Good Omens- Winter Melon Milk Tea

Winter Melon Milk Tea

Aziraphale had always fancied himself as quite the connoisseur. And today was no exception. They had agreed to meet in St James' park, because as an expert judge in matters of taste Aziraphale knew that Crowley would, indeed, be happy. The weather, after all, was just right, in such a way that it would make anybody smile. Ducks and demons included.

There was however a slight breeze, which wouldn't ordinarily be anything to write home about, especially since Crowley and Aziraphale did everything angel and demonly possible not to write home at all, but today was not what we shall call an ordinary day.

Crowley, never one to dress in colour, was today head to toe in yellow. Aziraphale looked up from his Good Housekeeping magazine, comfy in the overpriced deckchair, that he was sure was one of Crowley's inventions, and let out a stifled guffaw.

"Don't say a word. I don't want to hear it." Crowley took one look at the empty deck chair Aziraphale had readied and decided to sit on the floor. He'd be damned, so to speak, if he was going to pay, even if the idea had earned him a commendation.

"It seems the Bentley has taken a liking to being yellow, and since I won't allow it, the moment I so much as open the car door it changes me instead." Crowley let out a deep hiss, which given the circumstances, can be interpreted as a sigh. "Why yellow... of all colours?"

"It's fundamentally good, for a start." Being an angel meant that you were often surrounded by a lot of yellow, some may say it was actually gold you were surrounded by, but to Aziraphale yellow was far less ostentatious.

"Name one good thing that is yellow."

"Bananas are good...you know a good daiquiri...But Crowley listen, yellow makes such a wonderful alternative to black." Aziraphale thought coyly to himself, "and it really brings out your eyes", but decided against saying anything because flattery will get you nowhere, and he so wanted to get somewhere.

"Sure," muttered Crowley, "if you're a Canary. And here I was thinking nightingales were your favourite bird." Aziraphale had once shown Crowley a 1st edition book on birds with almost 49 images, and almost all of them had been pictures of nightingales.

"Canaries have just gone up in my estimation, and you do insist on driving the Bentley everywhere. So may I assume your attire will be yellow for the foreseeable future?" It was a nice and accurate statement.

"Might start taking the tube."

"Oh come now, Crowley. Go down into the depths of hell? Whatever next!"

"Well there's only one cable car, so heavens off the menu."

A little time had passed, and enough distance from the Bentley gained, that an undetectable miracle couldn't hurt. In two shakes of a lamb's tail, something Aziraphale was sure made sense to someone somewhere, an event took place akin to the colour returning to Crowley's cheeks. What was happening was this. The yellow was simply draining away. Witnesses would hark like water off a ducks back, and leaving behind the unmistakable sheen of pitch-dark snakeskin clothing. If you'd have guessed that the snakeskin happened to be Yves Saint Laurent, you'd be correct. Of course it was. Wearing such a designer was like walking on consecrated ground, which Crowley, for all his sins, had come to favour as some sorta act of rebellion. Square peg, round hole and all that.

"There, isn't that better." Aziraphale was looking very pleased with himself. Almost smug.

"Quicker than the dry cleaners." Crowley brushed off his lapels and took a moment to clean his Valentino Va2003 sunglasses so that he could see better the quality of Aziraphale's miracle.