31 Days of Kisses: A Good Omen Advent Calendar

A Mouth Full of Sugarplums

Crowley, he told himself, was a demon. A dark-winged shade of Hell, able to produce Hellfire from his mouth, the original Serpent in the Garden, scourge of humanity throughout the ages. He need fear nothing but the overlords of Hell.

He certainly shouldn't be shifting anxiously from foot to foot, freezing to death in a bitter wind, afraid to approach a bookshop with a box of comfits in his gloved hands.

Ten years. Ten years was a long time to sulk. Clearly the angel was not going to approach him, so it was time to gird his loins and--not apologise. Surely it was bad enough that the act of skulking around the angel again was a tactic admission that I don't need you had been a blatant lie. Even, if Aziraphale looked too closely, an admission that he didn't really have anyone else to fraternise with, at least that he cared about.

Aziraphale would. Aziraphale was charming and garrulous, and interested in humans, who could hardly wait to pour their hearts out to him. Crowley liked humans, the same way he found ducks entertaining, and was impressed by their cleverness--alright, not ducks, dolphins, perhaps--but they didn't tend to tell him their troubles and joys. If they did, he would have the uncomfortable feeling that he should be trying to turn the information to their damnation, which didn't lead to cosy chats.

Aziraphale didn't need him. Obviously. And when Crowley thought about that, he nearly turned and fled again.

The shop door opened with a jangle of bells. "My dear boy, are you coming in or not?" a testy voice asked. "I feel like I have a half-starved viper hovering outside my door waiting to swallow me."

Well, that was a clear invitation. Crowley stumbled inside before the moment, or his courage, failed, shoving the box of sugarplums at Aziraphale as he passed.

The shop was like--well, not Heaven. The light of Heaven had never been as warm or soft or honeyed, and Crowley's memories of his former brethren had never looked as warm and soft and honeyed as Aziraphale with pink cheeks, unwrapping the ribbon around a box of comfits. Crowley, coming in from the harsh cold, felt like he was being bathed in sunshine.

In other words, he was back with Aziraphale. Crowley was almost ashamed of the way he turned like a plant toward Aziraphale's sun.

"Sugar plums," Aziraphale said, with delight. Crowley miracled his overcoat onto a hook, threw himself on the yellow occasional chair and prepared to watch intensely. These weren't just any comfits. These were the best, most delectable sugar plums made by the most expensive confectioners in London. Smooth and round and meticulously panned, bright with saffron and cochineal.

Crowley wondered if Aziraphale was aware of the usage of the word "sugar plum" to mean "flatter and make up", if he understood the meaning of the gift. You never knew, with Aziraphale. He was so blessedly well-read, but things also tended to go past him.

Either way, it seemed to have worked. Aziraphale set down the box on a miraculously clear surface and popped one of the comfits between his lips.

And sucked. Eyes closing slightly, cheeks pinker, and... oh, Satan, he was rolling the sweet in his mouth with his tongue, making a faint delighted noise, his cheeks hollowing and rounding out. Crowley knew he should look away, or do something to hide his own reaction, but it was the most delectable sight, Aziraphale intensely enjoying something he had brought him, that Crowley burned and ached in both the spiritual and physical senses.

I missed you, I missed you, he thought, and: You are glorious, and: You must have no idea what you do to me.

Aziraphale chewed at last as most of the sugar--oh, it must have melted in that warm mouth, trickled down his throat--and made a final swallow. Crowley was hard-pressed not to moan himself.

The angel picked up the box and held it out. "These are scrumptious. You must try one."

Crowley unlooped and unfolded his legs, always a bit of a process, and came forward as if mesmerised. Aziraphale was growing even pinker as he approached, and--

The angel's gaze slid briefly, guiltily, up to the ceiling, and Crowley's gaze followed.

"Mistletoe," he snarled, glaring at the bough suspended above Aziraphale's head.

"I--I'm sorry." Aziraphale was red now, and distressed looking. "I didn't mean to presume--"

"You were really, really determined to keep me out, weren't you?" He growled. "What changed your mind?"

"It's harmless fun."

"Fun? Well, I won't darken your door much longer with my stench of evil. Enjoy the comfits."

"Wait." Aziraphale blinked. "Crowley, I think we're talking at cross purposes."

"No, I understand. I wouldn't want to get you in trouble with Heaven."

"My dear, did you really think I put this here to keep you out?"

Crowley pursed his lips. "You just accidentally put a big protection from evil token above your door after we had a tiff?"

"Crowley." Aziraphale was smiling now. "You know that's not the only meaning. Don't you remember Greece? And Rome?" He lowered his lashes shyly. "Perhaps--perhaps I was thinking, a little, of the tradition of making peace with a kiss anointed with mistletoe. And hoping--I have missed you."

Missed him. Kiss. Crowley tried to say several things, and made a strangled noise instead.

"And there's a charming modern tradition--Crowley, will you come here? Please?" Aziraphale looked frightened, but his soft jaw was set in a firm line, and after all Crowley never could resist a request from the angel.

He slinked forward, feeling a bit like a dog not sure if it would be petted or kicked.

Aziraphale popped a sugar plum in Crowley's mouth, as if making sure he wouldn't interrupt.

"You see, you do this." Aziraphale reached up and plucked a single white berry. "And then you do this." He leaned in, and Crowley remembered the game, and realised too late that Aziraphale was probably aiming to kiss his cheek.

Too late. He had already instinctively turned his head, and soft angel lips landed on his hard demon ones.

Aziraphale froze, and for a moment Crowley knew, just knew, he was going to pull away and apologise, and that seemed unbearable, so instead he reached and grasped the angel's forearms and pressed his lips back and parted them gently, tasting sugar and sweetness and not knowing whose mouth it came from. A mouth full of sugarplums, he thought dazedly, and now the expression made sense, because one sweet kiss like this and Aziraphale could convince him to anything, anything at all.

"I missed you," Crowley whispered against the angel's mouth, rather indistinctly because of the comfit still in his mouth.

Aziraphale freed his arms, but instead of stepping away it was to wrap the arms around Crowley's back and kiss him again, and that was answer enough.

Mistletoe was a glorious plant.

1) Sugarplums are those things in the top picture--panned sweets with a core of spice or nut. Nothing to do with plums.