Work Text:
Crowley can see sixteen of the Pleiades, he thinks. He's just drunk enough to be uncertain that he hasn't missed one, or counted one twice, or maybe skipped a number. The Bentley's roof is solid beneath him, the night sky very black. The ocean's crash at the bottom of the cliff sounds like the world breathing, and Crowley tries to match his inhuman lungs to the slow beat of the tide.
He hears the chime of a miracle as he feels the car shift beneath him, a weight settling down the wheels. A door opens and the car moves again, springs and shocks unfolding. Crowley rolls over to see Aziraphale on his right. The angel's gotten out on the driver's side.
He knew how to drive all along. The Bentley turned yellow for him and fed him travel sweets. Now it's letting the angel out like something from Pandora's box and Crowley hadn't even opened anything, he'd just driven as far as he could to get away --
Aziraphale turns and the Bentley's roof is just the right height for them to be face to face. Eye to eye, for a long silent moment, because Crowley has no idea what to say. Then Aziraphale tugs at his waistcoat and leans in so they are mouth to mouth. Aziraphale is kissing him.
Crowley's face is slack with alcohol and shock. Aziraphale feels so soft, lips opening to match the demon's shape, tongue moving in. There's no fibrous texture of oat milk between them, only red wine, which by now might as well be their shared blood. His own tongue splits and lengthens, gathering in the essence of angel, of this angel. He tastes of dust and sunshine and a little like the sea. It's completely unexpected and also the most familiar thing, the only constant of Crowley's six thousand years.
There's a musical metallic thunk as his hands slap the Bentley's roof. Apparently he doesn't dare reach out this time. Aziraphale reaches for him instead, strong fingers cupping Crowley's skull. His thumb nestles into a tender space behind the ear, where Crowley's shades are missing, and holds him while the angel pulls back. They're looking into one another's eyes again, Aziraphale's like deep water. He takes a long breath and says, "I need to tell you that I'm sorry."
"Shut up." Crowley is immediately angry, or he's been angry all along. In all of eternity he's never been forgiven, no matter how many times Aziraphale has brought up this sort of thing. The demon refuses to take the other side.
Aziraphale hesitates, then for a wonder, nods. His other hand rises, fingertips caressing Crowley's jaw.
The touch feels like an impossible indulgence. Crowley thought they might never even hold hands again. His too-long tongue flicks out to touch those fingers, which still taste of a trace of Earthly ink. It's delicious. He turns his head and opens his mouth, takes Aziraphale's hand in to the knuckles, and sucks.
The angel gasps and his eyelids flutter. His fingers tremble between Crowley's teeth, setting off a heat even deeper than his anger, and more resilient. The demon slithers off the roof.
If they weren't a Serpent and a Principality, this would be a disaster. But they are what they always have been and this is how they move: one entwining, one standing strong. Crowley puts himself between his angel and his car without Hell's power but it feels like a miracle -- contrary to the natural order. But as if he belongs there anyway.
Haven't they always been capable of miracles? Crowley shudders, shivering hard from head to toe, and Aziraphale leans into him. His weight is soft and steadying, and there's the blunt thrust of his cock, hard against Crowley's thigh.
He got hard when Crowley kissed him in the bookshop, too.
This time Crowley can't pull back, can't let go. His wristwatch clatters against the Bentley's door. Aziraphale's forehead wrinkles and he takes away his hand, which Crowley's mouth releases with a wet pop. He looks unhappy, and also as if he might be about to speak, neither of which Crowley can bear. He tilts his head and kisses Aziraphale instead.
That's better. That's wonderful now, it's mutual, it's as simple as walking side by side. Aziraphale's tongue is in Crowley's mouth, licking; his fingers curling tight in Crowley's hair. They're pressed together chest to chest and belly to belly, Crowley's hips canting above Aziraphale's and he can't stop the way he writhes. He's a snake. Aziraphale makes one of his little pleased sounds and Crowley takes it in like nourishment, opens wide for another. Aziraphale's wet hand traces Crowley's jaw, then his neck, then sweeps down to spread across his skinny arse. His touch there burns.
He lifts a little, half cradling Crowley against the car. He adjusts them both to get a better angle for the grind, breaking the contact of their kiss. Crowley knows he's drunk but Aziraphale looks intoxicated now, wide eyes like the wine-dark sea, and the demon feels an odd spike of envy. He does the horrid little miracle to rid himself of two bottles of Tesco's least-awful Malbec and all his senses go sharp.
He hears himself whisper "Angel!" like a prayer of praise. Everything is Aziraphale. Still in his bow tie and worn waistcoat, because why would he change to be Supreme Archangel or seduce his abandoned friend? Same moon-pale curly hair, and when Crowley lifts a hand to touch the angel leans his head in, rubbing like a cat. Same prim and greedy mouth, opening to answer "Crowley..." and it's so easy to indulge him.
Crowley unbuttons his own jeans first, baring his cock between them like an offering. It's probably too dark for Aziraphale to see but Crowley knows he can feel and that he'll like it, their being matched this way. He tries not to think too much while he's going through the angel's clothes, because whatever the story is it must be complicated. But the feelings wash through him hard: lust and joy and gratitude, bewilderment and pride. The angel's face is gorgeously flushed and Crowley wants to snap him naked, but doesn't dare. For a moment he allows himself to imagine another time.
He gets Aziraphale's cock in his hand and that's enough; that's overwhelming. The angel's slick with precum but Crowley lets go anyway to make a show of licking his hand, getting it wetter. He's taking time. He doesn't want this to ever end.
Aziraphale has a different idea. He moves Crowley like a doll, butting their cocks together and grasping them himself. He slides fluid from his cockhead down Crowley's length and strokes them luxuriously. His other hand squeezes Crowley's arse in the same rhythm and he murmurs, "Crowley, Crowley please..."
Crowley comes and he can see a thousand Pleiades. Everything is brilliant and burning and that bastard is smiling right into his eyes.
He's thrown both arms and both legs around Aziraphale. He's clinging. The angel thrusts hard into Crowley's belly and makes a sound like trumpets when he comes, his weight crushing Crowley like a dying star.
They stay more or less vertical for half a minute, leaning on the Bentley. The demon unfolds one leg, finds the ground, and they lower themselves gracelessly. Crowley imagines they've left a yellow imprint on the car: he can miracle the stain away, but he'll always know it was there.
Aziraphale is more or less sitting up, with Crowley mostly in his lap. He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and gently wipes Crowley clean, then himself. He doesn't say anything, and he doesn't move away either.
Before long, this makes Crowley nervous. He can feel time passing. The tide gone out, the Pleiades crossing the sky, the sun closing in. He doesn't like this and he can't change it. It's a problem with being a snake. Once he's wrapped himself around, he never wants to let go. He wants to swallow Aziraphale whole.
He decides how to break their silence. "I don't want your apology and I don't want your forgiveness. I only want to talk about how we're going to save the world."
Aziraphale takes a great, deep breath before answering. "All right," he says, "I've got a plan --" and Crowley's heart leaps into his throat..