you're the first one when things turn out bad

[temptationaccomplished]

Who: EVERYONE, you're all invited. Or invited to happen upon this, if you missed the invite, and spot it happening in the Great Hall.
What: Aziraphale wants to show off his best friend, so he's invited you all to a tea party.
Where: The Great Hall
When: Tuesday after classes
Warnings: Tyzias is a menace, there's no reason to think anything at ALL about The Arrangement, and if the invite was any indication, the ineffables probably cannot be contained



Due to circumstances which will not be discussed (but, namely, that Pallidus cannot be in indirect sunlight), and using weather as an excuse, Aziraphale's planned tea party out on the lawn has been moved indoors.

He's gone all out. There is plenty of tea (with optional sugar and cream), biscuits (by which we mean crisp cookies), some small cakes that are rather adorably decorated, a fruit pie or two, and treats provided by Sunset Shimmer. (And possibly booze, if Tyzias did decide to bring some). Casual though the gathering is, he's set a proper table to hold their food, with a table cloth, a few candles, some nice napkins. This is not slipshod work. This is the work of someone aesthetically living in a past century who feels like he has waited a good millennia for this moment and is going to do this right.

And what This is, is introduce his demon best friend to polite company. As Crowley put it.
It's true, though. Except where Tyzias is concerned, anyway.

In the center of the table is a small, homey potted plant. Nothing particularly extravagant. Leafy and green and moderately well-cared for, recently purchased, and even more recently labeled with a tag that says "For: Crowley." The "for" was added secondary, after it occurred to Aziraphale that it looked a bit like he'd named the plant Crowley. Which he had not.



Aziraphale, aka Mr. Fell, is playing the anxious, bustling, gracious host as best he can, while being utterly preoccupied with his friend: a tall, gangly ginger who he introduces to everyone as "Crowley." Any assumptions one might make about the two apparently middle-aged, man-shaped beings is entirely one's own assumptions. But if Aziraphale is glowing with joy and affection, and eager to tell stories about the two of them, that's just how it is.

When things settle down and everyone has been served tea and introduced, he might try to show off some silly card-tricks: absolutely typical sleight-of-hand like humans perform, and not performed especially well. He's doing this mainly to annoy Crowley and seems to delight in that, even if he is a little genuinely embarrassed at how rusty his skills have gotten.



Come, join in, mingle. Hang out with your fellow classmates and enjoy some treats. We're coming up on the end of a year and, like a harvest festival, it's time to make new friends, rekindle old bonds, share in some good food, and party before the winter.

Comments

PARTY POISON (you put "Tyzias is a menace" in the warnings what did you expect)

[tiredcharmer]

Normally, the level of petty antagonism that Tyzias is about to enact upon poor "Mr. Fell" would be reserved for her kismesis. It's ridiculous in its execution and almost worrying in its scope. There's no conceivable reason why she would do this except to torment Aziraphale. But... it's coming up on a very special anniversary for Tyzias, and she's feeling very grumpy and spiteful as a result.

Plus, she's been looking for an opportunity to cut loose for a good while.

So after a period of nice, normal-ish socializing, Tyzias casually strolls to the middle of the Hall and arranges some tables in a neat triangle around herself. Then she snaps her fingers, and the hall is plunged into darkness.

"Aight. Now that everybody's had a nice round of tea and biscuits or... whatever." Tyzias's voice echoes and booms through the hall, with a sort of tinny quality as if she's speaking into a bad microphone and her voice is being looped through some speakers. Wait. Oh no. A rock drumbeat beings reverberating through the darkened hall. "Let's get this party started for real, eh?"

Then the lights come back on. Sorta. They're colorful, strobing, and coming from a magical disco ball hanging in the air above the festivities. Said disco ball also spews glowsticks from its panels that stop midair, hanging for partygoers to grab and go to town with. The song kicks in, the guitar echoing through the room. Tyzias herself is suddenly dressed in a very snazzy-looking black suit with teal highlights, glasses replaced with red wraparound shades and with iron Cancer piercings on her ears. She even has teal lipstick on for some ungodly reason.

"I'M YOUR DJ SLASH BARTENDER TONIGHT, CALAMITY STAR. OR, YOU KNOW. YOU COULD JUST CALL ME TYZIAS. WHATEVER WORKS." Tyzias gestures towards the tables where she hasn't set up her DJing equipment, which are filled with liquor bottles. Many of which guests will recognize from their homeworlds. "WHATEVER YOU WANT FOR BOOZE, I'VE GOT IT. THAT BEING SAID, KIDS, BEHAVE YOURSELVES. NOW. LET'S GET THIS SHOW ON THE ROAD!"

Almost as if on cue, curious students begin wandering in, a few starting to dance to the music as Tyzias begins to turn the volume up. She seems almost... relaxed? For perhaps the first time anybody in the magicademy has known her, Tyzias looks genuinely chill, a gentle smile on her face. Damn, it's been a while since she's really had an opportunity to rock out. She could get used to this.

I expected chaos, I got chaos. I'm loving it

[temptationaccomplished]

[But I never know what particular brand of chaos I'll get from her and I like that random chaotic generator.]

Ridiculous in execution and worrying in scope is how Aziraphale would describe probably 95% of Crowley's evil plans. The biggest difference here is that, as sulky and petty as Crowley might be at times, he was a troll of a different nature, and the torment he put Aziraphale through was entirely different. Endearing, oftentimes. And Aziraphale was very used to thwarting his wiles.

With Tyzias, Aziraphale still has no idea what to expect. She doesn't have wiles. Not for him, anyway. She only has chaos and calamity and references to things that went way over Aziraphale's head.

So he has no idea what to prepare for when he fails to un-invite her, when she finally shows up. No idea how to stop it before it's begun, and no idea what to do with it now that it's started. And, goodness, has something started.

When the room goes dark, an absolutely terrified stillness comes over the angel, except for a cautious hand that reaches for Crowley, wherever he is.

A good half of him suddenly isn't entirely sure she's sane enough for any company, let alone the polite kind, and fears she might do something dangerous and mad. Another part of him is quite sure he's going to be the one murdering her in this, raining down Heavenly vengeance. And another, very small, very angry and reluctant-to-come-forward part of him thinks maybe...maybe he expected this, brought it upon himself, and it's a very human, very normal mistake to be made, like inviting that one cousin to your wedding, or some such--naturally the wedding tent is going to go down in flames, dishes will be smashed, a bridezilla will rage, and tears will be had before that night is over.

Everything is suddenly way too loud, way too colorful (for Heaven's sake, it's become bloody discotheque in here and he is NOT having this!! This is HIS party--HIS--and how DARE, HOW DARE she turn this into a funhouse!) It's become a- a- A Mad Tea Party!

He gestures angrily, helplessly at the DJ booth she's set up for herself. Face blotchy and red, mostly flustered, he turns to Crowley to demand, plead, request, "Crowley! Do something!"

And somehow, that being said, this whole nightmare doesn't feel quite so unmanageable anymore.

[sauntereddown]

It's not that Crowley hasn't been at a party or ten, whether that was in the name of tempting or interesting drink. But this is a tea party. A very cozy and polite tea party, in which Aziraphale is gushing about him in between earnest card tricks. If he's honest, a new world that first sees him how Aziraphale sees him is...itchy. Fantastic, in its way, but itchy.

If he's dishonest, and he's leaning dishonest today, he'd say this just really isn't his scene.

Nonetheless, when he hears a telltale snap of fingers and Aziraphale reaches out, he's still instinctively reaching right back to brush their hands together, 'right here, angel.' Part of him still associates a finger snap with miracles, and if they've already been tailed halfway across the multiverse, just let whoever it is try and-

And then there's noise. Glorious, strobe-lighted, percussive, chaotic noise.

Crowley doesn't realize that his and Aziraphale's fingertips are still brushing, or that Aziraphale looks one airhorn noise away from having a fit. Because he's staring at Tyzias's display, and the prospects for the evening are looking much brighter. (No, he did not want to plan the party, but disrupting it...)

A glowstick dangles in front of his face, and he reaches up with his free hand to absently take it from the string. Aziraphale is making the frantic, familiar plea that he do something.

Crowley pauses. Then he extends the hand with the glowstick, one finger pointing in Tyzias's direction, and shouts "PLAY FREEBIRD!"

He flashes Aziraphale a wicked, toothy grin, and settles in to enjoy the fireworks.

[temptationaccomplished]

"You are not supposed to ENCOURAGE her!!" Aziraphale rounds on him with a glare of the glarefullest kind, all but puffing up like an upset bird, ruffled and in a tizzy. "You incorrigible, wicked, awful creature!"

And he IS awful, well and truly Crowley is. Terrible to his core, and Aziraphale has missed this part of him, too. He's missed the rise his friend gets out of him by being his fiendish awful self. Being riled up and somewhat mad at Crowley is as much a part of the balance of their friendship as warm companionship.

"Oh, this is a disaster," he laments instead of letting the sentiment washing over him show, turning from Crowley to survey the damage. It's rowdy, naughty, with a bit of edgy danger to it. It's definitely more true to Crowley than that tea party ever would have been. Crowley's fingers against his own are an anchor in this hurricane of noise and, though he blustered and billows, he doesn't stray from his mooring.

Squaring his shoulders and pinching up his face, he turns back to his demon. Aziraphale is honestly mad (well, put-out more, really) at having his party derailed and perhaps he's blowing this up bigger than need be. But there's also a challenging twinkle in his eyes, a smugness in his smile to meet Crowley's. Time to thwart some wiles, unless someone chooses to stop him.

"Well, if you won't stop her," he declares, "maybe I will!"

[tiredcharmer]

Tyzias, smirking, salutes Crowley. As Party Poison's guitar winds down, it smoothly transitions into Lynyrd Skynyrd's Freebird. She's surprisingly good at this DJ business for being such a nerd. Probably because she's partly made out of music; not that anybody in the crowd knows that.

[sauntereddown]

Crowley doesn't even pretend to stifle his snort of laughter. Aziraphale's trying so hard to both double in size and sound like someone's maiden aunt. Crowley's tempted to poke him and see if he deflates. "That is, actually," and he drawls out the word 'actually' in the most obnoxious way one can, "exactly what I'm supposed to do. S'not my fault you forgot."

This whole affair is at once Aziraphale's sincere, instinctive kindness and his selfish tunnel-vision, and Crowley's fingers aren't moving either. He's ready with another shit-eating grin the moment his angel turns back around from fretting, and he leans in just a little, glasses tilting slightly downward, a gleam of yellow showing for a split second underneath. "Are you going to thwart her?" ('Should I be jealous?' he almost goads, before deciding there are better times and places to test that one.) "Because I've got to see that. Go on and give her a hard stare, she's probably got some EDM saved up."

[temptationaccomplished]

If looks could kill, he takes some satisfaction in believing that his favorite demon would be discorporated. Lucky for Crowley, looks can't kill. ...Lucky for Aziraphale, too, as it would be terribly inconvenient to have to attempt to re-summon him.

This Free-Bird, as music goes, isn't so bad. But he dreads what EDM might be. How badly are his ears going to bleed from this. But. Fine. Two can play at this push and pull between them. He meets that golden stare and gives smug little snobbish smile as he slowly pulled his fingers away from Crowley's.

"Thwart her? Oh, my. Look who's forgetting our jobs now. No, I'm going to lead her back, er...lead her towards the path of righteousness, as per my job. But--" He gives a considering look, fluttering his lashes as if in thought. "--I suppose," he draws out the word. "If you'd like to watch, I could thwart someone other than you. Change things up. Variety is the spice of life, and all."

[sauntereddown]

Oh you absolute, wonderful bastard.

Six thousand years and Crowley's still not sure how Aziraphale can go from fumbling a top hat, or not looking to see if Crowley's cheated during a coin toss, to looking at the demon like that as if he completely knows what he's doing.

His fingers flex unconsciously as Aziraphale drifts away, and he thinks he's just about held on to his lead when Aziraphale says the words 'if you'd like to watch' while batting his eyes, which is just ridiculous. And unfair.

"Ngk," Crowley says, before hiding it in a cough. "I...well. Don't see why you couldn't. It's not like I thought I had the only wiles you've ever thwarted. Best ones, maybe..." He's still leaning in, and goes sotto voce as an excuse to do so even more.

"'Course, I never said 'job', did I? Said 'supposed to', never said job. We haven't got those, no official duties, we are...blisssfully unemployed." He leans on the sibilant just a little.

[temptationaccomplished]

Aziraphale does know what he's doing, in a way. He knows how to do it. It's all part of thwarting those wiles, really, and now that Heaven isn't looking over his shoulder, judging, he can certainly employ alternative methods to do so. Of course, he's not entirely certain what sort of reaction this ...particular tactic will garner--and half expects some laughter and friendly ribbing--but he's pleasantly surprised and delighted to find Crowley responds in kind. Aziraphale gives him a look of perfect innocence, lips pressed together in a concerned little pout as if to say oh, you poor, poor dear at the coughs, and almost offers him some tea or water.

He leans in to match, lowering his own voice in that way they have so privately held conversations nearly all their Earthly existence. With a little shrug he pretends to consider. Best ones, certainly. The twinkle in his eyes betrays him.

"I see a wile, I thwart," he teases, throwing Crowley's words back at him. "Doesn't really suggest any sort of exclusivity there, no. But you are onto something," he adds, mulling it over. "I don't have a job anymore. All things considered, I don't even need to do what I'm supposed to either, do I?"

[sauntereddown]

"Nah," Crowley agrees, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "No 'supposed to' anymore. Could throw the...usual methods right out. Could just go without thwarting altogether. Or save it for special occasions."

Right now he's fighting his own temptation not to take Aziraphale's hand back and entwine it with his. But he's very familiar with that one.

Instead he lets that smirk grow a little wider, keeps himself tantalizingly close, and asks with just a hint of 'I win': "Still mad?"

if you can't beat them, get drunk (I will resume tagging y'all after work)

[temptationaccomplished]

Tyzias is a menace to society, but Aziraphale almost thinks she is decidedly less of a menace once one has had a few drinks in them. The music is almost toller- taller- tol- ...well, it is almost listenable.

No, it's really not, but he's too pleasantly warm to care. And Crowley seems to like it, so...begrudgingly he'll let it go. Even if he wanted his party to be the one Crowley enjoyed. (Crowley. Ohhh, but the demon hath forsaken him.)

Tyzias has really outdone herself with the selection, Aziraphale has decided, having filled his teacup multiple times with some absolutely delectable reds, a few types of liqour he has never seen before, and once, with a glass of very nice Scotch that he feels is an utter waste on him at this state of drunkeness. The cup is all wrong, but beggers/choosers and all that. There's almost something naughty about taking alcohol from a teacup and with the thumping base and shining lights and silly glowing decor, he is feeling like a rather naughty angel. (...In the most PG sense imaginable.)

He's sitting here, nursing his latest refill, getting more and more comfortable, making conversation about all manner of things, and feeling lighter than he thinks he has in 6000 years.

"...You know, I really..." He takes a sip of wine from his teacup and gestures a bit with his hand. "Whoops. Silly." He dabs at the wine stain rolling down the inside of his cuff. "I still don't know what happened to little Warlock's kite. Honestly, you know, maybe I think that tree might just have eaten it, tail and all."

And also...

"...And so she made me this bow-tie! Isn't it just lovely?" In a rare show of indecency, he's undone his black and red bow-tie, the one that Yotsuyu made for him. It hangs loose around his neck, except when he picks up the tail ends to show it off. "All these little stars. How twee."

And also...

"...We ran into each other in Rome, once--on business. I see him there," he says, recounting the tale loudly enough to be heard by those immediately nearby, despite the music. "And- and he's sulking--he really is, such a dour ol' chap, really, my Crowley--and so I asked him. I said. What was it I said? Ah, yes. 'Could I tempt you to some oysters?'" He looks pleased as anything, and it's likely there's a joke here that few understand the punchline.

[tiredcharmer]

The playlist comprises of a wide variety of genres: hard rock, Queen, romantic indie, nightcore, Queen, orchestral, and even ABBA. Freddie Mercury's "Dancing Queen" has been blaring through the speakers for the past...

...

Fifteen minutes?

Either "Dancing Queen" is a lot longer than what most people think, or Tyzias has been put it on repeat several times in a row.

Tyzias, surprisingly, has been a surprisingly professional bartender--no pranks, no taunting, just a sympathetic ear, good service, and a bemused smile at Fell's ramblings. Look, she might be an ass, but she isn't enough of an ass to take advantage of a drunk man.

She's even laughed at a few of Fell's ancedotes! That's progress, right? Tyzias has been matching him drink for drink, but isn't nearly as drunk as Fell is. (Those two livers finally coming in handy.) As he launches into another story, Tyzias pauses, does some mental math, mutters "fuck it," and pulls an unlabeled bottle out of nowhere as she is wont to do.

It's nondescript, purposefully so. The bottle isn't labeled, and is a murky brown, which does not pair well with the dark purple inside. The liquid almost seems like it's crackling with electricity. Almost. Must be a trick of the light.

Tyzias pours herself a shot and leaves the bottle on the table, not quite realizing that Fell may take that as an invitation.

[temptationaccomplished]

She's being so kind, so sweet, really, listening... However did he think such uncharitable things about her. (Oh, wait...)

After a while, he's even lulled into a sense of comfortable familiarity by the music... (once he gets past the other gibberish, awful noise her turntable is spewing out) ...well, and if one can be comforted by memories of being trapped in a cage of metal and leather and gasoline, going 90 in central London, the sound of Brian May on the guitar...no matter what the actual album. He's almost got it in his mind to request if she has any of that Velveteen Underground nonsense, just to surprise Crowley. But that wonderful, detestable serpent didn't deserve it.

Instead, he finds himself distracted by a bottle she's left on the table. He picks it up, giving the contents a sniff and squinting through the glass, then down the neck through the opening. In the ever-changing light of the disco-glow-stick room, it's difficult to tell just what kind of liquor it offers.

Well, one little shot wouldn't hurt, he thinks, helping himself by pouring it into his cup...

[tiredcharmer]

Tyzias nearly spits out her drink when she sees Aziraphale pouring some of her "special brew" into his teacup. Oh, hell no. She may despise the man on nearly every level (except when he's drunk), but there's no way she's going to let him die. Especially when he's actually been passable company for the past hour or so.

"Whoooooooa there, friendo." Tyzias reaches towards the teacup, sweating. It almost looks like it's melting in the strobing lights of the party, but that can't be right. Can it? "You, uh. You definitely don't have the- you just can't handle that shit, alright? It's dangerous."

The brew was made from the nebulae of the Interdimensional Cloud being combined with Tyzias's Melody-infused blood for a lark. It's a miracle that it hasn't exploded already, really.

[temptationaccomplished]

He pouts, just a tad annoyed at being told what he is and isn't capable of, and being denied the pretty purple drink. Everything looks a little off to Aziraphale at his point, so he pays the wibbly-wobbly melting teacup no more mind and turns his focus, blurry as it is, on her.

"I assure you," he says, raising a finger as if to scold her. "Contrar-ily to whatever you think, I am made of far hardier stuff than I think you or anyone else here," he swings the finger around in a gesture to encompass the room, "realizes. I handle dangerous shi-things all the time. I do. Honest. Only been discorporated once."

fr it would straight up kill a mortal but azzy would be fine come morning

[tiredcharmer]

Tyzias's eye twitches. Right. This man is insufferable. She almost forgot that for a few minutes. Of course he would stop being a prissy, holier-than-thou schoolteacher right when being an upstanding citizen would kill him. Perfect!

"You don't fucking understand," Tyzias says through gritted teeth. She begins gesturing wildly, giving Aziraphale the perfect opportunity to drink the shot if he's so inclined. Oops. "This shit would melt through the floor and cause major structural- are you even listening, it would literally turn you inside out-"

[temptationaccomplished]

Is he still listening? Maybe not. He's captivated by the bottled-lightning drink and she has become background noise in the manner of adults in a Peanut comic. But really, he thinks. Shouldn't she be pleased? It's not as if he doesn't know what she thinks of him...what many people think of him. He's trying to engage in their idea of fun and here they are policing him!

He downs it in one go.

And looks at the cup as if it has betrayed him. Vile.

"I'm afraid that's just not my cuppa tea." He then pats the table and pushes his seat back, standing unsteadily.

The room swims in a Rain Bow of color and light and he thinks perhaps she might appreciate the story of its creation since she has so many of them, but his seat must have grown legs. Because instead of returning to it, Aziraphale finds himself on the floor with a dumbfounded laugh.

[sauntereddown]

Sometime before Aziraphale downs a cup of supernatural drain cleaner, Crowley is pleasantly buzzed himself and watching the angel settle down and regale the crowd with stories. He winces at the stain rolling down Aziraphale's cuff, laughs nostalgically at the best bits, stops between friendly chat with the guests to contribute a line or two of his own.

("He was convinced, it was a sign that kid was infernally - I said no, look, I know my plants, that thing's got secret teeth.")

And he'd never say as much, but he's been warmed by every second of this. Even the parts spent withdrawn and grumpy were about things he didn't know how to accept freely yet. Things he wasn't about to question further because - well if he couldn't accept his angel's pride and affection here, then when?

Somewhere in his muttering that he is not dour, work was being a bastard and the - client - was being a worse bastard, he realizes he's almost let Aziraphale's full name slip a third time - to say nothing of the nebulous time period the angel's set this latest story in - and gives him a nudge.

"Mn, y'know, I tried a hangover the old-fashioned way for fun once, and it wasn't. Fun, I mean. Jus' so you know."

[temptationaccomplished]

If his storytelling gets better when Crowley laughs, when he contributes, or when he just smiles along, well, it can't be held against him. Nothing delights him more.

Aziraphale is moderately aware he's well on his way to being more than just drunk and that there are usually consequences for that. That's fine, he thinks, forgetting himself. He can just sober up when he gets to his room. If Tyzias is surprised by the mysteriously refilling bottles, maybe they can play it off as the work of magic in the school. Except, and this is what Aziraphale fails to realize... It won't work like that, not for an angel or a demon without their own special brand of magic. There will be no magical sobering up.

He sways in his seat at the nudge and catches Crowley's arm to steady himself. What a skinny arm, but such a nice arm, really. Silly serpent needs to eat more. "Mm, did you now," he murmurs, no longer projecting a story to the group, but talking solely to Crowley. "Must've been awful for you. Poor Crowley. So what remedies would you suggest for an absolutely besotted old fool pickled in the best tea in the house?"

[sauntereddown]

To be fair to Aziraphale, Crowley would be sauced enough to forget the lack of miracles too, if he weren't distracted throughout the night. By the string of introductions and enjoyable small talk, Aziraphale's hammy magician's patter, Tyzias's pranks. And now a very warm and gushy angel, squeezing his arm and smiling at him with -

Yeah. All right. Crowley's driven through a wall of fire, he can do this. "Yeah, just awful," he agrees in an idle tone, not feeling awful in the least.

He rests a hand on Aziraphale's shoulder, ostensibly to help steady him, and tries to remember a single thing from something he did for a lark over 100 years ago.*

"Well," he begins. "First you let me see you home. To your room, same difference. We can keep water on hand, I think there was something boring in there about water." He gives Aziraphale what he hopes is his most tempting smirk. "And I'll keep you company, if you let me make fun a little. And scare off anyone who comes to bother you with noise. And you can tell me more about 'besotted', yeah?"




*(Crowley had lasted maybe fifteen minutes before he miracled the hangover away, banishing a headache that was banging out the riff to Another One Bites the Dust, long before many of Queen's ancestors were born.)

[temptationaccomplished]

His gaze flicks from Crowley's warm fingers, up to his face, and settles on his lovely smirk. Those words are like a tempting lullaby, stringing chords that pluck and resonate deep into the fibers of his celestial being.

Or perhaps into some part of him that has become all too human.

Everything suggested sounds all too wonderful...The two of them. Alone. Crowley tending to his needs with water and company and friendly banter. Somewhere quiet and secluded, with the intimacy of their nights in the bookshop's back room.

Contrary to Crowley's claim, it is not the same difference at all. Not when seeing him home no longer means a cozy back-room at the bookshop, but instead, a dormitory room with little more than a bed, a dresser, and piles upon piles of notes and library books. If he is to keep Aziraphale company, where will Crowley sit in his room if not on his bed? His bed. Crowley would have to sit on his bed. Aziraphale's. Bed.

Oh he is besotted in every manner of the word.

"But, Crowley, I'm the host," he insists softly, pink rising to the apples of his cheeks and along his nose. He manages to meet the lenses of those dark glasses briefly before being drawn back down to the enticing smile. "It wouldn't be polite, my dear," he adds, biting his lip and looking away, "to duck out of our own party."

[sauntereddown]

"Well the host needs proper looking after, doesn't he?" Crowley teases, double meanings abound. "So they're the ones being rude, really. And you never said when the festivities would be over..."

As if his stomach isn't doing flips at the blush spreading across Aziraphale's face. He likes the dance they're doing, he always fancied Aziraphale liked it too. Hoped, at least. But it's more complicated with the whole web of human relations sprawled out in front of them, and none of it something an angel or a demon is 'meant' to be a part of. Not that 'meant to' ever stopped them before. But it means he's willing to wait. He's always been willing to wait.

It's certainly easier than leaning in right now and just...

No, not the first time, not when he's this addled by drink. Aziraphale would be furious.

"Mm. So if you'd rather we go, you've really only got to ask, angel." That's all you've ever had to do.

[temptationaccomplished]

"No, I guess I didn't..." And if he looks around, considering just what kind of trouble he might get into, or just how bad it would look, to disappear with Crowley right now--run off and escape the necessity of socializing with others in order to enjoy each other's company--he can't very well be blamed for falling prey to a little temptation. Crowley has always been so very tempting.

But he really shouldn't. (Even if he really wants to.)

"Thank you." Aziraphale reaches out and touches a soft hand to Crowley's cheek. Crowley has always been so considerate, so generous, and so patient with allowing him the time in which to come to terms with what he wants and sort out his inner conflicts. He's having one of those right now. Funny thing about this dance: they've done it for so long, he isn't sure if it's meant to be like one of those wind-up music boxes, with the dancers spinning endlessly in circles with each other, or if the dance is supposed to culminate in anything. He is fairly certain what he wants, but Crowley's desires have only ever been able to be implied.

"I'll only make a bit more small talk, maybe have a few more drinks," he promises, returning his hand to his lap. Aziraphale feels like he should at least attempt to play a good host, or at least a present host, for a little bit longer before stealing away with the guest of honor. Maybe it will give him time to think and stew in the self-indulgence of accepting Crowley's offer. "Then we can go back to mine, if you are still interested."

[daughterofclay]

Jude has been taking her time with the drink; she’s never been particularly fond of wine (not much use in addling your senses when you’re already feeling vulnerable), but there is something about the ice wine she’s sipping that reminds her of home, of fantastical balls and the thick aroma of Faerie fruit.

Her sword is resting across her lap.

She has been listening to Aziraphale with a diffuse sort of interest -- which is to say, paying attention while doing her best to look casual. He seems to be extraordinarily well-traveled. And always with this Crowley…

“And how do you defend yourself against carnivorous trees?” she asks, in the same tone one might use to ask for a scone recipe.

[temptationaccomplished]

He laughs at her question and happens to catch the glint of her sword in her lap, and suddenly is inspired to imagine going after the Dowling's tree in full plate armor with sword and shield. Dear lord, that is a look he does not quite miss. So uncomfortable and damp. But it probably would have been more useful than hedge-clippers and if Crowley is right about the tree, it might've at least sent the blasted thing a message.

"Excellent question! But. ...Well," he says, more than happy to sate whatever curiosity she does or does not have, but with about the same level of practical knowledge on the matter as if she had asked about baking scones (which is to say...none; I mean, why bother when the bakery makes them and then there's no mucking about with measurements and ovens and the like).

"It's not as if it were chasing us into battle. The ghastly thing was stationary, aside from the occasional--" he makes a wave of his hand, supposedly to indicate the rustling of branches in the wind. "--If I recall. I suspect trying to fight or defend against one is like tilting at windmills. But then, I can't really say. I was just pretending at being the gardener; Crowley's the one who really knows his way around plants." His shrug and exaggerated expression is comical. "Perhaps we might've done something with fire, but that seems unnecessarily cruel to the poor thing."