The Known/Unknown Quantity

Chapter 12: Witchiepoo

Chapter 12: Witchiepoo

The weekend came and went. Much will be said of it later.

Monday morning was a drizzler, not uncommon. Crowley had been awake since 3am, watching it play out the window. The intimate marathon between him and the angel had concluded in the sort of lazy fucking that lasts an extraordinary amount of time on a Sunday afternoon. It involved more playful touching, really. Aziraphale liked touching. Crowley didn't dare call it cuddling: that word was worse than "nice." "Cuddling" didn't terminate in orgasmic tremors.

Then came this text message out of nowhere, breaking the quiet of the demon's perfect morning. "We need to talk." The strangest text, from the most unlikely of people, that he had received in the dawning light. And, had it been anyone else, well, the tone of the thing would make him snarl. And it still did. But knowing the person who sent it meant he better get his lithe ass out of bed. This wasn't drama, it was serious.

But why, oh, why couldn't she be a late sleeper?

Crowley thought hard about meeting places, and the nature of the visit, deciding once more on the park bench. It was a clandestine meeting after all. But seating might be a problem. Somehow it didn't seem proper that someone other than the angel might park themselves in that spot. He replied, then stared up at the ceiling growling low.

With that settled, he rolled over to study the slumbering angel. Aziraphale was completely spent, wrung out, and had loved every minute of it. Now he curled up on his side and pulled all the blankets up to his chin. He was gone in a dream world, his face at ease. Part of his downy head rested on the edge of Crowley's pillow. With a light touch, the demon ran fingers thru the angel's scalp, and then down his prominent nose, and down to his lips. He watched him.

In his sleep Aziraphale shivered, shifted, made a soft piping noise. When Crowley flitted over his lips they parted and his brows furrowed, searching for something. The demon let his thumb press the edge of his mouth and the angel found it and encased it, explored it with his tongue, sucked lightly.

The demon kissed his forehead and he released it with a heavy sigh.

"Sleep in, angel," Crowley told the slumbering form," Be free in your dreams. And have a better morning than me."

When Crowley arrived at the park bench, she was waiting for him, and all business. The old timey cut of her dark blue dress was such he began to wonder and she and Aziraphale shared the same clothes-maker. Perhaps not. It was too severe.

"B.G.!" he expressed with so much glee.

"Demon," she did not.

"Well, now that the formalities are aside—" Crowley plopped down next to the dark girl and let his arms dangle in the back. He regarded her and gave her a quick grin. She looked ready to plow into whatever revelations she had. He wasn't so ready.

"It hasn't been that long, has it?"

"A lot can change in a week," she said in her clipped way, stymied by his chit-chat.

"My, but it can, can't it?" His toothy grin was full of a humor she didn't want explained. "You and the witchfinder? Getting along well? D'you leave for the states soon, or are you staying for now?"

She sighed heavily. He was ruffling her feathers with the small talk. "Really, demon, I'd like to catch up but this is important—"

"Crowley."

"What?" She was nonplussed.

"I have a name. Call me by it. If you would be so kind."

"Crowley," she relented, her head tilting. Then putting out her hand like she had with Adam, added," Anathema Device. Not book girl." Crowley's grin softened and he shook the hand firmly, then rested his arm on the bench behind her.