29. Wings and snakes

Imagine a fancy restaurant. The tables from true mahogany are covered with snow-white tablecloths, hemmed with delicate embroidery. The chairs are upholstered with red plush. The crystal lusters are reflecting the soft light in glimmering patterns like the afternoon sun playing on the waves of a lake. The walls are adorned with original paintings and a musician's fingers dance on the ivory and ebony of an elegant antique piano.

Imagine the table by the window, looking out at a busy London street, the sight of people hurrying outside making the leisure of luxurious dining even more pronounced.

Imagine two beings sitting at that table. One is wearing a beige coat and a tartan bowtie and his eyes are closed in delight as he puts the first bite of the dessert into his mouth. The other is dressed in a dark grey tuxedo that makes the braid of his fiery hair stand out against its fabric. He's turning a glass of wine in his hand, but his gaze is on the silver fork sliding out between the other one's lips in a smooth movement.

Do you have it?

Now keep the image of the two beings and discard all the rest.

There is no fancy restaurant. The tables with linen tablecloths are placed between the trees, the clay oil lamps hung like lanterns above and reflecting on the surface of a narrow, quickly running stream. That stream, together with the rustling of leaves, provides the music. You can keep the paintings from the original image, but they are hanging from the trees. The dessert and wine are there as well, although wine is probably a too generous term for the brown-red liquid in the glasses.

All the rest of the scene is what the two beings are imagining.

"That's really delightful! Please send my regards to the chef!" Aziraphale exclaims as he finishes the desert, licking the fork that's not actually silver, but golden. They found a little gold nugget in this very stream, so now they can have metal - but only gold. They have golden dining utensils, golden buttons and combs, golden washbasin and dish rack… Gold would not stand as a currency in Eden. Cheese would. Neither of them have yet figured out how to make something passable for cheese from the available options. But they have all eternity.

Aziraphale shifts in the chair and adjusts his bowtie. His fingers linger on the fabric. There is a memory in it. A memory of dyeing the yarn and weaving the tartan together, Crowley's slender fingers between the threads on the loom. It isn't the tartan Aziraphale used to wear since shortly after the invention of tartan. It's a new one, more black and red intertwining with the beige and grey, and a little hint of honey-gold. Crowley is also wearing it on the underside of his collar, and didn't even protest much. Aziraphale already thinks of it as our own side tartan.

Crowley watches the angel's manicured fingers (his own work) and subconsciously takes a gulp of wine.

He spits it out immediately and makes a disgusted face. "Ugh! Bless it!"

Aziraphale chuckles. "It's not that bad, dear."

"It tastes like that cheap boxed stuff from the bottom shelf of a supermarket! I figured out how to make chocolate without proper milk, bless it, why does the wine refuse to cooperate? Humans started making it as soon as they found out those funny purple berries can ferment! They found out that some things can ferment even sooner than they found they are edible!"

"They only perfected it with time, though. I remember the early wine being much like this. For the proper one you need to get a lot of things right, I believe. The time, the temperature, oxygen content in the barrel… And the right kind of those little fungi that make the alcohol in it."

"Right. Probably not the right kind that we have. Got any plans for tomorrow, angel?"

Aziraphale shifts in the chair. "I thought we could go see the new play at East End in the evening."

"Oh?" Crowley raises his eyebrows. "I've heard rumors about someone working on a new script. It's already finished?"

"Well, yes," Aziraphale nods with a modest blush. He has been working on it for the last few weeks and of course Crowley knows it. Of course East End is a part of Eden, just like Mayfair and Soho, and of course it's not really a performance, just Aziraphale reading the script dramatically. Keep the image of the two beings and imagine all the rest, like they do.

At first, Aziraphale only wrote the scripts of plays he has memorized, inspired by Crowley's foundations of his growing library. But he missed getting to read or watch something new and there was nobody around to write it. It wasn't as easy for him as painting for Crowley, but he found it helped him to sort his thoughts. His scripts are not perfect, and it was hard to accept that they don't need to be. But Crowley is an appreciative audience.

"Great, I hope we can get some good tickets," the demon exclaims.

"I already made the reservation," Aziraphale smiles, shifting a little from side to side.

"Would you mind helping me hunt for the right microscopic alcohol-making mushrooms in the morning or do you need more time to… pick a suit for the evening?"

"Oh, I got my suit ready." (read: the script is complete to my satisfaction) "Sure I can help you with mushroom hunting, dear. Pick me up when you want to go."

Crowley nods. "Bill, please!" he calls to a non-existent waiter, a little rude in such a fancy restaurant, but he is a demon and can't be too nice in public.

"Lift home?" he asks Aziraphale.

Aziraphale adjusts his coat. "That would be very welcome."

They walk to the carpark. The path leading to it from the restaurant is paved with white stones. The carpark is paved with grey stones with white ones marking the individual parking places. And in the middle of it, taking up four places (very demonic) sits the Bentley.

Or something shaped like a Bentley, at least. It is made of wood and gold, painted black with soot mixed in oil. The paint still stains a little, so Crowley is careful while opening the door for Aziraphale.

Aziraphale sits down on the cotton upholstery, wiggling a bit and waiting for Crowey to take the wheel.

"Mind how you drive, dear."

"Well the traffic is pretty slow. Time to speed it up a bit." Crowley presses the pedal to the ground.

Nothing happens, of course. The Bentley stays in place while the angel and demon imagine the way through London traffic. And if the angel's imagination is not fully on par with the demon's and his expression is less fearful than it would be at the speed that the demon is currently imagining, it can't be held against him. He still shifts on the seat and sighs with relief when Crowley hits the brake and climbs out to open the door for him.

"Can I walk you home?" Crowley asks and offers his arm like a true gentleman.

Aziraphale takes it, but he's fidgeting a little.

Crowley looks at him sideways, but doesn't say anything. He leads him along another white path, lined with roses.

They are in Soho now - the part of Eden where Aziraphale's cottage stands.

"Thank you, dear. Would you like to come in for a while?" Aziraphale asks when they arrive at the door and scratches his shoulder absently. It's not a rhetorical question. Sometimes one or both of them get too overwhelmed by each other's company and need some time alone. But Aziraphale asks now, which means he is all right with Crowley staying.

"Yes, gladly," Crowley nods. It's not a default polite answer, either. If he didn't feel like staying, he would decline, even if Aziraphale wants him to. In this, they are being very honest with each other. He lets Aziraphale open the door for him.

They walk inside. Aziraphale lights the oil lamps and changes his shoes for soft slippers. The shoes he puts next to the door are made from several layers of starched linen - they figured out the shoe pattern and material together.

Crowley does not change his shoes because he's not wearing any. "Angel," he says, "do you mind showing me your wings?"

"My wings?" Aziraphale looks at him in confusion. And then it hits him. "Oh. Right. My back has been itching for the whole day. Do you think…"

"If you bring them forth, we shall see."

"Right," Aziraphale nods a bit nervously. After a moment's hesitation, he unfolds his wings.

"There they are," Crowley smiles.

Aziraphale curls his wings in front of himself to see. The previously bald patches are all strewn with pin feathers, just emerging from the skin, covered in waxy sheaths.

"Yes. It would seem so." Aziraphale doesn't even try to hide the relief in his voice. "Finally. I was starting to doubt…"

"I wasn't."

"Itches like hell, though."

"I know," Crowley smiles sympathetically. "Would you let me…"

"Yes, please," Aziraphale sits down backwards on the chair, trustful and vulnerable with his wings out.

Crowley is still smiling to himself as he takes another chair and carefully scratches the irritated skin, avoiding the sensitive new feathers with the exception of those few that are grown enough to have the sheath removed.

Aziraphale sighs contentedly.

Crowley then aligns and smoothens the old feathers. Some of them are singed by fire or missing parts of the vane. A few are getting loose, indicating that new feathers will replace them soon. One stays in Crowley's hand as he touches it. The tip is broken off, the vane dented like some vicious animal took a bite of it.

His fingers clutch around the shaft, trembling a little.

Aziraphale turns his head when the touch on his wings stops.

"Crowley?" he asks quietly.

Then he tucks in the wings and turns fully.

He envelops Crowley's clenched hand in both of his.

Golden eyes meet his gaze. Nothing is hiding them. Sunglasses have not been invented in Eden yet, and aren't planned to be invented anytime soon.

Aziraphale leans closer. His breath tickles Crowley's lips.

Lips that part a little.

Aziraphale leans even closer. Their lips are touching now: not pressed together, just two points of light, delicate touch and the shared breath between them.

Crowley exhales and pulls Aziraphale closer with his free hand.

Aziraphale lets go of his hand to find a better hold in an embrace and the damaged feather falls to the floor.

The kiss feels like letting go of something broken to be replaced with something new.

Black and white feathers are stretched out on the grass, open wings basking in the rays of afternoon sun.

"Are you sure about this?" asks the demon lying on the left of the angel.

"Yes, dear," the angel replies. "Absolutely sure. But if you don't want to..."

"I just need to know. Would you want this even without..."

"Yes. I probably wouldn't have gotten the idea, though. But if I did, I would want it."

Aziraphale sits up and takes Crowley's hand. He presses it to his chest. His torso is naked and the scar over his heart that he leads Crowley's hand to is pale and a bit shiny, rising above the surrounding skin.

"I would like to bear a mark that says I am yours. But this one is wrong. It was forced on both of us. I want it done right. Will you, please?"

"Yes," Crowley says. "I will. If you do the same for me."

"It won't be as pretty, I fear. You are much better at this. I'm more for words than pictures."

"I don't care if it's pretty. It's from you. And I would like you to do it first, if you don't mind. I want to be yours at the time I mark you as mine again, properly."

"I'm a bit nervous," Aziraphale admits. "What if I mess it up?"

"You can't mess it up. I want it exactly as you do it."

That reassures Aziraphale. "Alright, dear. Lie down and close your eyes. You can take a nap, it will take a while."

And it does. Aziraphale traces the patterns on Crowley's skin carefully, until he's satisfied with them. Then he takes a bottle with coal ink and a golden needle.

It takes days. Crowley sleeps through most of it, or watches Aziraphale's focused face. There's almost no pain - just a little prick as the needle pierces the skin, but it's healed immediately. Aziraphale's miracles returned with the new feathers and he can use them to make the process as painless as possible. By Crowley's peaceful expression as he drools a little in his sleep, it's effective.

Aziraphale pierces the skin one last time, carefully placing the last drop of ink. He admires his work for a while, proud of it despite his initial worries. Then he miracles a shirt for Crowley, covering the picture, before he wakes the demon with a kiss.

"Mhm…" Crowley opens his eyes and after Aziraphale's lips withdraw, he looks at his chest.

"Oi!" he mutters in protest. "You bastard!"

Aziraphale grins smugly. "No peeking, dear. Do mine first."

Crowley pouts. "You are asking for a rushed job so I can satisfy my curiosity, you know that?"

"I know you wouldn't rush," Aziraphale smiles and he is right.

Crowley is very careful, tracing the scar with his fingers, making sure that it doesn't hurt anymore and he will do no harm by covering it in ink. His findings seem satisfactory, and so he takes the ink and needle.

He's tense with the first prick, but Aziraphale is looking at him, smiling. The smile is excited, reassuring Crowley more than anything that Aziraphale really wants this and is looking forward to the result.

It reassures him that the mark is welcome.

He finds his pace, slowly covering the scar that his hand was forced to make (and the fact that he can accept it was forced even though Satan just guided it tells how far he already got, Aziraphale would say). He's covering it with a mark that is wanted and made freely, washing the taste of guilt from his fingertips.

Aziraphale does not sleep. He watches Crowley's face, his expression reassuring and proud.

After the last drop of ink, Crowley doesn't say anything. He just leans back and traces the fresh but healed tattoo with his fingers. Aziraphale's chest is rising and sinking under them, his heartbeat strong and steady.

Aziraphale sits up and starts unbuttoning Crowley's shirt. They are looking each other in the eyes. Crowley shifts to help Aziraphale with removing the shirt completely.

"Can I look?" Crowley asks.

"Yes."

Then something strange happens. There is a moment of mixed black and white. The colors don't fade into grey but create patterns, like black veins in white marble. And in the next moment, a demon is sitting on the angel's place and an angel sits where a demon has been a moment ago.

Crowley looks through Aziraphale's eyes and sees his own bare chest. Reaching from his shoulders to his heart, there are tattooed angelic wings, positioned around him like in an embrace.

"Oh…" he exhales softly.

Instead of lines, the feathers are drawn with words. 6000 years worth of unsaid words, suppressed for the sake of safety, unable to be said aloud for the fear of consequences… words of hope and companionship and love, whispered against Crowley's skin in a touch of angelic wings.

Aziraphale looks through Crowley's eyes and sees his own bare chest. There is a snake coiled above his heart, obsidian scales glistening in the sun. It is not possessive though, not menacing like the scar had been. It is gentle and protective, and his heart feels safe under it as the snake holds it in a careful embrace.

They stay like that for a long time, watching through each other's eyes. Crowley moves closer to read the words embedded into his skin. Aziraphale moves closer to admire the details on the snake's scales. Closer and closer until the wings embrace the snake and lips connect like a bridge for essences to mix.

For a while, they linger in the middle, touching lightly. They return to their own bodies, but can't bring themselves to separate their lips… and so they continue kissing. There's nothing easier at the moment, nothing that would feel more right.

Aziraphale's fingers slide into Crowley's hair, parting the waves like the keel of a ship. Crowley's hands are on his back, pulling him closer. Closer and down, and then they are lying in the grass, intertwined limbs and bare skin touching… the hands, the arms, the chests. It's not enough, not enough of touching skin. The trousers go down, hastily and clumsily, forcing an interruption of the kiss.

When it resumes, it's Crowley kissing Aziraphale's neck and Aziraphale's hand on the small of Crowley's back and the little jolt of making an effort, for the first time since what seems like another world and reality. Wings are touching and groins are touching and Aziraphale's nostrils are full of the unique spicy scent that is Crowley, earthy and smokey and heady like strong wine and Crowley tastes Aziraphale on his lips, cardamom and myrrh and jasmine, the warmth under his fingers, the holiness sending little sparkles into his fingertips but not hurting and it has been so long, so long since they opened themselves to the other one so completely. There is an earthquake somewhere on the ocean floor and a wave is building, rising from the depths, a wall of natural force cresting with white foam and it has been so long, so long a light touch is enough, the wave of pleasure spills over their bodies, swallowing every conscious thought.

But it's not enough, not enough closeness. The wave does not abate but rises like steam into the sky and lines blur between bodies and minds, black and white marble, light mixing with smoke, inhale and exhale of the universe, the thrumming pulse of melodies - drums and violins in harmony and knowing, knowing the other one as completely as oneself, opening so fully that there are no secrets, no thoughts hidden from the other one. But there's no other one here, only them, together. There is pain and darkness hiding in the light and guilt mixed within the shadows, there are scars and echoes of screams and shards of mirrors.

And there is reassurance and acceptance, caressing the scars, kissing the shards, love reflecting infinitely between mended mirrors. There is complete trust, spreading like balm over all sharp edges. There is a union of opposites that contain a seed of each other at heart.

The pleasure surges like clouds and returns like rain. There is the feeling of starry sky under the fingertips and the sound of cinnamon, the taste of the Moonlight sonata on wine-stained lips.

And then it is dark, gibbous moon shining in the sky above and they are lying next to each other in the grass, a moment of confusion about which body is whose, the tangled limbs and thoughts. They can feel each other's pulse under the skin, ripples like electricity running through their wings and limbs. Breath is quickened, bodies like coiled springs, full of energy of their union, every cell drunk on it, singing.

They watch each other and then they laugh and spring into the air, beats of black and white wings, releasing that energy in the thrill of flight, chasing each other and dancing in the air, naked bodies caressed by wind.

The no-flight zone forms a dome above Eden, they find out. They fly as high as they can, circling around each other like birds of prey, watching the moonlit dunes spreading in every direction behind the walls.

Suddenly Aziraphale tenses, watching in one direction. He swoops down and lands on the top of the wall and Crowley follows immediately.

"Angel?"

Aziraphale points at a dark dot crawling over the silvery dunes. "Someone is coming."