Dustin glares up at him, arms crossed and impatient, “Well!? Tell me everything! Did you confess your love to Robin? Did she confess her love for you? You were gone for ages!”
Steve panics a little thinking Dustin somehow knows they were gone for a year and the time travel didn’t work but then he realizes Dustin is a dramatic little shit so they’re probably fine, “Jesus dude, how many times? We’re capital P Platonic, nothing happening there!”
Dustin groans like Steve shot him, “Oh my god Steveeeeeeeeeee. It’s road trip 101. Feelings are always had!” He starts listing on his fingers, “It happened one night, Romancing the stone-”
Steve cuts him off, deadpan, “Texas chainsaw massacre.”
Dustin glares at him, “Steveeeeeeeee.”
read it on Ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43904979/chapters/110769427
Sif speaks up, “I’m best at swordplay rather than hand-to-hand, but Volstagg is best at two-handed weapons and some medical training.”
Volstagg nods, “Not that you’ll need that with Mjolnir, although medical I can definitely help, Sif helps with tourniquets though, I always pull too tight”
Hogun grins and leans into him with his left shoulder, “you pulled that guy’s leg clean off one time.”
Volstagg grumbles under his breath, “stupid little matchstick man, it’s hardly my fault his species is so delicate.”
He pours himself some mead and clinks his glass against Hogun’s, “Yes well, we will teach Sir Stefan not to do that, won’t we!”
Steve thinks about correcting him but this is the most surreal conversation he’s ever been a part of and he’s not even sure how to correct a dude like Volstagg.
“Wait, that makes no sense. Who chooses the worthiness? Thor? That can’t be right. Then he decides he’s worthy on his own. Odin? He hates humans, right? So no one would be able to lift it anyway.” Steve’s eyebrows pinch together a little in thought, squinting at the informational plaque in the middle of nowhere New Mexico where Mjolnir sits gleaming in the sun on top of a small mound of dirt.
Tourists buzz around him taking Polaroids and buying little Mjolnir flashlight key chains from the poor pasty teenager at the kiosk.
Robin shrugs, “I think the hammer decides who is worthy and who isn’t. Should we get key chains for your million kids? We have to get one for Dustin at least, he’ll shank you if you don’t.” She has a hand up on her brow blocking the sun as she squints at the kiosk line. “Hey, we’re totally gonna go see the whale monument before we head back right?”
Steve scrunches his nose in distaste, “Wait, mew-mew chooses? She’s sentient? And all these people are grabbing her without consent? That’s fucking gross, Rob. I’m gonna go talk to her.”
** OR **
Steve accidentally picks up Mjolnir and changes a lot of fates.
Aziraphale smiles gently around the arboretum. 'Hard to believe there are 14,000 trees rooted here' he thinks. He unfolds his map, to figure out where he wants to wander next, when he hears a group of kids with a very energetic tour guide.
He puts the map back in his pocket and peers around a tree to see a tall redhead man gesturing wildly and talking to the children at a rapid fire pace, the kids somehow hanging on to every word. Aziraphale doesn't blame them, he's just as captivated and before he realizes he's doing it, starts to trail the tour group.
The children finally disperse back to their parents in the Rose garden, while Aziraphale looks around, he realizes the tour guide is heading straight for him.
Aziraphale tries to push down the horror of confrontation but there's nowhere to hide in here, he's exposed. The guide finally reaches him. One eyebrow arched in amusement, long red curls sway as he tilts his head. "Well, you followed us long enough, what did you think of the tour?"
Aziraphale swallows and tries to think of something, anything the guide had said but all he could think about was the slight sheen of sweat on the guide's forehead, his long slender fingers- aziraphale coughs a little, embarrassed and flushing with it, hoping he can blame it on the midday sun. "Oh it was, illuminating my dear."
The tour guide softens a little, reaches out a hand, "Anthony J Crowley, everyone calls me Crowley."
Aziraphale, still shaky with nerves and embarrassment reaches a little too enthusiastically to take crowley's hand and introduce himself as well, knocking into a shrubbery in the process, "Azira-" before he can finish, he drops his hand as a sharp pinprick of pain makes itself known on the back of his hand.
He glances down in consternation. A bee stung him. Crowley asks if he's alright, but when he tries to respond it feels like he's underwater. Everything goes a bit grey and wobbly on the edges of his vision, the last thing he sees before he loses consciousness is Crowley, pushing up his sunglasses into his hair and ember eyes pinched in concern.
He wakes up disoriented. It takes a minute but he realizes he's in a hospital bed. He glances to the right and sees Crowley, fast asleep in the guest chair, snuffling slightly.
Aziraphale clears his throat, startling Crowley into wakefulness.
Crowley sits up and presses the nurse button, "Hey! You're awake! How are you feeling?"
Aziraphale squints, runs his tongue around his dry mouth, wiggles his fingers and his toes, "all accounted for, but I don't remember much beyond the sting, how did I get here?"
Crowley flushes, "ah. Well, you collapsed and I called 999, you didn't have a mobile on you so I rode with you and stayed until an emergency contact could be reached."
Aziraphale sighs and flounders into an upright position, Crowley gently helping him. "I'm afraid I don't have an emergency contact, if you'd like to leave I understand, however I would like to thank you dear boy, for saving me, and for staying" Crowley flushes and fiddles with his sunglasses.
"That's really not necessary but maybe when you get the all-clear, we could go to dinner?" Aziraphale's turn to blush, "That sounds lovely, a proper date?"
Crowley swallows and nods tries to grin and sound unaffected, "No picnics outdoors."
Aziraphale chuckles, "how do you feel about crepes?"
While it is true that most of what makes Aziraphale who he is and therefore immediately attractive to Crowley is old hat, sometimes the little things do come out of nowhere and tap Crowley’s shoulder, as if to say “You thought you were done pining? Oh no, dear boy, we’re just getting started.”
Or that one where Crowley gets turned on by Aziraphale's pinkie ring, because he's a freak.
Here’s the thing: When you’ve been balls deep in love with someone for 6000 years, you would think that nothing would surprise you anymore, or that sexually speaking you wouldn’t get excited about the little things anymore. For Crowley, you would of course, be wrong on both counts.
While it is true that most of what makes Aziraphale who he is and therefore immediately attractive to Crowley is old hat, sometimes the little things do come out of nowhere and tap Crowley’s shoulder, as if to say “You thought you were done pining? Oh no, dear boy, we’re just getting started.”
Crowley’s right-hand cramps in remembered sympathy of when Aziraphale bought his first pair of glasses. Crowley doesn’t understand this kink either, but it seems to be a common one to find men who wear glasses attractive, so it doesn’t bother him too badly. He had to avoid Aziraphale for at least two months from sheer mortification.
Crowley and Aziraphale are sitting at the Ritz, their usual table, of course. Aziraphale is gesturing wildly, something about a first edition of whomever, Crowley tends to tune him out when he gets like this, not because he’s not interested (he isn’t) but because he loves watching Aziraphale glow with excitement, narrowly missing his own wine glass as his speech picks up speed.
Crowley is, not for the first time, very glad he’s wearing glasses.
The check comes, Crowley settles the bill, mainly to watch the pleased smile grace Aziraphale’s face, and they saunter out in the direction of the bookshop.
Aziraphale is still chattering on about Wilde or something, and Crowley is tuning him out in earnest now, scowling miserably in the direction he thinks Wilde’s remains are (he’s completely wrong of course). Crowley steps off the curb to cross the street when Aziraphale’s hand is suddenly in his collar, yanking him backwards.
Crowley notices two things in rapid succession.
1. He almost got discorporated by a massive lorry.
2. Aziraphale’s ring felt like a brand against his neck.
“Hello, new kink.” Thinks Crowley.
Aziraphale is still fussing over him, Crowley realizes with a start.
“What were you thinking! What would you have done if you’d been sent /down there/! Crowley, Really! Dear boy, you must be more careful, we can’t simply replace these bodies anymore you know!”
Crowley rolls his eyes behind his sunglasses, willing himself not to turn red, not in embarrassment, but in arousal.
“I barely got hit angel, I’m Fine. Didn’t you say you had a new shipment of Chateaneuf Du Pape? Or something that could be persuaded to be Chateaneuf Du pape?”
Aziraphale tuts, but drops it, as Crowley knew he would, “I keep telling you dearest, I don’t care how many miracles you throw at it, a lirac will never be Chateaneuf Du Pape.”
They’ve finally arrived at the shop, and Aziraphale heads straight to the liquor cabinet in the back room.
Crowley smiles, and makes sure everything is locked up before toeing off his shoes and collapsing on the hideous tartan sofa. He figures if he’s laying on the hideous sofa, he doesn’t have to look at it.
He’s also trying very hard not to think about the feel of Aziraphale’s ring on the back of his neck.
The thing is. Well, it’s like this. Crowley bought that ring and gave it to Aziraphale, ages, eons, ago. Not like that, well. A little like that. Mostly because for a while there Crowley delighted in finding off the wall type Knick knacks for Aziraphale, to see how ugly he could go before Aziraphale made him stop.
(The statue in Crowley’s apartment was originally for Aziraphale, but that was the line. He couldn’t bear to part with it though and it makes him grin thinking about Aziraphale’s-trying-very-hard-not-to-offend-face.)
The angel mug was from him, and somewhere in the deep recesses of Aziraphale’s cabinet’s lies a matching devil mug, never used.
So, the ring, the ring was from Crowley. At the time as a joke, but also, not really, but played off that way. Now, now it feels like, well. A brand. A sign that Aziraphale is his, whether he knows it or not. Crowley’s getting hot under the collar just thinking about it again.
Aziraphale finally returns from the back room with a crate full of bottles and two glasses. Crowley isn’t sure why they even bother with glasses at this point but is too afraid to ask.
Now that Crowley is aware of a new kink, he seems to hyper fixate on it, because of course he does. Aziraphale’s ring clinks gently against the bottles, and the glasses and is cool under his hand when their hands brush.
Crowley’s pulse is thundering in his ears, which seems excessive, even to Crowley, as he’s never had to have a pulse in the first place.
Aziraphale finally has enough and sets his glass down on the side table. He’s sitting across from Crowley in one of his massive reading chairs that you sort of sink into and hope you don’t get pulled through the other side.
“Dearest, are you alright? You’ve barely said two words all evening. I know there was that fright with the lorry, but surely I’m not boring you?”
Aziraphale enunciated the word “boring” with the disdain most people reserve for words like “genocide” or “used car salesman”.
Crowley grinned weakly at him and shook it off “No, fine, must be the shock, is all.”
Aziraphale squints, which spells trouble for Crowley, if past records are to be believed.
“My dear, for a demon, you know you’re a terrible liar?”
Crowley wants to be offended, but he does enjoy when Aziraphale is a pushy bastard, he’s not sure what that says about him, and he doesn’t want to find out.
“You’re very mean, for an angel.” Crowley says, faux pouting.
Aziraphale rolls his eyes, which never fails to make Crowley grin.
“Aren’t you going to get on with it? I know we’re immortal my dear, but I would rather like to move forward this century”
Crowley snips, “Now who’s going too fast?” and immediately regrets it.
Aziraphale looks shame-faced, “apologies dearest, if you need more time, of course, I just thought after armageddont, and you staring at my hands for the past two hours, you’d get on with it, but if you want to wait I-“
Crowley interrupts him “I wasn’t staring at your hands, angel” immediately regrets it, and flushes a light pink despite himself.
Aziraphale’s smile takes a predatory edge, “you think I don’t know that? That I don’t know you? You may be a wily old serpent, but I’ve known you for 6000 years. You think I didn’t know this ring was a promise? A branding? A message to everyone else? I know you, Anthony. Now come over here and do something about it.”
Crowley very eloquently says “Ngk” and then slithers his way off the sofa and settles in front of Aziraphale on his knees before him like an offering.
Crowley places his hands on Aziraphale’s thighs and tries to stop them from shaking, he’s not very successful. Aziraphale hums happily, and gently takes Crowley’s sunglasses off, folds them and places them on the table next to his wine glass.
Aziraphale turns back to Crowley, places his right hand on Crowley’s jaw, and brushes his thumb over Crowley’s cheekbone. Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s ring under his ear and his own pulse in his teeth.
“Much better dear boy, such pretty eyes to keep hidden all the time. I don’t mind it though, they’re only for me, aren’t they?”
Crowley swallows, tries to say something, can’t, and nods instead.
Aziraphale sighs lightly, fond. He uses his grip to pull Crowley up, and leans down to take his mouth in a deep kiss. While it is unclear who moans first, they are both clearly moaning by the time they part. Both sets of lips shiny and bruised.
Aziraphale runs his left hand through Crowley’s hair, pensive. “I think I’d very much like to use you hard and put you away wet.”
Crowley gives a full body shudder, “Please.”
Aziraphale’s hand suddenly tightens in Crowley’s hair yanking him back to meet his eyes, “please what?”
Crowley moans. “Anything, angel, anything you can give me.”
Aziraphale’s hand loosens as he pets through Crowley’s hair once more, “There’s a good boy. Take me out. Ah. Ah. Ah. Hands behind your back, my dear.”
Crowley crosses his wrists behind his back even as his brow furrows in confusion. “How will I- “
Aziraphale interrupts him, smug, as always, “Oh, I’m sure you’ll think of something if you want it badly enough, yes?”
Crowley swallows, nods. He rocks back and forth a little between his knees and then leans forward to undo Aziraphale’s trousers, with his teeth.
Aziraphale arches into him like a pleased cat and grabs his glass with his right hand, ring clinking against the stem.
Crowley moans, both from the sound which he now realizes is very much like a pavlovian whistle to his hind brain and the fact that he’s finally got Aziraphale’s cock freed from all that fabric.
Aziraphale gestures as if to say, “well, go on then”
Crowley really can’t find a reason to argue so he takes Aziraphale’s cock as far down his throat as he can, it’s a bit difficult without the use of his hands, but worth the awkwardness for the heavy weight on his tongue, in his mouth, down his throat.
Aziraphale hums lightly, finishes off his wine and puts his glass back on the table. He rolls his neck a bit, like he’s relaxing after a long day of not selling books. He leans back in his chair and says quietly, “I think you’re ready to take more, don’t you my dear?”
Crowley moans around Aziraphale’s cock, drool slipping out of the sides of his mouth making him sloppy. His cock is painfully trapped against his painted-on jeans, but he can’t seem to summon the effort to fix it, not until Aziraphale tells him to anyway.
Aziraphale replaces his left hand in Crowley’s hair with his right, ring catching on strands of red hair. He gives Crowley a moment to brace and relax his jaw and then he proceeds to fuck his mouth.
Crowley hasn’t stopped moaning since they started and Aziraphale hasn’t stopped muttering sweet nothings mixed with filthy talk.
“A walking contradiction, my angel” thinks Crowley, fondly.
Aziraphale has been fucking Crowley’s throat for long enough now that Crowley’s jaw has started to ache, though Crowley would never tell him that, he’d have to see that worried little furrow between his angel’s eyebrows and he’s not cruel enough to do that.
“That’s it my dear, take it. You were made for this weren’t you, giving me pleasure.”
Crowley thrills in that, his glorious little hedonist angel.
“Oh Crowley, oh my darling. Dearest, I’m going to- “
Crowley moans and shoves forward as far as he can swallowing and moaning around Aziraphale’s cock, licking the underside until Aziraphale tenses and shoots down his throat so far he can barely taste it.
They stay there, shaking around each other for a while. Crowley gently mouthing at Aziraphale’s cock until Aziraphale winces with sensitivity and pulls him away.
Aziraphale does up his trousers and leans forward to kiss Crowley again, thoroughly. Crowley is well on his way to looking debauched. Hair pulled in different directions, lips bruised and spit-slick, chin wet with drool and cum where it leaked out of him.
Aziraphale hums delighted, pulling Crowley up on shaking legs to straddle him in the chair.
“Keep your arms behind you dearest, a trust exercise, if you will. I won’t let you fall”
Crowley softens his gaze, “I know you won’t, angel.”
Aziraphale cups Crowley’s cheek with his right hand, “thank you, for trusting me.”
Crowley squirms, embarrassed.
Aziraphale huffs a breath of laughter, not unkindly and finally, unzips Crowley from his jeans.
Crowley tries his best not to wiggle too much and is of course wiggling so much he almost falls off Aziraphale’s lap.
“Careful, dearest.” Admonishes Aziraphale, grip suddenly like iron around Crowley’s hip. Crowley is finally freed of his self-made prison and Aziraphale smiles softly up at him.
“Now, I’m going to touch you, and you’ll either come like this, or you won’t come at all. Understood?”
Crowley hisses a breath between his teeth and nods rapidly.
Aziraphale grins and wraps his right hand around Crowley’s cock.
Overwhelming pleasure and embarrassment rush through Crowley at the same time. It’s going to be over before it even starts because he can feel that stupid ring pressing into him, on him, around him, and he’s babbling but he’s not sure what he’s saying but Aziraphale shushes him gently.
“That’s it. My good boy, aren’t you? The ring is getting to you isn’t it? I knew it would, clever old serpent. Shows that I’m yours doesn’t it?”
Aziraphale’s voice takes a dark edge suddenly, “and you’re mine. Mine. Mine. Say it.”
Crowley sobs, “yours.”
Aziraphale snarls, “Prove it then. Come all over my pretty ring” and Crowley does.
Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship as seen through food.
Aziraphale starts getting suspicious on a Thursday, a few weeks after the whole anti-Christ business.
He probably would have noticed sooner, but to be entirely fair and honest he had tried his best not to notice. Prior to the nahpocalypse (as Crowley deemed it, to the delight of the Them) Aziraphale had been so scared of what heaven or hell would do to them he did his best not to think of Crowley at all. He didn't think about how kind he was or how pretty his eyes were. He didn’t think about his long dexterous fingers...running over...places.
Now though, with no superiors in the way, the only obstacle between them seemed to be their own blasted stubborn cowardice. Aziraphale may have underestimated how large that obstacle was. He had thought that Crowley would make the first move, he always had before. "Oh, Crowley what will I do I can’t perform too many miracles to get out of this prison" "oh Crowley, my jacket is stained and if I miracle it I'll know it’s there" and so on.
For the first few meetings after everything it seemed likely, and then midway through what Aziraphale hoped was a confession, Crowley would clam up, visibly and forcibly changing the route of the conversation to safer waters. Aziraphale is a bit impatient but he doesn't truly mind, it's just a concern of his that maybe he thought it all up, that Crowley wasn't actually interested, a thrill of the chase or forbidden fruit (not to be too on the nose) that of course was before Thursday.
Aziraphale has been observing Crowley closely now since he has no reason not to, he especially wants to throw Crowley's sunglasses to the ducks in St. James Park and stare into his bright yellow eyes like looking into the sun, and count his eyelashes and other such pathetic nonsense (he is self-aware, thank you very much Anathema).
It is early, the sun has barely risen, and steam gently wafts against Aziraphale's face as he sips his tea. He curls up in his chair with his blanket and watches fondly as Crowley curses in his kitchen. They're upstairs in Aziraphale’s living quarters, the shop closed, Freddie Mercury croons softly from the radio in the corner.
Crowley is making breakfast because Aziraphale may have implied that the last truly home cooked meal he had was at Oscar Wilde's old haunt. Crowley had that little angry furrow between his brows ever since, bitching that breakfast isn't that difficult and if that's what the angel wanted, he could do it better than any stupid poet or something anyway. He made sure to tell Aziraphale quite plainly that he was not cooking breakfast for the angel but for himself because he was tired of going out all the time and if the angel wanted some of the breakfast he could have some but he'd better not thank him for it. Aziraphale said "oh, whatever you think is best my dear, I may have a bit of a nibble if you don't mind terribly."
Aziraphale sipped his tea and tried to act as uninterested in the proceedings as possible. Crowley nodded, "fine. Fine. But I'm not doing this all the time you know. I'm only cooking a little something." Crowley then cooked the biggest spread Aziraphale had ever seen. Aziraphale had nearly eaten half of the entire thing when he realized the only thing Crowley had consumed was the same cup of coffee he brewed before he started cooking. Aziraphale started to ask but when he looked at him, he noticed Crowley's eyes were half-lidded and his cheeks were flushed. Aziraphale would never admit it of course, but he might have hammed up his performance a smidge. Everything truly was scrumptious, but he may not have had to moan so appreciatively after every morsel of fresh fruit. Strawberry juice ran down his fingers, Crowley reached to give him a napkin only to have the breath audibly punched out of him when Aziraphale simply sucked the juice clean off his own fingers, internally wiggling in delight at the arousal coming off Crowley in waves.
He doesn’t want to embarrass the poor boy, but he is an angel he can feel emotions, especially when there is massive amounts of it sitting across the same table from him. So yes, Aziraphale knows exactly what he's doing and how it affects Crowley he's just not why.
There are too many variables, the type of food, the amount of food, the way he eats, it calls for more experimenting Aziraphale decides. He doesn’t get a chance to experiment for another week, but he keeps observing Crowley closely. Aziraphale is on the cusp of saying damn it all and kissing Crowley and being done with it, but then he thinks of that flustered look at breakfast and he holds out, he wants to see it again, in as many different locales as possible. He almost invites Crowley to dine with him at the Ritz but thinks that he wants somewhere more private for this.
Crowley is at his apartment in Mayfair, presumably threatening his plants, and whatever else Crowley does when he’s not with Aziraphale. Aziraphale takes off his coat, gently hanging it on the coat hanger, unbuttons his sleeves and rolls them to his elbows. Aziraphale flips the shop sign from Closed to Most Definitely Closed, covers all the windows and makes sure to give the building an air of “you definitely don’t want to go in here or even look in the windows” to be safe and gets to work, he miracles all furniture (including the books) upstairs and cleans the human way (with maybe a little bit of miraculous help).
He snaps a picnic blanket into existence, it takes up majority of the floor. He makes a cup of tea and a full picnic spread, and finally calls Crowley’s phone. Crowley answers on the fourth ring, voice hoarse from shouting at his poor plants. Aziraphale clucks his tongue fondly. He invites Crowley over, if he’s done terrorizing his poor plants who just want to please him. Crowley tsks and responds that if they grew properly, they wouldn’t have anything to worry about and of course he’s coming over, why wouldn’t he?
Aziraphale smiles and hangs up, snaps his fingers and a few seconds later soft sounds of Schubert waft gently through the space. He busies himself making a cup of tea and settles down with a book. He doesn’t have to wait long; steam is still gently rising into the air from his teacup when there’s a knock on the door.
Aziraphale waves a hand and the door opens, miraculously.
Crowley saunters in, one eyebrow raised, then both as he takes in the change in scenery, the blankets and the basket and the Schubert.
“I just realized, we dined at the Ritz, but I remember promising a picnic?”
Crowley’s heart stutters in his chest, he masks it with a smirk, “Yeah angel, I believe you did. Not worried about going too fast now?”
Aziraphale sighed softly, “No my dear boy, I think we’ve been treading water for quite long enough, don’t you?”
Crowley swallows, nods.
Aziraphale reaches out to him, hopes Crowley will take his hand, and smiles, pleased when he does.
Aziraphale leads him over to the blanket, chattering about the food options happily.
They sit, Aziraphale takes off his shoes, socked toes curling happily against Crowley’s leg.
Crowley takes off his sunglasses and puts them in his coat pocket, leans back on his elbows, basking in the attention of his angel. Aziraphale tried to hand one of the sandwiches to Crowley but as he suspected would happen, Crowley declined.
Crowley shrugged it off, “just a coffee for me, angel.”
Aziraphale shrugs and hands him a devil mug with coffee in it, ignoring Crowley’s delighted grin.
“hardly a picnic when only one of us eats.” Says Aziraphale, reproachfully.
Crowley rolls his eyes, “I’m particcccipating angel. Look at me with my coffee.” Crowley waves his mug around, narrowly, or perhaps, miraculously not spilling any of the hot liquid.
Aziraphale munches happily on his sandwich, while Crowley simply stares at him, coffee forgotten already.
Aziraphale looks at him with a questioning sort of tone.
Crowley shrugs “I think this is most relaxed I’ve even seen you is all, shirt sleeves rolled up, bow tie undone, you’ve really let your hair down.”
Aziraphale smiles softly, “I’m glad you can let your hair down with me as well.” He gestures to Crowley’s pocket where the sunglasses lie abandoned.
Crowley does not blush, but it is a very near thing.
Aziraphale finishes one sandwich and then starts on another and then another, and so on. The sun is setting now, gentle hues of orange glowing across the space. He makes the mistake of glancing over at Crowley mid-bite.
Crowley is almost ethereal looking in Aziraphale’s eyes. Orange is lighting up his hair, his eyes, he looks like he’s glowing with it, as beautiful as he’s ever been, as he will ever be, as he always has been.
Aziraphale gulps down the last of his sandwich (the last of 6 daintily cut cucumber sandwiches.)
Conversation is sporadic at best. They have moments where they get into hysterics talking about the things they got up to over the centuries, very carefully not discussing anything too heavy, and then comfortable but heavy silence. Heavy with want and desire. The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife though Aziraphale notes it gets heavier and heavier the more he eats.
Aziraphale is finishing his second pie before Crowley snaps.
Crowley reaches out and places his hand on Aziraphale’s, stilling the fork on the way to his mouth.
“Angel, enough.”
Aziraphale slowly sets the fork down on the small plate with a light clink noise and moves it to the side, out of the way.
“Cro- “He’s interrupted, Crowley has launched himself up and over into Aziraphale’s lap. He’s towering over Aziraphale now and he looks as if he’ll shake apart.
Crowley sinks his hands into Aziraphale’s curls, slowly and carefully tilts Aziraphale’s head back, waits for Aziraphale to make the final move, as he always does.
Aziraphale doesn’t keep him waiting long. “Well, are you going to kiss me this century? Wily old serpent.”
Crowley smiles softly, eyes crinkling with it and finally, finally concludes 6000 years pining with their first kiss. It’s more a of a brush of lips than anything but their second is deeper, and their third and their fourth, and so on.
Crowley grinds down in Aziraphale’s lap and it goes from “finally” to “not enough.” They’re both moaning, little whimpering gasps in between kisses. Both feeling like they’ll fall apart at the seams if they don’t stop, and even more so if they do.
