Wings 1
Edinburgh
1. Crowley is in his Oscar Wilde, Mafioso mode, slouched in a small armchair as he waits for Aziraphale to emerge in his new tailored clothes. Aziraphale comes out of the dressing room, handsome in light blue and gold. Blue Shetland tweed overcoat of a unique but perfect cut and fit; flawless cream trousers, just the right length; Fair Isle sleeveless v-neck jumper; soft pale gold bespoke dress shirt, worn open neck. The staff had talked Aziraphale out of a plaid shirt with the jumper, coordinating that for him with a new doeskin velvet waistcoat instead. He is, however, wearing plaid socks.
Do you like this? I thought a more casual look would be appropriate for Tadfield. There's also a nice suit, but saving that for London.
Crowley has been giving Aziraphale the up-and-down, and does so again.
Beautiful, Angel. Perfect.
He rises from his chair, walks over to Aziraphale, slips his hand inside the jacket and around the angel's waist, and gives him a firm kiss.
The designer and tailor have been down this road before, and are much too courteous and urbane to give one another side eye. Instead, Aziraphale's innocent pleasure is so radiant they're congratulating themselves on a job very well done.
Still focused solely upon Aziraphale, Crowley purrs,
I think we should drive back to London today. We can make it by early evening.
2. Crowley's Mayfair flat
Crowley and Aziraphale enter, put down various bags and packages, and kick off their shoes. Instead of heading for the lounge and the scotch decanter, Crowley puts an arm around Aziraphale's waist and escorts him to the bedroom. Once inside, Crowley magics his black cashmere and shearling overcoat into the closet, but stops Aziraphale from removing his.
Hang on. Let me undress you.
A snap of the fingers, and Crowley's clothes are replaced by his silk dressing gown. It's cut from the rest of the bolt of black silk jacquard with the Escher snake pattern that he selected for his neck scarf, lined with a Thai silk in crimson weft and black warp that presents interesting shadows as it drapes and folds. He escorts Aziraphale over to the foot of the bed.
Slips his hands onto Aziraphale's shoulders and shrugs off his overcoat, which magically appears neatly hung in the closet. Slips the sweater vest over the angel's head, sends it off to the valet with a wave of his hand. Unbuckles Aziraphale's trousers and lets them slide down around his ankles before likewise sending them, socks, and undergarments off to neatly join the sweater. Aziraphale is now clad only in his dress shirt. Crowley sends the cufflinks clattering, unbuttons the shirt from the bottom up, then slips it down across the angel's shoulders but not off, pushing the angel's arms behind him as if he's tied up. St. Sebastian in a bespoke shirt instead of a loincloth.
Aziraphale flares his snowy wings, folding them into an "X" behind his shoulders and hips as he floats onto his back above the bed, still keeping his arms behind him, erection stiff as a pole.
Crowley slips out of his dressing gown, sends it softly sliding it over Aziraphale's torso on its way to the floor. His raven wings open as he levitates himself atop Aziraphale, talon-like hands clutching the angel's buttocks as he pulls their hips together, his serpentine penis spiraling around the angel's. He glides his body against the angel's and encircles an arm around the angel's back between his wings, hugging him tightly. Delivers an open-mouthed kiss against Aziraphale's neck, like the vampire demon lover of myth sucking at the carotid, russet hair spilling across the angel's shoulder like a spray of blood.
Aziraphale's arms fall limp, the shirt drops away through his wings, his back arches, and he's now Bernini's St. Theresa as Divine Ecstasy consumes the pair. Crowley's wings lazily keep them aloft. For hours.
3. The two are lying side by side on the bed, holding hands, heads turned as they smile at one another.
That was fun.
Aziraphale contemplates Crowley as if studying him for a portrait.
You have such beautiful eyes, Crowley. Why do you insist upon wearing those dark glasses?
They scare humans, Aziraphale. I have a hypothesis that it has something to do with primates and large predatory snakes evolving together in the treetops. At any rate, my snake eyes seem to make some part of the human brain very uneasy. Monkeys, too. Sometimes when I was feeling a need for a cheap thrill I'd go to the zoo and scare the liver out of the little bastards.
Humans don't like spiders much, either, do they. Likely the same reason, do you suppose?
Or scorpions. Or centi- . . . cen-
And here things go sideways at warp speed. Crowley stiffens, his eyes go unfocused and unseeing, breathing accelerates to short pants as if he cannot catch his breath, agony creeps over his face.
Crowley! What's wrong!
Crowley doesn't hear the angel. He's having a flashback to one of the little disciplinary sessions Hastur and Ligur subjected him to. The one when they had brought the pair of centipede demons that were taller than Crowley. Crowley had struggled and writhed and morphed into snake, back to human, snake, human . . . but nothing could get him out of the grip of those wriggling razor chitinous legs and venomous fangs. He had screamed, and screamed, and screamed, and screamed . . .
(to be continued)
