fandomweekly | [#010] Portland Place (Good Omens)

Theme Prompt: #010- Overindulgence
Title: Portland Place
Fandom: Good Omens
Rating/Warnings: PG
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 705
Summary: After the Little Armageddon That Couldn't, and a lot of things yet left unsaid, Crowley seeks Aziraphale out in a very old haunt.

Crowley has poured himself into Aziraphale’s back booth several hours prior[1]. At the Ritz, there is a certain amount of decorum expected. In a discreet establishment which has existed several centuries at Portland Place, the standard of decorum is very different. He’s free to press close-- closer than Aziraphale would have thought he’d wish to-- with his arm across the back of the booth, with one leg all but crossed over Aziraphale’s lap.

It isn’t the closeness, really. Once upon a time, Crowley used to insist it was demonic activity if he sprawled out in Aziraphale’s lap and prevented his moving, but those were the days when men sprawled out on each other if they liked, and no one assigned much meaning to it. People touched back then. Somehow he just hadn’t thought Crowley missed touching him so much.

He’d intended to nurse a nice glass of wine a while and enjoy the atmosphere, perhaps take an opportunity to do some good-- to listen to some heartbroken boy’s troubles and assure him it would look better in the morning, to point a pair of star-crossed lovers towards each other, to summon up a taxicab for one who’d had a few too many… little everyday things. But then Crowley had appeared and insisted upon pouring a highly indulgent red down his throat[2]...

“I have… always, you know, I’ve always, I think.” Aziraphale says. He feels very pleasantly drunk and is not inclined to sober himself just to get a point across.

“Oh, yes.” Crowley brings the glass to Aziraphale’s lips again. Aziraphale thinks they’ve been drinking out of the same one[3]. “Yes, absolutely.”

“I mean, you know?”

“Yes. Well. Not at all.” Crowley takes a sip of his own. He knows they’ve been drinking out of the same one[4], and he’s rather hoped Aziraphale hasn’t noticed.

“You, dear.”

“Oh.” He smiles. He sets the glass aside so that he can take Aziraphale’s hand. “My favorite subject.”

Aziraphale’s hands are elegant by design, by careful maintenance. Crowley’s just seem to have wound up that way. Strong but never rough, squared palms, long fingers. They are very nice hands. He idly wonders where else they might fit very nicely.

“Vanity.” He tuts. “You wicked boy.”

“Call me wicked again.” Crowley says, his chest pressing against Aziraphale’s shoulder, his nose bare millimeters from Aziraphale’s cheek. He freezes, leaning back. “I... could sober up some.”

“Kiss me first. While we’re on even, even… while it’s fair. In case we won’t be brave enough when we’re sober.” Aziraphale demands, grabbing at him.

“Aziraphale…?”

“It would be very wicked of you?”

As sexy talk goes, it isn’t. Mercifully, for beings of angelic stock, sex appeal matters very little in the grand scheme of things. Willingness and intent matter quite a bit more. Crowley is very willing, and Aziraphale has clear intent.

“Say it again.” Crowley entreats, words smearing against Aziraphale’s lips. “Oh, say it again…”

“Wicked.” He chuckles, wrapping an arm around him. “You beastly thing, coming here to get me imbib-- inhibi-- uninhibibed… Drunk, and highly susceptible to your wiles.”

“Are you now?”

“Highly.” Aziraphale promises[5].

“Back to mine?”

“In a bit, dear.” He draws him back into another kiss. After all… to discuss the things that need discussing, they shall have to be sober, and it feels so pleasant to be drunk right now, on more than just the wine. And to be kissing in the back booth of a discreet establishment, where they might be glimpsed and that would be just fine.

Anything at all might be just fine, tonight. And if it isn’t, they’ve an eternity to figure it out.

[1] Aziraphale’s booth has been his since the booths were first put in, in 1910, but he has had a customary place for some four hundred and fifty years.

[2] Literally, his hand careful as he tilted the glass to Aziraphale’s lips.

[3] They have.

[4] Rather, they’ve both been drinking out of both glasses, with very little regard for which had begun the night with whom.

[5] In fact, he hasn’t given a single thought to any more than being kissed, and to having Crowley’s hands on him in a general way.