#// BAARBKARKBARBAKBRBARKBABRKABRKABRKA

[infernal-scales]

IT HAD BEEN quite the...well, he's not sure what word could adequately describe what the day had been. He's afraid if he ruminates on it too much, someone might hear him—someone who might hear the truth of the matter.

Job, Sitis, and the children are home, together, and well following the Almighty's test, and it's that mental image that provides Aziraphale much comfort in a very uncomfortable time.

Well, that and the new world that's been opened to him of HUMAN FOOD. Figs! Fish! A lamb shank! Aziraphale did, however, forgo the goat. It felt indelicate given the circumstances of the day.

They sit under a tree, watching the sunset as Crawley partakes in much wine. It's all he's had for the day. Aziraphale, on the other wing, is quite content with the almonds he's procured and the rather satisfying texture to them.

...Or so he thought.

Resting shoulder to shoulder, Aziraphale looks over, lips parting as he tries to formulate the correct, angelic way to ask this question.

How is the wine?

All he desires is a SINGLE TASTE to satiate his curiosity once and for all. He shan't indulge, no. It is the source of drunkenness, after all. Pointing at the dwindling drink in the goblet, he asks, ❝ MIGHT I? ❞

But instead of partaking in the wine upon confirmation, he inches up, pressing his lips to the demon's, as one would do when all they wanted was, well, just a taste.

IT HAD INDEED BEEN A DAY. A day filled to the brim with surprises Crawley's own imagination wouldn't have been able to conjure up—most of which came from the very angel at his side.

When he'd been given permission to muck about with Job, he'd known he'd ruffle some familiar white feathers. Despite having no intention on following through with orders granted from both sides ( being a pawn in a betting game between both Satan and Her was about as low on his list as something like Falling again... or rainbows ), Crawley had, admittedly, been worried about Aziraphale's impression of him.

But this angel, oh, THIS ANGEL.

He'd known there was something special about him after flustered confessions of the flaming sword variety. There was never really a dull moment around this white-feathered fiend of a Principality.

Even now, as lips meet his own. Cheeky bastard.

As Aziraphale pulls away, GOLD ZEROES IN on the tongue that flicks out to taste at the hint of wine. Mmh, no. That just won't do, not for THE GLUTTON he'd delightfully witnessed the birth of in that basement.

❝ Barely taste anything, can you? ❞ He muses with a purr as he brings the goblet back up to his lips. ❝ I don't think that li'l taste will do this batch justice. 'S got a lot of subtle flavor profiles you really got to take the time TO SAVOR, like so. ❞

Taking a slow, thoughtful sip without breaking eye contact, Crawley doesn't bother shifting from his reclined position before cupping a hand to the back of the angel's neck. He pulls him in for another kiss and lets the wine pass from one set of lips to the other, like cupped hands passing water to someone more in need of it.

The sheer intimacy of the exchange was FAR MORE ADDICTIVE than the alcohol.

A dribble of wine slips from the corner of Aziraphale's mouth, staining pale skin in its red wake, and Crawley swipes a thumb across it before bringing it to his own mouth.

❝ Mmh, how's that? 'S good, isn't it? ❞