logsinthenight | you're a sky full of stars

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you're a sky full of stars | closed

characters: Aziraphale and Crowley
location: At the park
date/time: 9/18 for lunch
content: A long overdue picnic, with a surprise meteor shower
warnings: Y'all it's gonna be cute. Hiss hiss fall in love.

Aziraphale had spent the last two days off and on making a spread for the picnic that he'd promised he'd take Crowley on before their little boat hijacking plot, so the fact that there were falling stars everywhere was just a nice little bonus. "Ah," he had said, as they headed out, straw basket full of goodies with a gingham blanket covering it tucked under one arm. "I wonder what that's all about."

Now, on the dark green lawn of the park, somewhere by the pagoda with the ice cream cart in plain view, Aziraphale throws the blanket open and places a rock on one corner and a bottle of wine on the other to weigh it down. He pulls out a few wrapped cheeses, some crackers, dried apricots, walnuts he'd cracked himself that morning, extremely terribly made pork pies, and eton mess that had, at one point, aspirations as a pavlova.

And, of course, some awful red table wine that would taste better once poured, as long as Aziraphale got to touch it first. "It is beautiful," he remarks, looking up at the sky. "Were you in the Americas for the Leonid storm in 1833? I was. It's a bit like that."

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"Fine," he says, putting it back. "Suppose I'll just take whatever flavor it wants to give me. We can always swap if you prefer mine." He knows he'll probably end up eating both cones.

He seems to have miscommunicated something, because the spirit wants to pile on the cones as high as humanly possible.

Higher, since none of them are humans.

Aziraphale panics around scoop 5 and tries to get them to stop piling it on, which is just as well because they seem not to understand that Aziraphale wants 2 cones.

He pays in the rest of the pork pies that they are definitely not going to consume.

Crowley looks at the monstrous cone, and then at Aziraphale. Five scoops? Crowley happens to like ice cream, and even he wouldn't indulge quite that much. Maybe this thing's way of hurting them is to give them all a rancid stomachache.

"What flavor did it pick?" he asks, looking warily at the creature, then at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale looks back, rather annoyed. "I don't know, as you told me not to ask," he snips. "I guess it's a surprise. Help me figure it out, darling."

He's glad, at least, to trade in these pork pies, because they are quite revolting. So either way, how bad could this be?

Right?

Crowley looks dubious. Still, the two of them have shared a lot over the years, what's sharing an ice cream cone---even one this ridiculous---going to do to them?

"Oh, all right."

He takes a step back towards their blanket, and extends his hand for the angel's.

He takes a lick of one of the scoops and is pretty sure he's just eaten a mustard-flavored ice cream.

The only reason he hasn't spat it up is because he's busy holding it in one hand and Crowley's hand in the other.

"Wouldn't recommend that first scoop."

"No?" Crowley says, looking at it curiously. It's a strange sort of yellow, and he immediately assumes it must be a vibrant sort of lemon. He considers the next, which is a weird white with a blue ribbon through it.

"What do you think," he says. "Raspberry, maybe? Vanilla?"

Aziraphale leans in to take a sniff at the second one and immediately pulls a face. "Oh, no. No no no." In fact, the first one he seems to like is the rosemary and olive oil, which he finds altogether not unpleasant. But then the coconut curry is too savory - again, not altogether unpleasant, at least not as much as the blue cheese, which isn't even nice and floral like a stilton.

Then at the end, it's bitter and sour and he thinks this whole ice cream stand was a mistake. "Mm." He frowns, distastefully.

The only one Crowley tries is the blue cheese---and only because he thought at first it might be vanilla. He leans in and takes a lick not far off from where Aziraphale did. But never where Aziraphale licked, of course. Can't---wouldn't---can't be too bold, of course. He makes a face, and scowls back at the ice cream stand.

"You know, I'd like to take back my earlier thoughts. We might actually be in Hell, you know," he says, amiably.

"No," he says, trying the blue cheese one again. Still as bad as he remembers. Ugh, and there are crumbles of blue cheese in it. No, no, they're frozen and hard and abort, abort, he makes a gag noise.

He pulls a miracle, that the blue cheese is suddenly vanilla with streaks of blueberry and chunks of a cakey white streusel. The mustard becomes a bright lemon with a touch of saffron - the coconut curry a soft coconut with spicy turmeric and creamy pineapple - the espresso a deep, rich chocolate with notes of espresso and swirls of banana that only hints at lemon.

Gabriel can stare at that message all he wants.

Crowley watches the ice creams change and his lips curl up into a wicked smile. Oh, but he does love it when Aziraphale uses his powers for entirely self-serving purposes.

He leans in, a bit awkwardly considering it's Aziraphale holding the ice cream, and has a taste of the vanilla. Yeah, that's the stuff.

"It's like," he says, "It's like they only read about the human experience on wikipedia and are trying to recreate it. All these flavors, well, they're flavors. And ice cream, it's something we have. You just wouldn't know not to mix them unless you'd actually had it."

"Sounds like Hell and Heaven alright. Perhaps you've got a point." Particularly since ice cream was a rather new invention, having taken root in this sort of way for only about a hundred or so years.

Meanwhile to help with the structural integrity of the cone, Aziraphale starts eating at the top, with what was once the mustard. Mm, much better. "This is quite nice after all," he says.

"Could still use a bit of Flake," Crowley says, giving the angel a smirk. Holding hands and sharing ice cream under a sky full of falling stars. It's a downright romantic image, if Crowley admits it. He won't, of course, but if he would.

"Think the weather changes here?" he asks, leaning in to take another taste of the vanilla. "I've started working with Misty on her greenhouse, I want to weather-proof it if it does."

"I think so," he replies, as he waves his hand like he's making another magic trick. A flake comes out of his hand and gets placed into one of the cones that Crowley seems to be enjoying.

"It's cooler today than it was yesterday," he says. "Do you need help with the greenhouse?" he asks, looking up from the cone. He isn't used to eating 5 scoops at once, so he's got some on the tip of his nose.

Crowley immediately breaks a bit of the candy off and pops it into his mouth. There aren't a lot of human foods that Crowley enjoys, but this is one of them. Very simple, very sweet.

He reaches over, wiping off the angel's nose with the back of his finger. Only Aziraphale could end up looking so ridiculous and make it charming.

"Misty insists," he says. "At least for the rest of the time we're here. I haven't told her we're leaving and neither should you."

"Well, then you've got a week to put it together. Don't go disappointing that girl, I think she's had enough of that for a lifetime." He nearly chastises, but it would be a little mean as Crowley is trying his best. He does want to restore all of them to where they belong: not here.

"Have you talked to her yet, about music? I think you listen to similar things, ah, what did she say, classical rock, I believe."

"It's not classical," Crowley complains, giving Aziraphale a look. "It's only forty years old, it's basically brand new."

He takes a step back towards their blanket, with the lovingly and horrifically made food and wine. He'd rather like a bit more wine, but he doesn't want to unclasp his hand from Aziraphale's. When could they have ever done this on Earth? Had a moment with stupid ice cream and a picnic? Never, actually. Couldn't even just walk next to each other in a park and survive.

Aziraphale, in the meantime, has no thoughts against eating the ice cream where Crowley's mouth has been, especially when he's putting his mouth places just to catch the drippings before they all melt.

"Well, not to her, she's a young girl, forty seems practically ancient to her, I'd imagine. And we, practically rendered to dust in our age."

"How did she die, do you know?" Crowley asks. "She seems fairly harmless. Did something happen to her?"

It's probably the equivalent of asking 'What are you in for?' when going to prison, Crowley imagines. But all the same, he wants to know.

"You know I don't go around asking people that, it's rude," he replies. "Like asking you how you fell from Heaven," he adds. He hadn't done that, because he hadn't needed to.

He wouldn't, now. It's not a request. "Some people are just rather touchy about the whole thing."

Crowley's feathers get a bit ruffled. "I don't think it's quite that personal," he says.

He immediately turns as casual as possible, to show the question Definitely Didn't Bother Him. "Death is just something that happens, happened to all of us. Believe me, we all shared a bit of the 'How did you Fall' stories in Hell."

"Oh?" he asks, curious, because Crowley had never shared such things with him. But he supposes he also wasn't a demon.

"Well, maybe we'll all reach a point where it isn't personal, but trust me, right now it quite certainly is."

He miracles Crowley another flake, half in apology, half just to try and talk about something else maybe.

Crowley's stories in Hell had also all been completely made up, because the truth was far too personal. He imagined most of the demons around that time made up their stories, too. Better than the truth, which was just their truth.

He looked over at Aziraphale, with his huge ice cream cone that had another bit of flake sticking out of it. He looked a bit ridiculous, with it melting all over the place. He leaned in, letting out a short breath that increased the cold of the ice cream just a bit more, to let it last a bit longer before it melted.

"More wine?"

"Oh, yes," he responds, even as he licks drippings off the cone. The integrity of the cone, for the record, is quickly coming apart.

"Oh, we're going to have to finish this quickly," he says, "before the wine, I think." Because miracling all the flavors different was alright but miracling the actual cone not to melt was too much. If Crowley had already done it, Aziraphale hasn't noticed, and is offering him the cone in efforts to have him help.

"Oh, no, it's too sticky, don't give it to me," Crowley says, but he's clearly taking it anyway. There's literally too much for the two of them, and he feels positively ridiculous about it all. At least the ice cream is a bit colder, so it's less likely to completely melt all over him.

"Did you bring a bowl or something?" he suggests.

"No, why would I have brought a bowl? Perhaps one of the jars I've put the eton mess in, then. Five scoops may have been ambitious; I knew I should've stopped them at three," he adds, because that's about how many they've made it through in total so far. They're dripping on the ground a bit now, and his hands are sticky and sweet. Well, one hand anyway.

"How do children do this?" he asks, to no one in particular, as he casts his gaze up and experiences a brain freeze for what seems to be the first time in ever. "Oh my God, what is that?"

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