[Crowley misses Italy. Bright, clear skies, good wine, beautiful vistas... He'd quite liked it (Pompeii not withstanding) up until the Vatican moved in and gradually turned the place into minefield of consecrated ground. One minute a demonic serpent would be walking along, minding his own wiles, and the next - bam - like walking on coals, except without his natural fire-proofing!
It sure built up a tolerance though. The callouses on the soles of his feet were something else.
His reminiscing is halted abruptly as he realizes what all the things Aziraphale had dreamed about - all the things he liked best - and now his insides are doing strange wiggly somersaults.
In retrospect, it shouldn't completely surprise him - he and Aziraphale had been doing things exactly like that for centuries. If Aziraphale were really opposed to their rendezvous, he'd have cut them off before they ever began. But it's still a jolt to Crowley's tangled emotions that someone might not just tolerate him, but actually enjoy his company. The way Aziraphale speaks the words into his palm, like a precious secret just for him to hold...
He has to wait for the tight feeling in his throat to recede, because the thought of sharing the stars with Aziraphale stirs one of those empty holes in his memory where something should be but isn't.]
I should take you up sometime --
[He cuts himself off quickly so he doesn't choke on whatever's crawled up from his chest into his throat, before he can, eventually, speak again.]
-- pack some goodies, bring a good vintage with us. I could show you properly.
[His smile is fond as he chances a glance down at Aziraphale, still muzzy with sleep. Bad idea -- the urge to slither under the blankets and curl up against the angel and never leave this bed again is already too much. Seeing him now, he's the very embodiment of temptation.]
Then we could head home and vacation in Tuscany. Visit all the new little restaurants that must've popped up since we were last there.
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It sure built up a tolerance though. The callouses on the soles of his feet were something else.
His reminiscing is halted abruptly as he realizes what all the things Aziraphale had dreamed about - all the things he liked best - and now his insides are doing strange wiggly somersaults.
In retrospect, it shouldn't completely surprise him - he and Aziraphale had been doing things exactly like that for centuries. If Aziraphale were really opposed to their rendezvous, he'd have cut them off before they ever began. But it's still a jolt to Crowley's tangled emotions that someone might not just tolerate him, but actually enjoy his company. The way Aziraphale speaks the words into his palm, like a precious secret just for him to hold...
He has to wait for the tight feeling in his throat to recede, because the thought of sharing the stars with Aziraphale stirs one of those empty holes in his memory where something should be but isn't.]
I should take you up sometime --
[He cuts himself off quickly so he doesn't choke on whatever's crawled up from his chest into his throat, before he can, eventually, speak again.]
-- pack some goodies, bring a good vintage with us. I could show you properly.
[His smile is fond as he chances a glance down at Aziraphale, still muzzy with sleep. Bad idea -- the urge to slither under the blankets and curl up against the angel and never leave this bed again is already too much. Seeing him now, he's the very embodiment of temptation.]
Then we could head home and vacation in Tuscany. Visit all the new little restaurants that must've popped up since we were last there.