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Aziraphale had never seen a shark, those enormous fishes of the deep with their sleek skin and dark eyes and rows of deadly teeth, but he imagined that they were rather like Crowley— or he like them. Always moving, silent and quick, or languorous and deliberate, with a fierceness that belied a gentle soul. Ravenous and insatiable when driven, always on the hunt for the next thing to turn their attention to. Aziraphale scoffed lightly to himself, staring out over the glittering water that had inspired his fancy, arms folded on the ship’s rail.
“There you are!"
The voice nearly startled Aziraphale out of his skin, though he showed it only in the slightest start, turning sharply to face its owner.
“Prince Crowley,” he inclined his head, “What can I do for you?” Crowley made a face at the honorific, but allowed it to pass.
“I’ve got something to show you, come here.” Aziraphale did as he was bidden, falling into step at Crowley’s shoulder. The prince strode more confidently than he did across the deck as it rolled gently with the motion of the calm water. Aziraphale had grown up near the sea, but had never had reason or means to board a large ship before becoming a squire; his experience was limited to occasional outings on small fishing boats with his father’s friends. Fortunately he had a good stomach and his sea legs were coming along— there had been only a few embarrassing incidents, and he was far from the only squire to come to grief in rough weather. Crowley halted before the door of his cabin, unlocking it with a sharp click. He gestured Aziraphale to follow, and the squire did so, leaving the door open behind him. The ship had other ideas, however: no sooner had the made to follow Crowley across the room that it swung shut behind him.
“Look!” Crowley exclaimed, with what could only be called a scamper towards the far corner of the room. He jabbed a finger at the shelf that jutted out from the wall there and Aziraphale approached with interest, eyes lighting on the potted plants that covered the surface.
“Are those—”
“Strawberries!” The prince crowed triumphantly, all but clapping his hands with glee. “I’ve gotten them to fruit even in these wretched conditions.” Aziraphale looked up to see a hole in the roof of the cabin, its cover pulled back to allow sunlight and air through, offering the plants an additional respite to the porthole just above the shelf, cover likewise secured.
“I’d never have thought to try!”
“Have to have something to do on this dull voyage, don’t I? I’ve been slipping coin to the kitchen boy to give me water from the rice as well, it’s good for them.” Crowley reached into the soft leaves and cupped a large, bulbous berry in his hand. With the nail of his thumb and the pad of his forefinger, he clipped through its stem, pulling the fruit free. “Go on!” he offered his hand to Aziraphale. The berry stood out, bright red and glistening, against Crowley’s pale skin, and Aziraphale’s mouth watered. How long had it been since he’d eaten a strawberry, fresh from his mother’s garden, gently cultivated from those that grew wild all around? How long since he’d helped her turn heaping baskets-full into jam, burning his tongue in tasting the products of their labour.
“You grew them, Prince Crowley, you should have the first taste.”
Crowley’s nose wrinkled.
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to contradict your prince?”
Aziraphale grinned.
“Well, we can’t have that, I suppose.” Carefully he picked up the berry by the remainder of its stem, pinching back the spray of green leaves at its crown, and raised it to his mouth. His teeth sank through the sweet-firm flesh in the centre of the berry, pulling the bite into his mouth where he chewed with relish, the explosion of flavour flooding his senses. “Delicious,” he managed around his mouthful, holding out the remained of the berry to Crowley. Rather than take it back in his fingers, however, Crowley simply leaned in and took it from Aziraphale’s fingers with his teeth, the merest whisper of a lip touching the tip of his fingers. With an agile manipulation of tongue and teeth, Crowley chewed the rest of the flesh away and spat the green back into his palm. Was it Aziraphale’s imagination, or were the prince’s eyes lingering on his lower lip, where he could feel a clinging bead of juice?
“Shark!” The shout came from outside, and immediately the sound of running feet came after. Crowley’s eyes bulged. At once he swallowed the berry flesh and pelted back across the room.
“Come on, Aziraphale! You don’t get to see one of these every day!”