One thing Crowley is still getting used to in their relationship: Aziraphale not only acknowledging such suggestions, but escalating them. She almost misses a step, and stares at him for an incredulous moment. "If I--" she sputters. "If I can keep quiet?" Really, coming from an angel whose noises while eating a well-done soufflé should be rated NC-17, that's almost too much to stand, particularly as Crowley's the quieter of the pair of them in the bedroom too. The gauntlet has definitely been thrown.
She takes his arm and squeezes it for the last few feet of walking to the table. "You'll have only yourself to blame when I take that as a challenge, realize," she says quietly, so the maître’d won't hear. "I know how much you enjoy...desserts. Just desserts, even."
Despite this sally of anticipation (and oh, how Crowley is anticipating, and do they really need to have dinner at all?), they're seated without incident, and Crowley lets Aziraphale stay in control of the evening and order the alcohol. Another thing she's still getting used to: being taken care of. That one is much, much more difficult than the flirtatious banter, which is the same as their banter has always been but with an extra delicious edge. Being taken care of is another matter entirely.
Truthfully, it's more difficult than Crowley has admitted. Taking care of Aziraphale is easy, she's done it for centuries in ways both obvious and subtle. She didn't even understand why at first, just that it seemed worth the effort whenever she'd earn one of those beaming smiles or a small appreciative noise, and then when she did understand why...at least it'd been a way to show all the things she couldn't say. That they couldn't say. That they can say now, and do, but it still feels much, much more to her as though the default should be Crowley taking care of Aziraphale and not the other way around.
But it matters to the angel to make it reciprocal, so Crowley's tried to learn how to sit back and enjoy being made a fuss over, how to be comfortable with it instead of anxious that she's doing something wrong. And she is learning, though it's taken effort.
It's worth the effort, to see Aziraphale glow the way he does now.
Fuck, she loves him so much. Just obscene amounts. Crowley's smile as Aziraphale proposes a toast is probably as sweet and gooey as melted fudge, and for once she just does not care. "What to, angel?"
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She takes his arm and squeezes it for the last few feet of walking to the table. "You'll have only yourself to blame when I take that as a challenge, realize," she says quietly, so the maître’d won't hear. "I know how much you enjoy...desserts. Just desserts, even."
Despite this sally of anticipation (and oh, how Crowley is anticipating, and do they really need to have dinner at all?), they're seated without incident, and Crowley lets Aziraphale stay in control of the evening and order the alcohol. Another thing she's still getting used to: being taken care of. That one is much, much more difficult than the flirtatious banter, which is the same as their banter has always been but with an extra delicious edge. Being taken care of is another matter entirely.
Truthfully, it's more difficult than Crowley has admitted. Taking care of Aziraphale is easy, she's done it for centuries in ways both obvious and subtle. She didn't even understand why at first, just that it seemed worth the effort whenever she'd earn one of those beaming smiles or a small appreciative noise, and then when she did understand why...at least it'd been a way to show all the things she couldn't say. That they couldn't say. That they can say now, and do, but it still feels much, much more to her as though the default should be Crowley taking care of Aziraphale and not the other way around.
But it matters to the angel to make it reciprocal, so Crowley's tried to learn how to sit back and enjoy being made a fuss over, how to be comfortable with it instead of anxious that she's doing something wrong. And she is learning, though it's taken effort.
It's worth the effort, to see Aziraphale glow the way he does now.
Fuck, she loves him so much. Just obscene amounts. Crowley's smile as Aziraphale proposes a toast is probably as sweet and gooey as melted fudge, and for once she just does not care. "What to, angel?"