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“Beautiful day for a walk, isn’t it?” Aziraphale asks. A rhetorical question. He’s smiling happily and breathing in deep as if it is a sunny and warm and the air was laden with the scent of spring. Even as he’s pulling his scarf up a notch and entirely, purposefully ignoring the wind that carries the sharp bite of a cold front.
Crowley looks up at the sky. He sees nothing but dark, heavy clouds. Even the birds have fucked off. It looks like it’ll rain any minute now. And with this wind, no quickly miracled up umbrella would be any help.
He checked the forecast for the day before they set out and tried to convince Aziraphale to postpone their planned daytime activities for the next day. But Aziraphale wanted to stick to their plan.
“We’re only here for three days, Crowley. Have to make the most of it! It will be fine.”
They are in Swanage, Dorset. In December. Because Aziraphale read something - online - about how lovely Dorset supposedly is in winter, and how charming walks along the seaside and through the gardens and woodland were. Crowley should have known that teaching the angel how to use the internet would backfire terribly.
And honestly, the beach is probably quite pretty, but Crowley thinks he might be able to appreciate it better if his nose and cheeks weren’t stinging so badly from the cold wind. There is only so much the hat and scarf - which suddenly appeared among his possessions a week ago and somehow perfectly matched his new mittens - could cover.
But his angel looks so disgustingly happy despite the nasty weather, that Crowley can’t find it in himself to gripe and complain. Too much. Besides, someone has to be the voice of reason. Isn’t it a bit ridiculous that it’s him, the demon?
“Angel, let’s leave. Please. It looks like it’ll rain soon, and the blasted wind’s about to freeze all kinds of delicate parts off.” That’s not an exaggeration. He’s beginning to think it would have been a good idea to miracle his genitals away this morning. Not like they are doing him any good right now.
And Crowley doesn’t like one bit how the clouds were roiling, tumultuous things up there and becoming even darker. There was nothing in sight, not even a tree, that might offer some shelter if it starts raining. If they turn back now, they would be back at the Bentley in half an hour and sitting in that café Aziraphale saw earlier, five minutes after that.
“But we’ve only just started our walk.” Aziraphale looks so sad, it tugs at Crowley’s heart and almost makes him give in. Almost.
“We can always come back. I really don’t want to get caught—”
Something lands on Crowley’s forehead, followed by something else that splashes against his sunglasses, and a third thing sneaks its way down his neck despite the blessed scarf. All freezingly cold and wet.
Aziraphale notices as well, he’s looking up with a strongly disapproving expression like he’s thinking about reprimanding the clouds - or fucking Petrus, if he wasn’t a human invention. But then his shoulders sag and he sighs. “Alright,” he finally concedes and turns them back around. “It looked so nice on those photographs, romantic and serene. I really wanted to experience that. With you.”
“We will, Aziraphale. Just not today,” Crowley says, and walks quickly the way they came, Aziraphale’s hand in his. The rain is getting heavier by the second.
And of course, he’s going to do whatever he can to make this vision the angel has reality. But influencing the weather to this degree has never been one of his fortes. He can make weather happen, but he can’t actually control it. Would likely unintentionally make it worse.
The rain stings sharply now. Almost like little glass pebbles are falling from the sky at a high velocity. Almost like it isn’t rain at all any more. Crowley holds out his hand.
“Fuck.” He stops Aziraphale and shows him the hail in his hand. “We should try transporting— Ouch!” Before he’s even finished the sentence, the hail begins falling in earnest. Finger-thick balls of ice pelt them, cover the surrounding beach. He’s never extended his wings that quickly before, spreads them over Aziraphale and himself as well as he can. Now his wings hurt, but if he can protect Aziraphale this way, it’s worth it.
Aziraphale steps closer, shuts his eyes. The next moment, he feels like he’s falling, despite the ground remaining firmly underneath his feet. Crowley looses his balance and stumbles on the pavement. Pavement! Aziraphale has transported them to the road and over there, he can see the Bentley flashing her headlights.
Squeezing Aziraphale’s hand tightly in his own, he runs as fast as he can, laughs when he hears the surprised squeak coming from the angel who’s dragged along. The Bentley opens her doors as they reach her, and Aziraphale hurries inside.
Crowley struggles, can’t seem to fit through the door, no matter how hard he tries.
“Your wings!” Aziraphale calls out, laughing.
Right. Apparently, Crowley is a complete idiot. Who forgets their own wings? He tugs them away and forgets to adapt his stance to the sudden absence of their weight. He falls in through the door with an undignified yelp. His face hits something soft as he swiftly pulls his legs inside. The door closes behind him, the Bentley doesn’t like getting her seats wet and knows to minimise the risk of even more hail getting inside.
“Comfortable?” Aziraphale asks, laughing, and helps Crowley up.
Crowley grins when he realises the soft thing his face hit was Aziraphale’s lap. “Very.”
“You were very elegant getting in the car,” the angel says with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
Crowley narrows his eyes at him, “Oi, don’t you dare—”
“Almost as elegant as a newborn foal.” Aziraphale laughs so hard his eyes squeeze shut. It’s a beautiful sight, the angel laughing so openly, so freely. But, demonic pride and all, Crowley can’t let the insult stand.
“That’s it!” He lunges for the angel’s vulnerable middle, fingers seeking the best spots, and starts tickling.
The Bentley starts her motor and does her best to make it warm inside. Queen’s “You’re My Best Friend” starts playing, something the Bentley often plays when they are both in the car and laughing or Aziraphale is admonishing his driving, or they are arguing. So whenever they are having fun.
They are both laughing now, Aziraphale tries to defend his middle fruitlessly. In the end he starts retaliating, attacking Crowley’s vulnerable spots, but the demon - despite the less than suave fall into the car - proves more agile.
“Stop!” Aziraphale howls. “Please, have mercy.”
“Do you yield?”
Aziraphale looks at him, eyes sparkling with joy, and Crowley thinks the Bentley might actually be on to something here. They are having fun, despite the weather, the messed up plans and the frozen limbs and everything, because he’s still laughing, and his cheeks hurt, but it’s not from the cold hail. And he thinks he might even be having fun if they weren’t laughing and tickling each other, and they were just sitting in the car, cold, wet and miserable. Because he’s got Aziraphale.
“Never,” Aziraphale says, and there is still a wicked gleam in his eyes, still a laugh on his lips.
“Oh, I’ll make you yield.” Crowley grips Aziraphale tightly and pulls him over into his lap - which causes another fun little squeak. Even now he’s still laughing, they both are, his lips on Aziraphale’s, kissing in between sobs of laughter.