#Aziraphale who is so food and taste motivated

[theladydrgn]

Still obsessed with the fact that the last thing Aziraphale tasted on Earth eas Crowley...

[ineffable-endearments]

Deep dive into The Coffee

The following is primarily about the symbolism of the Metatron's coffee.

Once I started thinking about it, there's a lot of cool stuff going on there (depending on whether you think, you know, symbolism is "cool," but I do!).

I think it points toward certain interpretations of what the characters are feeling and what their motivations are, but it isn't about the coffee itself affecting the plot beyond the obvious (it's a love-bomb the Metatron is using to seem friendly).

I was thinking about The Coffee as a sort of shadow version of the Fruit of Knowledge and wondering: why the heck would you choose coffee for this symbolism? It's obviously a very common, non-suspicious beverage in Soho, but surely they could come up with some creative reason for the Metatron to come bearing pretty much any edible item. Out of all the foods and beverages in the world, why coffee? Why not, for example, fruit, or Eccles cakes, or meat - or, for that matter, tea, or cocoa, which we already know Aziraphale enjoys?

But it does make sense. And it also makes sense that it's not just a cup of coffee, it's an oat milk latte with a dash/hefty jigger of almond syrup.

Here, I'll be making the big assumption that the Fruit of Knowledge is relevant to Aziraphale as a metaphor - as something he would consider desirable but forbidden. He was supposed to be guarding it in Eden ("technically, I was on apple tree duty"). And Crowley, with his red hair like the apple, has spent the past 6000 years trying to impart the knowledge of "good" and "evil" to Aziraphale, who in turn has desperately wanted Crowley and also considered him off-limits. Crowley is Aziraphale's Apple of Eden.

Here are a few observations about The Coffee, contrasted with the Fruit of Knowledge and, in some cases, the ox ribs.

The coffee is heavily processed - Fruits, including the apple in Eden, exist straight from the natural world in a form that you can pluck from a tree and eat almost whole. Meanwhile, coffee has to go through a lot of processing between the time it's a coffee berry (also a fruit!) and the moment it's recognizable as the beverage so many people immediately reach for every morning. There's a long, often-unethical production chain there, involving many people.

The oat milk latte with almond syrup is further complicated. The apple is plain and straightforward - it simply is Knowledge in fruit form. It's "pure." The coffee was already heavily processed to become coffee, and now multiple other ingredients have been added. A fancy latte beverage involves the preparation of the milk and the syrup in addition to the coffee beans.

There's a lot going on behind the scenes here. There may, as Crowley pointed out, have been a lot going on behind the scenes in Eden with the Apple purposely placed for the humans to see, but it still feels like there's significance to the difference between a thing that springs from the ground as a food item and a thing that has to be processed over and over before it's ready to consume.

Maybe the point is that the Apple of Eden did exactly what it was said to do from the beginning - gave Adam and Eve Knowledge one way or another - whereas the coffee is a heavily-altered, almost unrecognizable version of the truth.

The coffee is heavily sweetened with additives - This is the real important part for me. Fruit is, broadly speaking, naturally sweet. This obviously varies from piece to piece, as anyone who's sorted through a pile of fruit at the supermarket would know, but the most widely-understood appeal of fruit as a concept is its sweetness. Without any other input, we could guess the Fruit of Knowledge was pretty sweet, too.

Meat, ox ribs, are very different from fruit, obviously. Savory and a bit salty. But they are another food item with broad appeal.

Coffee, particularly espresso, is naturally bitter, to the point where drinking it black is often an acquired taste. The Metatron picked a particularly sweet type of milk and a sweet-flavored syrup.

He had to sweeten his deal a lot to make it palatable to Aziraphale.

The coffee is not "of the flesh" - There are no animal products listed in the ingredients to the Metatron's latte. It's vegan. Oat milk is plant-based. Almond syrup is a plant flavor, likely made with sugar, also a plant. Coffee is a plant.

Aziraphale's other major culinary experience this season? The one where he become more worldly, more of-the-flesh? Yeah, the ox ribs. Meat. The latte is, I suspect, the Metatron's subtle rejection of that worldly pleasure.

The coffee is not Aziraphale's usual preference - We've never seen Aziraphale drink coffee before. We've seen him drink wine and tea and hot cocoa and champagne and sherry, but never coffee; in fact, Crowley's espresso order seems to be set up in contrast to Aziraphale's taste. And when the Metatron brings it to him, Aziraphale initially hesitates. To be fair, I do read his enjoyment of the latte as genuine. I don't think he was lying when he said it tasted good. But he only drinks it after an awkward push from the Metatron.

The coffee contrasts with Crowley's espresso - Season 2 is bookended by espresso beverages. At the beginning, Crowley enthusiastically downs an absurdly hype-inducing, bitter concoction of six espresso shots all in one gulp to prepare for whatever weirdness is waiting for him in the bookshop. He doesn't seem to care either way about the taste. At the end, Aziraphale hesitantly sips his heavily-diluted, sweetened espresso under social pressure. He does admit he likes the taste.

Give Me Coffee Or Give Me Death - The Metatron points out the name of the coffee shop, which possibly sets us up to consider that a choice between anything and death isn't really a choice at all. He also muses that people are very predictable for always choosing coffee over death. This is all done outside of Aziraphale's awareness. Maybe that's because the coffee vs death thing is more about the Metatron's underlying motivations - to coerce and force Aziraphale to accept his role in Heaven no matter what - than about something Aziraphale is consciously aware of.

So, since I'm theorizing that the coffee is a metaphor for the Metatron's offer, here's what I think it's hinting toward.

Aziraphale's emotions and motivations:

Aziraphale didn't start that conversation with any interest in what the Metatron was saying. Coffee's not his order. This didn't start out as a successful temptation, per se. It was a coercion that appeared harmless on the surface (drink the coffee/entertain the conversation to be polite).

Now that they've had their conversation, Aziraphale did like some aspects of the Metatron's offer. That part is a successful temptation.

If we assume Aziraphale really liked the coffee and then run a parallel to the Metatron's offer, it's not hard to see what sufficiently "sweetened the deal" for him: the offer to bring Crowley to Heaven. The Apple of Eden, Crowley, gave Aziraphale the knowledge of good and evil; the sweetened coffee - the suggestion that Heaven could change its mind about Crowley - once again obscured it.

All that stuff about Heaven being the side of Truth and Light and Good came out because Heaven appeared to be changing its mind about Crowley. Crowley is kind of symbolic of everything on Earth for Aziraphale, so presumably, if it can change its mind about Crowley, then it could do things better for Earth, right? Heaven's good intentions must have been sincere after all.

The Metatron's offer and underlying plan:

The Metatron has a complex plan. He's manipulating a lot of people, not just Aziraphale.

The Metatron is using sweetness to conceal a bitter plan that he knows Aziraphale will find unpalatable (separating him from Crowley).

The Metatron is going to present going to Heaven as a choice, but it isn't really one.

For some reason, the Metatron does need Aziraphale back in Heaven, and it's easier if he comes willingly, perhaps if he believes it's his own choice. They're not going to send a bunch of disguised Archangels to abduct him this time.

The Aftermath

So, Aziraphale has been taken in by the coffee, the Foisted Fruit, although the Metatron was not actually giving him a choice at all. Aziraphale botched the philosophical talk, but his choice has probably put off something worse.

Note that in the Final Fifteen, Aziraphale essentially tries to present the same temptation he fell for to Crowley: we can be together in Heaven.

But unlike what Adam did with Eve, Crowley rejects it, because he sees right through it. Instead, he counters with the truth about Heaven and the truth about his own feelings, both in verbal form and with a kiss, once again reprising his role as the Serpent of Eden and the Apple of Knowledge.

Aziraphale, having already swallowed the belief that Heaven is capable of changing, feels Crowley's attempt to disillusion him is a betrayal, an attempt to stop him from doing Good. Notice how when Aziraphale touches his lips longingly after the kiss, he finishes by looking angry and wiping, as if to dismiss what's been shared with him. But you can't un-eat fruit. And you can't be un-kissed.

The Metatron comes back while Aziraphale is clearly having a crisis of conscience. Try as he might to wipe the kiss away, it happened. And he heard the things Crowley said. And he keeps glancing toward Crowley.

This is a tricky moment in the Metatron's plan, because the sweetener he used to get Aziraphale to "drink the coffee"/accept Heaven is no longer in there with Crowley out of the picture. He rushes in and pushes Aziraphale to start his new job, dismissing Aziraphale's excuses. The fact that the Metatron needed Aziraphale without Crowley was the bitterness in the plan that he had to disguise with sweeteners.

Aziraphale, left without sufficient time to think, resolves to simply not think about his first choice, the choice that just walked out the door.

And then, at the last second, to ensure Aziraphale gets in that elevator, the Metatron reveals that the next step in the Great Plan is the Second Coming. Why reveal it at the last second, when Aziraphale is going to get on the elevator anyway?

Because it's the clincher. The Metatron knows Aziraphale won't be able to resist trying to make a difference.

He needed to divide Aziraphale and Crowley. He needed to get Aziraphale's hopes up about being able to make a difference with Crowley first. Then he needed those hopes dashed harshly so that Aziraphale would be at a loss, susceptible to joining Heaven to find a purpose again, now that Crowley is out of his life and the bookshop is being looked after.

And now, by emphasizing Aziraphale's knowledge of Earth and telling him the plan to destroy it at the same time, the Metatron gives Aziraphale a whole new purpose: thwart the Second Coming.

This has been the "predictable" part that the Metatron was scoffing about in the coffee shop. He knew that chain of events would happen. He knew Crowley would reject any suggestion of returning to Heaven, and he knew that would leave Aziraphale upset and vulnerable enough to be swept away, and he knew saving Earth would matter to Aziraphale.

THIS is the moment Aziraphale realizes he's choosing between coffee and death. He has to choose the coffee, of course.

But Crowley has rejected Heaven. He hasn't rejected Aziraphale. He's still there.

And Aziraphale looks back at Crowley the instant he's told Earth is in danger again. You can be confused, but you can't un-eat the Apple of Knowledge. He hasn't forgotten.

There is an alternate reading here: Aziraphale lied about enjoying the coffee, and he is also lying about his beliefs about Heaven being genuinely good, and he recognized that he was choosing between coffee and death way earlier, during the conversation when the Metatron brought up Crowley. I like that reading, too, and it would indeed change the flavor of some of the things that happen afterward.

But either way, we reach the same point at the end of the episode. That grin in the elevator? Maybe that's Aziraphale realizing he's going to have to be unpredictable, just as Crowley said he could.

[fuckyeahgoodomensfanfic]

Good Omens Fic Rec: Old Vines

A.Z. Fell, one of the most respected names in wine and food blogging, has been sent on assignment with his assistant Warlock Dowling to spend six months in California Wine Country. Under direction (by his boss, Gabriel) to use this experience to double his blog followers and write a novel, Aziraphale is both excited and anxious about the opportunity. Anthony J. Crowley is the owner and viticulturalist of Ecdyses, a winery that unexpectedly fell into his lap eleven years ago when he hit rock bottom. He may be in debt, yeah, but he’s paying off his loans — and despite pressure from his lenders and their team of inspectors, Crowley has found a kind of contentment tending his little corner of terroir and producing extraordinary wine. Crowley’s old vines are the heart of his vineyard, and he’s never let anyone in. Crowley finds Aziraphale intriguing; Aziraphale finds Crowley enthralling. Turns out a famous wine expert and an experienced viticulturalist can still learn things from each other. The summer of 2019 unfolds.

Length: 189,706 words

AO3 Rating: Explicit / Spice Level 🔥🔥

Best for: Mostly Safe in Public, Human AU, Romance

Triggers: None

Read it here, fic by sevdrag (seventhe)

*Minor Spoilers* Now this is one well researched AU! This is wine blogger/winery owner human AU. As someone who knows absolutely nothing about wine (nor likes the taste sorry), I was blown away over the amount of detail in this story. The author clearly knows what they're talking about, and uses this knowledge to actually direct the plot not just as neat side info. This level of detail is a feature of this story and stands on it's own outside of the Good Omens backdrop. This story also has an excellent grasp on who Aziraphale and Crowley truly are, what makes them tick, what their insecurities and motivations are. It understands that what makes them so compatible is the way they push and surprise each other. They fall in love not just because they're surface level compatible, it's that they keep each other on their toes. This story also has a line that I booked marked for myself, describing Crowley as, "arrogant and yet somehow pleading for feedback," that's definitely Crowley to me.

Every 6 chapters we get a perspective flight tasting. It brings a small sampling of what everyone else in this story is thinking. I loved these chapters. There's only 3 of them so it never stops the plot, and doesn't take over the flow. It's just small interludes that are pleasant to read but also add a lot of context. We have Warlock, Adam and The Them, Anathema, Newt, and Gabriel as reoccurring main characters. I liked their inclusion a lot, particularly Adam and Warlock. Their plot line was very unexpected in a good way. It really takes a village to keep the winery running and they make a very believable sort of family.

Safe for public I'd say, there is sex in it but it's not very graphic and they're pretty short scenes. They are a part of the story, but not the highlight. This is something very casual to read, something where you want romance but nothing heavy. I highly recommend the pinterest board the author put together for this. It really helped me set the stage and understand the wine stuff better. It's a jargon heavy AU, and I found it fascinating. Who knows, maybe I'll give wine another shot after this!

Read it here, fic by sevdrag (seventhe)

[mimisempai]

Just an inch of tongue

Summary

Crowley's resistance to Aziraphale's enjoyment of his food hangs by a thread.

Until one day...

Notes

Just a little sweet and funny thing..

On AO3

Rating G -  438 words

Oh no, he did it again.

Worst of all, he wasn't doing it on purpose.

But that didn't stop it from driving Crowley completely crazy.

He should be used to it after all this time, after the countless tearooms and restaurants they'd scoured, the number of times they'd eaten together.

But no.

Every time Aziraphale raised the spoon or fork to the mouth of a dish he found particularly delicious, he had this way of moaning around them that Crowley was in a hell of a state.

To Aziraphale it was completely innocent.

A genuine spontaneous reaction.

No hidden thoughts.

But it drove Crowley crazy.

For Crowley had hidden thoughts. 

It was only a matter of time before he snapped, and he knew it.

And it probably wouldn't be as sweet as the food Aziraphale was so fond of.

It didn't take long.

It wasn't a moan of delight that made Crowley snap.

It was a little spot of forgotten chocolate on the angel's lips that Aziraphale wiped away with the tip of his tongue instead of using his handkerchief.

Crowley's sanity gave way for an inch of tongue.

They were leaving the restaurant and it was already dark.

Crowley grabbed the angel's hand and pulled him behind him into a deserted alley adjacent to the restaurant. It was lit only by the faint, trembling light of an old street lamp that kept them out of sight.

"Crowley?"

Turning back to the Angel, Crowley grabbed the back of his head and pulled him closer, giving him no time to react as he pressed his lips to his lover's. 

It wasn't their first kiss, but it was the first to happen this way, and Crowley realized it might not be to the Angel's taste. So, in a final burst of control, he tried to pull away, but to his surprise, Aziraphale wouldn't have it and stopped him by tying his arms around his waist.

That was all it took for Crowley to throw all coherent thought out the window and let his passion run wild. 

Their lips and tongues moved against each other in a familiar dance, passion and softness intertwined in a delicious blend.

Aziraphale and Crowley. 

When they finally parted to catch their breath, panting, Aziraphale managed to articulate, "I don't know what motivated that kiss, my dear, but..."

He paused at the sight of Crowley licking his lips, then continued,  "But if you keep doing that, I won't be responsible for the consequences."

Crowley chuckled, "Look who's talking."

Then he had no further opportunity to speak as his angel captured his lips in another chocolate-flavored kiss.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Ineffable Husbands masterlist : here

[trekraider]

Kiss me like the final meal

Fandom: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Good Omens (TV) Rating: General Audiences Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens) Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens)  

Crawly is in a garden. Not just any garden, but The Garden. The very first garden. Hell has sent him to do a quick temptation, and it was almost too easy. As though it was meant to happen. He slithers up the wall and at its apex is almost blinded by the view. The sun is glinting on the sand and searing his eyes, and beside him stands a being of the most intense light he’s ever witnessed. But he has been fooled by beauty and golden locks before, and he knows better than to trust an angel.

“Didn’t you used to have a sword?” Crawly asks, the first chapter in their story. The rest is history, though butchered by the words of mankind. 

**

He meets Aziraphale again, having grown fond of his own human form, and now his name is Crowley. No longer bent and forced down in supplication, not grovelling on the floor for those who see themselves superior. He is Crowley, and he’s been waiting to see Aziraphale for years. 

Their paths intersect in a crowd, animals and humans paired off two by two, and at the front of a barricade separating the species is a lone figure with glowing platinum hair. Crowley moves towards him, two by two, and slots himself at the Angel’s side. They wait for the storm.

**

Centuries pass before they run into each other again. Crowley sports a new haircut and his amber slit eyes are covered with dark lenses. It’s completely by chance, but Crowley gets this niggling feeling in his stomach at the thought of leaving. And then the Angel offers a temptation to him and his heart stutters in his chest. It’s quickly covered up and Aziraphale corrects himself, but Crowley feels drawn to him.

**

Crowley starts keeping tabs on Aziraphale - as much as he can without drawing suspicion from the Higher Ups and the Lower Downs. There is a revolution going on and it’s the perfect place for Crowley to find himself, amidst all the chaos, yet Aziraphale is there too and with his forked tongue he can taste that something has gone awry. He finds him in a cell awaiting execution, and that just won’t do. 

He freezes time around them, and behind Aziraphale tries to make himself look as nonchalant as possible. The Angel turns and says his name, his name, the chosen one that not even hell honors, and it melts something inside of him. He scoffs at Aziraphale’s excuses, plays up the demon act just enough to deter questions about his conveniently timed appearance, and gives into the hope that this time an angel won’t hurt him.

**

The Arrangement is so organic between them, and their run-ins change from coincidence to a steady routine. Clandestine meetings in parks, on buses, and soon enough Aziraphale is inviting him to his bookshop. 

Crowley feels his guard coming down, his walls caving, and after enough drinks he tests the waters and lets Aziraphale see his eyes again. It’s the most stark representation of his true nature, of what lurks within, and Aziraphale never shies away. Crowley realises that Aziraphale accepts him, wholly and without desire to change him. 

And by then he’s forced to admit he’s falling in an entirely new way.  

**

The fantasies started at least a thousand years ago, and not much about them has changed since they first came to him in the recesses of night, save for Aziraphale’s appearance and his latest gourmand proclivities. Crowley doesn’t hunger and doesn’t crave food. Not until he sees flecks of it dusting Aziraphale’s lips, rivulets of syrups and cocktails and other delightful concoctions dripping from him. 

As a demon, you would expect his mind to be laced with sinful, lustful images in this moment. Aziraphale sits across from him, one hand neatly folded in his lap while the other dips a spoon into a shallow ceramic bowl filled with chilled cucumber soup. Aziraphale raises it to his rosy lips and purses them as the cold liquid slips in, satisfaction dripping from him with a pleased moan as he wiggles in his seat. 

And Crowley is, as always, transfixed at the motion, the well-practiced puckering of his mouth. But instead of thoughts of ravishing, all he thinks of is Aziraphale's lips on his. Other demons would certainly laugh at him for wanting something so tender, almost holy in its nature, but he can't help it. And so he watches. It's become his favourite hobby, his obsession. 

Crowley’s mind is consumed with tasting it all on Aziraphale’s skin, delving his tongue into Aziraphale’s mouth to lap up every last trace of flavour until all that’s left is Aziraphale himself. He wants to remove every unworthy morsel that gets to luxuriate in Aziraphale’s mouth.  And then Aziraphale selfishly dabs the remnants away with a serviette.

**

It gets worse after the bomb drops, and then comes to a rolling stop. “You go too fast for me, Crowley.” He retreats. He feels disgusting, predatory, and doesn’t see Aziraphale again for a while.

**

It’s a Tuesday, which is nothing special in and of itself, but Crowley and Aziraphale are together again. Well, dining together, as they do for almost every meal lately with trouble looming on the horizon and who knows how much time they have left.

It’s the only time Crowley really humours that oh-so-mortal necessity, and if he’s being honest - which he compulsively is around Arizaphale (just not always out loud) - he still wouldn’t mind being together in other ways too.

Crowley sips gingerly from his own teacup, the closest he'll get to eating today. The noise of food distracts too much from Aziraphale, unsettling crunching and munching and saliva-slick chewing like cud. He drinks Aziraphale in with his eyes, and it's all the sustenance he needs. 

The corners of Aziraphale's mouth quirk and Crowley watches his lips form his name, and then again, which sends a tingle up his curved spine. It takes a third concerned Crowley, dear for him to snap back to attention and look Aziraphale in the eyes. 

"Hm? Sorry, what were you saying?" 

"I was asking if you'd like to go for a stroll after lunch." 

Walking makes it much harder for Crowley to watch Aziraphale, but it's closer than having a table between them and that's something he will always be amenable to. "Where to?" He asks, not that the destination matters because he would follow Aziraphale anywhere. 

**

It’s a random Thursday after the not-Apocalypse and this time Crowley is alone in his vast apartment. Away from the forces of hell and their energy, his anger has dissipated. His plants grow just as well, as vibrant and luscious as ever. Though they still tremble out of muscle memory, Crowley hasn't yelled at them in weeks. 

He waters them with flowing wrist movements, more akin to a barista making patterns in foam than a demon doing, well, anything. It’s methodical, meditative. And it’s the only thing keeping him sane right now.

Crowley is in a self-imposed exile. He feels on the verge of making a mistake, of slipping up in front of Aziraphale. His gaze has been too intense as of late and he needs these moments of privacy to centre himself before their meals, their jaunts, their too-late-in-the-night drinks in the bookshop. 

He puts the watering can away and drapes himself over the charcoal sheets of his bed, smooth and slippery as his own true skin. Crowley drags his hands down his face, covering his eyes as he rubs the inner duct with his fingers, and then ghost over his mouth. His thoughts are back to Aziraphale. Damn it. (Bless it?) 

He holds his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger, playing with the delicate, pliable skin, and wonders again what Aziraphale would be like. Crowley imagines carding his fingers through Aziraphale’s lamb-soft hair and capturing his mouth. He wants to feel teeth on his skin and to open the Angel’s mouth with his long tongue, to utterly devour him. 

But his mind never strays from Aziraphale’s mouth, never ventures away from the plumpness of those lips. He wants to worship at the throne of them, lay offerings of decadence on an altar to them, and revel in the liturgies they spout. Aziraphale has been the only one to utter kindnesses to him without motive, not once in 6000 years has he demanded anything of Crowley or made him feel lesser than. 

He might just die if he doesn’t kiss Aziraphale soon, and that would land him right back on Hell’s doorstep. 

**

Mere hours later, Crowley finds himself back in Aziraphale’s sitting room behind the bookshop. The Angel is pulling out a slate tray piled high with pleasures for his senses: jams, candied walnuts, ripe figs, medjool dates, apple slices, brie, port salut, garlic and herb boursin, smoked gouda with a deep brown rind, ricotta smothered in local honey, and toasted slices of baguette, with a pomegranate, feta, and rocket salad. 

He’s careful in his movements and glides effortlessly to place it on the low coffee table, not a single item shifting under his grasp. Crowley sits, restlessly shifting as red zinfandel swirls in his glass and stirs when Aziraphale sits down right next to him, sinking into the plush couch. 

Aziraphale cuts a wedge of brie with a slotted knife, and lays it on a slice of toasted baguette with sour cherry jam, and offers it to Crowley who politely declines. It crunches under Aziraphale’s teeth and he breathes out a sigh of relief as he chews. His tongue darts out to collect the crumbs and Crowley is captivated by it.

Crowley waivers for a moment, then gives in. “Actually, can I-,” he’s surprised at himself for even considering it, but he needs the distraction and it would feed his fantasies for another decade. “I’d like to try a piece. Whichever is your favourite.” Whichever tastes most like you, he means.

Aziraphale inclines his head. Crowley rarely ever does more than drink in his presence, but ever the gracious host Aziraphale moves to select the proper cheese. “I dare say I can’t really pick a favourite of these,” his eyes flicker back to Crowley, curious, and ultimately he decides to play it safe with a cube of the smoked gouda. “This, um, this is a Dutch cheese, wonderful for snacking on if I do say so myself. Sturdy but creamy enough to break away in your mouth, and the darker the rind is the better.” Aziraphale had spent several years in the last century hopping from country to country on the Continent, sampling various wares between bestowing virtues, and became himself quite the connoisseur. 

Aziraphale plucks up a cube of the smoked gouda and with a slight tremor raises it up for Crowley to take from him. Instead, Crowley is already leaning forward with his eyes closed and lips parted, patiently waiting, and Aziraphale freezes. He’s never seen Crowley like this before, so exposed and vulnerable to him, at least not while inhabiting a body. Then he continues, afraid he might startle Crowley if he moves too fast. 

Crowley’s forked tongue pokes out as though he’s about to receive holy communion, and Aziraphale gently places it down. Crowley is tugging it into his mouth, wrapping his lips around it, but Aziraphale hasn’t let go yet, and suddenly two of his fingers find themselves tucked into a wet heat. The tongue swirls around them and Crowley is astonished that he enjoys the flavour, letting out a shocked moan. Then confusion is crossing his brow at the size and shape of the intrusion, and he opens his eyes wide. Crowley’s jaw goes slack, the forgotten cheese tumbling into his lap, and sputters.

“A- Ange-- Aziraphale, I…” And Crowley doesn’t know what to say, he can’t think. Well no, that’s not true. He can’t think about anything else but the taste of Aziraphale and his mind has stammered as much as his voice. “I’m sorry,” he finally manages in panic.

Aziraphale feels just as nervous, and confused, and… and then his eyes are locked on Crowley’s lips, glistening with saliva, and his own breath starts coming fast. The world fades away and a puzzle piece clicks in his head. This act, this behaviour, he recognises it from all the times he has spent with Crowley, being watched like he is the centre of the universe. “Don’t go,” he asks, pleads, wants. 

And Crowley stops. 

And Crowley feels himself hoping at the expression he sees mirrored on Aziraphale’s face. 

And Crowley waits.  

“Why?”

“I love you, Crowley.”

“You’re an Angel,” he says matter-of-factly. “You love everything.”

“But I choose you.”

They meet somewhere in the middle. Aziraphale’s hands are cradling Crowley’s face, and Crowley’s hands are split between Aziraphale’s hair and the top of his shoulder. Their noses touch as they share the same breaths of air, hesitating at the all-too-real feeling of it under their palms. 

Crowley’s bottom lip is starting to quiver as he tilts his head, and he fights fights fights against the voice in his head and replaces its words with Aziraphale’s. I love you. He loves you. Not Crawly the underling, the traitor to Heaven, but Crowley the self-named being, the friend. 

And Crowley falls, overcome with a love he can at last show. His lips part and he closes the distance between them, melting into Aziraphale and shedding his past. Aziraphale is his future, his present, his everything, and he will devote lifetimes to showing him that.

[ineffably-good]

Chapter 4: Welcome to the Dark Side (Modern Love)

Read the whole thing on AO3

Summary:

In which Aziraphale discovers trolls, contemplates puberty, and has a discussion about privacy.

Excerpt:

When Crowley came down the next morning, he could tell immediately that something was not right with Aziraphale. Instead of happily fussing with the morning papers or making a five course meal out of breakfast, he was sitting at the kitchen table morosely stirring his tea and staring into space.

Crowley sat down next to him. “What’s wrong, angel? You look like someone yelled at you, and I know it wasn’t me this time.”

Aziraphale met his eyes, startled. “Someone DID yell at me! How did you know?”

Crowley tried to stifle the immediate sense of burning anger he felt. No one else was allowed to yell at his angel, and even he tried to do it as infrequently as possible, as he generally just felt guilty about having done so five seconds later.

“Who?” he asked, his voice low and urgent. “Who was mean to you? Tell me.”

Aziraphale let out a wavering sigh and pushed his mobile across the table at Crowley. “This horrible man – woman? – well this horrible person left the most insulting comments on my Instagram feed. Just read it.”

Ah. Well this was something the bloody manual probably should have covered, Crowley thought.

He picked up the mobile and clicked on a few of Aziraphale’s recent posts, reading the comment streams beneath them silently for a moment. There was the usual stream of inane positivity, full of fluffy and saccharine statements of support, and then things began to go a little bit south.

“Do you mean this person who’s offering you sexual shenanigans?” Crowley asked, looking up.

“No, no, that’s just a lost soul,” Aziraphale said distractedly, “No need to fret, dear. It’s further down…”

Crowley kept reading, until he got to a string of obnoxiousness making liberal use of insults, all caps, and blatant attempts to bait someone into an argument.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said gently, “this is just part of using the Internet. Some people just lurk out there looking for anyone they can abuse or start trouble with. It’s called trolling.”

“He or she said that my photographs are awful, they insulted my overall aesthetic, and they said I clearly have no taste in food!” Aziraphale said. “Me! No taste!” He sniffed indignantly. “And my aesthetic is quite lovely! Look at all those beautiful muted tones.”

Crowley clicked on the next few pics and saw that the same user was making sport of showing up on just about every picture and acting generally insulting. His frown deepened, though, when he noticed that Aziraphale had started answering him and debating his points.

“It’s really not a good idea to interact with trolls, angel,” Crowley warned. “It just makes them worse. They thrive on the attention, and arguments are like ambrosia to them.”

“But – but he’s wrong! About literally everything!”

“Even so. He’s just trying to get a rise out of you! The more reaction they get, the more motivated they are to continue.”

Aziraphale deflated and stirred his tea a little more. “All right, you’re probably right,” he conceded. “I had no idea people had such horrible hobbies! I’ll try to just ignore it.”

Crowley gave him a hug, showed him a few settings he could change to block particular users and change how broadly his posts were shared, and then went off to read the paper on the couch.

Aziraphale watched until Crowley was out of sight, then got online to make one more comment in the long argument he’d been having with his troll all morning.

I forgive you, troll.

That left the angel feeling virtuous, which was always helpful when one was down in the dumps. And then he turned off the mobile and, instead of pocketing it, laid it on the desk. He somehow didn’t feel quite so much like playing with right now.

Crowley did a little investigating on his own mobile into this idiot who was bothering his love, tracked his account down to an email address, and then used his infernal talents to send a little curse into his inbox. The next time he opened a message, he was going to find all of his passwords reset to names of demons in ancient languages which he had better hope he never unraveled, as typing any of them in would immediately attract the wrong sort of attention from Below.

Satisfied, Crowley sat up with a smile on his face and set about seeing what he could do to cheer up his angel.

(more)

Read the whole thing on AO3

[not-a-space-alien]

Your Own Side Outtake #8:  The Further Misadventures of Maltha and Beth

Rating: G

Series masterpost

On AO3

AN:  Since I know none of you chuckleheads remember who tf Lirach is, might i recommend going back to Aziraphale’s Legion chapter 4 and doing a ctrl+f for her name if you wanna remember. 

Second AN:  This outtake provides context for Beth’s comment about “that night we spent together looking up at the stars” in Aziraphale’s Legion chapter 12.

Third AN:  It was Easter when I wrote this, so  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯   And if you’ve never stuck a Peep in a microwave, it’s an experience I highly recommend trying at least once.

“You like that?  You like that, don’t you? Yeah…”

In general, the attention Lirach lavished on her 1932 Cadillac V-16 bordered on manic.  It was a bright, sunny day, and she had decided to give the car a good wash, even though it had been painstakingly polished and waxed by hand a mere three days ago. The care with which she polished the hull of her precious car was unsettling to some passersby.

Lirach had not yet met Crowley at this point, but the truth was when she did she would think that he didn’t take good enough care of his car.  She insisted on doing everything by hand.  Her car’s engine would run under human hands, without miracles.  She even put gas in it, and not just to get goodies from the gas station.

She had bought it in a time when presenting as female meant people assumed you don’t drive. And it had had one owner since then, and that was Lirach.

Lirach’s angelic counterpart, an introverted, neurotic individual by the name Devi, did not understand a single thing about Lirach.

“Why don’t you just fly?” was the first question out of Devi’s lips when she saw the V-16 for the first time.

“Why don’t you just pay someone else to do that?” Devi had asked when she saw Lirach washing it by hand for the first time.

“Why don’t you just use a miracle?” Devi had said the first time Lirach had pumped gas into the car with Devi in the passenger’s seat.

Lirach would always smile gnomically and tell her it was better this way.  Devi did not understand it at all. There were a lot Devi did not understand about Lirach.  But most of all she did not understand…

“Why didn’t you tell me there was an archdemon coming into town?” Devi said, interrupting Lirach’s session with her car and scaring the hell out of her.

“Wh-what do you mean?” said Lirach.

“When we made our agreement we said we would inform each other when higher-ups came around.”

“There’s an archdemon come around?”

“Yes!”

“Wh-what?  I was never informed.”

A few minutes later found them crouching among some shrubs, making observations across the street with a pair of binoculars.  The binoculars weren’t strictly necessary, but they both knew you were supposed to have binoculars while making observations.

“There,” said Devi, pointing to something she had been looking at through the binoculars.

“What are you pointing at?” said Lirach, annoyed.

Devi handed the binoculars off, and Lirach looked through them.

A beat-up old silver car sat in the parking lot across the street next to the bed and breakfast.  A human was digging in the trunk for something. And standing next to her was���

“Oh no,” said Lirach, dropping the binoculars.  “This is bad. This is bad.”

“Who is it?”

Lirach had gone pale. She was thinking of the sweet old couple that ran the bed and breakfast.  “If she hurts them…”

“Isn’t that a human with her?” said Devi.

“Looks like it.  I didn’t think many demons really did that anymore.”

“Did what?”

“Deals for souls and such.”

Devi resolutely tapped her fist on her hand.  “It’s my angelic duty to get that human away from her.”

“Devi, no,” said Lirach.  “That’s far too dangerous.  That archdemon could snap you in half.”

Devi wrung her hands. They both kept watching, trying to decide what to do

Beth and Maltha were having a nice trip so far.  The sweet couple that ran the B&B had told them they were free to use the kitchen, and then left for the day.  Beth had found a basket of Easter candy with an invitation to help themselves on the dining room table.

It was a bit chilly out this morning, so Beth had stayed in her fuzzy pajamas.  She was making herself some cocoa when Maltha came into the room, likewise clad in sleepwear.

“What are you doing?” said Maltha, looking at the microwave.

It was then that Beth realised Maltha might have never seen such an appliance before. She opened the door and retrieved her mug.  “I’m warming up some cocoa.  Want some?”

“Sure.”

Beth poured her a glass of milk and pointed out the Swiss Miss packets to her.  She tore one open and dumped it in, then stirred it at Beth’s direction.

“Now go ahead and stick it in the microwave.”

Beth darted forwards to intercept her when Maltha tried to put the mug in the microwave with the metal spoon still in it.  “Hold on there, don’t want this going in there.”

“Why not?”

“You can’t put metal in a microwave.”

“Why not?”

“I…I don’t know! You’re just not supposed to!”  Beth licked the spoon.  “Go ahead and set it for a minute.”

Maltha watched with fascination as the liquid started to bubble.  “How does this device work?”

“Er….radio waves,” tried Beth.

“Radio waves?”

“You know. Microwaves. That’s why it’s called a microwave.”

“Oh.  I see,” said Maltha, as though Beth’s explanation could possibly be sufficient.

They sipped their cocoa and ate toast, playing with each other’s hair and giggling to themselves. When they were finished, Beth stood and announced, “I’m going to get a shower.”

“All right.”

“Would you like to join me?”

“I don’t particularly need to wash myself.”

“Oh,” said Beth.

They would have a conversation later about the exact motivation behind showering with someone else.  For now Beth moved off on her own, leaving Maltha alone in the kitchen.

Maltha stared at the microwave, tapping a butter knife.  “What secrets are you hiding?”

She got up and fiddled with the device. The buttons all seemed to do more or less the same thing, except for one that said TIMER and simply initiated a countdown without the usual light and noise.  She pressed the lever that opened it, and the door popped open and tapped her in the face since she had been crouching to look at it.

The next logical step was to see what happened when one put various things in it, of course.  She could not figure out any way to get it to activate with the door open, so her own body parts were out.  The cup hadn’t reacted to it at all, so the plates and dishware probably wouldn’t either. That just left food.

She fetched the basket of Easter candy from the table and put in a chocolate sphere. She chewed on a second one while the first melted into a sticky mess on the microwave floor, which she rubbed off with her hand.  She then retrieved a package of something labeled “Peeps,” which turned out to be marshmallows coated in some type of yellow dust that tasted very sugary on her fingers.

She stuck one in the microwave and activated it, then watched as the confection ballooned in size, skin cracking.  It stared at her morosely from one pasted-on eye in its swollen body.  When she opened the door, the smell of burnt sugar filled the air. She scooped up the blob of melted sugar and licked it off her hand.

Her eyes fell to the butter knife on the table.

The thing about demons is they have few scruples about doing things they’ve been told not to.  Being told not to put metal in the microwave only fueled Maltha’s desire to find out what would happen if she did.

She did not repeat that particular experiment after seeing the results, and settled for the less troublesome activity of gorging herself on the basket of sweets.  The fact that the microwave no longer worked was merely coincidental to her losing interest in it, she would have assured any observers.

When Beth came back in, hair swabbed in a towel, she wrinkled her nose. “What’s that smell?”

“It’s nothing,” said Maltha. “Also, I have finished all the candy in this basket.  I hope nobody minds.”

“Maltha,” said Beth. “You’re not supposed to also eat the basket.”

Beth was referring to a spot in the wicker that evidenced obvious teeth marks.  Maltha gave her a small sneer. “Of course I know that.  That’s why I stopped after the first bite.”

Beth turned the basket so that the gap was facing the wall.  They both moved off to get dressed.

“You know,” said Beth, observing Maltha slipping back into her dress from the day before.  “It’s supposed to be cold today.  Is there a reason why you always wear a dress?  You can wear pants.”

Maltha ruffled her dress. “Aziraphale and Crowley told me pants were insufficient.”

“What do you mean?”

“They said I had to wear something else besides pants if I wanted to go out among humans.”

“Those transphobic assholes,” said Beth, hopping with one leg in her jeans.  “Don’t listen to them, Maltha. You can wear pants if you want to.  It doesn’t make you less of a woman somehow.”

Maltha frowned at her. She was not technically a woman, the same way Aziraphale and Crowley were not technically men, because they were all actually sexless, and she did not see how her mode of dress affected anything.  Nevertheless, Beth sounded solid in her resolve, and she thought perhaps there was some difference in etiquette that changed when you crossed the Pond, so she took Beth’s word for it.

“And I was starting to think they sounded cool from what you’ve been telling me,” said Beth, trying to pull her trousers up.  “Fuff.  I don’t know if I want to take you up on your offer to meet them now.”

“I’m ready to go.”

Beth turned around to see that Maltha was standing there in nothing but a bra and panties.  Beth nearly fell over.  “Wh-wh—Maltha.”

Maltha helped her up. “You can’t go out like that.”

“But you just said I could.”

Beth palmed her forehead. “Oh.  Aziraphale and Crowley are British, aren’t they?”

“How did you know?”

Maltha made her way out of the house in a pair of trousers borrowed from Beth, which found themselves mysteriously a few sizes larger than before.  Beth would not ask for them back.

They decided to go to the museum.  Devi and Lirach followed behind them as inconspicuously as anyone could travel in a vehicle from the 1930’s, which is to say not very inconspicuously.

“We should have taken your motorcycle,” said Devi.  “They’ll catch on right away that we’re following them.”

“Yes, a motorcycle would have been much less noticeable!” said Lirach.

Devi said nothing.  Truthfully, Devi just always wanted to ride the motorcycle so she would have a reason to wrap her arms around Lirach’s waist.

“All right, so what’s the plan?” said Lirach.  “We’ve got to foil whatever plot that archdemon is going to enact.”

“Why are you looking at me?” said Devi.  “I haven’t the faintest idea what we should do!”

“Isn’t thwarting diabolical plans kind of your entire job?”

The antique car followed right behind Beth all the way from the B&B.  The only comment she made about it was, “That’s a nice car.”  Beth was not a car person, but it looked like the kind of car about which a car person would remark, “That’s a nice car.”  

Maltha’s glare at it in the rear-view mirror was more knowing, but she said nothing.

They found the ticket machine for the museum’s parking lot was conveniently malfunctioning, so they got to park for free.  Maltha seemed inordinately disappointed that they didn’t stamp her hand and merely gave her a tag to display on her person.

Devi convinced the person working the counter to let them in without paying.  Devi was the kind of being who saw no problem in getting whatever she could for free which, as an angel, was quite a lot.  It annoyed Lirach to no end, but the demon also didn’t feel like shelling out $10 for admission when they wouldn’t even be enjoying the exhibits, so she didn’t complain this time around.

Devi and Lirach followed Maltha around the museum as inconspicuously as they could, which is to say not very inconspicuously. Their strengths really did lie in open work, not espionage.

“Who’s that?” said Beth, noting the pair hovering behind them in the far corner of the room.

“Dunno,” said Maltha. “Let’s just ignore them and enjoy the trip.  Shall we start with art or natural history?”

They made their way through an exhibit about ancient Greece.  Maltha gave an exclamation of surprise when she saw an amphora sitting on a pedestal.  “I remember these,” she said, walking over, reaching over the red rope, and picking it up by the handles.

Beth scrambled over and grabbed her arm.  “Maltha, put that down!”

“What?”

“Put it down,” said Beth, looking around frantically for any security guards nearby.

Maltha obliged.  “I don’t see what the big deal is.  It’s just a broken water jar.”

“It’s thousands of years old!”

“So am I.  That’s hardly an accomplishment.”

“Why don’t we go to the art exhibit,” said Beth, grimacing and pushing Maltha away from the artifacts.

That turned out to be an equally bad idea, because the first painting they saw Maltha moistened her finger with saliva and rubbed it on the painting to see what material it was made out of.

“All right,” said Beth, wondering if it was mere luck or a genuine miracle that they hadn’t been caught by security yet.  “Listen.  Darling.  Babe. Maltha.”

“Yes?”

“You’re not supposed to touch anything.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s all very old!”

“That doesn’t mean it’s valuable.”

“Just.  Just do it as a favour to me, all right? Just.  Don’t touch anything unless I also touch it.  All right?”

“All right, Beth.”

Devi and Lirach watched this conference from around the corner.

“It looks like Maltha is giving her human slave some instructions,” said Lirach.  “What are they going to do?  I can’t bear this tension any longer.”

They followed them into the modern art section, where Beth and Maltha stood staring at an exhibit that consisted of nothing more than a blank canvas with a single, bold line swiped down it.

“What are they doing?” said Lirach.  “This is tearing me up.  We’re all going to die.”

“Looks like they’re just enjoying the sights.”

“An archdemon wouldn’t come up to Earth to enjoy the sights! That’s something field agents do!”

“Instead of working, you mean?”

Beth and Maltha were absorbed in looking at this particular piece of art, which was titled “Enigma” and had been donated by a rich Swiss man.

“I don’t get it,” said Beth after a solid five minutes.

“Enigma,” said Maltha.

“Modern art is stupid,” said Beth. “This takes no effort or creativity.”

“The single line breaking the empty space represents the singular focus of the mind of a creative individual, which occludes all other thought to the point of obsession,” said Maltha.  “And the title represents how mysterious this way of thinking is to average minds.”

Beth looked around to check if Maltha was reading off a plaque, but couldn’t find anything.

“It speaks to me,” said Maltha.

“Well, I’m sure you and the artist would have a grand old time being pretentious together,” said Beth. “Let’s take a pic.”

They crowded together in front of the painting, and Beth snapped a photo.  “Oh, no,” said Beth.  “I should have brought my power bank.  I’m at 15%.”

“15% of what?”

“My battery.”  Beth showed her.

“Oh, so when this little meter reads 100% that means you have maximum power?”

“Yeah.”

Maltha concentrated on it for a moment.  Beth watched as the meter climbed back up to fully charged.

“Wow!” said Beth. “You’re awfully handy to have around. Thanks.  All right, let’s go the cafeteria. I’m starving.”

Devi and Lirach sat in the far end of the cafeteria sharing a basket of chicken fingers while Beth and Maltha ordered.

“We’re not going to be able to stop her,” wept Lirach.  “Our only option will be to run to save our skin.  We’re going to die as soon as she starts her nefarious plan.”

Devi took another bite of fries.

They both froze with panic as Beth approached them with her tray, clambering over the bench to sit next to them.

“Hey there!” she said. “I thought-”

They both bolted away as fast as they could move.

“Aw,” said Beth as Maltha sat next to her.  “I didn’t think I was that scary.  I wanted to have a talk with them.”

“Let’s look through the photos you’ve taken, Beth.”

She pulled out her phone and swiped through them.  They had taken the most photos together in the art section, mostly because Maltha couldn’t see what the big deal was for most of the historical ones.

When Beth’s phone battery reached 85%, it flashed a low battery warning and the screen shut off.

“It’s died,” said Maltha.

Beth leaned back, sighing. “Maltha.”

“Yes?”

“When I showed you my phone earlier.  Did you use a miracle to charge the phone up to 100%? Or did you just…use a miracle to make the battery meter display 100%?”

“I’m not sure what the difference is.”

Beth pocketed her phone. “All right. That’s fine, whatever, we don’t need to take any more photos.”

They finished their trip after lunch. Eventually, they got kicked out when Maltha tried to detach “Enigma” from the wall so she could take it home with her.

The exit from the museum found Devi and Lirach trailing the archdemon back to her lair, taking seats in their surveillance nest again.

Lirach was full-blown weeping.  Devi had gotten a second basket of chicken planks to go and was eating them.

“We’re doomed,” said Lirach. “Any moment she’s going to do something. I can’t take this tension anymore.  We’re done for.  We’re done.”

“Maybe she’s just sightseeing.”

“She’s not sightseeing.”

“What else would she be doing puttering around in a museum like that taking so many photos.”

“There doesn’t have to be a logical explanation for it!” Lirach cried.  “Every demon knows Maltha is stark raving mad! She’s liable to snap any minute!”

They both fell silent as they felt a presence approaching. A shadow fell over them.

They tried to bolt in opposite directions, but they found themselves yanked backwards by the scruff of the neck and held up.

“Put me down!” Devi yelled, feet flailing, indignant.

“Listen,” hissed the archdemon Maltha in a terrifying whisper.  “I don’t know what you’re doing following us around, but we’re having a lovely trip and you’re ruining it.  You were very rude to Beth at lunch and she was very disappointed.  I want you to be polite to her, do you understand?”

“P-p-p-polite?” said Lirach.

“Yes.”

“All right,” said Lirach. “W-We’ll do whatever you say.”

“You aren’t going to kill us?” Devi said.

Maltha put them down. “Truthfully I hadn’t planned on it, but I can if you prefer it.”

They fell over themselves to tell her that they were fine as they were.

“All right, then,” said Maltha.  “I’m glad we could have this talk.  Now, Beth thinks I’m in the shower and I assume she is going to try and sneak out here without me noticing to talk to you two.  You’ll indulge her, understand?  I’ll know if you don’t.”

“A-All right,” said Lirach. “Yes, lord.”

“Good.”

Maltha’s feet crunched over leaves and branches as she walked away from them.

They lay flat back down in the bushes.  “I thought we were goners,” said Lirach.

Devi noted with distaste that her chicken strips had fallen into the dirt.  She dusted one off.

“Oh shit, here she comes,” said Lirach with alarm, noting the blonde figure making a beeline for them.

Devi and Lirach scrambled to figure out whether they should stay and obey Maltha or flee for fear of bungling the interaction.  Beth reached them before they could make a decision.

“Hi!” she said with a friendly wave.

“Oh—h-hello!” sputtered Lirach. “How are you today?”

Beth had a blue and green basket under one arm, and she extended it forwards now.  “Happy Easter!”

They both looked at her.

“Er,” said Beth.  “I saw you surveying us and you looked tired, so I thought you might like something to cheer you up.”

“I’m not really supposed to celebrate Easter,” said Lirach. Devi elbowed her.

“That’s okay,” said Beth. “You can just say you’re indulging gluttony or something!  Please just take it!”

It was then that the two of them noticed that a side of the basket was destroyed.  “Er…” said Devi.  “Is something wrong?”

Beth sighed.  “Maltha ate all the candy from this basket, and I think she tried to replace it.  Tried.  And I wanted to get it out of the way before the sweet old couple that runs the B&B sees it.”

“All right,” said Devi. “It’s my angelic duty to nullify demonic activity.  I’ll take the basket.”

Beth handed it over. The contents looked more or less like genuine Easter candy, except the Peeps were red and dripping some unknown liquid, and a few of the chocolate eggs’ aluminum wrappers were moving faintly, as though something were squirming inside.  Devi held it away from her body.

“Anyway,” said Beth. “It’s nice to meet you. I wasn’t sure if you were following us around because you were worried about me, but don’t worry.  I’m having a good time and can leave any time I want to.”

“Oh,” said Devi. “Good.”

“Well, I should try and get back before Maltha gets out of the shower.  See you around.”

They watched her pick her way down the hill and move off.

Even with this reassurance, they were both grateful when the pair left town, though not before they had wreaked some unintended havoc at the local zoo.  Devi was displeased to find some of the chocolate eggs eventually hatch in the basket.

“Maltha.”

“Yes?”

“For the last time. You can’t just miracle the gage. If the gage is pointing to full, that’s doesn’t somehow put more gas in the car’s tank.”

“I’ve already apologised for that.”

“…I know, I just wanted to remind you every few miles how we ended up here.”

When it started to get dark in the wide-open desert road, Beth flopped over behind a cactus.  “All right. I’m done for the day.  You can carry me if you want to, but I’m not walking a single step further.”

Maltha lay down next to her, putting her hands behind her head.  

The stars started to wink on one by one.  “The sky at night is so beautiful, isn’t it?” said Beth.  “Without all the light pollution, you can see practically everything.”

“It is,” said Maltha. “I’m glad you’re here to see it with me. I know it’s been a lot of walking.”

Beth reached over and brushed her hand against Maltha’s.  “I think I’d go anywhere, even straight to the bottom of Hell, if it was with you.”

“Hell is nothing,” said Maltha.  “I would go into Heaven’s most secure stronghold for you.”

Beth rolled over, propping herself up to see that Maltha’s eyes, still fixed on the night sky, were brimming with tears.  And Beth smiled.  “Okay, no need to get all emotional on me.  Nothing is going to split us up.”

“You mean that?”

“Yes, I do.”  Beth patted her hand.