Drinks

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.

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Bentley

If anyone thought that a car was just a car, Crowley would have beaten them upside the head with his own sunglasses. Or had something terrible happen to them where he didn’t have to raise a hand, because that would make more sense.

His Bentley was his. Crowley never bothered having too much. Just mementos of certain things that didn’t see the light of day. But his Bentley he would show off.

The silent sports car.

How did she catch his eye? Who wouldn’t she have caught the eye of?

And he could tell that sometimes Aziraphale was jealous.

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Fantasy

Don’t wake up, Crowley told himself.

In any other situation, it wouldn’t have seemed important. He sat on the couch. Golden Girls played on the screen in front of him. He had his feet up on the table in front of him, next to the wine and the fruit platter.

None of that mattered. The angel sitting on the couch next to him was what mattered. And not just sitting there next to him. Sitting right next to him. Leaning into him, Crowley’s arm around him.

Not his usual dream. Crowley dreamt a lot*, as often with Aziraphale in it, but not as casual as this. It was usually them going out, doing their normal. Or staying in, doing more usual. Or doing things that they had never done. Dreams were like that, Crowley sometimes let his mind go on without deliberate input.

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St. James Park

The ducks at St. James had long since come to know who would give the best bread. It could be said that the information was passed down through the generations, as each parent would take their ducklings to a specific pair on shore out of every possible pair. And each duckling would grow to learn the same as their parents.

Other people would come and go. These bread givers were the one constant.

It was a toss up as to whether going to the pair was worth it. The bread was definitely the best, no duck there ever had doubts about that. However, occasionally strange things would happen when the two were around. Suddenly sinking to the bottom of the pond was only one of the strange things. Some ducks didn’t think the bread was worth that shock.

The opposite end of that was when a piece of bread suddenly made a duck fly. Without using their wings.

The lighter of the pair always scolded the darker one and the ducks would be where they should be, but it was that it happened at all. They would leave after that, most of them, yet they would always return. Because perhaps the next time it wouldn’t be them like that. The bread was good. And the strange events didn’t always occur.

Then they were gone. For some years. The ducks were confused. The ducks forgot. Other people brought bread.

“Don’t do anything untoward, please dear.”

“I won’t.”

The ducks approached as they always had, none the wiser.

The bread was the best.

But for some reason, one of them sunk to the bottom of the pond for five seconds.