Angel of the Morning: Exceptions
Ah, warmth—one of life's greatest comforts.
Aziraphale turned his face toward the sunlight, beaming just as brightly. A cool breeze caressed his skin, and vacated his lungs as a contented sigh.
"Watch yourself, angel. Of the two of us, you're the least accustomed to getting burned."
Aziraphale's gaze lowered, transferring his smile to Crowley.
"Nonsense, my dear."
The day's weather (indeed, that of the last few days) was uncanny to perpetually soggy Londoners—ideal for an afternoon spent in St. James' Park. Naturally, the nation's continued lockdown prevented this, but, undeterred, Crowley and Aziraphale had miracled up the next best thing, which was to clear away all the clutter in the bookshop's back room and replace it with their favorite outdoor locale. The antique sofa was now a bench upon which both angel and demon were sprawled. Aziraphale, sitting upright, a book propped open in one hand, combed aimless fingers through Crowley's hair, whose head rested upon his lap.
He was mildly surprised, truth be told, to find his partner still awake. Crowley did love his sleep, after all. Not that Aziraphale was in any position to cast stones—he did quite a lot of thinking with his stomach for an ethereal being who had no need for physical nourishment. Very amusing, the respective habits they had adopted over the years . . .
Meeting at this park, for instance. Tugging the proverbial wool over the eyes of their head offices in an effort to conserve energy and time. Forging—reluctantly, in his case, at the beginning—The Arrangement, the brush that intermixed Crowley's black with his angelic white, forming a shade of moral grey no being residing in Heaven or Hell could hope to comprehend.
Aziraphale blinked.
All of this, all that he had become, he realized, was Crowley's doing, and he shuddered at the thought of what he might be without the demon's presence and influence. A life without Crowley . . . it was inconceivable. Feeling vaguely ill, the angel turned his mind to other matters.
"Your hair is getting long," he remarked. "Are you planning to grow it out again?"
Crowley flashed a grin.
"Hadn't given it much thought. But, you know, for you, angel, I just might."
Aziraphale nibbled his lower lip. He did have a bit of a weakness for the demon's auburn tresses, versatilely styled throughout the centuries. Regardless of the cut, however, Crowley was . . . well, Crowley.
The demon lifted a hand to Aziraphale's flushed cheek, toying with the unruly strands curling around his ears.
"You're looking a bit scruffy, yourself," he chuckled.
"Oh, I know. It's driving me mad."
"Nothing a quick miracle won't fix," Crowley suggested, cuddling closer.
Aziraphale shook his head.
"That's all good and well, but what am I to tell my barber when all this is eventually over, and I turn up looking spick and span as ever?"
Crowley rolled his eyes.
"Just tell him you got your husband to do it!"
Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
If Crowley's heart had leapt, if his blood had frozen as Aziraphale's had, it did not show. His face betrayed only mild exasperation. As though they'd had this conversation a thousand times before.
Aziraphale swallowed, tried to force some clever words through his constricted throat.
A honeyed sweetness filled his head.
Husband.
He wanted to roll the word around his tongue, savor it, try it for himself . . .
"Angels are generally considered sexless, you know."
Crowley blinked.
"Wot?"
Oh, fuck.
"Oh, yes, quite so." Mortified, Aziraphale barreled on—there was no salvaging this, he knew. Nothing to be done but carry on, and hope for the best. It certainly couldn't get any worse. "Well, that is, of course, unless there was an exception, if said angel had an excuse, and therefore really wanted to make an effort, well, ah, in that case, I-I suppose . . ."
To his astonishment, Crowley burst into laughter.
"'Making an effort'?" he cackled. "Is that what they're calling it these days?"
Aziraphale watched in stunned silence as Crowley curled in on himself, his whole body shaking with mirth. Once he'd finally gulped down a few proper lungfuls of air, he swiped a hand across his streaming eyes, and met Aziraphale's sheepish gaze, adoration in those slitted pupils.
Aziraphale suddenly longed to be discorporated—to be neither here, nor anywhere else. He tugged at his shirt collar, straightened his tie—anything to escape this humiliation.
Grinning, Crowley took ahold of the neglected novel in Aziraphale's hand and lowered it to the grass. It was a fascinating read—a contemporary, with hints of magical realism and true crime—not that that was nearly as important as Crowley's face coming closer, long legs straddling his hips. The demon's arms snaked around Aziraphale's neck, his breath hot and rich as mulled wine.
"Was I worth the effort, Aziraphale?"
The words stalled the angel's thumping heart—Crowley's tone was teasing, playful, yet weighed heavily in the limited space between them. Aziraphale steeled his nerve, and ran practiced hands along Crowley's spine, cupping his shapely backside. Crowley hissed with pleasure.
"You're the worst influence imaginable," Aziraphale replied, his voice a low rumble. "And, for that, I am—truly—eternally grateful. Had I known this is what it is to be Fallen, I would have plunged myself to the depths at the start."
"Don't say that," Crowley crooned, thickly, into his pale hair. "You were never meant to Fall, angel. You're too wholesome, too pure for this world . . . for me . . ."
"Hush now." It was Aziraphale's time to scold. He buried his face in Crowley's neck, just beneath the jaw. "Kiss me," he ordered.
Crowley struck, fast and tender.
He really could do weird things with his tongue.
Aziraphale moaned, eyes rolling closed.
Weird, wonderful things. . . .
A blanket of tartan beneath a blanket of stars.
Slender fingers tipped in black entwined with his own.
Aziraphale smiled. Crowley was still staring at the faux night sky above, a near-empty wine bottle clutched in his other hand. He took a deep swig and offered it back to the angel.
The amount of time they'd spent entangled on the park bench was indeterminable, and had come to an end only because such unforgiving structures wrecked havoc on the kneecaps. Crowley had insisted they soldier through, but Aziraphale had chuckled, and persuaded him otherwise. Habit dictated that suppertime was fast approaching, and, ultimately, neither could deny feeling a trifle parched and peckish.
Hence the generous spread of now-consumed food and spirits scattered across the verdant ground. Full, content, and not entirely sober, Crowley and Aziraphale had lapsed into comfortable silence, basking in one another's company.
"Nother one bites the dust," Crowley announced, drinking deeply from the bottle. Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and it refilled to the brim. Chortling, Crowley took another hurried sip to prevent the drink from overflowing and spilling everywhere.
"Whoops, got a bit carried away!" Aziraphale giggled, gingerly plucking the proffered bottle from Crowley's hand. Goodness, what a delicious vintage!
"Hold on." Crowley waved a hand, and a glass appeared between his fingers. "Here, give us a . . . atta boy, angel, very good . . ." He swirled the generous pour of wine, cleared his throat. "To efforts."
Aziraphale faltered. There was no mistaking the blatant love in Crowley's eyes. In his voice.
The angel lifted the bottle and toasted his beloved with the softest clink of glass.
"No, my dear. To exceptions."
It rained over the next three days.
Aziraphale and Crowley didn't mind.
After all, the only thing better than a sun-soaked afternoon was a dreary, drizzly day in bed.
And another . . .
And another.