Holiday

When the world doesn’t end and Aziraphale suggests they go on holiday, Crowley almost bursts
a vessel in his eyes trying not to say yes too emphatically.

It takes them some time to decide on an itinerary, of course, and a little longer still to be really
sure they’re safe enough. If sentimentality is what leads Crowley to suggest the south of France
—after all Aziraphale is so fond of crepes and good wine—there’s no one on earth who can
prove it. Which is practically the same as it not being true.

However, it must be said that there are a few aspects of this vacation Crowley failed to
adequately consider. To with: even Aziraphale knows a full suit with bow tie, shirt, waistcoat,
and jacket is inappropriate attire for someone on holiday in the south of France, and now
Crowley has to cope with the sight of his angel in light trousers and—and Crowley cannot
emphasize enough how completely this destroys him—a fuchsia linen shirt, with the sleeves
rolled up. Jesus wept. At least he’s wearing socks with his loafers; if Crowley had to go straight
from layered in triplicate to flashes of bare ankle he’d probably set the whole country on fire. He
just helped stop the apocalypse; he’d like to enjoy the world he saved, not discorporate
immediately.

They spend two days tasting all the local delicacies (Aziraphale), getting lazily drunk on the best
vintages France has to offer (both of them), and gradually becoming used to the fact that
Aziraphale’s forearms are extremely shapely, perhaps even bitable (Crowley) before Aziraphale
suggests something moderately terrifying.

“Well, it’s what you do on holiday, isn’t it?” he says, indicating the upscale boutique. “And the
weather is lovely…. It would be a shame not to take advantage.”

Crowley should have suggested a holiday in Antarctica. “All right,” he agrees, folding like a card
table. “Whatever you like, angel.”

Unfortunately for Crowley, not even the most upscale boutique carries the sort of 1920s swim
costume Crowley suspects Aziraphale would favor given the chance. He could maybe, nearly,
almost live with that. Nor does Aziraphale seem particularly inclined to go for the wetsuit option,
not that that would be any better. But no, Aziraphale’s insistence on purchasing real clothes that
will last and also manage to suit his modesty requirements means Crowley has to endure him in
knee-length white-and-coral striped shorts, with a white rash guard top that
clings everywhere and leaves nothing to Crowley’s imagination, which works double-time
regardless.

He probably shouldn’t be surprised. It’s always Crowley’s grand ideas that cause him the most
trouble in the end.

Crowley miracles up his own swim costume to satisfy Aziraphale, but like Heaven he’ll actually
let anyone see him wear it. It’s just the principle of the thing. Instead he lies on a large tartan
beach towel the sand is too afraid to infringe upon, procures a cocktail with a little black
umbrella, and presents Aziraphale with a swim ring shaped like a unicorn. “Go on, then. Have
fun, angel.”

The beach is crowded, but beachgoers who venture too close to Crowley’s towel soon find
themselves remembering they left their valuables unattended, or realize they desperately need a
wee, or discover they’ve had too much sun and need to go back to their hotel for a nap. Apart
from keeping them away, Crowley pays them no mind, focused on Aziraphale in the water,
bobbing up and down in his unicorn float ring, beaming so widely Crowley has no problem
discerning it from the beach despite his poor day vision. He’s obviously fine. No agents of
Heaven or Hell here. Just the two of them, retired and on holiday, doing whatever they like.

Eventually even with the glasses the brightness begins to hurt his eyes, so he leans back and
closes them, pulls the edge of the towel over his face for extra protection, conjures a very long
straw for his cocktail, which he wedges into the sand. This isn’t so bad, really. The sun feels
nice. He should sun himself more. Maybe he can convince his apartment it needs a skylight or
two.

Everything is vaguely wonderful: rhythmic waves crashing on the beach, warm sun, excellent
frivolous beverage. If he has to do this again tomorrow he’ll get bored, but, well, he can always
summon a few jellyfish. No one’ll get stung, but avoiding the beach due to jellyfish will spoil
their holiday all the same. Yes, that’s a good idea. And perhaps he can find Aziraphale an
appropriate swim costume online. They do have overnight shipping these days—Crowley’s
proud of that one. And—

A bone-chilling scream interrupts his idle daydream. Crowley has never heard it before, but he
would know it anywhere. Aziraphale.

Before he can think about it, he’s discarded his glasses, leaving his drink and towel in the sand as
he sprints to the water. The minute his bare foot touches ocean he sheds his skin, sheds it and
sheds it and keeps shedding as he plunges into the water, a vast dimension unfolding from inside
him, unraveling, uncoiling, until Crowley is sixty feet long and as thick around as a bodybuilder,
made of teeth and menace and destruction.

Whatever hurt his angel is going to pay.

Dimly he registers the panicked screams of frantic beachgoers abandoning their earthly
possessions and running for higher ground, but he doesn’t spare them a thought. He is hunting.
What monster dared to threaten Aziraphale?

In the water, Crowley’s senses are more acute. He can sense Aziraphale just a few meters ahead.
A few rapidly departing fish. One moray thinking oh shit merde putain fuck!! very loudly as it
beelines for safer waters. An octopus that wishes it had stayed home today.

None of them are anywhere near Aziraphale, who is bobbing in an area populated only by some
unusually old and therefore large Posidonia.
Crowley breaks the surface indignantly, treading water in human shape. At least, the part of him
that is above the surface. “For fuck’s sake, Aziraphale, it’s just a little sea grass! The way you
shrieked, I thought you were being murdered.”

Aziraphale goes pink-cheeked and sheepish. “Nonsense! I was merely startled.” He looks around
the beach pointedly and then adds, pointing those eyebrows and his insinuation at Crowley,
“Though I think my actions may have inadvertently led to something of a larger sensation.”

The beach was deserted, the remains of blankets and backpacks and lunches and sand toys lying
abandoned in ruin. On the plus side, this would sour far more vacations than a simple jellyfish
scare.

Before he can deflect, though, Aziraphale presses on. “I should have known, of course,” he says,
and oh no, that’s the tone he uses when he’s about to pay Crowley a compliment. “You always
come to my rescue, you old serpent.”

Crowley’s blood suddenly gets very warm and rushes to his face. “No, I—that’s—you’re—”
Aziraphale smiles indulgently and Crowley stops trying to be cool and tries to change the subject
instead. “Angel. I saw a little gelato shop up the strand a ways. Can I tempt you?”

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale says, so fond and sincere Crowley nearly burns with it, “I don’t think
you’ve ever stopped.”

Then he pauses, and while Crowley is still frantically trying to stop his brain from turning into a
snake again so it can have a blessed emotion without having to think about it, he shakes his head
and adds, “Titan boa, really, Crowley. You can be so dramatic.”

And he turns and paddles toward the shore, leaving Crowley sputtering and speechless in his
wake.