An angel and a demon shared the same taste in their alcohol.
Most people wouldn’t assume that. They would think one had a more cultured tongue and the other would take the cheap stuff, but really it came down to what they had. Aziraphale and Crowley would drink anything, but when they could have their preferred glasses they most definitely would throw the other sets in the street.
Aziraphale presented him a bottle of whiskey that Crowley hadn’t seen in a couple of decades. He whistled.
“Crown Royal, eh?”
“Seemed like a good occasion,” Aziraphale said.
Toffee cookie flavour was for Aziraphale. The chipotle bite was for him. He could watch Aziraphale drown in vanilla and nougat and banana while he felt the maple and oak ground him. Far too smooth for its own good.
The next time, in response, Crowley had brought Becherovka. He placed it on the table without much thought and when Aziraphale pulled himself away from his books to see it, he was absolutely delighted.
Crowley poured it and they both inhaled. Then the demon downed it. The sweet was good, but he wanted the finish. He wanted it to fade into the bitterness of the herbs. Aziraphale took it more slowly, obviously preferring the cinnamon start, yet melting into the heat of it.
“That’s the ticket,” he murmured.
“Speaking of tickets,” Crowley said, pulling some out of his jacket pocket.
In response, a few days later, Aziraphale picked out some gin to throw Crowley through the ringer. If someone asked he would talk about herbal or floral flavour profiles, but once again he and Aziraphale shared the same tastes. The juniper and citrus was still earthy. It warmed him, in an oily way. It made Crowley want to curl up as Aziraphale rambled about Dominican monks and 1793. Then maybe shut Aziraphale up with another glass as they completely plastered themselves on the couch with more than the recommended dosages.
He had to outdo that, so Crowley found a bottle of Four Roses Single Barrel and a shrimp platter to bring to Aziraphale the next time. It was so light, from nose to tongue and if he and Aziraphale spent an entire night slowly debating a movie controversy that neither of them were all that interested in. Crowley fell asleep in Aziraphale’s lap and he didn’t remember how he’d gotten there, while Aziraphale appeared to have spent that amount of time messing with his hair. The platter was empty and Crowley knew he hadn’t bothered eating any of it.
“It’s not the same,” said Aziraphale hesitantly, “but it reminded me of something else I haven’t had in a while.”
“What’s that, angel?”
By that evening Aziraphale had picked up the tequila in question. Crowley had never had it and Aziraphale was appalled. The name Qui looked familiar though and he had no doubts when taking his first sip.
Sweet and savory. The duality of flavour. Enough for an angel and a demon to find their so very varied tastes within the same product. And smooth, smooth, smooth.
“Soft,” Crowley croaked.
“What’s that?” Aziraphale asked.
“As you say.”