Favourite Demon (The Entire Bloody Boring Fourteenth Century Part I)

1303 CE Berkeley, Gloucestershire, England

Aziraphale dubiously turned the drinking cup in his hand. The golden liquid caught the sunlight as it turned, and the thumbed design pottery was glazed in dull green blue and the combination of angel and cup of tea was so perfect that all of Crowley's aesthetic senses stood up and applauded.

"It does smell pleasant. Are you quite sure it isn't intoxicating, dear?"

"I'm sure, but you'll like it anyway, I promise." Crowley huddled by the fire. Great, now his back felt like it was burning to a crisp, and his front was still freezing.

"Good. I've given up the demon of drink."

This was such an unexpected statement that Crowley's mouth opened and closed aimlessly for a few seconds.

"You what?"

Aziraphale pursed his lips a little, as if embarrassed. "Wine is a mocker, strong drink is a brawler, and whoever is led astray by them is not wise."

"Don't you quote Scripture at me. You love strong drink." Something like panic was overcoming Crowley. What did he mean by giving up demons? "Loving strong drink is practically your religion—" Aziraphale glared at him, and he said, "Sorry, tactless. But you are a complete gulchcup, and that's one of the reasons I like to hang around you."

"I don't think that's at all fair," Aziraphale said, flushing. "I may have imbibed a little generously on occasions." Crowley snorted. "But my corporation is a temple, and it is time I regarded it as such."

Gabriel. It was Gabriel talking. Crowley hadn't spent much time in the Third Realm before the Fall, but Gabriel had always been a bit of a teacher's pet, or at least an Almighty's pet, and it was hard to avoid him altogether. And Crowley knew Gabriel was Aziraphale's supervisor, poor sweetheart. Gabriel, Crowley decided, had got into his angel's head, and it wasn't to be tolerated. He had clearly been away too long.

He assessed Aziraphale again, circling him. The angel was wearing a sand-coloured cote-hardie, girdled around his waist. The lines were complex and draped beautifully, especially the sleeves, and the fabric was soft, but there was almost a complete lack of decoration. It seemed wrong, somehow. Where were the little touches of gold and embroidery that Aziraphale loved so dearly? His only ornamentation was his signet ring. The whole thing was worryingly ascetic.

"I don't know about a temple, but your body is—" Crowley sought for the appropriate words, and rejected in turn luscious, shapely and glorious as too sentimental and too revealing. He didn't want an offended angel storming out on him. Not until he'd actually tried the tea. "Perfectly fine as it is."

"All the more reason not to corrupt it with alcohol."

"Well, at least boil the water," Crowley said helplessly. "Or come with me back to Australia, like I asked. Lovely clean water there. And no alcohol." He prowled restlessly from side to side.

"We don't technically have to drink at all."

"Don't think you're getting out of trying the tea that way. I brought it all the way from China for you. This stuff is a big secret, you know. No one else in Europe has it. You don't know what I went through to smuggle it out."

"I hope you didn't do anything too wicked." Aziraphale turned the cup in his hands again, inhaling, and Crowley recognised the expression in his eyes and on his soft lips. Longing. Longing for sheer physical pleasure. That was his angel. "It does have the most delicious fragrance."

"Go on, try it," Crowley encouraged, and Aziraphale lifted the cup to his lips, breathed in the scent deeply and blissfully, and parted his lips, letting some of the liquid between them. His eyelashes fluttered a little, and all the trouble Crowley had been through getting it to him was worth it.

"How do you feel," Crowley asked hopefully, "about trying smoked sea cucumber?"

Aziraphale ignored him, too rapt with the drink. "Oh, this is very nice, very nice indeed. Thank you, my dear. Like drinking flowers and sunlight. Like manna." He sipped slowly, savouring it.

"Not at all like manna. I remember that stuff, and you can't pretend to have liked it any more than I did. Bland, like everything else in heaven. No salt or spice."

"I suppose that's true," Aziraphale sighed, and Crowley felt a tiny tingle of victory. "This is quite extraordinary."

"I knew you'd love it," Crowley exulted. "Look, angel, let's get you out of all this depressing mud and drizzle and boring food and drink. No wonder you're moping and giving up alcohol. There's a huge and fascinating world out there, and so much to explore and enjoy. Let's go try out the Arrangement in Thailand, it's lovely and warm there."

Aziraphale frowned. "I couldn't possibly, dear. The King needs me to find the right terms for this treaty. The war over Gascony has been a senseless waste of lives and resources, and now the war with Wales is over, it's my duty to resolve this, too."

"So Longshanks can use the lives and resources to make war on Scotland? Or more Crusades? Or choose another group to expel now he's got rid of the Jews?"

Aziraphale gave him a sharp look over the cup. "Why? What kind of trouble are you planning?"

"Nothing. I just write the memos. You know humans."

Aziraphale hummed unhappily, but didn't dispute it.

"Look. Australia. You'll love it. No large scale wars there. You know how much they upset you, angel. Why put yourself in the way of distress?" Crowley circled Aziraphale, letting the cooing, tempting tone enter his voice.

"My duty is here," Aziraphale said firmly. "Edward has done some terrible things, but he is trying to resurrect the glory days of King Arthur and can you think of anyone else who remembers that? Well, apart from you, dear."

"I do remember them," Crowley said, thoughtfully. "I suppose I could be of help at Court. An influence. I've missed being the Black Knight."

Aziraphale eyed him warily. "I'm not sure that would be a good idea. They'd wonder where you came from."

"I don't suppose you'd introduce me as your long-lost cousin?"

"Certainly not. If Heaven ever heard of it..."

"I suppose I could be an unknown nobleman from Gascony. I rather fancy myself in the accent."

"Crowley."

"Oh, I won't get in your way. I'll respect the Arrangement. I'll just... be around." He grinned. "Think of me as a non-drinking companion. Now, would you like me to make you some more tea?"

"Oh, yes please," Aziraphale said, and Crowley let himself smile properly. It was going to be all right.

Notes:

1) A short update, but I wanted to set the scene for the havoc to follow.

2) I may be a few decades too early with "gulchcup", but seriously, how could I resist?

3) Image is Berkeley Castle, where Edward Longshank's son, the future Edward II, was born.