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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"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?"

"What is what?" Crowley says, looking at the angel in extreme worry. He drops the ice cream on the ground immediately, ignoring it. "What's happened?"

No, no, no. The spirit has poisoned them. Crowley's barely touched the ice cream, but Aziraphale has had a good bit of it. This has to be what this is.

"Oh," he starts, clutching his head with his clean hand. "Ah, never mind. It seems to have subsided. It was just as if my entire head froze in my skull. Awful." He shakes it out.

"I'm fine now, thank you. Oh, dear, we've made a mess." There Aziraphale is, worried about the mess they're making instead of how he'd scared Crowley like that. He does appreciate it, though, Crowley always coming to the rescue, even for something so minor.

"What---an ice cream headache?"

Did Crowley just get very frightened over an ice cream headache?

No, he wasn't frightened. Crowley never gets frightened and fawns all over Aziraphale. Certainly not.

"Forest spirits will eat it up," he says, miracling away the mess on his hands.

"Oh, true, they do love their sweets and I don't think they particularly care if they've been on the ground." And yes Crowley, you did in fact, just fawn over Aziraphale's brain freeze.

"But-- thank you, Crowley, I'm fine." He shakes his head and frowns at the dropped ice cream one more time. "More wine, then?"

"I wouldn't mind a bit more, yes," he agrees, moving back to the ground. He gestures for the angel to sit next to him.

He glances at the dropped ice cream, then back up to the stars. "Weird sort of date this is," he says, far to casually to actually mean it. Well, sort of.

"Surely not weirder than any of the other ones we've had," he counters, since they mostly spend them drinking or with Crowley watching Aziraphale eat, or with meeting up trying to stop the end of the world from arriving.

They had done a lot of things together, like see the first play, like watch the first rain, gone out to lunch more often than he could count, fed all manner of wildlife together, walked through art galleries, and so much more.

Crowley was, in fact, a very good dating partner to have, in Aziraphale's opinion.

Crowley looks up at the stars and definitely doesn't try to think about that too much. If one were to actually consider what they did dates, then the two of them had been going steady for quite some time now. But he couldn't possibly think about that. It was hard enough thinking that he went too fast with Aziraphale once.

"I'll have to remember to bring you flowers next time," he says, picking up his glass of wine. "That's what you do on a date, isn't it? Bring flowers?"

His lips melt into a smile. "Ah, only if you want. They would be nice, I'll put them in the kitchen window." And he had gone too fast, at the time, because Aziraphale had just handed him what he'd thought was a suicide pill, and he needed to go home and reflect over whether or not he was going to lose Crowley now or-- when, a hundred years? A thousand?

Their days had felt numbered, borrowed then, and Aziraphale couldn't deal with it, couldn't deal with his own feelings, and certainly could not deal with Crowley.

He no longer had to worry about such a thing, though, but it hardly seemed fitting to revisit any sort of conversation when they had so much to do, like bring all these people home.

Crowley watches Aziraphale's smile for a moment. Times like these, times where it's just them, they've always felt like they could be forever. It didn't matter if they were stolen moments in the middle of their jobs, or hidden away in the bookshop. They were theirs and no one could take that away from them.

Until one day, they did.

Crowley looks away from the angel, back down to his wine glass.

"You haven't told anyone about us here, have you?" he asks.

"Oh! Um," he starts, looking down. "Well, nobody about us, really. And certainly nobody about you." He is feeling a little guilty though, the same kind as when he'd given away his flaming sword.

But he'd only told people he trusted to be good and upstanding. And, so far, they had been... kind. Understanding.

Crowley's eyes narrow behind his sunglasses.

"Angel," he says, warningly. "You haven't told anyone anything, have you?"

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