Happy Holidays, ladylier!
Dec. 16th, 2019 05:36 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
goe_mod posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
go_exchangeTitle: Funny how love is anywhere you’re bound to be
Recipient: ladylier
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale
Notes: Happy holidays, ladylier! I hope this story helps to make your holidays bright, and is just the right amount of fluff!
Thank you to my beta, J, whom I can always count on for a red pencil and a cheerlead.
Summary: They had driven up to London that morning, leaving the peaceful quiet and bucolic beauty of South Downs in the Bentley’s rearview mirror.
Crowley and Aziraphale decide to stay in London for the evening and find themselves at Crowley’s flat. A slice of life, three decades after The End That Wasn’t.
IN A SMALL RESTAURANT IN SOHO1 one angel and one demon occupied a corner table--it was their favorite table, as it happened, and one that was always miraculously available whenever they stopped in--and watched as the last of the diners donned their coats and said their goodnights to the staff.
“I thought,” Crowley said, pouring the last of the wine into Aziraphale’s glass, “we might stay up here tonight.”
They had driven up to London that morning, leaving the peaceful quiet and bucolic beauty of South Downs in the Bentley’s rearview mirror. Aziraphale had spotted a news article about some book auction or another, and no sooner had he started to suggest checking it out than Crowley was grabbing the Bentley’s keys. Heaven, Crowley had very nearly spread his wings and flown to the car. It had been too long since he’d gotten a good temptation in--there were only so many times he could mess about with property lines before it got old--and he had started to feel itchy.
Aziraphale, for his part, had also been feeling a need to pop back into the city, albeit for less ethereal reasons. Their cottage and the village nearby were as close to idyllic as one could want; it was almost cinematic (minus the high concentration of murders that usually happened on the television programs, naturally) but Aziraphale missed good sushi, and although his library was nothing to sneeze at, it was nothing compared to his shop, and he missed his books. And so when an opportunity arose, he had made the suggestion to Crowley and was relieved when Crowley agreed.
A pleased flush rose on Aziraphale’s cheeks at the suggestion as he raised his glass in agreement. “It’s been an age since we’ve done that.”
Crowley flashed a sharp smile and lifted his own glass, gently clinking them together. “My place or yours?” He asked, looking over the top of his sunglasses and elongating the final ess. While Aziraphale had been on his antiquarian adventure, Crowley had sent a gaggle of tabloid journalists on a chase that began with a simple royal photo op and led them to a story that promised to top anything in their lifetime… only for it to turn out to be an elaborate creation on social media2. He was still feeling the rush.
“The bookshop was already open today, I don’t want to give people false hope it will be open again tomorrow if they happen to pass by and the Bentley is there,” Aziraphale reasoned. And then, as though the idea just came to him, he broke out into a smile and said with pure delight. “And you have a bed.”
A sound in between a laugh and a choke sounded from near the bar. Raina Longbrow was only on her third day as a server at the restaurant, and before that she’d been a cashier at a shop that sold artisanal soap. She liked this job better because at least when she rattled off things like basil and truffle, people were meant to eat it, unlike Savory Suds, and most of the customers she’d served had been nice, if boring. She’d originally thought the two men at the corner table were going to be more of the same. But the way the owner, Mr. Henry, had greeted them, and the fact that the dark-haired man had never taken off his cool-looking sunglasses--she wondered if maybe they were famous somehow. She’d managed to take a picture of them with her phone but neither an image search nor her message to any of her friends came up with an answer. She’d given up trying to figure it out and now just wanted them to finish up what she hoped was their last bottle of wine so she could go home when they’d started talking about beds. Someone’s getting lucky tonight :) Raina messaged her friend, accompanied by another surreptitious snap3.
“And high thread count sheets,” Crowely added, standing up and offering Aziraphale his hand. “Let’s go, angel.”
They said goodnight to Mr. Henry, who stood in the doorway of his office, and thanked their server before heading out into the night.
IT WAS NEARLY MIDNIGHT when Crowley unlocked the door to his flat. In the decades that he had owned it, he had always made sure it remained the epitome of style. Gone were the spotlights and neon tubes and the white leather sofa from when he’d last considered it as something like home, and it their place were low-energy lamps and long, low upholstered couches. An obscenely large television filled a wall. It was spotless and perfect, like something out of Architectural Digest and worlds away from their cluttered cottage.
“Wine?” Crowley asked, picking up a stack of mail from a table in the entryway.
Crowley had someone come by every so often to run a duster over the place, bring in the mail, and water the plants that hadn’t made the move to South Downs. Not that the place needed it, but it kept up appearances and even with the myriad ways to deluge someone with unwanted mail, Down Below had never eased up on the amount of printed materials sent through the post.
“Perhaps just one more glass.” Aziraphale toed off his shoes and left them on a small rug in the entryway before he joined Crowley, who had selected a 1991 Château Lafite Rothschild.
“Adam says hello.” Crowley handed Aziraphale the postcard that had been at the top of the mail. The image on the front was of a stained glass lamp that resembled an illuminated jellyfish and on the back, written in a familiar hand, were warm greetings from America, where Adam was visiting. According to the postmark, it had been sent two days prior from the state of Wisconsin.
“Such a good boy.”
Of course, at nearly 40, Adam was no longer a boy. But when compared to two ageless, eternal beings, it was all relative.
Crowley hmm’d a reply as he leaned in and kissed Aziraphale like he had wanted to do all evening. And Aziraphale, who had been having similar thoughts for just as long, returned the kiss with enthusiasm.
“Since you haven’t opened the wine,” Aziraphale said, sparing a glance at the wine bottle, which knew better than to appear uncorked, “bed?”
Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand and led him down the hallway.
OVER THEIR SIX THOUSAND YEARS OF FRIENDSHIP, Crowley and Aziraphale had thought they’d come to know almost all there was to know about one another. That they had perhaps worn each other’s corners down into complementary forms. But then the End had nearly happened and friendship had turned out to be love (and Love), and the last three decades had been an accelerated learning curve of daily knowledge as they shared a bed, a home, and, miraculously, a life together.
So it should not have surprised Crowley that, upon walking into the bedroom, he discovered that one side of the bed’s sleek slate gray pillows had been replaced by ones that were big and feather and tartan. “My designer would be appalled.”
“Well it’s good they aren’t here,” Aziraphale said as he began to undress. “For a number of reasons.”
Hgnk. Crowley choked back a laugh and nearly toppled himself over as he slid out of his pants. “Get in bed, Aziraphale.”
Aziraphale did, and a moment later Crowley joined him. They moved and shifted, kissed and touched, until everything fit together. And sometime later, they fell asleep.
SOMETIME THE NEXT MORNING--Crowley had eschewed having a bedside clock during the most recent remodel, and his phone was either in his pants on the bedroom floor, or somewhere in the kitchen--Crowley woke. He had curled around Aziraphale during the night, their heads sharing the same pillow. As he opened his eyes, the sight of Aziraphale’s ear mere centimeters away proved too much of a temptation. He flicked his tongue against the lobe, waking Aziraphale almost immediately.
“Morning, angel,” Crowley said with a smile.
Aziraphale looked up at Crowley, at the rumpled hair and the grin that promised the world, and felt the bright warmth of Happiness and Love in his chest. “Good morning.”
“Can I tempt you to some breakfast?” Crowley asked, sitting up. “I still owe you for . . .”
“Da Vinci Code. 2003. People came to the bookshop by the dozens looking for clues. I very nearly had to sell something.” Aziraphale pulled the comforter tight against his chest at the memory of a very insistent customer with a checkbook for a very large bank account in one hand and an 1881 printing of Newton’s Principia Mathematica in the other.
“Yeah, that one got away from me.” Crowley pulled on his clothes. He looked down at Aziraphale and an impish rush of affection had him saying the next sentence before his brain had finished forming the words. “For that I’ll even do breakfast in bed.”
Crowley could feel Aziraphale’s indulgent smile follow him as he made his way to the kitchen and picked up an iPad4 from the counter and queued up a cooking video. Sure, he could miracle a breakfast with the snap of his fingers, but when you had a kitchen with professional kitchen quality cookware and state of the art appliances5, it was almost a sin not to use them. And who was Crowley to sidestep a little sin, especially when it was food-related. Besides, Crowley had to admit as he picked up a pomegranate from where it appeared on the counter, he had found he really had a fondness for the cooking and baking shows.
Twenty minutes, six cracked eggs, and a mixture of dill, salmon, and cheese later, Crowley handed Aziraphale a plate of food.
“Well?” Crowley asked, watching as Aziraphale dug into his breakfast.
“It’s heaven, my dear,” Aziraphale said with a sigh, his eyes closed. When they opened, he patted the bed next to him. “Can I tempt you to join me?”
“You can.” Crowley slid onto the bed beside him.
IN A NOT-SO-SMALL MAYFAIR APARTMENT, one angel and one demon sat in bed having breakfast, and all was right with the world.
-----
1 The kind of restaurant that has been around for as long as people could remember. And regardless of the changes to the neighborhood, it had stayed the same.
2 Written by a talented writer who would soon be selling the rights to the highest bidder. Look for it on a premium streaming service next year.
3 It wouldn’t be until the next morning that Raina would notice that her text would include an angel emoji and a >:-). How they were included, she’ll never know.
4 Crowley had been a loyal Apple user since the beginning--the logo had always been his little inside joke, and it still gave him a little thrill every time he saw one in someone’s hand.
5 And an InstantPot. That had, quite literally, been all Aziraphale’s doing. While he still preferred to do things the analogue way, Aziraphale’s patience was never the best and so, voila. On that day, the angel made the InstantPot. And then he went and gave it away.
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Date: 2019-12-16 11:05 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2020-01-18 07:50 pm (UTC)Thank you so much. Content and happy C & A is my ficnip :)