Chapter Text
It comes of googling himself, really. He'd known it was a vice when he'd invented it.
See, the thing is, when Crowley googles himself, he doesn't rely upon such mundane things as search terms, or his own name. Too unreliable. When he really wants to know what people are saying about him on the internet, he types 'me' into the search bar, and he expects the desired results. And he gets them. It's usually not great-- a lot of stuff about Eden from religious types, no really good demonology texts, it's like nobody knew he existed... a picture on a street fashion blog, once, that someone had asked to take of him, that was nice.
His most interesting find, however, is definitely the foodie blog. He's not sure how exactly he's involved, but one day, he sits down at his desk and googles himself in his own non-standard, non-human way, and the first result to pop up is 'Divine Dining'. A photo he's in the background of? An anecdote about a restaurant he'd been at? He does go to a fair few restaurants-- more often since he and Aziraphale took up godfathering. They meet discreetly on their days off, usually over a meal-- well, a meal for Aziraphale, and a cup of coffee or maybe a tea for Crowley, though Aziraphale's tempted him into trying a few things... The cafes and restaurants and park benches and such save them the potential embarrassment of being caught together at the Dowling residence, shoved into a cupboard together or something difficult to explain like that. He must figure in the background of someone else's story-- he's not surprised he wouldn't have noticed if he had, whenever he and Aziraphale wind up getting food together, he has a tendency to get... distracted.
Well, it's hardly his fault! Food is sexy! Everyone knows that, don't they? It's certainly not just him, people on the cooking shows call food sexy all the time.
He likes foodie TV, but it doesn't hold a candle to the live show that is watching Aziraphale eat. Those food hosts who go about eating in different restaurants ought to take some pointers, no one enjoys the earthly pleasure that is food quite like his angel. Well-- not 'his' angel.
His almost.
Anyway. The blog. It takes him straight to the very first entry, though the first entry is from some time back. Stands to reason-- from the moment that basket was placed in his hand, Crowley hadn't devoted nearly as much time to vanity, certainly hadn't been googling himself. But now the Dowlings are on a weekend holiday and he's got nothing to do but take the time off and try to distract himself...
The layout is rather masculine. Dark brown and white, with a picture of the pastry case from a cafe across the header. He supposes pastries might not be masculine, but all the deep browns from the chocolates of the various little cakes and eclairs and tortes make it seem that way, the stark but warm palette reminiscent of an office with dark-stained woods and leathers. His initial picture is one of those... professorial types. Maybe a beard or a tweed jacket or something. Maybe a bit insufferable. The kind of man who thinks he's very serious, even if he's just a bore who knows the word 'umami' and what a beaujolais is. A nice soft stomach from having a sweet tooth and a sedentary lifestyle?
I decided to start this online journal of my food experiences today, after the loveliest meal out. I've lived in this city for so many years, and I'd always told myself, someday. Someday I would do all these fabulous things and go to all these wonderful places, and I almost never do. I go to the same little restaurants around Soho almost all the time. And of course the places I go to regularly are lovely and I shall write all about them, and tell you all my favorite dishes so that if you are ever in the parts of London I frequent, and you ask yourself 'I wonder what's good to eat around here', I might be able to help you. I only mean, I get into such a rut and I order my old favorites all the time, and it's been ages since I've done something new and exciting. So when my Old Friend invited me to dine at the Ritz, well... I could hardly refuse such a tantalizing offer! I'd long wanted to, and my Old Friend did keep insisting upon treating me, though the cost! Goodness, I hardly feel worth it!
Oh. Crowley revises his opinion. The blogger is very, very gay. Well, that's nice, then. He might still be tweedy and professorial, but the picture in Crowley's mind is softer now, not so insufferable. Older gent, the sort who's not in the closet but who's a bit winking about those things, who says 'Old Friend' in just the right tone of voice to let you know he means a lover. Who's a bit over it all, traded the clubs for nice restaurants. But he's married, not buried. Maybe a bit older than the age Crowley passes himself off as, yeah... not by so very much. By just enough that if he'd seen him out, he might have looked admiringly. Might have turned to his lover and said 'oh, isn't that one handsome, did we ever wear anything so tight? Been an age since we went out dancing, come to think of it', that sort of a thing. He likes the idea of being a passing temptation, or... not a 'temptation' precisely, but a thought. A fleeting tingle.
Lunch was, in a word, fantastic. Of course, my Old Friend knows me so well, I don't think I hesitated a moment before accepting his menu recommendations, and we had the nicest table, with such a view of the most beautiful dining room in the world... in the middle of a quite stressful day, it was as if for just a bit, I was on cloud nine. I do wonder why people say 'on cloud nine', being on a cloud wouldn't be light and fluffy at all, it would just be damp. And unsupportive. At any rate, my Old Friend said I had to have a starter, and I had the scallop with eel. Oh, you wouldn't believe... the delicacy of those scallops. That little hint of sweetness, how buttery... and cooked to the perfect firm-yet-tender consistency. The sound I made over them was indecent!
Well. This is awkward. Still no idea where he comes into things, except he might... he might come by the time he gets through this bloody gay food blog. The man makes noises? What kind of indecent noises?
When he'd taken Aziraphale to the Ritz, back before they'd joined the Dowling household, he'd gotten the scallops to start... Crowley tells himself he's only imagining Aziraphale's scallop-eating noises because he doesn't have something else to imagine, doesn't know what else he ought to picture. Not because he often thinks back on nice meals with Aziraphale when he's alone. Not because he sometimes has to guiltily stop pawing at himself when he realizes he's started wanking to the memory of a well-received platter of sushi or slice of tart. Nothing like that, no sir. He doesn't get off on thoughts of his friend, that would be wrong, and not in the fun way a demon can brag about, just in a sad and uncomfortable way. He just... likes to watch him eat, that's all. Nothing wrong with that. He likes food, in a normal, innocent, acceptable way. Except for the part about eating much of it at once personally. But he likes watching it on TV and he likes the way it smells and he likes tasting things now and then and he likes that Aziraphale also likes food. No one else on either side gets it at all, so... so it's normal to like eating with Aziraphale even if Aziraphale eats a lot and Crowley barely eats a thing because being full makes him feel sluggish and feeling sluggish makes him feel unsafe. He likes to sleep, but not when it feels like he wouldn't be able to be on his feet in an instant if he had to be.
The eel was the perfect accompaniment, as well-- they both have such a delicate flavor on their own, and I do think eel holds up marvelously to so many different preparations. I confess I am fond of a barbecued eel, I shall have to talk about my favorite place for that in another entry. Tender and sweetly un-fishy, they played very well together. Of course I shouldn't say 'fishy' as if it's a bad thing, I'm simply mad about seafood, really, but you know what I mean. There's a certain aftertaste that some things have and some things haven't, and not everyone cares for it, and even in a good fishy sort of fish, you don't want to be able to smell that fish market smell! Well I am digressing, I just mean there's none of that in an eel, and certainly the eel that was served with the scallops was so far above reproach as to be... in a word, divine.
Okay, he's palming himself a little, so sue him. Even with the digressions taking away from the very tempting mental image of a neat, professorial (fussy) gay man of a certain age moaning over seafood-- is he not allowed to have a type? Can a demon not indulge in a... in a very mild, common kink?! Well, can't he? Crowley hardly knows anymore, he really doesn't. A twist of fate, an odd misfiring of his powers, maybe that was it-- that's what brought him here. His subconscious had just needed something to masturbate over, and someplace knows watching human pornography doesn't do it for him. So instead of religious websites discussing the Fall of Man, his search had brought him a little harmless kink fodder. A little something for the old spank bank. Maybe he's not mentioned on this blog at all, maybe he's just horny. He unzips his trousers, nice and slow, takes himself in hand. Tries to ignore the host of thoughts he suddenly finds himself having, not so much about what he'd love to do with the right dining companion, but what constitutes the right dining companion. There's really only one, after all, and doing this and thinking about him, that complicates things.
My Old Friend had the crab, which was quite a fancy plate just to look at, and I wasn't at all surprised he only really wanted a starter, but when he suggested different main courses I might enjoy, I thought it might be nice if I forewent the (rather dear) seafood options, and so I ordered the beef. Not that it was a question of price, it never is. I wouldn't dream of suggesting it to him, he would only tell me he can afford to treat me to anything I like and he'd get so huffy about it... It's just that I knew if I went with the beef, I could entice him into trying a little bite. He really has the most carnal appetites! And it was done to perfection. I want you to touch the tip of your ring finger to the tip of your thumb, if you would be so kind as to indulge me, and then I want you to press against the soft flesh at the base of your thumb. That is the tenderness of a medium steak, which is how I had my meat done on this occasion. My Old Friend has been known to go for a steak that's downright blue, but when it comes right down to it, we're both content with a happy medium, if you'll forgive my little pun.
Oh. Oh... no.
The center of the meat was so unbelievably tender for being so done, was so pink, so juicy... You know how it is when you have a lovely piece of meat before you, and the aroma of it just sings to you? It unlocks something a bit primal, doesn't it? You feel such a delicious sense of need, even if it's not entirely true to say you need it. You want to need it. Oh, it is an indulgence. It's so good on your tongue, though. The smoke and the salt and the thick, full-bodied meatiness of it. The way it feels to get it in your teeth, to feel it tender and yielding, but not too tender. And I said to my Old Friend, don't you think it's better this way, my dear? I shouldn't want a piece of meat to melt in my mouth, I'd hardly have time to enjoy it! No, I want it to sit there on my tongue, hot and firm and surrendering its juices to my eager ministrations.
Oh fuck... Crowley doesn't think he can deny it to himself any longer, but he also couldn't stop his hand from moving over his very insistent hard-on if he tried.
I do think he likes to order his steaks so rare just because it puts some people off, you know. Always at those places that charge you far too much for far too little, but that has ever been his speed. But I have known him far too long to doubt that he likes to really sink his teeth into something you can chew. Not something chewy, the way a steak might be if it were overdone, but something you can really take your time with and savor, and not have it fall to pieces in your mouth before you've wrung out every last drop of deliciousness it has to offer. He doesn't over-indulge, but he does like to drink deep at the well of pleasure. If he is eating meat, he wants to taste it down to the marrow, and he thinks nothing of quantity, only of quality. I am a lover of quality, myself, in all things, but just between you, dear reader, and myself... I never say no to quantity where good food is involved. But I did entice him into sharing with me, a little, so that we could discuss how well it was done. It seemed such a shame, after all, to think of his not having any, and just watching me! And with it so good. Oh, I could have licked the juices from my plate, it was so scrumptious! Heedless of the fact I was sat there in the very finest dining room in all the world! Of course I did no such thing, decorum is a virtue, but I imagined myself doing so and felt rather naughty just imagining, let me tell you.
Aziraphale, it's Aziraphale, since when has Aziraphale had a blog? Since when has Aziraphale known what a blog even is? That's why it had come up during Crowley's supernatural googling, he's Old Friend, he...
Goodness, what must people think, reading all this? It's absolutely filthy, it's... oh, and Aziraphale can't know, but Crowley's eyes dance over the words on his phone, he scrolls up now and then to re-read a particularly tasty sentence, and it's...
Bless, it's as close as anything could get to the pleasure of watching him eat. He can see it all again in his mind's eye-- and he is, he's not forgotten, the reason people still say 'mind's eye', he made that bloody play a success, the one that popularized the phrase, and he did that because Aziraphale... fluttered his eyelashes, and apparently Crowley has been a sucker far longer than he's happy admitting-- he can remember every little noise he'd made at lunch that day, and the way he'd smiled, and how they mostly didn't talk business, not until much later, they dropped into old languages and talked about old times, and he'd desperately wanted to ask if Aziraphale remembered he'd wanted to go to the Ritz, he'd said they might someday and Crowley had tucked that away to surprise him with in future, and it's the future now, and did Aziraphale remember? Did he know?
But he hadn't asked. How could he? The end of the world, and Aziraphale wasn't yet convinced they could save it, how could he tell him in that moment what he meant? Didn't he already know? After all, Crowley knows. He's seen things in Aziraphale's eyes, has Aziraphale seen them in his? Or has he kept them guarded? Let them slip only when the glasses would hide... because if he let it all out, they would have to acknowledge this awful thing between them, this empty aching chasm between what they are and what they wish...
Generous thing that he is, much as he may growl and pretend otherwise, my Old Friend had of course offered me a taste of his starter, and I rarely refuse, but I'd said, you know, oh my dear, if that's all you intend to eat, I really can't, that's hardly anything, and I know you'll have me stuffed! He always does when it's his turn to pay, and we hadn't gone out in so long. The last time we went anywhere it was just coffee and we went dutch... I suppose a couple of times like that, separate checks and not really having a meal, we hadn't been for a meal in simply ages and he would make our first proper time out again something so grand... He's like that. Grand places suit him. And speaking of grand! Well, he really is just too much sometimes, he really is, but I tell you, I couldn't have found it in me to complain in ten thousand years.
And is that how Aziraphale sees him? Generous? He should growl, he should protest the label very strongly, and yet... does Aziraphale like to be doted on? Does he yearn for the intimacy of a shared check? He always looks so pleased when Crowley insists. He remembers the coffees, one before they'd parted ways for roughly eighty years, one not long after they'd made up... Between making up and the night Aziraphale had...
The night he'd mentioned dining at the Ritz one day, and sounded as if he feared that day might never come, and if he feared it might.
He'd whispered it to the waiter at the beginning of our meal, you see. Crepes suzette! And I'd had no idea until they came out and did the whole big presentation... And he'd just leaned back in his seat and smirked like he does, and said isn't that what you wanted? And... reader, of course it was. Of course it was! I am not made of stone. The warmth I felt as I sank the side of my fork through the delicate folds and felt them yield that first perfect bite... and speaking of warmth, how beautifully warm that luscious mouthful, and sticky-sweet with a sauce so fine, so delightful, so absolutely, positively perfect... It's the stuff an angel dreams about, let me tell you. Just a little boozy even in the wake of the flame, with that citrus brightness twining with a note of buttery-burnt caramel... Oh yes. I just had to drag every last bite through it, I very nearly ran a finger through it to boot. We shared a cheese plate at the end as well, when they took that away, with an end-of-meal little something to drink, my Old Friend prefers an espresso and a little something sharp at the end of a meal to a sweet dessert, and after he'd pushed nearly all of his own dessert towards me, I'd thought he might take more of that, but then... he wouldn't be himself if he didn't take it upon himself to see me taken care of.
He can just picture Aziraphale licking the sauce from his fingers, that's just not fair. Oh, how it had felt to surprise him, to see the light dance behind his eyes and know... to know they were both remembering the time before, and neither of them had been ready then to acknowledge a simmering something between them. He wasn't ready to examine his own motivations, he doubts Aziraphale was so much quicker on the draw. But the crepes had come to them for the tableside presentation and Aziraphale had looked at him and for a moment there was nothing guarded, and his hand had fluttered up to his chest and he had whispered 'oh, my dear' beneath his breath, and the shake of his head before his attention fell squarely on dessert...
Maybe Crowley can't make love to him, maybe they'll never be safe enough for that, he doesn't know. But to watch him... the sensual pleasure of food, yes, but also the nostalgia, the emotions that they pretend stay buried...
It was such a lovely time, but as I could have guessed, I was full to bursting by the time we wended our way home for... well I suppose it's not a nightcap in the middle of the afternoon, but I really am powerless against a suggestion from my Old Friend, you'd know what I mean if you saw him. The way he suggests a thing, and it's not just having a drink, it's spending the rest of the day just talking about everything under the sun and then everything else. We talked well into the night and by the end of it you know I felt so much better about things, when only that morning it was all doom and gloom, or it was since the night before. But that's what it's like, isn't it? A good meal with an old friend-- with my Old Friend-- can so shift your perspective, and you find yourself able to face the things that need facing.
Well, and the nightcaps help, too.
Him. He still can't believe that's him. And the way Aziraphale talks about him, it's like...
He can't think about that, no distractions. He's gone too far to stop now just to have an emotional crisis. He scrolls up and stops at random, and his phone does not disappoint-- words stream before his eyes, words like 'juicy', words like 'scrumptious', words like 'licking' and 'carnal' and 'stuffed'.
Crowley grunts, hand stilling as he spills into it. Cleans himself with a thought and tosses his phone down.
He'll nap, that's what he'll do. He'll nap until he needs to get back to the Dowling house and maybe by then he'll have forgotten all about... this.