A week and a half has passed since the Philharmonic performance and the tryst in the loo. Now, our very human quartet attend a rock concert (don't worry - no huge descriptions of Queen's music).

And then they have a frank discussion about Craig Huling and his possible role in their lives.

Fairly mild smut, both real and imagined.

FYI: in my mind, Craig Huling looks like what might happen if Channing Tatum and Tom Hardy had a child... only less pretty, more rugged. Maybe a bit of Jeremy Renner or Daniel Craig thrown in?

Enjoy!

CHOICES

It had been a quiet, contemplative ten days, during which they had watched more television than usual, had had most meals at home, and spent a few nights in separate rooms. Aziraphale had even once lost complete track of time, and had to be phoned at the bookshop and reminded that it was past midnight, and he should perhaps come home and sleep.

It was good to have some breathing space. Aziraphale, especially, felt he needed to do some heavy reflecting. What defines a relationship? How much should two people in a romantic partnership really share? How does one lose oneself in one's partner, and how does one know? And is that good or bad? If both partners lose themselves, does that make them one?

On the tenth evening since 'The Rite of Spring,' Crowley stood in front of the mirror and did one last double-check. He was wearing the black polished wool and satin jacket of a tuxedo he had acquired in 1947, and a charcoal and orange fitted tartan button-up shirt, that had metallic threads in the pattern. His trousers were jet-black skinny leather jeans, and on his feet were the usual black boots. His hair was styled flamboyantly high, and around his neck, he wore a bronze-coloured necklace with a cobra's head for a pendant. He dropped his sunglasses into his breast pocket. He couldn't wait to get a stiff drink in his hand to complete the look.

Aziraphale had got dressed across the hall as he usually did, and met him in the foyer. He had been standing there with Crowley's Smartphone, researching analyses of Queen's music, reading their lyrics, and also learning more about cover bands, including the one they were about to see.

"Did you know there's a fellow named Adam Lambert who is touring with the actual band? Those members who survive, that is," Aziraphale asked, excitedly.

"I did, yes."

"And I must know: is 'Fat Bottomed Girls' for real, or is it some sort of joke?"

"Erm… I'm going with 'yes.'"

"Which?"

"Both."

"Fascinating," Aziraphale breathed, handing the phone back.

"Speaking of fascinating, angel," Crowley lilted, letting his eyes rove over his companion, as he pocketed the phone. "You're going to turn some heads tonight. Although I must say, part of me still wants to grab on, and muss it all up. 'Course, I've been saying that from the beginning, haven't I?"

Aziraphale was dressed in a pair of dark fitted jeans, and the white nylon v-neck and tan leather jacket from the previous week.

"And which part of you would that be?" Aziraphale asked, batting his eyelashes.

"Guess."

"And you, my love," Aziraphale said, smiling at Crowley's ensemble. "Are you wearing tartan… on purpose?"

"Well, it doesn't count if it's all dark, with shiny bits in."

"Oh, of course. Straight out of Mr. Blackwell's book, is it?"

"Absolutely. Shall we?"

Parking in London is always a nightmare, especially when one has 1) a large vintage car, and 2) no magical powers to rid said car of dings, and/or parking citations. Therefore, the pair had been driving fewer and fewer places.

Lucky for them, Seen Queen was playing at Academy Brixton, which was only four Tube stops away.

They exited the train at Brixton station, and walked to the concert hall. Anathema and Newt were waiting in the lobby for them at a high cocktail table, with drinks already purchased for their formerly supernatural friends.

"This really is not necessary," Aziraphale said, sipping his Martini. "You don't have to keep buying us drinks. Although, this is perfectly mixed!"

"And you don't have to keep buying us tickets to amazing events, and yet you do," Anathema said, clinking her wine glass against Aziraphale's. "It's the least we can do. Nice duds, by the way. Very, very nice."

Aziraphale blushed, and said, "Thanks. You don't think I look soulless?"

"Not one bit," she said. "You've chosen your ensemble well. It's very you, and also very cool (which are not two things that usually go together, sorry to say). You look like a person of influence, great taste, and…"

"Power?" Crowley asked, winking over the top of his Scotch.

"Definitely," she said, winking back. "Although, have you ever heard of Steampunk? That's a look that both of you might enjoy, if you ever decide to become one of those couples who dresses alike."

This occasion was the first time any of the three of the men had seen Anathema in trousers. She was wearing one of her custom-made poufy blouses. It was a Victorian design, though modernised in black with a metallic blue and green floral pattern, and tucked into skin-tight black jeans. The jeans, in turn, were tucked into skin-tight black knee-high lace-up boots.

Newt was, again, trying his hand at "cool," with jeans and a grey blazer, and a Freddie Mercury tee-shirt Anathema had ordered for him. He had grown a bit of scruff, and it looked good on him. He looked at his watch and said, "Well, it starts in ten minutes. I'm going to visit the gents'. Excuse me."

"I believe I'll do the same," Aziraphale said, finishing his drink surprisingly quickly, and following Newt to a side hallway.

Anathema and Crowley were left alone, and the latter pointedly did not make eye-contact until the silence became almost unbearably awkward.

Finally, he looked at her, and she was smiling back at him, knowingly. She clinked her glass against his, toasted, and sipped her wine.

"What? What is it, Book Girl?" Crowley asked, sheepishly exasperated.

"Nothing, nothing, Not-A-Demon Guy."

He sighed. "Bright red and throbbing?"

"Yep. It's the clothes, isn't it? Just like him, at the symphony with you in that suit."

"Would you stop aura-ing us?"

"Aura is a noun, not a verb. And I don't aura anyone, they aura me. I can't just stop – it doesn't work that way."

"Then close your eyes."

"Right," she chuckled. "It's my fault then?"

"I didn't say that."

"How about, if you don't like it that I can see the red and throbbing on you guys, then get a hold of yourselves before you leave home!"

"It wouldn't help," Crowley muttered, throwing back the rest of his Scotch, and tossing the glass onto the table.

"You're probably right," she said. "So, are we to assume that we won't see you two until a while into the second set again? Just tell me now, so we can make sure you guys sit near the aisle."

Crowley had a hard time answering. She had put him on the back foot. "We're not giving you the satisfaction," he said, rather slowly.

"Oh, come on. You know you want to muss up that squeaky-clean little ensemble he's got."

"What, you can see that on my aura as well?"

"No, it was just a guess. But a good guess, eh?"

They managed to make it through a late-night dinner with friends, and all the way home after midnight before Crowley absolutely had to muss up Aziraphale's new look. They even made it to the bedroom, but not quite to the bed.

Aziraphale's leather jacket had been only half removed, rather unceremoniously. That is to say, both arms remained half in it. The jacket had been taken roughly down and turned veritably inside-out, pinning Aziraphale's arms to his sides, just before he was pushed into the cushiony dark brown armchair near the bedroom door.

Crowley threw off his own jacket. He knelt at his companion's feet and tore open the calfskin belt, pulled it out of the loops and threw it over his shoulder. He then practically ripped apart the button and fly of Aziraphale's new jeans, and tugged everything down hard, bunching it all round his calves. Next, he proceeded to use his mouth to make his angel's back arch for several minutes, and make loud, uninhibited noises (and expletives) escape from him. He used his hand to finish the job, however, and in the end, Aziraphale found himself laying back in the armchair, semi-restrained, panting, with his white nylon tee-shirt quite purposefully splattered with something thick and slippery that would (not to worry) come out in the washing machine.

With some effort, he sat up straight and wrestled himself out of the jacket. He studied the spatter, and asked, "Oh Crowley, was that really necessary? Just when we'd more or less worked out how not to make these messes."

"Yes. Yes, it was necessary, angel," answered the former demon, who was now unbuttoning his own shirt, and whose leather trousers were quite full and firm in the front. "You were looking just a bit too perfect. Had to muck it all up. The demon tearing asunder what the angel has wrought, perhaps. Besides, I kind of like the messes."

Aziraphale stood up, and took off the shirt, depositing it on the floor for now, and bending to untie his shoes, so he could step out of his trousers.

Crowley was now doing the same thing, and when done, he turned and walked toward the bathroom.

"Where are you going?" Aziraphale asked him. "Don't you need… seeing-to?"

"You'd better believe it, angel," Crowley said, turning around in the door jamb, sporting a full erection. "But we both smell like cigarette smoke, which, in the twenty-first century, is far from cool. It's actually pretty disgusting, and I need to rinse out my hair."

"All right. Shall I just wait, then?"

"No, you can give me a seeing-to in the shower," Crowley answered. He held out his hand. "Come on."

The following day, it was nearly noon before Aziraphale got round to opening the bookshop, and Crowley promised to follow an hour or so behind, and turn up with some lunch. When he arrived, there were no customers in, and Aziraphale was standing at his rolltop desk, (back in his usual clothes), hands clasped behind him, staring out the window.

Crowley sidled up beside him and peered out in the same direction. "What're we looking at?" he whispered.

"Craig Huling," Aziraphale sighed. "I saw him go into the coffee shop across the street about five minutes ago, and I'm hoping to get another glimpse when he leaves."

"Oh. Why?"

Aziraphale sighed, with a touch of exasperation. "Because, I suppose, if we're going to, you know… invite him in…"

"Yes?"

"I want another look at him."

"You haven't had enough looks at him over the last five years, or whatever it's been since you've been buying cheese from him?"

"I know what he looks like, but it's only very recently that I've been called-upon to wonder whether he is attractive to me. Whether I could possibly…" he said, trailing off. "I simply never looked at people that way for the vast, vast majority of my existence. Except you, and you weren't a person."

"I see."

"I want to see how he moves, and perhaps get an idea of his mannerisms and how he acts when I'm not standing right in front of him… now that I know that my presence is bound to somewhat alter his demeanour."

"Yes, I reckon it is." There was a long pause, and then Crowley said, still just above a whisper, "Angel, we don't have to do it. I'm sorry if you feel pressured. If you're spying on the man to try and work out whether you could fancy him for an evening, then it means you probably couldn't. Or you don't. Or…"

"Not necessarily," Aziraphale shrugged, lightly. "Perhaps I'm just verifying - can't say yet. Oh… there he is."

The two of them watched as Huling stepped onto the pavement with a coffee in one hand, and a paper bag in the other, presumably containing one of the shop's very mediocre sandwiches.

He was wearing a white body-hugging ribbed sweater and flat-front trousers, accentuating everything that was appealing about him from the neck down. "I'm sorry, angel, but that man is bloody lovely."

"You don't find his face a bit asymmetrical?"

"Yes, but I like that. I'm telling you, conventional, perfect beauty… not my style. Give me the gap in Lauren Hutton's teeth any day, over Cindy Crawford's dentures."

"Who are they?"

"Never mind," Crowley muttered.

Huling walked about five steps from the café's front door, when he was stopped by someone – a rather short, bearded man whom Aziraphale had seen in the neighbourhood before. The two of them stood on the walkway, and seemed to be joking about something.

"Huling has a nice smile," Aziraphale mused. "Why have I never noticed it?"

"Around you, perhaps he doesn't let down his guard enough to smile."

As the shorter man talked, Huling sipped his drink, drawing attention to his full, slightly crooked lips as they pursed and slacked. He stood with an easy, relaxed stance, and manoeuvred his arms into a crossed-over position. This highlighted his sculpted biceps and torso.

Aziraphale said, "I can see the appeal."

"Can you? Really?"

"Yes. I could see why someone would be impressed by his muscles."

"Indeed."

"Mind you, I still prefer your body – the long, lean, sinewy, slinky, reptilian type," Aziraphale mused, continuing to study their mark.

"Okay. Good to hear."

"He's nowhere even close to your league, Crowley."

Crowley was taken aback. "Thank you. Nor yours."

"But beauty takes many forms."

"It does, yes."

Huling and the bearded man shook hands heartily, smiled at each other, and walked off in separate directions. The pair inside the bookshop watched until they could no longer see Huling, and then for another twenty seconds after the man disappeared.

Crowley gave Aziraphale the time to contemplate, then asked, "So… lunch? I brought chicken saag and miniature samosas."

"Ooh!" Aziraphale said, coming to. "That sounds wonderful!"

They shared containers of food, sitting in their usual bookshop spots – Crowley on the sofa, Aziraphale in his deteriorating desk chair. They spent about ten minutes just chatting, and having lunch.

"Angel, about Huling. I've been thinking again about what I said to you in the loo at the Royal Festival Hall." He sat back on the sofa and ran his hand through his hair, looking harried. "Temptation is one thing, but it's really not fair to barrage you with filthy orgiastic scenarios while I've got you panting and edging in a toilet cubicle, and then ask you to make an informed decision."

"I have had a week and a half to think about it, you know, and I want you to have everything that you desire, my love. But I also think you were quite right about my needing to have broader experiences."

"You think so?"

"I love you so much, Crowley, and I must admit, I enjoy sex a great deal more than I thought I would, before trying it. As you know, I learned rather quickly what to do, and how, and what I want, and what you want… Things have progressed at a fast pace. And so, I do confess to wondering what it might be like with someone else. Although, I have no desire to be, as it were, 'free' to be with anyone I fancy – I want nothing more than to spend whatever is left of my future with you. Doing what we do. Sharing creature comforts, enjoying each other's company as we always have, and having a rich, dense sex life."

"That's what I want, too."

Aziraphale smiled warmly. "Then, after thinking on it, what's wrong with wondering what else is out there, and maybe sampling a bit of it? As long as we both fancy it, and have boundaries."

"There is nothing wrong," Crowley agreed.

"The group-of-three situation is something you've always enjoyed – a particularly delectable treat for you, back in your temptation-shag days, yes?"

"Yes, definitely."

"Then, on the surface of it, I say it merits a chance. Except, can you talk to me about the possible ramifications? I daresay you'd know more about it than I would."

"Well, angel, I'm no relationship expert. I mean, this is basically my first one."

"Then, perhaps I can tell you about one of my fears."

"Please do," Crowley said, leaning forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped.

Aziraphale cleared his throat, and uneasily adjusted his clothing. "All right. Until now, you're the only being in all of Heaven, Hell, or Earth that I've ever fancied, ever had fantasies about, ever wanted to touch that way. If I engage with Huling, I wonder if I'll feel somewhat that a certain purity is leaving me."

"You might, yes."
Aziraphale's face seemed to melt into mild worry. "And might you, as well? Feel that I'm tainted?"

"Never. You could never be tainted – not to me," Crowley assured him, smiling quite warmly. "I've been in love with you since before the Battle of Hastings. One evening's indulgence cannot break that. But, angel, if you're worried about feeling tainted, then maybe you're not ready. Or this idea just isn't for you."

"What if I said that being touched by someone else is still all in the service of you? That everything I've ever done sexually is to that end, including being intimate with Huling. So, upon my soul, I remain pure, so to speak?"

"I don't know. What if? You tell me. Exactly how bent-out-of-shape does that particular rationalisation feel to you?"

"Not very bent-out-of-shape at all, actually. It's something I've come to realise over the past week or so – a revelation that has developed. It's not the result of my trying to find reasons why it will all be okay."

"Are you sure?"

"I believe so. But what about you? Taint and impurities aside, you wouldn't feel on some visceral level that my person, my body, no longer belongs just to you?"

"You mean, would I be jealous?"

"Yes, I suppose that's what I'm asking."

"If it's someone who wants you, I love the idea of showing off how fucking delectable you are."

"I see. Like when you have a lovely, delicious confection on your plate, and you desperately want your dinner companion to try it?"

"Sort of. But that's a good point, speaking of sampling what someone else has. Do you remember how you felt about Vincenzo?"

"I do."

"And all he did was pull my hair, and all I did was say a naughty word."

"Right. And?"

"You wanted me to speak about some possible ramifications, so that's what I'm doing. Vincenzo. Think about it."

"All right. Yes, I do remember feeling quite jealous over Vincenzo, but I also remember coming to terms with it rather quickly, and learning from it."

"Really? What exactly did you learn from it?"

"As I said to you just after the incident, in that particular instance, I overreacted. In the ensuing hours, I had thought a lot about it and realised, not for the first time, that the desires of the human animal are rich, inexplicable, and sundry. I realised that there may be parts of the corporeal experience that I just don't understand, but that your intimate understanding of them does not make you love me any less."

"That's all very cerebral. Rational."

"Yes."

"But what about heart? Gut? Do you remember the talk we had that evening, and your describing to me how knowing I have a long history of temptation shags was one thing, but hearing about it was another? Being expected to accept, and laugh off, my millennia of carnal exploits, and be okay with it… it was rough, yeah?"

"Yes."

"Angel, what we're going in for… you might actually SEE me with someone else. Not just know it or hear about it, but watch me doing it. Can you handle that, if Huling and I kick off? Say, you're spent, and he and I are still energetic, and we turn to one another."

"I think I could bear it. Moreover, you foul tempter, you've got me curious."

Crowley stood up, and came round to Aziraphale's side, because he needed more assurance than just, 'I think I could bear it.' He knelt beside the desk chair, got up very close and said, "Close your eyes, Aziraphale."

His angel obeyed.

"I know you've already thought about being penetrated and pleasured by me, and him, at the same time - that's the bit that's got you curious. The bastard and part-time hedonist in you can't help but wonder what it's like to have both of us all over you, adoring you, making you feel all things at once. Am I right?"

"You know you are... you're the one who put those ideas in my head."

"Now think of what you might see. Really visualise this, angel. Me, naked. And now visualise Huling naked with me. We're on the bed, kissing each other, limbs and flesh writhing around like a snake pit. He lies on his back and I slide down and take his cock in my mouth. You are not participating – you're sitting in the armchair, just watching. My mouth moves up and down on his shaft, and he and I both moan… perhaps he says something encouraging and filthy to me. And I pump him faster and faster until he cries out, and orgasms hard, and you watch the muscles in my neck tense, and you know I've swallowed his come. You know that I've given him the same kind of pleasure I give you – though he doesn't love me, and I don't love him – and I've given him a big, fat release that went straight down my throat. And I fucking loved it."

"Oh my," Aziraphale breathed.

Crowley looked down into his companion's lap and could see clearly that the visualisation, and his words, were arousing his partner. He decided to go further, to see if it might disturb.

"And then, he's satisfied, but I'm not, so I order him up onto his hands and knees. I lube up his hole and make it all slippery – maybe even lick it, if it looks pink and rosy enough - then I shove my cock into it. I bury myself balls-deep, and I whisper a mild blasphemy because it feels so good. And I give him good, deep fucking – hard, fast, noisy. And after a long, rigorous build-up, I grunt, and lose my load deep inside of him. Him, instead of you – his arse takes it all. I pump warm jets into his body – my wet, slippery pleasure, angel, goes into him, in little waves of sparkling heat. He will feel me inside of him for the next few days, if not my come, then at least the ghost of the pounding I gave him. What do you think about that?"

With his eyes still closed, Aziraphale said, "I should think that you would be able quite plainly to see what I think of it."

"I can see it makes you hard thinking about it. Made me a little hard to talk about it, but Aziraphale, are you sure that's your final word? Your dick is literally doing the decision-making?"

"All right, then, here's are some cerebral decision-making considerations: You said I'm a non-participant. Well, why so? Just because I'm spent?"

"Presumably."

"Well, being spent doesn't mean I'm incapacitated. I could maybe be coaxed alive. So, in that scenario you just described with Huling on his hands and knees, what would stop me from, say, kneeling in front of him and asking him to pleasure me orally, during the proceedings?"

"Nothing. Certainly not me."

"And I could watch you, touch you, whisper to you while you take your pleasure with him. Feel you shudder when you come."

"Yes."

"Or, in the first scenario, what would stop me from penetrating you with my fingers or the glass spade while you're fellating him?"

"Holy shit, Aziraphale."

"Well?"

"Nothing. Nothing would stop you."

"That's what makes this different from Vincenzo. It's not behind my back. It's not a surprise. I can take as much pleasure from it as you."

"You're right."

"And you've loved me for a thousand years, we've been best friends since the Beginning of Time. What would stop you from always coming home to me, figuratively speaking?"

"Nothing."

"Do you still want to do this?"

"Oh, I do. There are other variables, you know."

"I can see that. Well enough to realise that we can't possibly plan for all of them. But this talk has been very helpful. I feel well-informed enough to decide."

Crowley smiled slightly. "I don't know what else I should say, then."

"I believe Huling's shop shuts at eight p.m. Whatever you've got to say, say it to him. Perhaps you can catch him at closing time. Set a date for next week."

This chapter was bound to be controversial, with Aziraphale's thoughts and philosophies. What do you think of their discussion? Does it make you feel trepidation for what's coming, or do you feel safe? I'm very eager for feedback on this (of course, when am I not?). Thank you for reading!