Satan’s seat, that’s what the blessed temperance movement is calling this sinister city. Crowley had sat on Satan’s seat, very uncomfortable, pathetic excuse for a throne. New York is anything but uncomfortable. Although Crowley was very happy to stir up trouble in England, America just had so much more to take credit for. Lust, violence, and drunkenness run wild and she doesn’t even have to lift a finger.
Oh, by the way, Crowley has been presenting femininely for at least the decade. The freedom and fashion of being a flapper is very appealing. And the dancing isn’t half bad either. Being a woman in this day an age certainly comes in handy. Like, right now.
“Search me, officer,” Crowley taunts. She straightens her sunglasses and throws up her nose. Officers stand around her, circling her and her car.
“Ma’am, just tell us if you’ve got anything.” The officer rubs his forehead. He can’t legally search her. Heck, he wasn’t even supposed to stop her. Then again, no morally upright woman would be going 90 miles per hour only a few miles away from the Canadian border.
“Why don’t you find out?” Crowley pulls her skirt up, barely keeping the flask on her leg covered. The lead officer turns bright red and turns his eyes away. A few of the younger officers whistle.
“Cut that out,” the officer shouts, even redder in the face.
“Anything else I can do for you boys?” Crowley drapes herself over her car, spreading her legs just slightly. The officers whisper among themselves, eyeing Crowley.
“Get back in your cars, men!” the lead officer shouts, waving his arms. “You’re free to go, ma’am.”
“Aww, now you ain’t sweet on me, are ya?” Crowley waves, her wrist bending in the dainty way that makes well-bred men swoon.
The officer grumbles and speeds off in his old cop car, the rest following him.
Crowley gets back in her car. Legally, the cops can’t search her body (all they’d find is a personal flask and loaded pistol) but, they could have searched her car if they had probable cause. Luckily, they didn’t, because she has two crates of fine Canadian whiskey under the seats and another five in the trunk.
Crowley checks her hair in a hand mirror, each fiery curl pinned in place. She reapplies lipstick and powder. It’s such a shame that makeup has fallen out of fashion for men. She revs her engine before speeding off. New York awaits.
After dropping off the payload, Crowley’s purse is about seven hundred dollars heavier. She doesn’t need money, demonic miracles tend to provide for every want, but there’s something sinful about giving dirty money to holy organizations. Or at least, that’s her justification if any demon saw her giving money to the local soup kitchen.
The streets are busy. The streets are always busy, but this time, there’s something causing the ruckus. Women from the temperance movement march in the middle of the street, holding signs saying ‘lips that touch liquor shall not touch mine’ and wearing dresses that are at least a decade out of fashion. One woman stands out to Crowley, with her blonde curls piled on her head in an elaborate hairdo and wearing a dress that is definitely outdated, even for the people surrounding her. Crowley checks that her dress is smooth and her hair is perfect before pushing to the front of the crowd.
“Angel,” she calls, waving sweetly. “Is that you?”
The other temperance women glance at Aziraphale, who’s now pink with embarrassment.
“Excuse me, ladies.” Aziraphale hands her sign to a young girl. “I must shelter this lost soul towards the light.” The women smile and wish her the best of luck.
Aziraphale moves as fast as is polite for a lady towards Crowley. She grabs her by the elbow and drags her towards an empty alley.
“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale lets go of Crowley but stays close to her.
“Same as you,” Crowley says, “supporting the ban of alcohol.” Crowley pulls the flask off her leg and takes a swig. “Want some?” She leers, pushing the flask inches away from Aziraphale’s chest.
Aziraphale looks tempted for a moment but pushes the flask away. “I mustn’t,” she says with very little conviction.
“How unlike you.” Crowley takes a sip, her lipstick staining the edges. “More for me.”
“I must return to my work, there are souls to be saved.” Aziraphale hikes up her skirt and makes to leave.
“Oh come off it, angel.” Crowley leans against the wall, sticking her leg out to block Aziraphale’s path. “The battle is won, your side got the laws passed and my side got our drinks.”
“Well, that’s why we must continue to work.” Aziraphale puffs up like a brooding hen. “An upright society isn’t just about having laws, it’s about convincing people to follow them.”
Crowley laughs a laugh that worms into Aziraphale’s ears and settles in her chest, creating a warmth greater than any drink could cause. “Activists don’t convince people to follow laws, enforcement does that.”
Aziraphale looks to people passing, heckling, or worse yet, pitying the temperance women. “Perhaps you’re right,” she says, an idea forming in her head.
“Excellent!” Crowley throws her arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder. “There’s a speakeasy a block away, it’s got some new fancy drinks that you’d love!”
“My dear girl,” Aziraphale huffs, “I can’t.”
“B-But…” Crowley sputters. “I-I thought.”
“I can’t just break the law. It was lovely running into you, dear, and when you’re ready to patron a moral establishment, then we can meet.” And with that Aziraphale leaves, but doesn’t return to the temperance demonstration.
Crowley is left feeling rather confused and quite upset.
The month after running into Aziraphale, Crowley has doubled the amount of booze she takes across the border. The surplus income is excellent for therapy. Well, retail therapy. Her new dress is red silk with black bead embroidery in wonderful designs with a matching hat and a boa. It was next to an off-white one that really would have brought Aziraphale into the 20th century. Of course, she just got mad at herself for thinking of Aziraphale.
When shopping didn’t do any good, driving ninety miles per hour through the American countryside was pretty nice. A pair of dark sunglasses kept the sun and dust from her eyes. The only problem, there are now half a dozen cop cars trailing her. With a sigh, Crowley slams on the breaks. While waiting for the cops to catch up, she touches up her hair and makeup.
“Hello, boys!” Crowley steps out of the car, taking care to stretch her legs out.
“Ms. Crowley,” the lead officer sighs, already having pulled her over four times this month.
“Let’s get this show on the road.” Crowley spreads her arms out, the boa held in both hands, draping over shoulders. “Search me-“ she sticks her tongue out “-if you dare.”
“Ma’am, you know very well that my men can’t touch you,” the officer says.
“Finally caught on, have we?” Crowley mimes a frown. “Such a shame, this little routine of ours was great fun.”
“Lucky for us, I found someone who can,” the officer chuckles as if he’s just won a game of chess.
“Sorry?” Crowley knows the search and seizure laws inside and out, she’s literally untouchable.
“You should be.” Americans really can be quite dense. A figured clothed in beige and tartan steps out of a car and wave of relief washes over Crowley.
“Angel!” Crowley’s face lights up. She’s disappointed that Aziraphale is back in a suit, she liked having another girl around.
All the officers fall into a tense silence, casting angry looks between Aziraphale and Crowley. “You two know each other then?”
“Afraid so,” Aziraphale says.
“And I’m afraid you still can’t search me.” Crowley leans on her car and tosses her boa over her shoulder.
“Is that so?” Aziraphale smirks and pushes her hair back. It’s just a tad shorter than what’s fashionable for women. The suit strains slightly at her hips and chest.
“Oh.” Crowley forgets any thought of buying dresses for Aziraphale and can only think of buying her a more modern suit.
“I’m going to have to ask you to step away from the car and spread your legs, ma’am,” Aziraphale says with a smugness that makes Crowley’s face turn red. A few officers whistle and Aziraphale takes her eyes off Crowley to glare at the cops.
“I’m going to ask you, men, to follow the law and turn around so that the lady can keep her decency.” Aziraphale has the tone of a school teacher with a ruler in hand.
“What decency?” a young officer shouts from the back of the trope.
Aziraphale shoots him a glare that, if she just put a little angelic power behind it, would cause the man to burst into flame. “I was under the impression that I was working with lawmen.” Aziraphale grabs the nearest officer and shoves him to the ground. “I will not help a bunch of perverts get a show.” She stands like a general, standing between Crowley and the men. “If you want to see women touching, go to a brothel on your own time. I will not be running one.”
The man stands, pale-faced and knees shaking. Aziraphale waves her hand and the rest of the men turn around.
“Thank you,” Crowley whispers once Aziraphale turns back to her.
“Of course, my dear.” Aziraphale presses her hand against Crowley’s check. Crowley leans into the touch, the tenderness a first in a long time since she started her new life of crime.
“You’re not going to find anything, angel.” Crowley smiles and gives her best puppy-dog eyes. Aziraphale moves her hands to Crowley’s hips, not in a suggestive way but in the way one starts a pat-down. “Right?” Crowley bites her lip.
“You’re the one who told me that being an enforcer was much more effective, my dear girl.” Aziraphale pats upwards, knowing that the flask is below the hip.
“When did you become such a prude?” Crowley huffs and throws her head back dramatically.
“I have nothing against alcohol, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s hands linger over Crowley’s chest, not quite touching. “I’m against dangerous illegal substances. I’m an angel, it’s my job to lead humans towards the light.”
“You’re an angel feeling up a demon.” Crowley lowers her sunglasses and winks.
Aziraphale glares daggers. “We can get this over with then.” Aziraphale sticks her hand up Crowley’s skirt, fingers snagging on the stocking. A thrill runs up Crowley’s spine, and a gasp of pleasant surprise disguised as an annoyed huff escapes her. Aziraphale slips her fingers underneath Crowley’s stocking a pulls out her hip flask.
“What have we here?” Aziraphale announces, waving the flask. The officers turn back around. The lead officer looks overjoyed.
Crowley rolls her eyes underneath her sunglasses. “That’s just water, angel.” she fans herself, swooning against her car like a fainting woman in a film. “It gets awfully hot out here.”
“Then you won’t mind if I have a sip.” The lip of the flask is still stained by Crowley’s lipstick. Aziraphale takes a chaste sip, some of the amber liquid trickling down her chin. “That’s whiskey alright.”
“Well.” Crowley is really starting to get annoyed. “I bought it before the amendment and I wasn’t going to sell it. Nothing illegal about a little whiskey.”
The officers look disappointed and the lead officer looks like he’s about to explode.
“You certainly know the law, Ms. Crowley. But do you know what this is?” Aziraphale holds the flask up like a torch. “Probable cause.”
Crowley bristles, there’s really no getting out of this. Aziraphale gives her a smile, the same one she gives her every time they play cards.
“Search the car, men!” The lead officer is practically bouncing up and down.
Aziraphale grabs Crowley’s wrist, pulling her out of the way of the wave of cops rushing the car. Crowley shakes her off but stays close to her side. Three crates are pulled from under the seats and seven are pulled from the trunk. Each crate contains ten bottles of whiskey. Aziraphale looks at Crowley with barely hidden pride.
The lead officer inspects one of the bottles, holding it as if it’s made of gold. “This is far too much for personal use Ms. Crowley, I do believe this is grounds for arrest.”
Crowley remains composed, pulling a cigarette from her purse. “Any of you boys have a light?” Several men rush forward, lighters and matches in hand. Crowley inspects them for a minute, paying no mind to the heated glares of Aziraphale and the lead officer. She extends her cigarette to a baby-faced cop, lighting it with his match and taking a drag.
“I suppose one of you boys will be taking me in?” Crowley continues looking at the man she got the light from, slithering closer. Several of the cops pull their handcuffs from their belts.
“Absolutely not.” Aziraphale grabs a pair of handcuffs from the nearest officer.
“Since when are you in charge of this operation, woman?” The lead officer shouts. He marches over, handcuffs in hand.
“I’m sure you know the kind of trouble boys and girls get up to in cars, officer.” Aziraphale takes the cigarette from Crowley and crushes it under her boot. “I wouldn’t want one of your honorable men being corrupted by such a woman.” Aziraphale puts the handcuffs on Crowley, only loosely, glaring at the lead officer.
“You flatter me, angel,” Crowley says blankly.
The officer looks between Crowley and the men standing hungrily around her. “Buh, just take her already and meet us back at the station.” The other officers let out a collective groan. “That’s enough from ya!” The officer goes red in the face and shakes his fists at the men. “I expect you to stop some real crime now that you can’t chase pretty ladies all over the countryside.”
“Oh officer,” Crowley swoons sarcastically, “you think I’m pretty?”
“Can’t be a jailbird soon enough,” the officer grumbles before joining the other officers in cars. Once the dust clears, Aziraphale and Crowley are left alone with one cop car, one bootlegging Cadillac, and a hundred bottles of liquor.
“You’ve really taught me a lesson, angel.” Crowley strains against the handcuffs. “You can let go now.”
“Oh no.” Aziraphale drags Crowley towards the police car. “You’re going downtown, my dear.” She opens the car door and ushers Crowley inside.
“You don’t even have a driver’s license,” Crowley whines. The handcuffs are already off and she lounges in the back seat, legs crossed at the knee instead of the ankle.
Aziraphale rolls her eyes and starts the car. “Well, neither do you.”
Crowley thinks that over for a moment and realizes she doesn’t have one. She just expected that no one would ask for her license so they didn’t. Even when she drove on the left side of the road the first year in the states.
“You know, angel, for someone who hates bars, you dress an awful lot like the gals tending them.” Crowley grabs a wide-brimmed hat from the front seat and jokingly puts it on Aziraphale. It really brings the outfit together.
Aziraphale glances at Crowley from under the hat, not bothering to hide her amusement. “I tried the kind of dresses you wear but they weren’t to my taste.”
“You don’t like it?” Crowley fiddles with the fabric.
“It looks lovely on you, dear.” Aziraphale’s eyes linger on Crowley in the rearview mirror. “As I was saying, corsets and petticoats are just not for me. I’m much more comfortable in a suit.”
“If you’re so keen on keeping the law, why waltz around in a female body?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the law doesn’t exactly come down on the side of ladies like you, angel.” Crowley frowns and messes with her sunglasses. “That’s why a lot of them find work in speakeasies.”
“Not all laws are just, Crowley.” Aziraphale runs her hands over her tie, being silent for a moment. “Some laws are meant to keep down the ones already at the bottom. And some laws are meant to protect those at the bottom.”
“And you think banning booze was all about getting rid of saloons and making fathers love their wives and children again. Think keeping the county dry will save souls?”
“Yes,” Aziraphale says with confidence she reserves for when she sticks to the script heaven passes out. “This is a good thing since humans just can’t let go of their sinful pleasures.”
“So you don’t suppose it’s meant to target Catholics and Irish and immigrants or anyone who can’t be all American?” Crowley doesn’t really mean to put the angel off, just calling it as she sees it, but Aziraphale is struck silent. She presses her mouth in a thin line and just drives.
“Angel?” Crowley didn’t mean to make the conversation go sour. Sure, they butt heads, but fighting is never fun.
“What do you even need a hundred bottles of whiskey for?” Aziraphale hates fighting too, especially when the demon makes an uncomfortable point.
“To sell it, obviously.” Crowley laughs. She reaches for her hip flask but finds it’s not there. She’s gotten used to bad booze.
“Alright,” Aziraphale sighs, “what do you need money for?”
“The finer things in life,” Crowley sighs wistfully.
“Oh goodness.” Aziraphale crinkles her nose. “You sound like a character in one of Fitzgerald’s novels.” She snaps her fingers and an old bottle of wine pops into existence on Crowley’s lap. It’s a European brand that dates back several centuries and is more alcoholic than the whiskey Crowley had been toting across the border.
“What’s this?” Crowley inspects it. Her mouth waters but resists the urge to open it; it’ll be even better with Aziraphale.
“It’s perfectly legal if that’s what you’re asking. Bought before the law was passed.”
“That’s not what I’m asking.” Crowley settles the wine under the seat. She leans closer to Aziraphale.
“I just meant, I can give you the finer things in life, my dear.” Aziraphale keeps her eyes fixed on the road and face covered with the brim of the hat. “And you could do the same, just a simple flick of the wrist. Why work?”
“I like fast cars.”
“Fast cars don’t need to have illegal goods inside.”
“Sure they do.” Crowley smiles, thinking about how she never has to ride or even see a horse again. “Cars don’t go that fast unless you know the right people. If you want to do anything over thirty, you’ve got to go to the local gangster’s daughter.”
“Is that so, dear?” Aziraphale smirks and quirks an eyebrow.
“Oh yeah,” Crowley says, “I need speed, angel, no other way.”
Aziraphale snaps her fingers and everything blurs. Crowley feels her internal organs liquefy as she’s pressed against the seat. The car is parked in front of the New York police station. What would have been an hour of driving is done in a flash.
“Crowley, you’re a demon. You don’t need a fancy engine to drive fast.” Aziraphale straightens her tie. Crowley doesn’t really catch most of that, she’s busy trying not to vomit.
“Why do you really do such a job? Even if it is good fun for you, it’s dangerous, and you could be hurt.”
“You want to know why I want the money, angel?” Crowley fidgets with her sunglasses. Aziraphale nods and waits for a response. “Everyone is buying things on credit now and they’re starting to lay off works. Any cash I don’t spend, I give to the local soup kitchen or children’s home. Things are about to go bad, Aziraphale. People think everything will be perfect forever and I think humanity is flying too close to the sun.”
Aziraphale is silent for a moment. “That’s rather good of you, dear.”
Crowley wrinkles up her nose and sticks out her tongue. “No it’s not,” she snaps. “Making sin look saintly is just another way to damn souls. Besides, Al Capone does it.”
“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale says with a cheeky smile.
Aziraphale leaves the car and opens Crowley’s door. “I’m afraid I do have to bring you in with the handcuffs on.”
“Fine, just give me a second.” Crowley fishes around in her purse and pulls out makeup and a compact mirror.
“What on earth are you doing?”
“They’ve come up with this awful new thing.” Crowley checks her hair before moving on to powdering her nose. “It’s called a mugshot, they take a picture of you that they pull up every time you commit a crime.” Crowley pauses to apply lipstick. “If I’m going to be seeing this photo a lot, I have to look good.”
“You look stunning, my dear girl, can we get on with it?” Aziraphale holds the handcuffs out, just about to snap them on Crowley’s wrists.
“You’re such a charmer, angel.” Crowley lowers her sunglasses so that she can roll her eyes at Aziraphale.
Inside the police station, Aziraphale has to do some explaining on how she’s kind of a prohibition enforcer. It’s not uncommon for women to be on teams but there’s always some pig at the front desk. After that, there’s paperwork.
Crowley stands in a holding cell while Aziraphale waits in a chair next to the cell for the paperwork to fill out its self. Crowley doesn’t need to be in a holding cell at the moment but she's dramatic. The cell isn’t even locked.
“I can’t go to jail.” Crowley drapes her arms through the bars, fingers gliding over Aziraphale’s face.
Aziraphale swats her hands away. It’s not seductive, it’s annoying. “Please, you’d be running the place within a week.”
“Make that a day,” Crowley laughs.
“A wily serpent like you would only need an hour.”
“I’d walk in and everyone would just grovel at my feet.”
Aziraphale pats Crowley’s cheek. “Of course, dear.” Aziraphale eyes the large stack of paperwork and knows there’ll be more once Crowley starts awaiting trial.
“How much time do you think I’ll do?” Crowley rests her head in her hands, pouting her lip. “One year? Five? Ten?”
Aziraphale smiles, endlessly amused by Crowley’s melodrama. “I imagine you’ll pay a fine and spend a night in a cell. The judge will go easy on you, you’re a pretty girl and are altruistic with your money.”
“Oh, this is so embarrassing.” Crowley brushes her fingers over Aziraphale’s chin, asking the angel to look at her. “No bootlegger worth her liquor actually faces consequences for her actions.”
“What are you asking of me, dear?” Aziraphale puts her hand over Crowley’s.
“Remember that time I freed you from the bastille?” Crowley hums and brings her hands back inside the cell. “I’m just asking that you return the favor.”
“Usually, when a lawman helps out a criminal in this day and age, they get something in return.” Aziraphale stands to face Crowley, only the bars keep them from moving closer.
“A bribe, angel?” Crowley covers her mouth and mocks a gasp. It comes out a little more genuine than hoped for.
“Something like that.” Aziraphale shrugs, jacket sliding just slightly down her shoulders.
“I thought you didn’t need money.” Crowley slips her hands through the bars. She doesn’t touch Aziraphale, she just waits.
“I don’t.” Aziraphale bites her lip. “But you have something I want.”
Crowley grabs the collar of Aziraphale’s jacket, pulling her close. Both of their faces are pressed against the bars. If Crowley was wearing another layer of lipstick, they’d be kissing. “I can give you anything you want, angel.”
“Like what?” Aziraphale’s voice is breathy and Crowley can feel the air on her lips.
Crowley lets go of Aziraphale and takes a step back. “Not here.”
Aziraphale pauses, pretending to think over the temptation. “We can go back to my place.”
“You have a place?” Crowley is more than surprised. Aziraphale has her shop back in Soho and Crowley can’t imagine her anywhere else.
“Of course I have a place.” Aziraphale opens the unlocked holding cell and ushers Crowley out. “I can’t stay on the streets.”
Outside the police station, Crowley’s car is parked because she really wanted it to be. Unfortunately, it doesn’t have any booze in it. Crowley more than happily jumps in the driver's seat, while Aziraphale looks a little more reluctant. Directions to her apartment barely leave Aziraphale’s mouth before Crowley speeds out of the parking lot, tires squealing.
“Crowley!” Aziraphale grips the seatbelt. “You can’t do ninety in the middle of New York City.”
Crowley turns to give the biggest grin. “What are you, the cops?”
Aziraphale’s witty comeback is forgotten as she screeches when Crowley takes a sharp turn.
Miraculously, they arrive in front of a brownstone in one piece. Crowley throws the car in park and ogles the building, letting out a low whistle.
“This is your place, angel?”
“You like it?” Aziraphale smiles as she leaves the car, thankful to have her feet on the ground again.
“For someone who doesn’t make money, you sure know how to spend it.”
Aziraphale dangles her coat over her shoulder as she walks inside. Crowley follows behind like a happy puppy. Aziraphale’s apartment is on one of the top floors so they take the elevator.
“Thanks for bailing me out.” Crowley’s voice is quiet. “Jail would be...rough. Dark and cramped, full of sinners.”
“Remind you of something?” Aziraphale laughs, it’s meant to be a joke. Crowley stays silent. “You don’t have to thank me for getting you out of trouble if I’m the one who got you into it.”
Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hand. “I’d rather it be you than any of those other half-wits.”
Aziraphale squeezes Crowley’s hand. “So you’re going to stay out of trouble, my dear girl?”
Crowley smiles, the wide kind of smile that puts butterflies in Aziraphale’s stomach. “You wish.”
The elevator dings, doors sliding open. The two women linger for a moment.
Aziraphale drops Crowley’s hand and steps out of the elevator. She dips her hands into her pants pocket and pulls out a key. “Come now, Crowley.”
The apartment is small, like most New York apartments. It’s one room with an attached kitchenette. Instead of using the one room as a place where everything can be done, Aziraphale has chosen to make it a living room. There’s a sofa that looks antique with a matching coffee table. Piled in every available space are books. There’s a radio sitting in the corner that looks to be the most modern thing in the apartment. There’s also no dining table, washing machine, or bed; things one would expect in a home.
Crowley saunters inside and picks up a book. “Did you bring these from home or did you buy them in the states?”
“A little bit of both.” Aziraphale takes the book from Crowley, fingers touching for only a second. “I wanted some light reading then I found some more here.”
“That sounds like you, Angel.” Crowley falls onto the sofa, spreading her entire body over it. She gives Aziraphale an inviting look, trying to say ‘come sit with me’.
Aziraphale rolls her eyes, replying very clearly ‘there’s nowhere to sit, you’ve taken the whole sofa.’
Crowley just waggles her eyebrows.
“You just make yourself comfortable, dear.” Aziraphale puts the book down and walks over to the radio. Smooth jazz starts playing. Crowley’s heard a similar song in Harlem clubs.
“Jazz, angel?” Crowley smirks. “They’re calling this the devil's music.”
“Only because white people couldn’t have come up with it.” Aziraphale hangs her jacket and hat on a coat rack. “Besides, it’s very good.”
“Now that we can agree on!” Crowley shifts her legs, creating a very small space on the sofa. She smiles expectantly.
“Are you thirsty, dear?” Aziraphale makes her way towards the kitchen.
“If you are.” Crowley isn’t used to not drinking with Aziraphale, it’s kind of their thing. Getting lunch, getting in and out of trouble, and getting sloshed. But, now they can’t. Crowley really doesn’t drink anything other than alcohol. Water is gross, it tastes like nothing and everything, completely under and overwhelming.
Aziraphale returns with two glasses with colorful liquid inside. Crowley also hates juice, unless it’s sat in a dark place for a long time. Aziraphale glances at the sofa and sighs at the tiny space Crowley has left for her. She puts the glasses down, picks up Crowley’s legs, and sits down. Now Crowley’s legs are propped on Aziraphale’s thighs. Aziraphale doesn’t say anything so neither does Crowley. She just shifts so that the position is more comfortable and more of her is in Aziraphale’s lap.
Aziraphale picks up one of the glasses and hands it to Crowley. “Here you are, my dear.” She picks up her own and waits for Crowley to take a sip.
Crowley tastes the liquid and nearly spits it out. “Angel, is this a cocktail?”
Aziraphale takes a sip. “I believe that is the fashionable way to consume alcohol now.”
“How do you know about cocktails? For that matter, how do you know about jazz?”
Aziraphale shrugs, taking another sip of her drink.
“You hypocrite,” Crowley gasps playfully. She takes another sip of her drink. It’s pretty good.
“I never broke the law.” Aziraphale loosens her tie. “It’s only illegal to sell alcohol, buying and consuming are perfectly fine. You, my dear, are the convict.”
“Well, you taste the fruits of my labor.” Crowley leans forward. She wants to grab Aziraphale’s tie and rip it off but not yet.
“I certainly do not,” Aziraphale gasps, “I can’t stand whiskey.”
“I bootleg other things.” From the taste of this cocktail, it seems Aziraphale doesn’t have anything against rum.
“I might have to take you back downtown, dear, I don’t think I’ve seen even a hit of a bribe.”
Crowley surges forward, smashing their lips together. It’s a messy kiss but that’s exactly how she wants it. Aziraphale’s lips taste of the sweet cocktail. Just as Aziraphale is about to kiss back, Crowley pulls away.
“How’s that?” Crowley admires Aziraphale, her lipstick staining the angel’s lips and the surrounding area.
“Not bad.” Aziraphale grabs Crowley by the back of the neck and pulls her into another kiss.
This one is far more controlled, less rough around the edges. Crowley moves further into Aziraphale’s lap, earning a soft gasp from the angel. Crowley clutches to the white fabric of Aziraphale’s shirt. Aziraphale runs her hands through Crowley’s hair, paying no mind to how long it took to get into those perfect little waves.
Crowley slowly pulls away. “I guess it’s true what they say about jazz.”
“And what’s that, dear?” Aziraphale runs her hands over Crowley’s hips, fascinated by how well they fit over hers.
“It turns good girls into lustful creatures of the night.”
A laugh escapes Aziraphale, a big laugh from the belly that makes her throw her head back. Crowley can feel the vibrations in her own body. Aziraphale’s cheeks are tinted pink and the sight fills Crowley with warmth.
She grabs her purse from wherever she left it (she left it in the car but finds it on the coffee table). She reapplies lipstick, making sure to lay it on thick and get the corners of her mouth.
“What are you doing, my dear girl?” Aziraphale watches Crowley applies the lipstick like one watches an artist paint.
“Leaving a mark.” Crowley presses her lips to Aziraphale’s cheek. A perfect imprint of her lips is left in bright red. “Or two.” She presses gentle kisses to Aziraphale’s neck, fluttering gasps escape the angel.
“That’s wonderful, my dear.” Aziraphale digs her fingers in Crowley’s hips. “But, I believe this is leaving a mark.” Taking Crowley’s chin, she exposes her neck. Aziraphale presses an open mouth kiss to Crowley’s neck, sucking and licking at the tender skin.
Aziraphale pulls away with a wet pop. “You’re so beautiful,” she says admiring the dark circle on Crowley’s neck.
“Thank you, angel.” Crowley unties Aziraphale’s tie, fingers brushing over her collarbone. “You’re incredibly handsome.”
“Handsome?” Aziraphale pulls at Crowley’s lips with the pad of her thumb. “Not beautiful?”
Crowley runs her hands through Aziraphale’s hair, short and well kept. “Your hair, your suit, the way you protected me. It’s handsome, alluring even.”
“Thank you, dear.” And they’re kissing again, a raw passionate kiss. Crowley's tongue explores Aziraphale mouth while she clutches at front of her shirt. Aziraphale’s hand sneaks up Crowley’s dress and rests on her thigh. Her other hand rubs at the front of Crowley’s dress.
Crowley pulls away, finding the sofa isn’t the ideal place to kiss Aziraphale like this. “The night is still young, angel.” Even though it pains her, Crowley scoots off Aziraphale’s lap. “Let’s go somewhere, I can show you off to all my friends. And we can go back to my place, where we can have a little more room to do this.”
Aziraphale pretends to think over the temptation. “Could I have a moment to make myself presentable?”
“Of course.” Crowley grabs her lipstick and begins reapplying and correcting the excess that has spread over her face. “Just don’t even think about wiping off any of my lipstick.”
Aziraphale pecks Crowley’s lips as soon as she finishes. “Anything for you, dear.”