Sunday Roast Beef with Divine Ecstasy Gravy [with one little hat tip to P.G. Wodehouse]
Crowley and Aziraphale sitting across from one another in a cozy booth, enjoying a traditional Sunday dinner at an exclusive little club that still knows how to do it right: prime roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes, and about a gallon of gravy. Fresh yeast rolls and butter. Crowley has drenched the obligatory vegetable with enough gravy to make it unrecognizable in order to get it down. Aziraphale is trying not to gaze in astonishment as Crowley, normally a picky eater and more of a drinker, shovels in the food like an old-time stevedore loading a grain ship. Aziraphale, who prefers Continental food, has enjoyed most of his dinner but has left large portions untouched. He puts down his cutlery, wipes his lips with his napkin, and leans back against the seat. Drinks the last of his claret. Crowley wipes up a final bit of gravy with his last piece of roll, making his plate look spotless as if mopped by a St. Bernard's tongue.
Aziraphale, if you're finished, mind if we swap plates?
Really, my dear. Manners! Still, sinful to waste food. And I suppose I should avoid sin.
Crowley gives him snake eyes.
Shut it, Angel.
Aziraphale is undaunted, but switches the plates.
Well. I apologize if I seemed critical, Crowley. Didn't mean to be. I've just never seen you enjoy your food so much before. Liquor, yes. Food, no.
Crowley silently finishes wolfing the remainder of Aziraphale's dinner, takes a large swig of scotch. Smirks.
A growing lad needs sustenance, Angel
While watching this unprecedented spectacle, Aziraphale has been thinking. Fingers his waistcoat buttons, noticing that his clothing feels a bit loose. Ears begin a slow burn as he recollects Gabriel's stomach punch that was a trifle too hard to be entirely playful, and his Inspirational Management Directive: "Lose the gut, Aziraphale."
Crowley, you're no more a growing lad than I'm an aardvark. And we don't really need food. But you've just eaten as if you were a starving python setting upon a wild pig.
Well, I have always rather liked Sunday dinner. And it's a good excuse for a bucket of porter and scotch.
Yes. There is that, I suppose. But. Have you been feeling more . . . energetic lately?
Have I! Attach electrodes to my nipples, I could power all of London. Plus some suburbs.
Crowley gives Aziraphale a searching up-and-down look, focuses on his chest.
Aziraphale. Damned if you aren't looking a bit more buff. What's up? Joined the humans at a gym or something?
Why in Heaven would I do something as undignified as that? The very thought! Really, Crowley.
Crowley suddenly has an Aha! moment. Gulps down the last of his scotch, leans back against his booth seat back and contemplates Aziraphale.
You don't suppose our little bouts of Divine Ecstasy are having . . . some sort of effect?
Divine Ecstasy . . . Aziraphale's expression morphs into a naked gaze of almost painful longing. He swallows, hard. It has been a couple of days . . .
Crowley leans forward.
Kiss me, Angel.
They lean across the tabletop and their lips meet briefly. Glacier ice and hot rocks. Aziraphale gasps and pulls back. Crowley snakes out an arm and grabs Aziraphale's shirt front, pulls him forward. Plants his open lips against Aziraphale's and slithers his tongue between them. Aziraphale jerks back as if given an electric shock.
Unghhhh! Crowley. We need to go. Now.
Crowley releases his grasp and Aziraphale gets up and exits the booth. Steadies himself with a hand on the table top. Crowley slides out of his seat and sidles around Aziraphale. Puts his arm around Aziraphale's waist. Aziraphale holds onto the arm, and grasps Crowley's shoulder. Crowley gently steers him towards the exit as a loving husband might support his inebriated wife.
The club is popular and comparatively crowded. Not all heads resist the vulgar urge to turn and watch the couple, a significant number of diners finding Crowley positively riveting. A wave of longing and envy ripples through the room, to the annoyance of partners of various sexes. Crowley smiles snakily. Old Temptation habits die hard. Gives his ultraviolet aura one more flare as they approach the portal to the entry hallway.
Two waiters standing side by side have been watching this little performance. One elbows the other.
Flaming. Positively flaming.
The tall ginger looks like something out of that Oscar Wilde movie, dun'ee.
They look at one another.
Maybe we should try a getup like that. You've got the build for it. Could be fun.
Crowley and Aziraphale only make it as far as the back seat of the Bentley.
