Notes: written for the Ineffable Valentine's prompt 'champagne'.
"Changes to the bookshop, hmm?" Crowley leans forward in his seat and watches Aziraphale finish his slice of Devil's food cake the way he always does - with rapt attention, as if Aziraphale's mouth is a cinema screen playing the latest, greatest summer blockbuster.
"Not changes, per se," Aziraphale replies, smiling into his napkin as he dabs his mouth. He knows Crowley doesn't give a rat's rear end about his renovating the bookshop, but it's sweet that he's giving the conversation his full attention. "More of a re-arranging. I'm thinking of putting a new releases section right up front where customers will be sure to see it the moment they walk in."
"Aziraphale!" Crowley gasps in mock horror. "Say it ain't so!"
"What?" Aziraphale's left eyebrow arcs at his husband's exclamation. "What are you on about?"
"Don't tell me you're selling out! Caving to the masses! That you might actually …" He gasps again dramatically, drawing the attention of the diners at the table beside them afraid he might be choking "… sell a book!"
Aziraphale waves him off. "Don't be ridiculous, dear boy. It's more a ruse than anything. I find that most people pop in looking for a recent best seller, and when I tell them I don't have it, they start wandering, looking for something else. If I stock the latest James Patterson drivel or whatever passes for literature nowadays and display it front and center, they'll see it, buy it, and be off without ever stepping farther than five feet in. That way, I have absolutely nothing to worry about."
"Well played, Aziraphale." Crowley's face softens. "That's quite clever. And, may I say, diabolical."
Aziraphale's smile grows so wide, the dimples in his cheeks almost meet in the middle. "I've been doing your job for so long now, I might just have a bit of demon in me."
"Well, that little plan of yours has me so turned on, you'll definitely have a bit of demon in you later on."
"So how are things going? Anything else I can get for you? Is dessert treating you okay? Shall I refill your water glass? Bring over another slice of cake? I don't know if you know this, but our cheesecake is world famous," their waiter says, shooting over from across the dining room, directing his rapid-fire commentary solely at Crowley.
Aziraphale sighs and dabs his lips with his napkin again, needing to hide his mouth before he shoots fire from it.
Benedict the man had said his name was - twenty-five years old (from what Aziraphale can tell), six-feet even, slim but muscular … and completely smitten with Aziraphale's husband.
Nothing new. It happens quite a bit. Aziraphale chalks much of it up to Crowley being a demon. He gives off an air of sin that humans find irresistible. That and his natural sex appeal make him good at his job.
It's also one of the reasons Crowley doesn't go out in public unless he absolutely has to.
The unwanted attention can get aggravating.
Like tonight, or any other night they go out to eat, which they've been doing a lot of ever since they got married. Eating out has always been one of the cornerstone activities of their time spent together. They have no intention of giving it up. For the most part, lust-sick mortals will scram when told to do so.
Except this man, who bounces back to their table every time he has a second free. Why? Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale have any idea, but he can't seem to take a hint. Plus he's got unforgivable timing, interrupting several professions of undying love and one or two sexual innuendos.
Innuendos that, if given the opportunity to flourish, might have shortened the duration of their meal considerably.
Crowley told the man point blank to get lost, which he did for all of three minutes. Aziraphale is amazed the young man managed to stay away from their table long enough for them to hold this brief conversation in its entirety.
Twice Crowley suggested a magical solution - transporting him to Indonesia was the first, wiping his mind and implanting some sort of foot fetish to boot the second. But Aziraphale told him not to, arguing that Benedict is a kid working to make ends meet, and that, at heart, he really is a decent human.
But stranded in Indonesia with no memory and a raging foot fetish sounds more and more appealing every time Benedict leans in close and bats his eyes at Crowley.
"There is something you could do for us," Crowley says, his eyebrows bouncing up as he suddenly gets an idea.
"Anything," the waiter whispers, eyes darting boldly to Crowley's mouth, and behind his napkin, Aziraphale wonders what type of weather Indonesia is enjoying this time of year.
"We would like a bottle of champagne. Your finest, please."
"Ooo," the waiter says, sounding intrigued. "Celebrating something?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact. Our wedding anniversary," Crowley stresses with words coarse and clipped.
"Fantastic," the man says in that same hushed whisper, unfazed. "Be right back."
"Crowley!" Aziraphale scolds when the waiter hurries away.
"What?"
"I was hoping you were going to ask for the check. Don't you think it's time we get away from that man and his covetous glances? Unless you're enjoying the attention, that is."
"Pfft." Crowley reaches across the table to take his husband's hand. "Not an inch. I just want some champagne. That's all."
Aziraphale appraises his husband suspiciously. "A … ha."
"Here we are!" the waiter says, appearing as if in a puff of smoke, which Aziraphale had begun to suspect. He presents the bottle … and a single flute … to Crowley. "Monsieur's champagne. Our finest, as requested."
"Perfect! Thank you," Crowley says. The waiter beams from the praise as he uncorks the bottle and fills the flute. Crowley picks up the glass, gives the champagne a sniff, then passes it over to Aziraphale. "There you are, my love. Why don't you take the first taste?"
Aziraphale looks at the champagne, then at his husband, not entirely certain what he's playing at but more than willing to follow along. He smiles his brightest, most appreciative smile, takes the flute delicately by the stem, and lifts it to his lips. Slowly he sips, his eyelids fluttering closed as the alcohol fills his mouth, bathing his tongue, his taste buds firing one by one with the fruity flavor of this exquisite beverage. He swallows, forgetting for the moment that two sets of eyes are watching, one more complimentary than the other, and sets his glass down.
"Scrumptious." He slides the remaining champagne towards his husband, offering him the rest. "You definitely know how to order well, my dear."
"If you'd like, I can bring you another flute," the waiter offers snappishly, finally seeming to notice Aziraphale there, that he's been there all night with Crowley, monopolizing the attention that he craves, "so that you can have a taste."
"Don't worry," Crowley says, his eyes not leaving his husband's face, tracing the lines of his rosy cheeks, the contours of his plump, wet lips. "I can steal a taste for myself." Crowley puts a hand on the neck of the bottle, as if preparing to take a swig straight from it. Instead, he leans towards his husband, grabs him carefully by the back of the head, and crashes their mouths together. The kiss is long, indulgent, a spectacle for Benedict's benefit. It's not meant for the young man to fantasize about. It's meant to show him what he can't have. "Mmm … you're right," Crowley mutters before their mouths separate. "Scrumptious. We'll be taking that bottle to go, please."
Benedict doesn't answer.
When Aziraphale's eyes finally leave his husband's to check why, Benedict has gone. Crowley's gaze follows Aziraphale's to the vacant spot beside their table. He crows in triumph.
"Finally!"
"Was that quite necessary?" Aziraphale asks, his smile unquenchable.
"I'd say yes. As it is, if that didn't work, I was going to resort to dry humping you on the table. In fact …" Crowley presses on the tabletop with both the palms of both hands, presumably testing its stability.
"Don't. even. think. about it," Aziraphale warns.
Crowley grins. "Oh …" he winks "… I'm thinking about it."