@art-takes-time I feel I owe you an apology for three reasons. 1) I picked some of the worst possible destinations for a road-trip. 2) The jokes in this are simply awful. And 3) this is so incredibly cheesy.
Also published on my Ao3.
Road-trip
When they are finally properly married, Crowley insists they go on a honeymoon.
“It’s tradition,” he says, firmly. “Otherwise, the marriage could be annulled.”
Aziraphale skews him a skeptical glance over the top of his book. “I think we quite thoroughly dispelled that possibility, Crowley. Multiple times. In swift succession.”
For a moment, Crowley must make a heroic effort not to get distracted by fond memories. “Still,” he soldiers on, “the honeymoon is paramount. Think of all the places we could go.” Aziraphale dithers, looking like a turtle that’s been asked to vacate its shell, and he adds, “All the food you could eat.”
Aziraphale lowers his book and narrows his eyes with grudging curiosity. “What… where did you want to go, precisely?”
“Somewhere far away,” Crowley says. This path must be navigated with care, not a foot out of place, or Aziraphale will refuse in a heartbeat. “Somewhere with wide spaces and open roads and—and grand vistas.”
Aziraphale raises the book again in a pointed manner. “If you aren’t going to come out and say it, the answer is no.”
Aziraphale winces as that well-aimed missile punches through the chink in his armor. “I’ve never cared for the colonies.”
“Think of it,” Crowley insists, gently slipping his hands around the angel’s wrists, tugging them down. Aziraphale scowls, lips pursed. Crowley leans in until the tips of their noses touch. “A road trip holiday. Could be fun.”
“I grow weary of your wiles, old serpent,” Aziraphale mumbles, and kisses him, the stern line of his mouth already softening.
-
In the end, Crowley suspects it’s the beignets that did it. Aziraphale acquiesces, provided they make a stop in New Orleans. “For the history, of course.”
“Of course,” Crowley says, because he knows when how to quit when he’s ahead. He’s curious about the Voodoo scene, anyway.
-
It is, broadly speaking, a road trip. But when the only two occupants in the car (the Bentley, of course, miracled over the Pond in a staggering feat of occult power) are ethereal and infernal beings, roads as they appear on the map are more like friendly guidelines than concrete (or asphalt) rules. The road goes where Aziraphale and Crowley want it to go, and the time on the road lasts exactly as long as it takes them to wonder, are we there yet?
Aziraphale has acquired what is perhaps the world’s last disposable camera. He’s very proud of this technological wonder, Isn’t it amazing, Crowley? Look, you simply wind the dial and—
Crowley puts on an exasperated front, but he is secretly quite proud of the angel. Disposable cameras are roughly twenty years out of date, which is a fair sight newer than Aziraphale’s typical fifty.
It’s the little things, he decides, and flashes a sardonic smile when Aziraphale points the camera at him.
-
In New York City, they attend a Broadway musical about one of the nation’s Founding Fathers. Aziraphale is initially skeptical – oh, I don’t know about this, it’s nothing like Sondheim – but by the end of the first act, he is leaning forward in his seat, eyes rapt on the stage. By the middle of the second act, he is weeping. Crowley threads his fingers into Aziraphale’s, thumb rubbing over his knuckles.
Their last stop in New York City is at the Statue of Liberty. They stare up at her, disconcerted; towering, beautiful, pitiless, she bears a distinct resemblance to Someone Else they both know.
-
In Maine, Aziraphale gorges himself, cracking open lobster claws with the sort of zeal Michael reserves for smiting demons. Crowley watches, tension mixed with gut-molten wanting, as the angel luxuriates in the tender flesh greasing his fingers and lips. The demon’s mind is a welter of temptation and sin, and he cannot wait until he gets his husband back to their lodgings.
-
In South Dakota – of all places! – they stop at Wall Drug. After seeing all the signs peppering the highway, they couldn’t not stop at Wall Drug.
“Well,” Crowley mutters, “this is a distinct disappointment.”
“I think I recall you inventing this,” Aziraphale says.
“Nah. I never.”
“You did. We were very drunk.”
Crowley huffs a sigh. “Had to’ve been. I can’t decide if I’m proud or ashamed.”
“Oh, I don’t know. It does have a… a quaint, folksy charm, if you will.”
“Nnngh.”
“Oh, look!” Aziraphale points. “That giant horned rabbit fellow. You can take pictures sitting on it.”
“Angel, I swear to G—to Somebody—”
But Aziraphale has already swanned off to pester a pair of tourists, waving his disposable camera in their faces. After a blank moment of studying the ancient technology, one tourist nods. Aziraphale drags Crowley over and pats the jackalope’s white rump. “Up you pop.”
“I will kill you for this,” Crowley vows through gritted teeth.
His anger is short-lived, for Aziraphale scrambles up behind him and winds his arms about Crowley’s waist. The demon tries valiantly to glare at the camera, but – feeling Aziraphale snug against him, comfortable and ridiculous and radiantly happy – he can only muster a little frown.
-
They expect to be in New Orleans at some point, and so they are, geography be damned. Aziraphale, to his credit, remembers his excuses about history and leads Crowley through the French Quarter. He murmurs his appreciation at the colorful buildings, the intricate latticeworks of the balconies, the ghosts and shades steeping the very pavement beneath their feet. The air is a fug of garlic, seared sausage smoke, and sautéed vegetables. Occult energy sings through the city, the magic a spice on Crowley’s tongue.
Aziraphale turns into the first café they come across and orders a plateful of beignets. Crowley watches, later, as the angel licks fry grease and powdered sugar off his fingers. Later still, as they leave the café to wander the streets under humid starlight, Crowley tugs Aziraphale into a quiet alleyway and presses him up against the bricks. He kisses him, tastes the sweetness of his lips, his mouth.
-
They go to the Grand Canyon. Staring out across the vast expanse, Crowley suddenly feels very old and very small. But the look of amazement on Aziraphale’s face is well worth the reminder.
“It’s so… Oh, it’s just so…”
“Grand?”
Aziraphale gives him a quelling look. “Yes, all right, be flippant.”
“I would never.“
Aziraphale purses his lips, but his gaze softens as he studies Crowley. “Thank you. For all your wiling.”
“Knew you’d like it,” Crowley grumbles, aiming for surly. Sounding simply besotted.
Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand. The brush of his lips on Crowley’s palm is a blessing, an offering, the sweetest pain Crowley can fathom.
-
In San Francisco, they go for cookies in the Castro District. Crowley, who has been sneezing and sniffling ever since they set foot in the city, is marginally cheered by the sight of Aziraphale with an extremely phallic macaroon cookie. Bless him, the angel even ordered one with white chocolate and red sprinkles on the scrotum.
I love him, Crowley thinks, helplessly, as Aziraphale tucks in.
-
When they arrive back in London, Aziraphale finds perhaps the last shop on the planet that will send disposable cameras out for development. The angel expects the pictures to be beautiful, and so they are – exquisitely shot, each vividly colorful, each of a resolution that would make Sony and Nikon and Apple weep with envy. He puts them in a scrapbook, carefully labeled “Our Travels” in block letters, and gives it to Crowley for their first anniversary.
An inscription adorns the inside cover. ‘To my husband,’ it says. ‘I look forward to seeing all the wonders of the world with you.’
(Cyratius-Mixture of hyper drunk and depressive drunkSarin- Overly flirty drunk, almost to the point of being overbearing and rude/selfishHades-SCARY DRUNK NOPE NOPE NOPEJudge-A very sad drunk, either suffering quietly or crying about his problems to every ear he can catch
Pup-Quiet drunk
Dewberry-Giggly drunk
Indigo-Also giggly, and really playful. None of the social anxiety he suffered before, often making a fool of himself and overly brave
Cyratius grumbles,crossing his arms with a light red flush.
“Fucking…..don’t make fun of me. But…….Hades sometimes likes it when I magically make cat ears and a tail during sex……so…..I kinda got a thing for it too over the years. Only on me having them to please him,otherwise its weird.”
Send ✋ for a prompt/plot/concept/ anything you refuse to role play-
(Well,it’s mostly kinda what I said earns an unfollow. Anyone controlling my chars is a NO unless its Mun Kay,cause she knows them to a degree.
I’m not uncomfortable with much,cause I have rped a lot,so I’d kinda just tell you if I was not ok with stuff. I mean like....I’ve rped rape sooooo XD)
Junpei’s teeth bare,the many thin,sharp teeth showing,tongue poking out slightly as he is forced to let you snuggle him,tail swishing angrily in the pond. The guards nearby have their spears pointed at you,the prince having to hold hid hand up to keep them back.
