Meet Me At The Coda

“Lavender earl grey?”

“Oh, certainly!”

Crowley watches from where he has a shoulder propped against a structural pillar of the ice cream shop as yet another small, pink sample spoon of gelato is passed over the counter…

And slipped directly into Aziraphale’s waiting mouth.

“Mmm,” he hums in appreciation, smacking his lips thoughtfully. “Very lovely!”

Eh…fifth place, Crowley reckons.

The angel’s slightly scrunched brow and the lack of blinding brightness in his smile ranks that flavor easily behind the encouraging head tilt and nod of pistachio, pleasantly surprised raised eyebrows of toffee crunch, the faint groan of chocolate espresso, and - Satan help him - the full-body wiggle of raspberry passionfruit.

The shop is busy but not crowded, and Aziraphale is getting far more free samples than any other customer, his beatific, sunny smile and generous praise far too endearing to deny.

Crowley, for his part, is content to count the sample spoons, swiftly miracle away the flush that threatens to flood his cheeks at the noises Aziraphale makes, and pretend he’s not ranking the flavors based on what the angel seems to like best.

Two more flavors - salted caramel pecan and peanut butter brittle, third and sixth places, respectively - exchange hands over the counter before Aziraphale finally turns to Crowley.

“Oh, I can’t possibly decide,” he bemoans, with a simpering little pout. “What would you choose, my dear?”

Crowley shrugs, waiting an acceptable amount of time before offering a response, taking pains to sound as bored and uninterested as possible.

“Well, I’ll have the chocolate espresso, myself,” Crowley drawls, nodding at the girl behind the counter, who immediately starts scooping his choice onto a tall cone with relief. “Love something dark and bitter, you know me. But maybe you should go for that fruit…berry…thingamy. More up your alley, probably, all tart and sweet.”

Just like you, angel.

Aziraphale beams at him and, if Crowley wasn’t already sure he’d picked the right flavor (and he was), then that face would tell him all he needed to know.

“That sounds delightful,” Aziraphale pronounces happily, turning back to the now slightly desperate-looking employee. “The raspberry passionfruit, if you please!”

(And Aziraphale doesn’t need to know that Crowley would have picked a vomit snot flavor for himself if it was the angel’s second favorite, simply because Crowley already knows he’ll be handing his half-eaten portion to Aziraphale to polish off, once he’s finished his own.)

Gelato in hand, Crowley holds the door of the ice cream parlour open for Aziraphale, and they set off for their agreed upon stroll through St James’s Park. They chat about everything and nothing, as they tend to do. They talk about the heavenly missives Aziraphale no longer gets since they thwarted Armageddon and the demonic gossip Crowley hears from Shax on the sly. By the time they get to the park, they’re discussing a play Aziraphale wants to see next week and an erotic art exhibition opening next month that Crowley thinks may be suitably demonic enough to require his attendance.

(Aziraphale steadfastly refuses to accompany him but Crowley knows, when he pulls up to the bookshop in the Bentley, he’ll go without a fuss and have a fabulous time to boot.)

As they happen upon what Crowley privately refers to as ‘their’ park bench, Aziraphale is wiping his mouth daintily with a miracled napkin, his fruity gelato nowhere to be seen. Taking a final lick of his own, Crowley waits for the predictable side-eye toward the cone in his hand, before offering it to Aziraphale.

“Finish this off for me, would you, angel?” he asks nonchalantly. “Should only have gotten one scoop…”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” Aziraphale demurs, eyes fixed on the half-eaten treat.

“Go on,” Crowley tempts with ease. “You’ll love it, nice and chocolatey. Otherwise, it’s going in the bin…”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen comically in horror. “Oh, well, it shouldn’t go to waste,” he protests, before taking the cone from Crowley’s fingers eagerly.

The demon hides a satisfied smile.

As they take a seat on their miraculously empty bench, Aziraphale chatters in between licks about a new first edition he’s acquired, while Crowley listens idly and watches him enjoy the chocolate espresso with relish. Intermittently, he eyes the cloudless, summer sky above Aziraphale’s fluffy, white curls through his glasses. He hasn’t done weather in ages, but maybe he can tick up the air temperature around their spot just enough to have a few drops of ice cream melt down Aziraphale’s wrist…

(For no particular reason, other than his first place flavor…is whichever one he gets to see Aziraphale lick off his own skin.