faemused | Another Year, Another Open RP Post

Currently offering: Crowley, angel!Crowley, Haleth. Will update this if that changes. If you want one of those three, have at it.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

confoundthemighty

It’s not often that Crowley does more than steal tastes off of his plate, but Aziraphale remembers very vividly the sight of him trying an oyster for the first time. The way his fingers curled around it, how his throat worked, how his expression bounced between confused and delighted and surprised… he hadn’t yet known what to call the slipping, tumbling feeling that accompanied all his thoughts and every taste of food.

Aziraphale knows, breathing through that feeling now, it’s always been love.

Now, though, there’s anticipation under it. Now there’s something that blazes brighter than hope, something that warms the air as his gaze traces along the line of Crowley’s neck again, watching him swallow. The sight alone is every bit as lush to him as the actual flavors.

He’s going to enjoy this.

“And at the time I’d thought you knew all there was to know about food,” he says, his tone very gently teasing. “But I’m glad I could broaden your horizons. Talking of which, by the way, you’ll have to let me know if I got the dough on this next one right.”

Aziraphale gestures at one of the plates, which obligingly scoots closer. He rarely admits to liking pizza, as it’s in general not the tidiest of foods, but for the first time he’s actually made one himself. Just a miniature one, already sliced for quick tastes.

(This one is subtle in a way he’s intensely pleased with himself for. Goat’s milk feta—he couldn’t have used goat meat; that would have felt cruel—and prosciutto, with an additional topping that looks like black olives. They’re not olives at all, but cherries pickled in balsamic vinegar with thyme and peppercorn. He’d originally intended it to pique Crowley’s curiosity; now he’s simply interested to see how the demon reacts.)

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley snorts. "Nah. Never was as much a one for food, you know that. Drink now, that's another matter." His eyes twinkle as he tastes the cocktail again, slow and deliberate. If his tongue flicks out to lick his lips at the end, and if it looks a bit forked...well, that doesn't mean anything. Nothing at all. "I like this one, incidently. Remind me to thank your neighbours for inspiring you to share it."

He tilts his head to look at the pizzas. Those definitely aren't Aziraphale's usual style--but at the same time they are, made small and neat with posh-looking toppings. "This is a new one from you." He picks up one of the thin slices, examining it. Looks harmless enough, and he likes olives.

One bite in leaves him almost sputtering in surprise. He manages to chew and swallow instead of spitting (bad form, can't do that, might be remembered later). His expression can only be described, whether Aziraphale is familiar with the phrase/abbreviation or not, as 'WTF'. "Angel," he says slowly. "Why are there cherries on my pizza?"

(He does sound more amused than not, but only someone who knows him well would be able to tell)

From:

confoundthemighty

“Oh, did you mistake them for olives?”

If it’s possible to be arch and gleeful at the same time, Aziraphale is certainly pulling it off now. He knows perfectly well he’s fooled Crowley, and furthermore that he enjoys the deception. Which makes him feel terribly clever and sneaky.

“I came upon a recipe for pickled balsamic cherries and thought they might fit the flavor profile nicely.” He says it almost sweetly, punctuating the statement by picking one off of his slice of pizza and popping it into his mouth.

(Admittedly, it’s not the most delicious thing on the table. It’s a peculiar taste, to say the least. But it’s also a grab for Crowley’s attention, an alert meant to let him know that not everything here is as he might expect it to be.)

From:

duckshaveears

"You absolute bastard," Crowley says with delight that becomes more and more obvious. "You did that on purpose and we both know it."

Because he likes olives, but he loves when Aziraphale surprises him.

He takes another bite, now that he has some idea what he's getting into. "Not bad," he judges. "They're no pineapple, but it all works."

(of course Crowley likes pineapple on pizza. It's hilarious how angry people get over the issue, and while they're sweeter than he usually enjoys they're also acidic as hell and he likes tart things. Which also explains why he likes Aziraphale, come to that)

From:

confoundthemighty

“I rather thought so. Glad you agree.”

He takes another bite of his own, feeling absurdly pleased with himself. And, if he’s honest, with how Crowley’s reacted to the surprise. There’s a wicked delight in those yellow eyes that Aziraphale relishes with every fiber of his being—once he would have never admitted to it, but now he’s allowing himself to bask. Because he loves the rare occasions when he can surprise Crowley like this on purpose. Without fail, it makes him feel suave and accomplished, something even vaguely approaching Crowley’s level of effortless cool.

Aziraphale chases the pizza with another sip of the cocktail, which makes his lips tingle.

“I’m also choosing to count this as an instance of you being fooled by my stage magic skills, even if it is more disguise than sleight of hand.”

You thought I was an absolute bastard a minute ago. I’m afraid you gravely underestimated what you’re in for, dear boy.

(If it happens at all it’ll take years of prying and poking and dirty tactics, but until then, Aziraphale will sooner submit to voluntary discorporation than admit to how much he enjoys being a bastard sometimes. How there are moments when it gives him a little rush of what feels like power, a feeling he likes far more than any angel ought to do. Even a retired one.)

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley snorts, bu it's fond. "Keep your attempts at stage magic to culinary venues and we will both be happier for it, angel," he says dryly. "Should I be worried about the main course, or dessert? Is there going to be stake tartare that turns out to be made of marzipan, or a cake that's actually lasagna?"

He pauses. "...hang on, is a lasagna just a pasta cake?"

From:

confoundthemighty

“It is not, and don’t you start with your food semantics,” Aziraphale retorts immediately. (He hasn’t yet forgotten Crowley giggling to him for a week straight over the consternation he’d caused with the simple question ‘is a hot dog a sandwich’.) “Though actually there isn’t one main course. I did it a bit like tapas, in that sense.”

Only three dishes, and only small servings, but made with care and plated beautifully. Pork medallions with a honey apple glaze, wild rice pilaf with a mole poblano, and patatas bravas. He’d had a dozen more ideas but had ultimately narrowed it down to those three. Two sweet and savory, and one with a fairly modest starch in combination with a sauce too spicy to eat on its own. Pairings of contrast.

From:

duckshaveears

"Half the point of a fancy meal is talking about the food! I'm doing you a favour bringing semantics into it." (Crowley loves asking people that hot dog question, it's amazing how much rage it induces).

He steals (it is stealing and not just taking, matter of lack of principle) another of the raw fish things--Aziraphale's right, the texture is like silk--and finishes off his cocktail, holding out the empty glass. "Got another one of these to tide me over 'til the next round of tapas, in that case?"

From:

confoundthemighty

“Of course.” Knowing how much Crowley enjoys spicy things (or straight espresso, or scotch, or taco truck monstrosities) he’d made an entire pitcherful of the stuff. Granted, the only pitcher he had on hand was a Biot glassware one he’d intended to gift to the young lady across the street at the coffee shop as part of an anonymous ‘hang in there’ care package, but Crowley doesn’t need to hear about his good deeds. Particularly since they highlight how awful things have been over the past year, and he’s frankly not in the mood to discuss it.

So he pours Crowley another glassful, watching the demon watch his wrists the whole time, and though the smile on his face is an average size the grin in his soul is enormous.

“And at any rate, there is no pasta cake of any sort on this table, thank you very much.” (A sole covered dish, yes—dessert he wanted to keep a complete surprise visually—but no lasagna.) “Though I’ll have you know I can make a passable tagliatelle from scratch, given some time to clear a large enough surface for it.”

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley does watch Aziraphale's wrists. They're nice wrists. Strong. Attached to frankly mouth-watering forearms.

He's not ogling, but it's a near thing.

(is he allowed to ogle now? He might actually be allowed to ogle now. He might even be being encouraged to ogle now. Oh brave new world.)

The nice wrists hand him another cocktail, which is just adding insult to injury, for a value of both that equals 'insanely attractive'. "Tagliatelle, hmm." He takes a slow, deliberate sip, moving his gaze from Aziraphale's wrists up to his eyes. "I can do a good puttanesca sauce. If that's something that interests you."

From:

confoundthemighty

Crowley’s gaze flicks up to meet his, and Aziraphale’s breath hitches quite without his permission, though silently. It’s manifestly unfair that whatever he does to his physical appearance he’s the single most attractive person Aziraphale has ever come across, and doubly unfair that he’s rendered even more attractive when he obviously wants something.

A shame they gave Satan the title of Great Seducer, since Crowley’s the most effortlessly seductive being he’s ever known.

If that’s something that interests you. God, doesn’t it just. “I didn’t know you’d ever learned.” This is also true, and makes a good cover for the momentary slip. “We might have to make an evening of that sometime.”

He reaches back for one of the small plates with the trio of main-course-tastes on it, offers it out to Crowley with an indulgent smile.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley's mouth quirks. "Well, spent some time in the bordellos in the Quartieri Spagnoli for work, back in the day. Picked up a few tricks."

Yes, he knows exactly how that sounds. Yes, of course it's intentional. Crowley's seduction techniques would probably only work on Aziraphale and he knows it, but that's the only person he wants to impress, so. Temptation accomplished. Almost.

The anticipation is more dizzying than the alcohol, and he's loving it.

He looks away from Aziraphale only to glance at the plate he's handed, and grins the patatas bravas, which he immediately picks up. "You remember how much I liked these, hmm?" When were they in Spain? Centuries, at least, maybe a millennia. But it's not a dish that changes much over time.

He takes a bite, and for once it's Crowley making a small pleased noise about food. It's spicy, no second-rate aioli or mayo emulsions but a properly hot tomato sauce loaded with spices. "Bless...that is delicious, angel."

From:

confoundthemighty

“Oh, thank you.” He can’t help but preen a little; he had in fact remembered how much Crowley enjoyed the dish. Hard not to, when it was one of the only things Aziraphale’s ever seen him finish eating instead of just tasting. “I was hoping that one would have enough heat for your palate.”

That last part comes out dangerously close to a purr, and he has to disguise his satisfaction (and, if he’s honest, calm himself down a little) by picking up his own plate and helping himself to one of the pork medallions. The honey-apple glaze, made with fresh apple purée and a splash of hard cider for taste along with a razor-thin sliver of melted garlic, is sweet without being cloying, a feat that’s made him feel quite accomplished.

“Mm—I do remember how much you complain every time we have some and they’re not properly spicy.” Dozens of terrified waiters over centuries, he’s sure, must have nightmares about him chasing them with a mortar and pestle.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley might not eat much but like Aziraphale, he has standards. And if something is advertised as being spicy, it should be spicy.

(He might once have breathed fire at one of those chefs. Not the waiters, poor sods, they're just the delivery boys. Hardly their fault)

These potatoes deliver, and before long they've vanished from his plate. He moves on to the pilaf next; a combination of chili and chocolate is also a solid bet to get his attention. "I really impressed by--" He waves a hand. "All this. You put a lot of effort into it. Did you get ambitions to open your own restaurant while I was asleep?"

From:

confoundthemighty

Strangely enough, Aziraphale finds he doesn’t really want to be coy with his answer here. He does contemplate how best to word it, though, over a bite of his own potatoes.

“I had a great deal of time, and very little of a directed nature to do with it,” he admits. “Helping out the neighbors when possible, of course. Organizing the collection. But other than that, well… I’d already exercised one set of skills, why not try another?”

What he doesn’t add is, And when I realized I could work my way through any number of projects and still feel time crawling wretchedly by, I knew I had to call you. Instead he concentrates on the potatoes, and allows himself to glance at Crowley’s mouth as he eats, at his throat.

“Besides, I haven’t been to a restaurant in months. And you know takeaway simply isn’t the same.”

From:

duckshaveears

"Nah, takeaway is its own culinary niche." One which Crowley has been known to enjoy now and then, kebabs in particular. He hums approval of the mole, notices Aziraphale watching his throat as he swallows, grins to show that he knows he's watched. "Probably a good thing you woke me up just now, in that case. First baking, then gourmet cooking...what would you take up next without me around to distract you? Making your own craft ales?"

From:

confoundthemighty

“Good Lord, no.” Aziraphale’s scoff is, to tell the uncharitable truth, prissy. “Then I’d never be able to keep people out of here. I’ve seen the other shopkeepers discussing the possibility of bookshops that also serve food or alcohol, and this is not that sort of establishment, thank you very much.”

He pauses before adding, “You happen to be a special case, naturally.” Which he punctuates with another bite.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley's grin widens. "Missed me, did you?"

He doesn't even try not to sound smug about it.

From:

confoundthemighty

There would have been a time when that question, posed that directly, would have encouraged a round of verbal dancing that tended towards a frantic jig: denial, poking, some posturing about being on opposite sides. Except there’s no opposite sides anymore. Not in this shop, not in this new world.

“Good company is hard to come by.” A smile curves his lips; his gaze flicks from Crowley to his plate and back again before he almost reluctantly starts to pile his fork with pilaf and mole. “And worth keeping around.”

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley could point out that he'd offered to come over and be kept around months ago, if he wanted to gloat. But he's high on good food and great alcohol and the best company, so he doesn't.

(Yet. There's always later for that, after all, if he wants to rub it in)

Instead he lifts his cocktail glass. "A toast, then?" he suggests. "To keeping good company? Well, bad company in my case, obviously."

From:

confoundthemighty

Game or not, dance or not, no matter what else is happening here, Aziraphale can never quite resist an opportunity to toast with his best friend. Not when he’s so relaxed, so happy.

“The best of the worst,” he offers, “or the worst of the best, but either way, extremely welcome.”

He lifts his own glass, leans over so they can clink together with a pleasant ringing noise. (It always feels like their toasts have a ring about them, whether made with porcelain or plastic cups or crystal or stoneware. Possibly that’s just Aziraphale being sentimental, though.)

From:

duckshaveears

"That's us," Crowley agrees, grinning. The best and worst angel, the best and worst demon, it all depends on perspective. He loves that about them.

They finish their mains, with more small talk that might or might not be flirtation (it is, ohh it is, the only reason Crowley doesn't call it that outright is because the anticipation is more delicious than the food), and a third cocktail in Crowley's case. It's definitely a new favourite drink of his, if only because it'll always be associated with the weighted, heated expression on Aziraphale's face right now. "Amazing meal, angel," he says as he clears his plate, a thing that doesn't often happen. But it was a long nap, the food is delicious, and Aziraphale...well. "Dessert?"

From:

confoundthemighty

This whole wretched year Aziraphale has been mostly alone (a choice he now knows was a mistake), and having Crowley here and laughing makes him feel far more drunk than the cocktail ever could. (Although he does help himself to a second one of those, because it really is an excellent recipe. He’ll have to send Olive and Mutt a thank-you note.) They talk, a meandering conversation about everything and nothing and mostly food; Crowley compliments his cooking and Aziraphale doesn’t even pretend not to be pleased. Here and there one or the other of them will say something just a bit warmer than they’re accustomed to, just a touch more openly flirtatious.

By the time the mains are finished and he’s served up a single delicate serving of sorbet for each of them as a palate cleanser—green apple, lime, and basil, an unlikely marriage of flavors that’s somehow crisp and clean on the tongue—Aziraphale’s heart is racing. He knows his prospects are likely good, he knows Crowley has been following the pace he’s been setting. He knows there’s not much chance that the demon will miss the meaning in this last dish, or that he’ll reject it. But as most humans are when faced with their greatest desires, he’s nervous.

“Dessert,” he repeats, and sets aside his empty glass. The single covered dish on his table (which has been miracled to stay exactly as it was when it was finished, with no condensation or change in temperature) gleams silver, the last unknown on the menu. “This one is… well, it’s a recipe of my own. Took a great deal of adjusting to get it right, but I think it’s passable at this point.”

With one last sly glance, his heart twisting hard in hope, Aziraphale leans over and plucks the cover off.

A single crepe, fragrant with Calvados and bourbon vanilla, rests on the plate like a pillow, with a pinkish filling that almost looks lewd where it threatens to spill past the crepe’s edges: heirloom apple chopped fine and cooked soft. Perched atop the crepe itself is a perfect dollop of whipped cream, thick and snowy, with twelve pomegranate arils arranged in it like jewels in a crown. An offering, small but infinitely precious, shining with secret meaning.

Pomegranate arils, the distilled echo of a myth that’s been passed down through humanity, the story of love between opposites reduced to a single potent symbol. An arrangement, in its way, as old as the one Aziraphale and Crowley had made so long ago.

As different as we are, I make myself part of something bigger, yielding up the person I thought I should be so I can be the person who is on your side.

I give myself to you.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley is by no means as sensitive to symbolism as Aziraphale, but he's also not an idiot, and the message here is about as unsubtle as the cocktail they've been drinking.

He can smell the apples. The original forbidden fruit which led to knowledge and awareness of sin..there's no way for Aziraphale to offer Crowley, of all beings, an apple, not without it being extremely mocking or extremely suggestive. And not just an apple filling but Calvados as well.

A crêpe, which makes his mouth quirk. 1793 had certainly been an interesting meeting. Crowley wonders now if Aziraphale has spent as much time wondering how else it might have gone as he has.

It's the pomegranate arils he focuses on, though. "If I remember right..." he says slowly, reaching out as though to touch one of them. They shine like rubies on their whipped cream bed. "If I remember right, Persephone only had to eat a few of these to be bound eternally to the king of Hell."

Or god of Hades, whichever. The point stands. Crowley delicately swipes a finger through the cream, scooping up just one of the arils with it. "Dangerous sort of thing to serve a demon. Aziraphale." His voice is quiet. They both know he's not talking about the food. "You sure you want to risk it?"

His hand is suspended between them, the cream and pomegranate aril poised on his finger as an offering.

From:

confoundthemighty

The conversation is absolutely not about food anymore. They’re at a threshold, now, a doorway where the door itself has swung wide open and left them staring at one another, closer than they’ve ever been. Everything in Aziraphale’s awareness seems to be white and red, yellow and black, the choice he’s already made and the serpentine eyes watching him to confirm it.

Almost without thinking about it, he wets his lips with the tip of his tongue. Without glancing away he reaches up to curl his fingers around Crowley’s wrist, holding his hand exactly where it is, gently but firmly. (Just under the pads of his fingers he can feel a pulse beating as fast as his own, and a current of electric excitement as the anticipation between them finally begins to blossom.)

“Quite sure,” he says, his voice soft and resonant, and he leans forward and takes the end of Crowley’s finger into his mouth.

Gently he swipes away the aril and the cream with his tongue, sucking just a little, a suggestion and a promise. He can’t help making a pleased sound: not just because he’s added exactly the right amount of sugar to the whipped cream (he has) or because the aril is perfectly ripe (it is), but because this is the first time he’s ever tasted Crowley’s skin, and it’s so much richer than he could ever have imagined.