diatu | say the word, your wish is my command

say the word, your wish is my command

Who: Aziraphale and Crowley
What: After a tea-party serenade that gently played on angelic heart strings (and healed him from foolish drinking choices), Aziraphale offers to take Crowley back to his place, and of course that will be fine. (Come on and get it)
Where: en route to, and in, Aziraphale's room
When: Tuesday, Nov 19 after the tea party
Warnings: Honestly, I don't know.

Aziraphale is not entirely sure what just happened or why, as he's pretty sure he was too drunk to make sense of it until moments ago, but here's Crowley, defending his honor and sweeping him off his feet after a beautiful, undeniable love song. It is all very... ...Kind? Heroic? Romantic? Well, whatever he can call it will depend on what exactly Crowley's intentions are.

Hardly matters what Aziraphale hopes those intentions might be, really. Has hoped, for some time now.

They're well on their way to Aziraphale's room, far away from prying eyes, when Aziraphale lifts his head from Crowley's shoulder and looks up at him, giddy with adoration like the buzz of Champagne bubbles in his chest, and proudly content: proud to have Crowley openly beside him, holding him, playing Aziraphale's champion as he always has. He'd like to press his lips to the little snake scrawled there on Crowley's cheek, over a hot blush. Or on the warm shoulder where his head had just been laying. He'd like to be brave enough to take Crowley's hand tenderly and invite him to sleep the night on Aziraphale's own barely-used bed. He'd like a lot of things, but they haven't exactly discussed a single one of them--not while sober, really, and he could hardly hold Crowley to things said while drunk.

"I'd say that went ...rather well," he says, straightening Crowley's collar. "All things considered."

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"The party, or the part where you almost died?"

Crowley's defaulting to sarcasm as ever, though it's a gentle and good(ish)-natured kind, his voice still quiet like he's dealing with a fragile and intoxicated angel. He can still feel the heat in his cheeks as Aziraphale's fingers brush his neck while straightening his collar.

He's not about to hold Aziraphale to anything, either, but seeing as he was considerably less drunk - well. Even so. He's still the one who ended things with a serenade.

"How much do you remember?"

Surely, he's exaggerating.

But Aziraphale looks up with concern and his steps slow to a stop. Crowley's face betrays nothing, and that tells him everything he needs to know. Oh, what a foolish angel. He is a bastard indeed.

To be honest, in retrospect, he isn't even sure he hadn't been dying. Sudden dis-corporation-by-Heavenly-circle had to be a very different sensation from drinking oneself to death, he imagined, and Crowley had acted so quickly to save him. It had been over before he had the chance to really face his own mortality.

"Of the party," he says, "or the part where I almost died?

Crowley still has his arm looped around Aziraphale, even though there's no practical need for that closeness if he's sober. There's plenty of impractical reasons, though, and it feels nice besides, so he'll allow it if Aziraphale will.

He murmurs something anxious and noncommittal at first, before forcing himself not to look away. "Uh. Both, really."

"Well, I admit I didn't think I was dying, but I do appreciate your rescue nevertheless. I can't imagine that song won you any points for your demonic reputation here, but I--" Good lord, Crowley's singing made him feel thngs, and whether that was a byproduct of the magic imbued in the melody, or the fact that it was Crowley, Aziraphale's body still tingled pleasantly. "I want to say thank you...now that I can properly thank you for one of your rescues. So. Thank you, Crowley."

His eyes shine and Aziraphale looks away, biting his lip before he can think of any other way he might prefer to offer thanks in the moment.

"As far as the rest: aside from Tyzias' coup, some of the other guests are a blur. I recall a gift from Mr. Kaiba. And you offered a remedy to my hangover, which I think you delivered on quite unexpectedly well. But mostly I believe I was a rather shameless flirt, which I understand was completely out of line and I'm sure gave many of the guests a rather...sordid impression of us."

"Farthest thing from my mind, at the time." Not that he'd done very much to build up demonic mystique in the first place. But none of it would have mattered if Aziraphale had been... "You're welcome. You're always - you know." He pauses, before admitting for the first time: "I like to - er. Not that I want you to be in real danger, ever. And it's not like you can just nip upstairs for a new body, these days. But I always liked swooping in. For you."

He's removed the sunglasses at some point, without realizing he'd done it. And it's his turn to look away for a moment, so his eyes don't give too much away.

He's still glancing away as Aziraphale keeps talking, but his arm is also still looped around the angel, and Aziraphale might feel him start to tense. 'Shameless.' 'Out of line.' He has no idea if Aziraphale means it. But he can see the exit being offered, if Crowley wants to take it.

"If this is about the 'twink' thing, no one actually thinks this body's young enough that you're my meal ticket." He's smirking playfully, but when he looks back Aziraphale might see his eyes have a nervous glint in them. "Maybe a cad, of course. Playing with some poor bloke's feelings until he goes and serenades you."

Oh, dear. There is that delightful tingle through his body again. He'd always fancied that Crowley liked swooping in and playing the hero for him, but to hear it confirmed, after years of seeing it in action, of daydreaming about it, of seeing it reflected back at him in plays and books and lyrics. Now he's hearing it from Crowley's own mouth and how storybook tragic it is to not see Crowley's eyes now, when even the lenses no longer shield him.

He wants to put a hand to Crowley's cheek and look up into those beautiful yellow eyes and feel his posture soften in Aziraphale's arms, and-- No, no. He shouldn't. He could never press his advantage like that.

I'm obviously the Kept Man here, he pouts, trying to remember the last time Crowley didn't pay for, or do a miracle for, one their outings. Aziraphale reserved the table at the Ritz, but that hardly counts. How could anyone insinuate he isn't the one being kept? The possibility of that argument derails a second later.

There's a lot to unpack from that description, but instead, Aziraphale chooses to focus for now on the nervousness in Crowley's eyes and steels his own bravery. They can resolve the rest later, in the privacy of one of their rooms, where an unguarded conversation won't be quite so exposed. Right now, he just has to be clear with Crowley for once.

"A cad?!" He wiggles with playful irritation and glares gently up at him. "How dare you sully the name of Mr. Fell like that! Playing? He has only the most honorable intentions for this attractive demon he's been trying to summon." A pause and Aziraphale adds quietly and with a shrug, "...Mostly honorable."

Crowley's stomach does a flip at that playful wriggle, with his arm still slung around Aziraphale, and standing very close as they are. Before he knows what he's done, his other hand is somewhere near the rounded softness of Aziraphale's waist, or maybe they've been turning towards each other all along. But it's just shy of holding the angel, now.

Oh, he is in the best kind of trouble.

"Mostly honorable, oh, well that's all right then." His voice is a little rough, and still very soft. "That's perfect, actually."

"...I think you're wrong, though, I don't think I've delivered in full on that hangover cure at all." He wets his lips nervously. "Promised you a full day of company, for one. Seeing to your ailment, not my fault if that's more like pampering now. Talk about, uh, intoxication..." Of which there's only one kind now at work.

"Yes, I thought you might approve," Aziraphale leans into him, pressing his hands up the planes of Crowley's chest to his shoulders in self-indulgent wonder. He'd known this corporation of Crowley's for ages--had even worn it himself--but goodness! being held against it stirs up all kinds of desires he'd thought would remain hidden indefinitely. "Can't be too honorable, not with you involved."

He purses his lips into a small pout that turns into a barely contained smile when Crowley tells him he's wrong. Intoxication indeed. From which there is hopefully never going to be a hangover in need of a cure--and given that it's a love that has endured literal Hell and high water, even if it hasn't always been romantic love, he reasonably suspects there won't ever be.

Still, despite the promises of pampering, he's a little nervous they've gotten their wires crossed when Crowley doesn't make the next obvious move. Aziraphale is waiting, searching his eyes, expecting Crowley to take the lead like the suave, roguish hero he is...when he realizes that maybe Crowley is also waiting on him.

"Suppose you haven't."

Aziraphale inhales, nods.

"No slithering out before you've fulfilled that promise," and he doesn't mean for it to sound quite as scandalous as it comes out, but then his mind is elsewhere: on Crowley's wet, pink lips, on the rough tone of his voice, on the warm heat of his body--and he brings a hand up to cradle Crowley's face as he leans up for a kiss.

"Why would I want to be anywhere but here?"

Crowley does mean to be very dashing and lean in first, really he does, but it's not his fault Aziraphale is so distracting. There's this body heat between them, the feeling of being so close - a different kind of closeness than inhabiting the angel's form, somehow just as intimate and yet even more. The soft hands exploring his chest, the blue eyes staring into his in wonder. It really does take Aziraphale leaning in before he remembers himself.

And he dips his head down for their lips to meet, a hand still cupping Aziraphale's waist as they get there, finally, finally. Aziraphale is so warm and soft, so wonderful to hold, a fixed point of light that's been Crowley's path home for thousands of years. He takes his time to savor this. It's not so late they're safe from hypothetical wolf-whistling students, but it doesn't matter. It'll never matter who's watching, ever again.

It's at least a few minutes of slow, ever-deepening kisses, keeping Aziraphale flush against him in an embrace, before Crowley even thinks of opening his eyes and coming up for air he doesn't need.

Time has no meaning to an immortal and they have centuries to make up for. The kisses are tender, sweet, needy and full of desire. They're as multifaceted and intense as the unspoken moments they've shared together, and for one of the few times in their shared existence, Aziraphale is not looking over his shoulder, worried about being seen.

Crowley's warm breath against his cheek as the kissing ends finally reminds Aziraphale that they do pretend to need to breathe. He should probably also pass a message to his unnecessary heart that it can resume normal functions again, though his corporation has decided quite frankly to have its own awkward ideas about how to react to being kissed so thoroughly. Cheeks pink with his embarrassed, pleased, well-snogged smile, it's difficult to play at being a suitably demure and prim little angel--not when he's licking his lips like the cat who got the cream.

"Well, now," he says softly and then clears his throat, tugging at his collar as if overly warm.

There's no more he has to say, or he loses the thought in Crowley's golden eyes. Instead he steals a smaller kiss and then another and another, like chasing the last few drops of good scotch and then, never one for moderation once he's set on something, he happily, shamelessly indulges again.

Crowley's own mind is foggy as he reluctantly pulls away, flushed and giddy with the feel of Aziraphale in his arms at last. But he laughs fondly at the sight of his angel looking so satisfied, trying his best to stay prim while sneaking one kiss after another until he dives straight in for more.

Crowley's touches are more daring, exploring, this territory so very new for him. He's tempted humans before, but he's never wanted to actually do more, not with anyone else. No one but Aziraphale, where he indulges now, one hand caressing his cheek as the other squeezes gently against his belly and waist.

"We ought to get to your room, I think. Or your appetite may get the better of you." He winks.

The wink gives him some terrible ideas.

"I can't help it. I'm positively famished." He gives a considering look down at Crowley's lips again before concluding that, no, absolutely Crowley is right. If he stays here, he'll get carried away and then where will they be? The poor students have seen enough suggestion of Mr. Fell's lax morals tonight as it is. It would be best to adjourn and move to a more fitting setting, one less likely to be walked in upon by children.

Despite the comfortable level of familiarity between them, This is new, and Aziraphale spends a moment of awkward indecision figuring out how best to separate and yet not to head up to his room. He slides to Crowley's side and lets the demon's arm stay at his waist. How very modern; his sensibilities argue that at best he should be holding Crowley's arm or his hand or perhaps even be a decent distance from him--but here they are tucked side-by-side like he's seen lovers strolling together in the quiet late night fog.

"But alright, you wicked old charmer, I suppose I'll let you have your way."

"Oh, I'm going to have several ways, I think." Or die trying to fumble his way through them. Crowley keeps his arm around his angel to walk in step, just as unwilling as Aziraphale is to give up that nearness, the warmth of his partner beside him.

"Mm, in fact. It's a school day tomorrow, isn't it. We'll just have to play hookey for all of it." He gives Aziraphale a flirty, sideways smirk. "You nearly took deathly ill, after all. Nothing for it but cozy venial sin."

The goal is to make Aziraphale blush, but he's doing quite a bit of that himself.

Edited 2020-01-15 05:44 (UTC)

Aziraphale's brows raise, suitably impressed and intrigued by the idea, and more than a bit eager to see just what several ways Crowley might be promising.

"A whole day of truancy? Oh no. I couldn't." Regardless of what his words say, his tone suggests he needs no coaxing to agree, only seems to be fishing, perhaps, for an excuse to claim later that he wasn't entirely to blame. He gives a sidelong look of his own, under the fan of his lashes, and Crowley gets his desired results--the angel's cheeks go a rosy blush pink. Venial sin. Cozy venial sin, no less, when here he is certain his own thoughts alone are enough to lock him up for mortal sin...if he had a soul to lose, that is. "Besides." He dusts off the front of his shirt and straightens it out. "All day together, just the two of us in my room, after everything that just happened? Imagine the rumors. We'd be courting scandal."

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say the word, your wish is my command

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/gives up on trying to find an icon for this

all their pining and not a post-smooching expression to be found

sadly not

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