faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

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From:

confoundthemighty

Moving Crowley into the space above the bookshop means that in fact Aziraphale has to spend quite a lot of time in Mayfair.

It’s the kitchen, mostly—or, to be honest, the lack thereof. The floor above the shop needs minor renovations [1] to accommodate appliances and a new sink. They’ll likely be moved in around the New Year, which seems strangely appropriate. Even though the idea of New Year’s is a human construct and the date has changed over the millennia and between traditions, there’s a symbolism to it that Aziraphale appreciates.

And whether by day in the shop or by night in the most comfortable bed in London, he’s rarely alone anymore.

It’s bliss. It’s messy, gorgeous perfection, and he loves every minute of it.

They’re constantly tripping over one another’s things—clothes, shoes, books, the now-flowering plants. Every meal is now a shared meal; every bottle of wine or liquor is split evenly between them. Aziraphale teaches himself how to make French toast, and crepes, and omelets; Crowley sits him down in front of the enormous flatscreen television and twines around him while they watch a number of films Aziraphale’s never seen before. Some Like It Hot, Young Frankenstein, Murder on the Orient Express, both Star Wars trilogies.[2]

(They make love, shag, fuck, and Aziraphale learns that the difference between those things isn’t merely semantic. He learns that his own body feels strong and solid when Crowley’s thin frame is held in his lap, male or female; he learns that there’s no safer place in the world than pinned under his demon. He learns he very much likes to be on his knees with one of Crowley’s hands in his hair, regardless of what fills his mouth. He learns that sometimes he needs to have his wrists tied to the bedposts, especially when they experiment with Crowley’s serpent form.)

Every day is a gift. Every time Crowley’s arms tighten around him and he whispers, tell me again, Aziraphale says what’s in his heart, without fear. I love you. I want you above the shop with me. I’ll never leave you again.

Somehow it doesn’t quite feel like enough.

And as autumn starts to frost over, an idea comes to him.

He has to carry out his plan in bits and bobs, which is no longer as easy as it might be if he lived alone. Crowley is almost always underfoot, sometimes literally, and once or twice Aziraphale is sure he’ll need a miracle to keep the entire endeavor a secret. But somehow he manages, and at last in the second week of December there’s a final phone call telling him it’ll be ready tomorrow.

That night, as they lie tangled and catching their breath, Aziraphale manages to scrape together enough of his brain to bring it up.

“Tomorrow evening,” he says, voice a little throaty. “I want to take you out. Dinner and a show.”

[1] Well, minor for a celestial being and a good crew blessed with luck.

[2] “Why are we only watching episodes four through nine? Isn’t there something important in one through three?”
“Trust me, angel, you don’t want to watch those. I know you, and I know you don’t want to see the reason George Lucas is going to Hell.”
“That bad?”
“Worse, if you can believe it.”

From:

duckshaveears

Everything is different, and Crowley couldn't be happier about it.

He doesn't admit that, naturally. He complains about books being left everywhere ("Not every flat surface is a shelf, angel!") and Aziraphale complains about how Crowley and his long limbs are always stretched out across a narrow aisle to trip him up ("Must you use my coffee table as a footrest?") and they bicker like they always have, millennia of now-and-again practice put into suddenly constant use. Aziraphale compliments him and Crowley hisses a denial, Crowley says something disparaging about Keats and Aziraphale rolls his eyes at him.

But now whenever Crowley refuses to be called 'good' or 'nice' Aziraphale can kiss him until he stops arguing, and whenever Aziraphale rolls his eyes Crowley can laugh and wrap arms around him from behind and nibble at his ear to placate him, and they both smile like idiots all the time and couldn't care less.

(and at night, during those dark intimate hours when the world sleeps they tangle and twine and join and undo each other, and sometimes the fears that Crowley no longer finds it as easy to blithely ignore catch up to him, and Aziraphale chases them off with words and caresses, and they make every kind of love from filthy to worshipful until Crowley collapses into sleep with an arm around his angel's soft waist while wonders how on Earth he ever got this lucky)

Months pass, and it just keeps getting better. And then suddenly it's Christmas season. Red cups at Starbucks, that obnoxious Paul McCartney song all over the radio, the works.

Crowley lies happily winded on his back, Aziraphale snuggled up to him. He absently strokes the angel's spine (still tacky with drying sweat, about which Crowley is distinctly smug) when this announcement is made. "Sure thing, angel," he says agreeably. More often it's him arranging events out but he's more than willing to have the tables turned in him. "What and where? Do I need a pretty frock?"

Edited Date: 2019-11-18 12:30 am (UTC)

From:

confoundthemighty

They've been to the symphony, the opera, to revivals of My Fair Lady and A Little Night Music, and have held hands at every performance, content simply to share the warmth of tangled fingers in the dark. It's one of the greatest pleasures of this new shared life: the freedom to touch, to be casually affectionate, without caring who sees or knows. Aziraphale isn't sure what to call the feeling it inspires in him, but he suspects it's peace, from the way it reverberates gently in all the parts of his soul where fear used to live.

"If you like," Aziraphale murmurs, eyes fluttering shut with satisfaction at the gentle movement of Crowley's hand along his back. "Dinner at the Ritz first, I think, and as for the show... I realized we haven't been to the ballet together."

His mouth softens with a smile that manages to be both sweet and sly. The little blue book lives on the nightstand next to the bed now; every so often he'll read it to Crowley again, sometimes with a recording of the ballet score on in the background. (They still haven't managed to get past Odette's declaration. He doesn't mind a bit.) But even before this, ballet wasn't something they ever really got round to seeing together, for some reason. At least not as it's existed for the past two centuries.

"It's not the traditional Tchaikovsky one usually sees this time of year, but..."

He glances up, the better to watch the penny drop, unmistakable delight behind his eyes.

From:

duckshaveears

Ballet isn't as much Crowley's thing--he likes the music, usually, but watching a bunch of highly muscular people torturing themselves on tip-toe while wearing utterly ludicrous skirts, not as much. He has too much respect for feet to not wince at the thought of the damage en pointe does to dancers. But to please Aziraphale he can make an exception. To please Aziraphale he'll do nearly anything.

Besides, it doesn't take long to put the pieces together, and he turns his head to look at his angel. Aziraphale's pleasure in offering up this surprise is transparent, and Crowley is delighted as much by that as anything else. Though he has almost as large a soft spot for this particular ballet as Aziraphale does, now, for transparently obvious reasons. ^[3] "Is Swan Lake in town? How the devil did I miss that?" He rolls over onto his side, the better to look Aziraphale in the face, the easier to toy with wayward curls of hair as they talk. "This the infamous Michael Bourne version or something more traditional?"

^[3] Every time Aziraphale reads his book to Crowley, he gets as far as Odette's declaration and then gets interrupted with a kiss, though these days it's a more enthusiastic one than that first time. Crowley's still never heard or even read the end. He doesn't want to. Let Odile and Odette stay in that blissful moment of love realized forever, and him and Aziraphale also. All their life now feels like it's still that moment drawn out into months, and he'll keep it going as long as possible.

From:

confoundthemighty

"Neither."

He has seen the Bourne version, and found himself unexpectedly moved by its themes of being chained to a life that provides you with little freedom or pleasure or other soul-nourishing things, though he does on the whole prefer a slightly more traditional ballet. But he knows Crowley isn't as fond of the trappings and the aesthetic as he is himself, so for Crowley he'll make an exception. (Though it is part of why it was somewhat more difficult to arrange this part.)

"It's a new dance company, only about three years old--Artemis Warehouse. Known for rather unusual productions. This is their biggest and most ambitious show yet, and tomorrow is the night before their formal opening. First performance for supporters, families, and angel investors."

(Though he has in fact begun to learn the pleasures of sleep, sharing a bed with Crowley, he's also used a few stolen hours to sneak into the dreams of an artistic director with a hungry soul and show her a Swan Lake without a prince, without a tragic ending. It won't quite be their version of the story--no two people can ever tell quite the same story, after all, and he thinks he'd feel a bit odd if it were spot-on anyway--but it'll have a similar enough heart.)

From:

duckshaveears

"Angel investors, is it?" Crowley smiles, leans in and kisses Aziraphale's forehead. "Still doing good, I see."

From forehead to mouth is a short trip, and he takes a leisurely kiss more from the pleasure of being able to do it so easily than for any other reason. It's still a wonder to Crowley that they can kiss each other so casually, whenever they want, for no reason. Perhaps the novelty of that will wear off in time, but he rather doubts it. At the very least it will take a millennia or two.

It's a little tempting to get distracted--it always is--but Crowley pulls back, nuzzles his nose against Aziraphale's before laying his head back on the pillow. "I'm looking forward to it." His smile is wide and genuine, no hint of the sarcastic quirk or protective mockery that he usually wears as he goes through the world. There's been less of those lately, at least here. "And I'll definitely wear my prettiest frock for the occasion."_[1]

_[1]An offer that would carry more weight if Crowley actually had a closet. Or rather, a closet with anything in it. He'll summon up something or another but it's not as though he has a collectiion, much less a ranking system.

From:

confoundthemighty

The little ripple of warmth that laps at the underside of his skin whenever they kiss also stirs to life in Aziraphale at the sight of that smile, the one that neither smolders nor scalds but bathes him in a perfectly comfortable glow. Every time there's a touch of wonder in it: you're happy, here with me, and I'm happy with you, the simplest and most profound of human joys.

He reaches over to tuck a stray lock of red hair behind Crowley's ear. He's been growing it long, lately; it feels wonderful to run fingers through.

"You'll look splendid." He can't help himself--he drops a kiss on the end of Crowley's nose before settling into the comfortable circle of intimacy, both their heads on the same pillow, limbs and bodies tangled without the urgency of sex. "I'll have to dig out something suitably elegant, to match you."

Not for the first time, Aziraphale wishes stockings on men would come back into fashion. He misses the dashing suits and ruffled cravats of the eighteenth century--you can get away with a waistcoat and a high-collared shirt, but these days it's a highly conspicuous silhouette. Still, he's got plenty of good options, and he knows that he'll walk taller for having Crowley on his arm.

"Shall I do crepes for breakfast?" he murmurs, punctuating the question with a kiss brushed against Crowley's throat as he leans in to tuck himself closer still. "Or will you keep me here till the last possible moment?"

Edited (blocking) Date: 2019-11-20 07:52 pm (UTC)

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley nearly purrs when Aziraphale tucks a short wave of hair behind his ear. Gestures like that are the foremost reason he's growing it again; he might be cheating a little to speed up the process. The kiss on the nose earns a chuckle. This is favourite time, more than any other, alone in the heart of the night, talking amidst easy caresses. It's comfortable, intimate, peaceful in a way nothing ever has been.

A demon, wholly at peace and happy. Talk about miracles.

"Mm..." He doesn't really want to move, but at the same time the kiss to his throat catches his attention in particular ways, even after hours of such activity. "Could you really blame me if I picked the latter? Especially if you're going to encourage me like this..."

It's easy to roll a bit, turn his twining into blanketing, steal a few unhurried, thorough kisses. Nuzzle Aziraphale's nose again, then take another kiss. "Compromise?" he murmurs eventually. "Crêpes for brunch, instead of breakfast."

From:

confoundthemighty

Aziraphale loves this time of night too--this warm intimate space where they can touch and tell stories and hold one another, where even in the dark there's a lucent joy behind Crowley's gold eyes and in his smile. There's a quiet beneath everything that has nothing to do with the ambient noise of London: it's in their hearts, in the gentle tangle of their bodies, in their knowledge of one another.

He's learning, now, that there are shades to Crowley's smile he never knew could exist. That sometimes he laughs in his sleep, or twitches and frowns and curls in tighter against him, or murmurs Aziraphale's name against his shoulder. That he clings to Aziraphale from the moment he drifts off till the moment he wakes. That the rhythm of Crowley's breathing while he's asleep is the most soothing thing in the world, a tide as soft and steady as the sound of the ocean, and that many nights when he'd meant to lie awake reading he'll find himself collapsing gently into a doze, where dreams are no longer agony.

There are a lot of things Aziraphale means to do that get derailed spectacularly within the confines of this bed.

His kisses are drowsy, slow, lingering. One more before I sleep. Just one more. Just one. It may be greedy of him, but Aziraphale knows there are worse sins than this sort of gluttony.

At the offered compromise, he smiles, slides his palms up the long line of Crowley's back in a fond caress.

"Brunch, then," he says, eyes warm. "I'll do Crepes Suzette. See if I can't get the flambé right this time[1]."

[1] To his credit, there's only been one flambé-related disaster to date, and as far as disasters go it was relatively minimal, but it did result in a flaming dish towel being hurled out of a window in Crowley's flat. Aziraphale is sure if he lives another ten thousand years he'll never live it down.

Edited (tinker, tinker) Date: 2019-11-24 04:06 am (UTC)

From:

duckshaveears

Everything is so soppy lately that Crowley sometimes works a little harder at justifying it to himself in his head, even though he's no longer accountable to anyone but himself. This hedonism is easy to categorize, however: indulgence, pure and simple, both of them greedy as the ocean for as much as they can get. Sure, the kisses are sweet and loving, but they're also addictive, which makes them sinful enough.

They usually end up with at least a hint of pure unbridled lust in them too, which helps. He and Aziraphale have worn each other out already, sated themselves on one another, but he still arches his back with pleasure as palms stroke up his spine. "Mm," he agrees; despite the arch it's more sleepy than sparked with renewed interest. "But not without me around. To rescue you from the threat of flaming dish towels."

From:

confoundthemighty

He loves the way Crowley reacts to being petted--that he leans into affection, doesn't brush it off the way he so often does with compliments. Touch makes him happy, and he doesn't bother to hide it. And in the past few months he's been relaxing into it; the bursts of fear are still there, but he allows Aziraphale to comfort him, doesn't push him away. And as wonderful as their journey of mutual discovery is, Aziraphale finds that the quiet moments like this are every bit as delightful, that a single sleepy caress before bed can leave him smiling like a fool the next day.

His palms come to rest just over where wings would sprout on Crowley's back; his smile is wry.

"I will remind you," he says, "that I managed cherries jubilee without starting a second Great Fire, but if you insist on supervising, you can lounge around with your feet up giving a running commentary."

*

This is, in fact, almost exactly how things play out the next morning.

The warm words and touches grow slower as they drift into sleep together; Aziraphale wakes first, as he always does, and spends a little while just watching Crowley. Even in sleep he looks less troubled--not soft, he can be kind and good and incredibly solicitous but never soft, just... better. Healthier. More at ease. It's a beautiful sight.

He can't help himself. He kisses Crowley awake after a small eternity of admiring him.

They don't get out of bed for another four hours.

Aziraphale is nearly alight with energy as he cooks and dishes up the crepes; it's finally really registered that today is the day of his Big Surprises. He's only told Crowley about one of them, but he has three planned, with the other two to come after the ballet. Nerves are starting to creep in, but not the old kind--now, instead of fretting about how he's going to get away with all of it, what might happen if someone from the head office saw them out together, he just hopes he can get it all right. That what's in his heart will come through clearly.

He's fluttering through his last few phone calls: to the Ritz, to confirm tonight's dinner reservation; to the will call box at the theatre Artemis Warehouse has moved into, to make sure he has the curtain time correct. Surreptitiously he texts the young woman in charge of the other project to make certain she knows where she has to be and what her window of time is to get her job done; she texts back almost immediately with a photo of her assembled materials and a cheerful message to the effect of "just say when".

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley is having a thoroughly marvelous day. Of course, the fact that it began with being kissed and caresses awake followed by several hours of shagging ensured that.

The thing is, watching Aziraphale cook is almost as much of a pleasure, in a different way. Watching Aziraphale do anything. Watching Aziraphale, period. Millennia of few and far between meetings sped up into now, constantly in each other's company and free to openly show that they can't get enough. Either of them. He could just purr with satisfaction. Probably that'll wear off a bit eventually as their relationship becomes less new, but he hopes not for a long, long while.

But the angel has calls to make, so Crowley does slink off to get herself dressed eventually. He'd offered to wear a pretty frock, and given their own feelings about Odile and Odette...he has some ideas.

When she comes back downstairs it's in a feathery black dress that goes down to her knees, with a feather hair decoration to match. Her hair is otherwise loose, waving down to her shoulders. She walks up begins Aziraphale, sitting at his desk, and wraps arms around his neck from behind, kissing the top of his head. "Ready when you are, Swan Queen."

From:

confoundthemighty

It’s beyond reassuring to hear footsteps on the floor above him, to know that even unseen Crowley is close by, to realize that the faint sense of brimstone never fades these days. To think to himself, every so often, I never have to eat alone again. Or spend the night at my desk, fighting my imagination. Or scan every crowd for a familiar face, and be disappointed to realize it’s been another year since last I saw you.

His heart is light as he dresses for the evening. Because he really can’t help himself, he gravitates towards an outfit he was rather fond of in the 1890s—a gold waistcoat with a feathery pattern of white embroidery, a white frock coat, even white gloves, with a small silver pin in the shape of a swan on his lapel. (The tie is, of course, still tartan, because it matches and it’s stylish and no matter what Crowley says he knows she’s fond of it.) And, as fond as he is of his coat, tonight he’s foregoing it for an Inverness cape in soft white wool.

Of course once he’s done dressing, he finds he has a few minutes to spare, so he might as well look over a new acquisition—a beautifully illustrated book of troubadour romances—just to settle himself a little before they leave. Which means he’s pleasantly startled when Crowley’s arms slide around him. He turns to glance up at her, and at once his expression warms.

“And all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes,” he murmurs. “You look lovely. A perfect Raven Queen.”

As he stands, he notes with some amusement that he now has to look a bit further up to make eye contact, thanks to the heels she’s wearing. Not that he minds at all being the shorter of them. Besides, high heels tend to change the way she walks, and Aziraphale no longer has to resist the temptation to stare.

(He’s fairly sure everyone who sees them together will envy him, too, and though he really shouldn’t encourage such a sin in others, he’s terribly proud of that thought. Let everyone wonder at how lucky he is to have such a vibrant creature at his side.)

“All set, then?” he asks, offering her his arm.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley's mouth (painted wicked red, of course) softens in a brief smile, and she steals another kiss from his mouth before letting him stand.^[1]

Once he is standing, however, she makes a point of looking him up and down, thoroughly and with obvious approval. "The smiles that win, the tints that glow, but tell of days in goodness spent, a mind at peace with all below," she quotes back at him. "You look pretty impressive yourself, angel. All pure and pristine."

She slinks in close to take his arm, leans closer for a moment, her mouth brushing along his ear before whispering, "No one looking at you would imagine that you spent half the morning pinning me to the mattress and fucking me until I couldn't say anything but your name."

^[1] One of the best things about miraculous lipstick is that it will only smudge when Crowley wants it to. Which she quite often does; there's something very charming about Aziraphale covered in lipstick prints.

[ooc: Also I covet that book, and here's the dress Crowley is wearing, decided to find one.]

From:

confoundthemighty

Heat stains his cheeks pink for a moment, though his smile goes from besotted to very faintly sly.

“It was at least two-thirds of the morning,” he says, almost casually, “and you definitely still remembered how to say ‘please’. Now behave, Dark Lady, before you tempt us out of an evening on the town[1].”

As they climb into the cab that’s not-so-miraculously waiting, Aziraphale takes the opportunity to send off a single text: All clear until roughly 11 pm. You may begin any time.

Then he sets his phone to Do Not Disturb, and slips it into an inner pocket of his cape for the evening.

“I hear, by the way, that this evening the dessert of choice is an apple tarte bourdaloue, with Calvados flambé,” he remarks, beaming over at her.

[1] This had, of course, happened several times already. Not that Aziraphale minded, as a general rule, but those evenings hadn’t taken nearly as long to arrange.

[ooc: I own a copy, albeit in a 1914 edition with a far less fancy cover, but the illustrations and such are to die for. Also, I looked it up, the apple tart with Calvados is actually on the menu at the Ritz this week. ;D And oooooo that’s a fantastic dress!]

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley smirks upon being told to behave, with a twinkle in her eye that hints at If I feel like it I will.

(She will. Aziraphale's planned something special, and she'd never mess that up, especially not just for a laugh. It's the same reason why she doesn't protest taking a taxi instead of his Bentley--well, not much, just a roll of her eyes and a minor bit of whinging that's obviously a token protest. But Aziraphale is lucky, because the token protest and time spent pouting at the taxi means she completely overlooks the texting. Which otherwise would have garnered real curiosity, because who else does Aziraphale text aside from her? Who else would he be texting now?)

"More sweet things that have been set on fire?" Crowley chuckles. She reaches over and takes Aziraphale's hand, squeezing his fingers. It's surprising to her how thrilling all this is. It's just dinner and a show, the sort of thing they do all the time. But the ambiance is different all the same. Maybe just because they're dressed up, but still, it feels like an Event. "I'm sensing a trend today." She lifts his hand to her mouth, kisses the fingers, then lightly flicks her tongue between two of them, tasting his skin.

From:

confoundthemighty

“In keeping with the season,” Aziraphale says mildly, the pad of his thumb tracing gently over the base of her palm. It might be something of a minor miracle if he resists the temptation to slip under the table to taste her between courses[1]. “Flaming pudding, lights everywhere, fireplaces—it’s all very cozy, now that the year’s drawn in.”

He glances up, watches the passing lights of the city flash off her glasses and over the familiar contours of her face.

“I’m sure the staff at the Ritz must think I’m a cad,” he remarks, in a conspiratorial tone. “Dining with two gorgeous redheads, but never both at once. Makes me wonder how many of them are waiting for a dramatic contretemps over the fish course, should one of my paramours discover the existence of the other[2].”

[1] This hadn’t happened yet, at the Ritz or anywhere else, but it was starting to feel like only a matter of time.

[2] Truthfully, there were a handful of waiters who had been wondering, until a junior sommelier pointed out that it was entirely possible Mr Fell’s partner was genderqueer, and anyway he always tipped well enough that if he was seeing two different people it was in their best interests to keep quiet about it.

From:

duckshaveears

"Won't argue the point." Crowley flashes him an amused grin. "Besides, it's in character for you. You're hot and sweet. It's just like calling to like."

The caress of thumb on her palm raises goosebumps. Crowley hasn't yet thought of slipping under the table during a meal--too public for her liking, even with miracles to ensure not being noticed--but more than once she's eyed the Ritz's cloakroom askance. Usually while Aziraphale was busy with dessert and making any number of noises she now knows for a fact are also associated with other activities.^[1]

Crowley chuckles at this new idea. "Tell 'em you're dating identical twins?" she suggests. "Sounds entertaining. I could be jealous of myself." She sighs overdramatically. "Pity I can't give them the contretemps of their theatrical dreams--though I'd wait until the main course, timing is everything--but the Ritz wouldn't stand for that sort of thing, and I'd miss dining there. And you wouldn't like it."

It almost is a shame, really. A flare-up like that would inspire all sorts of messy, sinful emotions, maybe not any of the big seven but certainly a number of the smaller types, the subtler, more interesting ones. Not enough to be worth upsetting Aziraphale, however. Nothing is worth that. So Crowley sighs again and smiles at him. "Ah, well. I suppose I'll just have to forego the pleasure and instead settle for having an enjoyable meal with my favourite person and stomping on any insensitive questions or suggestions anyone drops our way. Sounds simply dreadful. Especially if they have that lavender duck thing still available."

^[1] She also now knows for a fact that sometimes he does it on purpose to wind her up, instead of just suspecting it. The cloakroom's destiny is inevitable.

From:

confoundthemighty

Aziraphale can’t help laughing at the thought of Crowley instigating a properly operatic mad scene at dinner, tearing her hair and wailing like a banshee at her unfaithful lover. They might have to find some dreadful restaurant to try it at someday—a place where neither of them will miss the food or the clientele. Technically it’s probably a bad deed, but no one’s keeping score anymore, and Aziraphale is fonder than an angel ought to be of the melodramatic.

“You’ll simply have to suffer through being gazed at and spoiled for an evening, my dearest. Though I’m certain you can make all sorts of trouble on the way home.”

Knowing Crowley, that’ll probably entail someone discovering their Christmas lights have become a Gordian knot, or a shop’s ambient music getting stuck on Mariah Carey, or pipistrelle bats hiding in holly decorations. (Though he’s not sure he’d mind that last one, himself, as pipistrelles are quite cute.)

“The duck would certainly be appropriate for the evening,” he muses, eyes glittering with mischief. “And some champagne, I think.”

From:

duckshaveears

Every time Crowley makes Aziraphale laugh, it gives her a thrill. Every time. She doesn't even have to enact the scene in question, Aziraphale laughing at the idea is more than enough to satisfy her. The chance to actually go through with it would just be icing.

"Gazed at and spoiled, is it." Crowley's gaze softens just a little. She's not soft, she's all angles and sharp edges, even now, but her eyes can look a bit soft sometimes, like molten gold. (Aziraphale will know. Even with her sunglasses in the way. He always does). "With champagne as well. You're really going all out to treat me this evening, aren't you, angel?"

She reaches and puts a finger under his chin, uses it to pull him in for a kiss, slow and heated and suggestive. They haven't arrived at the Ritz yet, but the idea of the cloakroom is already appealing. By the time she pulls away her voice is a bit lower and more breathless. "Not that I don't appreciate all the attention, but is there some occasion I've missed?"

They don't have birthdays, and they'd be hard-pressed to pick an anniversary; there's either too many options or too few to choose from, depending on perspective.

From:

confoundthemighty

He knows her lipstick must be all over his mouth, soft red smudges betraying him completely, and the very thought turns his smile dreamy as she pulls back. In this moment he’d absolutely relish running into any of his old coworkers—let the whole world see that the sweetest reddest mouth in all of Creation is his to kiss. He’ll wear any mark she leaves on him, proudly, as evidence that he has in fact pulled off the greatest miracle of all time in earning the love of such a beautiful complicated soul.

Her question, though, that brings a quiet laugh bubbling up through his chest. The thought of Crowley, of all people, forgetting something of significance to the two of them is a little absurd.

“I thought,” he murmurs, feathering a kiss at the edge of her mouth, basking in the very nearness of that molten-gold look he adores, “we might create one. Stake a claim on some otherwise unremarkable day of the year for ourselves. Plan holidays around it, and the like...”

It’s not a very long ride from the bookshop to the Ritz, though, and he finds himself interrupted by a somewhat awkward cough from the front seat—accompanied by the realization that the car has stopped moving.

Which is probably a good thing, since he’s very tempted to do things that even demons probably shouldn’t get up to in a cab[1]. However, more than once he’s noticed her gaze flick towards the direction of the cloakroom when she thinks he’s not paying attention, which is a tempting thought all its own.

“Ah. This would be us, then. After you, my dearest.”

[1] Though this is mostly because the lack of space limits one’s options severely.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley takes similar pleasure in leaving lipstick prints on Aziraphale. Let everyone see what she did, what he lets her do. Let them show everyone. No more hiding, no Arrangements, nothing clandestine. Let their claim be open and mutual and shouted out to Heaven and Hell alike.

With that in mind she smiles broadly at his suggestion. "I like that idea." She remembers all the important dates and a number of unimportant ones, but the problem is almost all of them are from before things were open between them. Having something to celebrate that's theirs, unshadowed by any memories of having to keep important things hidden...yeah, Crowley definitely likes that idea.

But the car stops and the driver coughs, and Crowley sees an amused expression looking back at her in the rearview mirror. She raises an eyebrow and very deliberately kisses Aziraphale one more time, with an extra loud smack of the lips at the end, before she deigns to separate and get out of the car.

The Ritz is the Ritz, as always, familiar and fancy and, yes, loved, by both of them, Crowley won't admit to it openly but she's every bit as fond of it as Aziraphale, though mostly because of Aziraphale. (The section of her affection that isn't associated with Aziraphale is associated with the wine list)

They allow their coats to be taken to the cloakroom, and Crowley deliberately looks at the door and then Aziraphale with obvious smirking speculation, mostly to wind him up.

From:

confoundthemighty

It’s so obvious as to be almost theatrical, that sly smirking glance, and suddenly Aziraphale is extremely glad he budgeted in extra time between dinner and the start of the ballet. They should have at least half an hour plus time to get a cab, provided the service is as quick and attentive as usual. Though of course there are always miracles if they linger too long over dinner or after-dinner activities.

“You’ve worked up quite the appetite,” he says, almost casually, as they follow the maître’d to their table. “Might have to arrange for a second helping of dessert. Provided you can keep quiet.”

He knows full well he’s throwing down a gauntlet, which is itself half the fun. It’s a constant delight that their fond teasing crosses over into more intimate parts of their relationship—it’s somewhere between outright play and an argument they both end up winning.

And he notes, with distinct pleasure, that several people of both genders glance at the two of them with envy and incredulity as they pass. A few are definitely whispering about the lipstick smudges.

He orders a bottle of very old, very expensive, very good champagne for the two of them, because he might as well start as he means to go on, and he did promise to spoil her this evening. Watching her relax into letting herself be taken care of is a pleasure both sensual and emotional, and Aziraphale rather relishes it.

“Shall we start with a toast?”

From:

duckshaveears

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?"

From:

confoundthemighty

The indignant sputtering sends a smug little thrill through him—he knows it winds her up terribly when he’s a bit of a bastard, and he loves it—but the smile that warms her face sends a wave of affection unfurling across his whole body, sweet and almost tingling. He can always tell when she’s genuinely happy, and knowing he’s the cause makes his heart ring with joy. Of course he knows he’s improved human lives with his miracles or with words of comfort, and that is itself something to be proud of, but watching her set aside her armor with him—for him—is an accomplishment that very nearly makes him want to sing.

Aziraphale beams back at her, reaches over to curl his hand through hers atop the table, thumb stroking over her knuckles.

“To the first of many anniversaries, I think,” he says. “Another six thousand at least.”

He can’t begin to imagine how the world will change in that time, how humanity will evolve in good and evil and everything in between, but now they face that vast unknown as a united front. That knowledge alone lights him from within, lightening the mood of the entire dining room and the whole street outside. The pianist, inspired for reasons she doesn’t understand, launches into You Were Meant For Me, flashing a smile over at the adorable waitress she’s been flirting with for weeks.