Drowned ratman a/c

The ducks figure it out before anyone else;  they lift off from the lake and fly away in their happy little V as the first drops of rain come down over the park.

Crowley is pressed against Aziraphale’s side in an instant, shuddering like each raindrop is imbued with holiness.  The smattering of other people in the park are all preoccupied with getting out their own umbrellas, so Aziraphale sees little harm in miracle-ing the two of them a big one to share, all printed in Burberry check.

“Let’s move to the Maldives.” Crowley’s nose wrinkles at the puddles forming on the ground, his steps far more brisk and delicate than his usual swagger as they make to leave.  “/Sick/ of this weather.”

Aziraphale has always preferred it a little cooler, but he also quite likes the way Crowley refers to them as a collective more often these days.  Assuming, correctly, that Aziraphale will be by his side.

“The heat would put my skin through the wars, I’m afraid.”  Aziraphale guides Crowley gently, shoulder against shoulder, around the edge of a particularly muddy patch of path.  “I can offer you a cuppa by the fire, if that’d suit.”

“S’pose it’ll have to.”  He watches as Crowley takes his hands from his blazer’s shallow pockets and stuffs them under his arms, hunched over like a corpse.  “Could always burn that Oscar Wilde rubbish if we need more kindling.”

“You never did like him!”  Aziraphale tuts as he weaves through the wrought iron fenceposts that guard the park’s edge.  “He was very friendly.”

Crowley’s skinny hands come out again, bent in mean little air quotes as he mouths /friendly/ with an ugly grimace.  Aziraphale rolls his eyes towards heaven, and then down again, switching the umbrella to his other hand so the one closest to Crowley can reach out and grab those fingers from the air.

They’re as cold and clammy as Aziraphale expected, stiff and then pliant as he tangles their hands together in some approximation of a passably normal grip.  “You really should invest in some decent gloves,” Aziraphale mutters, as if he couldn’t just apparate them.  As if the bookshop and tea and a hearth aren’t less than a minute’s walk ahead of them.

Crowley, for his part, says nothing;  when Aziraphale glances at him next, there’s even a little trace of warmth there on his cheeks.