, then you really should get more physical,” Crowley wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “And just imagine trying sex and finding that you like it as much as food and wine, huh? I swear I’d do my damnedest to make sure you’d like it, angel.”
Aziraphale gave him a scandalised look. “But –” he cleared his throat, “you cannot compare food and, and … intimacy in that way. They are completely different things.”
“Really? How?”
“Oh you know,” Aziraphale fidgeted in his armchair and then whispered, “for us, it’s sinful.”
“Sinful,” Crowley scoffed. “Come on, Az, you can’t tell me you never felt there was something between us. No erotic sizzle, no tingling under your skin? The warm thrill that runs down your spine when you think of the other?”
“Celestial vessels do not feel the need for such… mundane ministrations,” Aziraphale sounded distinctly nervous despite his best attempts at appearing calm and collected.
“Not feel the need?! Not feel – argh! ‘Y know what? For a century now I have been cha… ch…chaste!” As soon as Crowley had forced the vile word out, he grimaced and quickly rinsed his mouth with a huge gulp of Port. “Juss for you! And let me tell you, it sucks.”
“Maybe demonic bodies are different –”
“Ohoho,” Crowley sneered, swirling his almost empty glass of wine, “different, huh? Now that’s rich, especially from the mouth of the angel who almost got himself discorporated by the guillotine – ‘cause he got ‘peckish’ for a couple of pathetic pancakes.”
“Now you are going too far! Don’t you dare speak ill of French cuisine,” his friend objected indignantly. “You cannot judge them unless you’ve tried them. Their crepes are the most delightful and divine indulgence.”
“So is sex!” the demon retorted flatly. Aziraphale physically shrank back at the blunt exclamation.
There was a short, uncomfortable pause as the two simply stared at each other, both lost for words.
“Argh, for Hell’s sake, alright – I’ll do it,” Crowley finally growled and snatched the abandoned box of macarons from the table. “Here’s the deal: I will eat this whole box of instant diabetes, and you take a shot at shagging. See?” He unceremoniously stuffed a green pistachio macaron into his mouth, grimaced a little, but forced himself to swallow it down. He reached out for the next one, but Aziraphale quickly ripped the box from his hands.
“Stop!” Aziraphale stared at him, partly in shock, partly disgusted. “Are you honestly trying to … to … barter about lovemaking with me?!”
“I’m way past mere bartering, angel,” Crowley snarled, grabbed the bottle and emptied it into his glass before gargling with the wine to flush away the sickening taste in his mouth. “This is not a subtle attempt at seduction, this is a blatant ‘I scratch your back, you scratch mine.’ Literally, if you want to.”
“I do not want to!” Aziraphale sounded truly hurt now. “Angels simply do not engage in such … activities, Crowley.”
“Bollocks,” Crowley slurred after another mouthful of wine. “I’ve seen Gabriel and Michael after the destruction of Gomorrah, and they were positively humping each other.”
“They were most certainly not!” Aziraphale exclaimed, but this time his expression was not one of outraged disbelief, but actually – smug. “They couldn’t.”
Crowley frowned. “And why’s that?”
“Because I happen to have it on good authority that both Michael and Gabriel were issued with bodies that feature no human resemblance … down south,” he stumbled a bit awkwardly. “They have been blazing that fact abroad for eons, and they are not the only ones. Bodies like this were highly in vogue in those days, after those of us who got involved with human women were damned.” He grinned triumphantly. “No equipment – no temptation.”
Crowley squinted at him. “So, how about you? Equipped or not?”
Aziraphale recoiled. “Pardon?”
“You heard me alright. Do you sport a screwdriver ‘down south’ or are you one of those posh fashionistas?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” Aziraphale tried to hedge the question and wriggled in his armchair even more.
“Aye, that’s a thumbs up then. Good.” The angel looked at Crowley in shock, and if any more proof was needed that his guess was correct, it was this.
Aziraphale, cornered, did what he always did in such a situation: he simply tried to ignore it.
“Anyways, you were mistaken,” he said pointedly. “Gabriel and Michael were probably just holding each other in an innocent gesture of friendship and solace after those terrible battles.”
Crowley snorted loudly into his wine glass, gulping down another swig. “Yeah, whatever,” he hiccupped, but then paused. “Wait a second – so you admit that angels do at least cuddle?”
Aziraphale blinked a few times, then vaguely nodded, apparently thinking about this in earnest. “I would think so. I mean, why not, there’s nothing disreputable about embracing a friend. Platonically.”
Crowley snickered. “Yeah, sure.” He clumsily put down his glass and scrutinised Aziraphale with his slitted snake eyes. “So, let’s say, the two of us would - ah, what did you call it? - ‘embrace platonically’.” He made a wide, comical gesture. “And then, after a fair bit of platonic embracing, things miraculously get hotter. I mean, we’ve known each other for six thousand years now, such things can happen, right?”
Aziraphale sighed. He could understand why Crowley kept pushing it, wanting to get into Aziraphale’s pants (quite literally), if he had really refrained from sexual activity for as long as he had claimed. But that didn’t change the facts; the angel remained adamant.
“It is simply not something angels do. It is forbidden. Those who acted against this law and mingled with humans became Fallen; you will not find a single angel in Heaven who would even consider … doing this.”
“Who’s talking about humans?” Crowley threw his arms up in desperation. “How about shagging a demon, huh?”
“That’s …” wide-eyed, the angel gasped for air. “That would be … even more unthinkable.”
“For them hypocrites, yes,” he pointed at his feet and then immediately up at the ceiling. “But for the two of us?”
Aziraphale stammered, obviously torn between the desire not to be unkind to his beloved friend, but also the inability to engage with his game. “Crowley, you know how much I cherish our –”
“Oh, don’t you dare!” Crowley suddenly hissed. “If you say anything that sounds remotely like ‘You’re so nice’ or ‘I love you like the brother I never had’, then … then … oh, just forget it, you hopeless case.”
He got up, stormed out of the shop and slammed the door. Aziraphale looked after him, utterly unhappy.
‘If only you knew how much I truly love you, demon,’ he thought and absentmindedly took a macaron from the box.