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The waters off Messina are a deep, dazzling blue. Aziraphale stares at them for a long time after the ships he was supposed to be watching have sailed away. They’d left by first tide. Aziraphale feels the heat of the sun on his wind-whipped tunic and knows it’s not yet noon.
He needs to leave. He’s been standing on this cliff for too long. The humans will notice soon and then he’ll have to —
“Have the great clanking lot of them finally gone, then?”
Aziraphale starts and looks over, a knot loosening in his chest. “Crowley.”
Crowley’s lips quirk in a smile as he joins him on the cliff. “Saw you blessing the fleet,” he says, tucking his hands into the folds of his robe. He’s wearing a knee-length black surcoat hemmed in red and embroidered with a silver snake. A pair of dark glasses sit on his nose. “Suppose your side looped you into this shit-show, too?”
“Yes,” Aziraphale says. He looks back out over the waves. “They’ve said — they’ve claimed —” He breaks off with a choke. “This isn’t what he would have wanted!”
Crowley snorts. “Who? The carpenter’s kid? ’Course not.” He stares out at the horizon. “Not that anyone cares.”
I care, Aziraphale wants to say, but his throat closes over the words. He has his orders. “What have you been sent here to do?”
Crowley shrugs. “Tempt more humans into joining the Crusade, of course.”
“Of course,” Aziraphale echoes. More humans, more blood. Bile rises in his throat. “Has it been hard?”
Crowley makes a face. “Would have been harder to try and convince them to stay home. Sadly, Hell seems to have cottoned on, they’re sending me to England after this. Want me to try and convince Richard to jump in.”
Aziraphale frowns. “The Lionheart?”
Crowley sighs. “Yeah.” He looks at Aziraphale. “What about you?”
Aziraphale feels his stomach drop. He looks back at the sea. “I’m to follow the crusaders.”
“What, east? You’re going to Jerusalem?”
Aziraphale forces himself to nod. “I’ve been assigned to protect the city.” The words taste like ash in his mouth. “Not to deliver it into the hands of one side or the other, of course, but to keep Jerusalem itself in one piece. Apparently the presence of it motivates humans to consider the teachings of God.”
Crowley blows a raspberry. “Right.”
Aziraphale closes his eyes. “Don’t start.”
He can hear the eyebrow Crowley raises. “Start what?”
“You know,” Aziraphale says. He’s tired. So very tired. “I’ve heard it all.”
“Why? Been in the thick of things a while?”
Aziraphale has to nod. “Back and forth since this started.”
Crowley’s voice is careful. “East to west?”
“And back again.” Aziraphale opens his eyes to stare out at the ocean. “Have you been? It’s awful. So much blood, you’d think the desert would be stained red, but it isn’t. They fight and they die, and then nobody wins so they do it again, and again and again. Why?” He turns to Crowley and something cracks inside of him. “Why?”
“Oh, hey, it’s okay,” Crowley says, moving to stand in front of Aziraphale, blocking his view of the sea. “It’s humanity, you can’t stop that.”
Aziraphale’s shoulders begin to shake. “Maybe if I could protect people it wouldn’t be so bad. If Heaven sent me to save someone, guard someone, convince someone to change their mind, at least I could focus, but they won’t! There’s been no, no kindness, no gentleness, no soothing of pain. Instead I have to protect the city and watch more people die!”
“I know,” Crowley says. His voice is low. “It’s the only thing they seem to be good at half the time, finding new ways to kill each other. Don’t need our help at all. But this isn’t the first war we’ve sat through. Not even the first hundred. You’ve watched them do it before.”
“Yes, but this time — ” Aziraphale’s voice catches, “ — this time it feels different.”
“Why?” Crowley asks. He reaches out, almost but not quite touching the white fabric of Aziraphale’s surcoat. “What makes it harder now?”
“I don’t know,” Aziraphale gasps. He wants to lean into that hand, wants to take it and press it to his chest. “Maybe because it’s been going on for so long, or maybe it’s because they’re doing it in Heaven’s name.”
“Or maybe it’s because you haven’t had orders like this in some time,” Crowley suggests quietly. “Not many orders at all lately. Been pretty much on your own for the past two hundred years, haven’t you? And now this.” His voice is careful. “Must have been a shock.”
Aziraphale swallows. Crowley’s right, of course. He’d been left nearly alone since King Arthur had died. It’d been good; too good, probably. He’d done miracles and submitted reports but he hadn’t felt so much like there was someone standing over his shoulder at all times. It had given him space to practice things, time to read, freedom to immerse himself more fully in the wonderful world that humans have created. But now— “Gabriel showed up,” Aziraphale admits quietly. “Just appeared one day. I’d been reading a treatise.” It’d been on sub care, too. He’d been acquiring a sizable collection and organizing it based on how relevant the articles seemed to be to his situation. He’d been enjoyed the paper, a commentary on neediness, until Gabriel’s sudden appearance. He’d startled Aziraphale so badly, he vanished the parchment. He still has no idea where he sent it. “He told me what Heaven wanted me to do.”
“Showing up without warning in your personal space,” Crowley says softly. “Sounds like a jackass thing to do.”
Aziraphale closes his eyes. “He’s my superior.”
“And you don’t like that, do you?” Crowley’s voice is still quiet. It sounds closer than it had before. “That’s why it’s different. Because you’ve been wearing white for over a thousand years now.”
Aziraphale trembles. “I’ve been wearing white for longer than that.”
“Not like this you haven’t.”
Aziraphale’s breath hitches.
“You’ve been enjoying the perks,” Crowley goes on, “but you haven’t seen the downside. Your wearing white, angel, but you’ve got orders to obey, orders you don’t approve of.”
Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say. Crowley’s right, of course he’s right, but — “What do I do, then?” He can’t disobey Gabriel. “I’m an angel, I have to do as I’m told. If I don’t, I’ll— ”
“You won’t,” Crowley growls. Aziraphale’s eyes fly open. Crowley’s standing right in front of him, staring at him, his eyes blazing even behind his smoked glasses. “I won’t let you Fall.”
Aziraphale feels shocked back into the moment. He’s standing on the cliffs of Messina and Crowley is — a demon is — “My dear…”
“You’ve got to learn how to deal with this,” Crowley goes on. His voice is a grind behind his teeth. “If you’re going to wear white, if you’re going to stay on Earth, then you’ve got to figure this out. You have to decide what you want.”
Aziraphale swallows. “I — I don’t — ” He does, though. He knows he has to choose. He closes his eyes. What does he want? It isn’t a real question, of course he already knows. He’s known since he stepped foot in Rome, since he offered Crowley an oyster, since before then, probably. Aziraphale thinks of standing on the wall of Eden and feeling a surge of something as the first rain broke over the world. Protectiveness, longing… and something more. “I want to stay on Earth,” he says finally, opening his eyes and looking at Crowley. “I want to wear white and I don’t want to leave.” I want to stay where you are, he doesn’t add. I want to learn what this means.
“Okay then,” Crowley says. He steps back. There’s a smile tugging at his lips. “Then figure it out.”
Aziraphale smiles back, but then his eyes catch on the sea beyond Crowley. “But how? I’ve been trying to find my footing and I’m only losing ground. If it’s not a problem that’s going to go away then I don’t know what to do.”
“You’ll work through it,” Crowley says. “You’re the smartest person I know.”
Aziraphale sighs. “You’re confidence is encouraging but feels misplaced. This is hardly my area of expertise.” Is there even literature on dom care? He isn’t sure. “Do you have any ideas, my dear?”
Crowley’s expression shutters. “No.”
Aziraphale looks at him curiously. “That’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one.”
Crowley looks away. “”M a demon,” he mutters. “Lying’s what we do.”
Aziraphale feels a flicker of intuition, what humans calls dom-sense. He takes a step towards Crowley and places the tip of one finger against his chin. Ever so gently, he turns Crowley’s gaze back to his. “Perhaps,” he says quietly, “but that is not what you do.”
Crowley sucks in a breath.
“I did not expect this,” Aziraphale says, using his other hand to indicate the cliff, “but you did. You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you? You knew this was coming.”
Crowley presses his lips together. He looks away again. Aziraphale’s dom-sense fractures and he lets him go. He stays close enough that the wind tangles their tunics together, though.
They watch the sea for a moment. Crowley finally speaks, his voice low. “I haven’t had any orders for a while, either. Not real ones. Lots of little things, sheep and vice and the regular line, but that was it.”
Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing.
“But I could feel the Crusades building,” Crowley goes on. “Coming to a boil, right? All that hatred and fury. Knew you’d get sent to the middle of it. Knew you’d hate it, too.”
Ah, Aziraphale thinks. “You worried for me.”
Crowley’s shoulders twitch. “I’ve followed more armies in my time than you have. From the back, that is. Mingled with the commoner’s drafted in and the minor nobility rounded up. All of ‘em were dom’s taken away from the life they knew, from the little piece of Earth they had control over. I’ve seen ‘em crack before. I knew it’d be worse for you.”
“I see,” Aziraphale says. He watches Crowley stare at the sea. “And what did you learn about helping them?”
Crowley grinds his teeth together. “‘Help’ is a four letter word, angel.”
“Of course,” Aziraphale says, unable to resist a smile. “What did you see others do to help, then?”
Crowley’s throat moves. It takes a moment for him to get the words out. “Gave ‘em back some measure of control,” he says finally. “One of the camp followers, usually.”
Aziraphale breathes out carefully. “They found the dom a sub.”
Crowley’s eyes dart toward him and then away. “Yeah,” he says, and swallows again.
Aziraphale feels infinite tenderness well up inside of him. “Oh, my dear.”
Crowley’s expression falls. He looks lost for one heart-breaking moment before his shoulders stiffen and his eyes clench shut. “I’ll find someone for you,” he rasps. “There’s a whole town behind us, they’ll be someone who — ”
“My darling,” Aziraphale interrupts gently. He reaches over with one hand and lays it carefully on the back of Crowley’s elbow. “Why would you think it’d be anyone but you?”
Crowley’s shoulders fall. “Because I can’t, angel.” His voice is like sandpaper. “You need someone who’ll be able to give themselves to you, someone who’ll understand what you need.”
“Who could possibly understand more than you?”
“It doesn’t matter if I’m not free to choose!” Crowley shouts, spinning to face him, shaking off Aziraphale’s touch. “I belong to Hell, angel, not to you. No matter what I — ” He cuts himself off.
Aziraphale reaches over and picks up Crowley’s hands. They’re clenched into fists. He smoothes one gently open and then rubs his fingers down Crowley’s palm. “Sweetheart,” he says. “I don’t need all of you. I want, oh how so badly I want, but I won’t take from you what you aren’t free to give. I wouldn’t.”
Crowley stares at him, looking lost. “What, then? What else could I possibly do that would be enough?”
“Just be yourself,” Aziraphale says. “Not — we wouldn’t have to, not what you’re thinking, but simply — ” He forces himself to stop and work through what he’s trying to say. He knows now what he needs, what it’ll take to fortify him. “Let me bathe you,” he says, his eyes still closed. “Let me wash your feet and braid your hair. Let me massage sweet oils into your skin. You’ll leave me tomorrow smelling of rose oil and mint and Hell will never know, never be able to tell, because I promise you there will be nothing more for them to understand. I swear.”
Crowley frowns. “Bathe me? Angel, how is that — ?”
“It’s what I want,” Aziraphale assures him. “I’ve — ” he blushes “— been doing some reading. Thinking. I would very much like to take care of you, my dear.” He strokes Crowley’s palm. “Let me?”
Crowley swallows. “I’ll give you anything, angel, you know that.”
Aziraphale smiles. “Then give me this.”
“And only this?” Crowley asks. “No matter what I ask? Because I’ll beg you, angel. I can’t promise you that I won’t.” He laughs brokenly. “In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ll promise you that I can.”
Aziraphale feels that infinite well of tenderness again. “I promise,” he says. “That will help me, actually, to have made a promise and kept it.” No matter how much it’ll hurt.
“I can’t — ” Crowley stops and closes his eyes. “I won’t be able to see you for a while, after. Not just to throw Hell off our trail. I won’t be able to — ”
“I understand,” Aziraphale says softly. “It’ll be hard for me, too.” He takes a deep breath in, let’s go of Crowley’s hand, and steps back. “This is all theoretical, anyway. You’ve alerted me to the danger now. I won’t Fall, Crowley. You don’t have to do anything.”
Crowley swallows. “Maybe,” he says. He opens his eyes. “But I want to. Bless it all, angel, but I do.”
Aziraphale aches for him desperately. “In that case,” he says. He offers one hand, palm up. “My sweet Crowley, would you do me the honour of submitting to me this day?”
Crowley sucks in a breath. “Angel,” he breathes. He reaches out with one trembling hand, places it on Aziraphale’s open palm, and then drops to his knees. “I would.” He pauses for a moment before looking up. “Please tell me no one in Hell saw that.”
Aziraphale can’t help but laugh. “Of course not, my dear.” He turns his hand, wrapping it around Crowley’s wrist and tugging him to his feet. “I’ve been practicing. We have eighteen hours, at least.”
“How did you manage that?” Crowley asks. He leaves his wrist in Aziraphale’s hand and lets Aziraphale lead them down the cliff.
Aziraphale turns to him with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ve been doing quite a lot of reading since Rome. Did you know that humans have this idea of shades? Ghostly versions of people they knew walking around the world.”
Crowley chuckles. “So you miracle’d up some versions of us? What are they doing, angel?”
“Oh arguing quite violently,” Aziraphale says happily. “It’s sufficiently realistic to etherial and occult scrying, let me tell you. I’ve done minor versions of it before.”
“And it’ll work?” Crowley asks. There’s a real question in his voice.
“For at least eighteen hours,” Aziraphale promises. He’d struggled with the morality of it for sometime but decided that, should he ever be blessed with the opportunity again, protecting Crowley counted as an act of love. Heaven might not understand dynamic but humans did and Aziraphale thought, sometimes more loudly than others, that humans were often closer to God than Heaven was. “Maybe longer, but I wouldn’t want to risk it.”
“’Course not,” Crowley says. There’s a smile hidden behind his lips.
Aziraphale grins at him and then turns back to the path. They’ve almost reached the road. When they do, Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand and tucks it into the crook of his right arm, leaving his left hand on Crowley’s wrist. It’s the traditional pose of a courting couple and it earns them a few smiles from the handful of people walking near the edge of town. More importantly, it makes Crowley blush. “This way my dear. I’ve rented a house just up the road.”
“Okay,” Crowley says, his voice strangled. He seems to struggle to keep up despite his long legs.
The walk isn’t long. The villa Aziraphale has been renting on and off for the past fifty years is a long one story building. It has a large kitchen, a separate room for bathing, and a terrace on the roof. He has two servants he keeps full time and a collared sub he pays to do his laundry. His steward Maria meets him at the door when they arrive. Her brown eyes widen when she takes in Crowley, his hand still tucked securely into Aziraphale’s arm. “Signore Aziraphale,” she says, “I am glad you’ve finally come down from the cliffs. It is time for lunch. I have set out fresh bread and olives.” She glances at Crowley. “But perhaps there is something else you would enjoy?”
“Bread sounds lovely, Maria,” Aziraphale says with a smile. “We would like some wine, as well. Please ask Domani to ready the bathing room. I’d also like a basin filled with hot water set by the blue chair and four of our freshest towels.”
“Of course,” Maria says. “Should I fetch oil and lavender?”
“Yes, thank you, and some of that chamomile-scented cream Francesa makes.”
“As you wish, signore,” Maria says. She bows low and steps away. “Consider it done.”
Aziraphale smiles at her and turns to Crowley. “Does that sound good to you?”
“Lovely,” Crowley says. It sounds achingly honest, but there’s a tension hidden behind his face. “Do you, uh, do this kind of thing often, then?”
Aziraphale can feel his smile turn tender. “No, darling, but like I said, I’ve had quite a long time to think about it.”
Crowley laughs softly. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess you did.”
Aziraphale tugs on his arm. “Come.”
They sit at the table in the kitchen. It’s a long, wooden thing, used by Aziraphale when he’s in residence and by the servants when he’s not. Aziraphale seats Crowley beside him and looks over the spread. He hasn’t been hungry in over fifty years but it would be rude not to eat what Maria’s laid out and, besides, he remembers how much he enjoyed feeding Crowley.
“Olive, my dear?” he asks.
His demon swallows. “Yes, please.”
Aziraphale smiles and holds one out. Crowley shudders and opens his mouth, taking the olive in his teeth before biting down. His eyes close birefly behind his glasses as he savours the salty taste. Aziraphale aches to take the glasses off, but the servants are still milling around. He’ll have to wait.
He doesn’t drag out the olives the way he had the oysters. He eats only a few himself. He does break off several chunks of bread and dips one in oil and vinegar for Crowley. Finally he hears the creak of the floor off to their left and knows the bathing room is ready. A moment later Maria returns and bows again. “Domani has finished Signore.”
“Thank you, Maria,” Aziraphale says. He put down his food and turns to Crowley. “Shall we?”
“If you still want to,” Crowley says quietly. He’s trembling slightly.
“Oh, my dear boy,” Aziraphale says. He holds out his hand. “I do. Let me show you how much.”
Crowley swallows and takes his hand. He climbs to his feet. He stumbles once, his knees not quite able to hold him, but Aziraphale gets a hand under his arm in time. Working together they manage to cross the kitchen and walk down the hall. There’s a screen set up in the doorway of the bathing room for privacy. Aziraphale pushes it aside and inhales. The clean smell of steam, hot oil, and lavender envelops him. “Excellent.”
He helps Crowley into the room. The bathing room has been tiled. There’s a comfortable blue chaise sitting beneath a south facing window that Aziraphale freely admits he bought because thought Crowley would look wonderful sprawled across it. Beneath the chaise is a bowl of hot, steaming water with a pile of luxuriously soft hand towels folded beside it, on which Domani has placed a sprig of fresh mint. In the middle of the room sits a large copper tub. It’s resting on a raised section of floor beneath which runs copper tubing carrying the heat from the oven. Aziraphale has not been able to quite replicate the experience of going to the Roman baths, but he’s tried.
Domani has laid more towels on the floor beside the bath. There’s also a bowl of mint, another pile of lavender, and two bottles of scented oil. Aziraphale lets go of one of Crowley’s hands to turn and pull the screen closed. “There,” he says, and turns back to his demon. “What do you think?”
“It looks… nice,” Crowley says. He sounds uncertain. “What do you want me to do?”
“Do?” Aziraphale asks lightly. “Nothing. Simply allow me to enjoy you, darling.”
Crowley swallows. “Um.”
Aziraphale smiles. “Here.” He takes Crowley’s hand again and leads him to the blue chaise. He looks as lovely sitting on it as Aziraphale had hoped he would. “There,” Aziraphale says. He kneels on the floor beside the chaise. “You look wonderful, darling.”
“I, ah.” Crowley says. “This isn’t — angel — I’m the one who should be on my knees.”
“As lovely a picture as that would make,” Aziraphale says lightly, “it would be difficult for me to wash your feet from there.”
Crowley looks uncomfortable. “Yeah, I guess, but — ”
“Darling,” Aziraphale says. He looks up at Crowley. “Do you trust me?”
Crowley swallows. “You know I do.”
“Then submit to me.” Aziraphale puts one hand on Crowley’s ankle. “Please?”
Crowley’s breath has turned ragged. “Okay.”
Aziraphale smiles. “Thank you, my dear.” He closes his eyes for a moment and inhales, reaching for his dom-sense. He’d felt it before, standing on the cliffs, but it’s always been a nebulous thing, something he’s felt a handful of times around Crowley and then chased through books for almost a thousand years. It comes to him slowly, like a drop that expands into a shaky pool somewhere in the centre of his being. Having Crowley near helps. Having his hands on him is better. Aziraphale opens his eyes and exhales, looking up at his demon. Crowley is staring at him, his expression unreadable from behind the safety of his glasses. Aziraphale smiles. He knows where he needs to start.
“Darling,” he says. “I’d like you to take your glasses off now.”
“Uh,” Crowley says. His voice wavers. “Sure.” His hand shakes as he reaches up to pull off the frames. His eyes behind them are tense. “Is that better?”
Aziraphale looks up into Crowley’s wonderful eyes. “Yes, dear,” he breathes. He holds out his hand and smiles when Crowley’s places the glasses in his palm. “Thank you.” Crowley’s hand starts to withdraw but Aziraphale catches it with his fingers. He squeezes Crowley lightly and then turns his hand so it’s sitting palm up. Gently, Aziraphale strokes his thumb across Crowley’s wrist. “How are you feeling right now?”
“Um,” Crowley says. “Okay, I guess. Not really sure what I’m doing.”
“I know,” Aziraphale says. He pulls Crowley’s hand to his lips and kisses his wrist before letting him go. He sits back on the floor. “Would you like me to explain as we go?”
Crowley’s eyes are wide, the yellow having almost taken over his gaze. “N-no. You can do what you like. I trust you.”
Aziraphale feels some wall he hadn’t known he’d created crumble to dust at his feet. “Oh,” he exhales shakily. “Thank you, sweetheart.” He pauses a moment to feel for his dom-sense. It’s so much stronger now. He puts out a hand. “I’ll take your right foot, please.”
Crowley nods and lifts his right foot. Aziraphale takes it carefully. Crowley’s wearing black boots that come up to his knees. Except for the colour, they’re very in fashion, though the shock of red lace that tightens at the back is purely him. Aziraphale undoes the knot carefully. It’s hellishly tight, literally so, by the way Crowley blushes.
“Sorry,” he mutters, sounding embarrassed. “I usually just miracle ‘em off myself.”
“No miracles today,” Aziraphale says. “It would draw attention away from our ghostly counterparts.”
“Right,” Crowley says. He’s gone tense again, but Aziraphale finally manages to get the knot undone. He loosens the lacing and slips the boot off. Underneath Crowley is wearing a set of simple black hose socks. The sight makes Aziraphale smile. It’s a wonderful sort of casual intimacy, to be holding Crowley’s foot in simple socks. He slides his hand down the arch of Crowley’s foot and his demon gasps.
“Well, that’s a lovely sound,” Aziraphale says, looking up. “Are you ticklish?”
“No,” Crowley growls, and then jerks when Aziraphale runs his fingers lightly along the bottom of his heel.
Aziraphale laughs. “Don’t lie to me, darling.” He settles Crowley by running his hand along the top of his foot with easy, firm pressure. “Do you enjoy being tickled?”
Crowley looks away. The hunch of his shoulders has gone uncomfortable.
Aziraphale strokes the top of his foot soothingly. “Do you?”
Crowley glances back at him. Whatever he sees makes him untense slightly. “Not particularly,” he admits.
Aziraphale smiles. “Thank you for telling me.” He lifts Crowley’s foot to his lips and kisses his sock-covered toes.
Crowley blushes. It’s an endearing, blotchy rash that spreads across his cheeks. “Angel,” he says with a squirm. “Don’t do that. It’s dirty.”
“Hardly,” Aziraphale says, and kisses his toes once more. “It’s not like you sweat, my darling.”
“Yeah, but,” Crowley mumbles. “The street. The dust.”
“Another reason to wash them, then,” Aziraphale says lightly, “aside from the fact that it feels nice. Let’s get your socks off, my dear.”
Crowley’s toes curl. He looks uncomfortable. “Wait,” he says, and Aziraphale pauses instantly. “No, sorry, not like that,” Crowley says quickly. “It’s just, my feet. They’re not, er, like yours.”
Aziraphale frowns. “I know that, sweetheart. I’ve seen them before. It took quite a long time for even sandals to be invented, you remember.”
“Yeah, but it’s different up close,” Crowley mumbles. “Just don’t, like, freak out or anything.”
Aziraphale runs his hand down the top of Crowley’s foot. “I would never,” he promises, and holds Crowley’s heel carefully as he peels back his sock. When it’s off, he gasps. “Oh, Crowley.”
Crowley’s foot is beautiful. His soles are covered in scales. They are smooth and perfectly formed, black edging to the colour of the human skin that he’s chosen. Aziraphale traces the texture of them with the pad of his thumb, marveling at the way they wrap around the curve of his instep and curl up the sides of his toes, changing ever so slowly away from scales. Above his toes his nails are black, just as Aziraphale had remembered, but this close they look thick and glem with a mirrored shine, almost like obsidian. “You’re gorgeous.”
Crowley’s foot twitches. “Am not.”
“You most certainly are,” Aziraphale says, and can’t resist kissing his foot again. “Oh, I’m going to be so good to you. Let’s get the other foot, then.”
The second boot comes off much easier than the first. Aziraphale takes his time unwrapping it as well, making sure to use firm pressure as he runs his palm up Crowley’s heel. The socks he folds into a small pile beside the chaise. “There, darling,” Aziraphale says. “Now we’ve got some lovely hot water here. I’m going to scent it with mint and then put your feet in. Does that sound nice?”
“Yeah,” Crowley admits. “It does.”
“Good.”
Aziraphale takes the basin of water from where Domini has placed it. He crushes some of the mint into it and checks the temperature with a hastily withdrawn finger. “Oh yes, it’s still hot.”
Crowley’s toes wiggle. “I like hot,” he says with a grin.
Aziraphale chuckles, the first time he has in far too long. “Of course you do.” He picks up Crowley’s feet and lowers them carefully into the water.
Crowley hisses. “Fuck, that is hot.”
Aziraphale grins. “Too much?”
Crowley glares down at him. There’s a smile tucked into the corners of his mouth. “No, just surprised me, is all.” He stretches his toes in the water. “Mm, that feels good, actually.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Aziraphale murmurs. He places one of the towels across his lap and reaches for the bottle of oil Domani has placed beside the chaise. “I’ll take one foot back now, please.”
Crowley pouts. “But angel…”
Aziraphale raises one hand and holds it out. “Now, Crowley.”
Crowley swallows. “Okay.” He raises one foot out of the steaming water and offers it to Aziraphale. Aziraphale can feel the pool of knowledge that is his dom-sense deepen as he takes it. He smiles at how warm Crowley’s skin is now.
“Beautiful,” he says again, because he wants to and because it’s still true. He runs a hand over Crowley’s foot and lays it on the towel he has draped over his lap. The towel is very soft, the nicest Aziraphale owns, and Aziraphale has to admit that he likes nice things. He uses the towel to wash Crowley’s foot, removing all of the dust and dirt off the street as he does.
There’s a small jar of oil next to the towels. Aziraphale lays Crowley’s foot back in his lap and picks up the jar. It smells sweetly of cloves. He pours a little of the oil into his palms and rubs them together. Picking up Crowley’s foot he smoothes the oil over his scales.
“Oh, G— Sa — Aziraphale,” Crowley moans.
Aziraphale smiles. “Do you like that, my dear?”
“Yesss,” Crowley hisses softly. His shoulders have relaxed again.
Aziraphale hums in pleasure and presses his thumbs into the arch of Crowley’s foot. He hasn’t studied the art of massage in itself, but he has enjoyed enough of them over the years to learn the basics. Crowley slumps into the chaise as Aziraphale works, the arc of his spine going liquid as the oil is put to service. Aziraphale enjoys himself immensely. Putting his hands on Crowley skin, eliciting those soft moans of pleasure, rubbing oil into his smooth dry scales, all feels directly wired to his dom-sense. When the first foot is done, Crowley isn’t the only one who’s spine has relaxed.
“I’m putting this foot back now,” Aziraphale says softly, matching words to action and slipping Crowley’s well-oiled foot back into the basin. The water is still hot, not as piping as it had been, but warm enough. “Second foot now, please.”
“Mmm,” Crowley says, lifting his left foot out of the basin and placing it into Azirphale’s hands without ever opening his eyes. Aziraphale hadn’t noticed when they’d drifted shut. “Anything you want, angel.”
Aziraphale chuckles. “Darling,” he says, and uses the now damp towel to dry Crowley’s foot. He pours out another palmful of oil, and savours Crowley’s groan when he begins to rub it into his skin. “You’re so good to me.”
“Pretty sure that’s my line,” Crowley murmurs sleepily.
“And yet you’re the one who knew to come looking for me,” Aziraphale says. “You’re the one who submitted himself to my care.” He digs his thumbs into Crowley’s arches and takes Crowley’s groan as though it were an offering. It is. “If you weren’t here, I’d probably still be on the cliffs, staring out into the sea.”
Crowley squirms. He’s never done well with praise, but he’s trapped now, toes held firm between Aziraphale’s hands. “‘S nothing,” he tries. “You would have done the same.”
Aziraphale thinks of the books he’s acquired, like Sub Care and Keeping, and knows that he’s right. “Yes,” he says, “though I’m rarely so good at finding you when you’re in trouble.”
“Ah well,” Crowley says, pausing to hiss as Aziraphale massages oil into his heel, “it’s a gift.”
“It very much is,” Aziraphale agrees, and lifts Crowley’s foot to kiss his toes again. “Thank you, my dear.”
Crowley huffs out a laugh and wiggles his toes. “You’re thanking me plenty, angel.”
Aziraphale smiles. He refocuses his attention on Crowley’s foot. When the oil level in the jar has decreased and Crowley’s scales are as shiny as his skin is warm, he gives his toes one last squeeze and then replaces his foot in the basin. Shifting back onto his heels, Aziraphale looks up at his demon.
“I’m going to crush some rose petals for the bath now, darling, and add a few oils and things. Would you like me to get Domani to help you out of your clothes? He’s young sub, nine or ten or so, and won’t speak to anyone about your eyes. Or would you rather I assist you?”
Crowley looks nervous. “Um,” he says, looking down from the chaise.
Aziraphale keeps his hands on his knees and meets his eyes. “It’s whatever is your preference, darling.”
Crowley bites his bottom lip. “I’d prefer you,” he admits, “but I don’t want to — I mean, you know that I can’t — ”
Aziraphale smiles up at him. “I promised you, Crowley. I’ll keep my word.”
“I know you will,” he says, achingly honest. “I’m just wondering how much it’ll hurt in the morning when you do.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale says, heartbroken. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry.”
“No, no,” Crowley says. “I made my choice. Besides,” he says, his voice stronger, “I’d rather have this and the memory then not.”
Aziraphale stares up at him. “Yes, darling,” he says. “Me, too.”
“Okay then,” Crowley says. He shoots Aziraphale a watery smile. “So, you?”
“Of course,” Aziraphale says. He takes an unnecessary breath before shifting to his knees. “I’ll take your belt off first.”
Crowley exhales shakily. “Uh, yeah. Right.”
Aziraphale smiles up at him and reaches for his belt. It’s black leather with a silver clasp, something almost serpentine about the linked metal. It’s easy to undo. The belt is only there to keep the surcoat from flying off, after all, though knights tend to buckle their sword’s to theirs. “There we go,” he says when it’s off. He coils the belt in his lap, wrapping it carefully before laying it off to one side. “I’ll take your surcoat now.”
“Okay,” Crowley says. He’s gone tense again.
Aziraphale leans back before rising to his feet. “Shh,” he says, reaching forward and pressing a hand to Crowley’s shoulder. “It’s okay.” He continues to push firmly as he walks around Crowley to the rear of the chaise, raising his other hand and pressing with just as much strength into Crowley’s other shoulder. “It’s just me.”
Crowley nods and relaxes slightly. Aziraphale waits until Crowley has released what tension it seems he can and then he walks his hands up Crowley’s shoulders to the back of his neck. “Such lovely fabric,” he says, pressing his thumbs into the space behind Crowley’s ears. He still has a little of the oil from the jar left on his hands. “Did you miracle it into being?”
“Uh, yeah,” Crowley admits, relaxing a little more. He lets his head drop forward. “You know me.”
“I do,” Aziraphale agrees, massaging his way down Crowley’s neck. Crowley has always hated the idea of tailoring. Aziraphale’s pretty sure it’s the notion of anyone — even a human — getting close enough to slip a knife between his ribs. It makes how comfortable he is with Aziraphale at his back even more astonishing. “I love the design.”
Crowley chuckles weakly. “What, a snake? Took a lot of original thought, that.”
“You,” Aziraphale says, pulling one of Crowley’s ears. “I mean that it’s very nicely done. I like the silver against the black, and the stitching here along the sides.” He trails a hand across the delicate silver threading across Crowley’s shoulders. Miracling clothing isn’t as easy as Crowley always makes it seem, they have to know what they want quite precisely to make sure the contraption they end up with isn’t accidentally full of holes. “I can do little more than a white sheet myself, and even that is usually two sizes too big.”
Crowley shivers. Aziraphale isn’t sure if it’s the subject matter or because Aziraphale’s fingers are back to kneading the top of Crowley’s spine. Probably both. “I liked that white sheet, angel. Got fond memories of it, I do.”
Aziraphale chuckles. “I’m sure you do, my boy.” He presses his hands once again against Crowley’s shoulders, and then sighs. “Time to take this off. Arms up, please. Lift them both.”
Crowley grumbles slightly but does as he’s told. Aziraphale tugs the surcoat up and over his head. “There we go,” he says. Underneath Crowley is wearing a long, black, full sleeved shirt that’s being held together by tiny red stitches, once again too neat to have been done by human hands. The shirt itself is wonderfully soft and Aziraphale makes a note to remember that, that Crowley prefers things against his skin be comfortable. “This will need to come off, too,” Aziraphale says quietly. “I don’t want you to get cold, though, so I’ll take one of the towels and I’ll wrap it around you while we finish getting you undressed. After that we’ll slip you into the tub, so even if you do start to get cold, it shouldn’t last.”
“Okay,” Crowley says. He tips his head back, looking up into Aziraphale’s eyes. “I trust you.”
Aziraphale has to close his eyes against the pleased, happy shudder that runs through him. “Thank you, my dear. Give me a moment.” He walks around the chaise and picks up the largest and fluffiest of the towels. Then he moves to stand in front of Crowley and breathes carefully in and out through his mouth before tapping Crowley’s arms. “Up now.”
Crowley raises his hands and Aziraphale slips the long sleeved shirt up and over his head. Moving quickly, wraps the towel around his shoulders.
“That’s good,” Aziraphale says, rubbing Crowley’s arms briskly through the fabric. “Not long now.” He steps back to fold the shirt and surcoat and lay them off to one side. Then he goes back to the edge of the chaise and folds himself onto his knees. “You’ll need to stand up for this next bit, so I’m taking your feet out of the basin.” He doesn’t give Crowley time to reply, just lifts his feet up and out of the cooling water. He dries them quickly and then spreads the towel on the floor. “Stand here, please.” Aziraphale reaches for a second towel and holds it up open at waist height. “Stand up. Slide your hose down your waist.”
Crowley blushes slightly but does as he’s told. Aziraphale can’t see his hands behind the towel, but from the rustle of fabric he knows what Crowley’s doing. He’s sliding the black hose down his hips.
It’s a real effort to keep his breathing even. Aziraphale hasn’t felt anything approaching lust in centuries, but the knowledge that only a sheet away Crowley is stripping bare makes something warm, hot, and hungry wake inside his chest. The promise he made to Crowley is crystallized in his mind, though. Aziraphale holds onto it as black fabric slides down Crowley’s shins. Just as he’d promised, it helps. Aziraphale feels a stronger sense of assurance as Crowley sits back down on the chaise.
“Thanks,” Crowley says, avoiding Aziraphale’s eyes and looking flushed. “Um, but I need to...” He tips his chin towards the floor, looking at his calves. The hose is still clinging to them. Aziraphale assumes he usually miracles it off along with the rest of his clothes.
“Let me, my dear,” Aziraphale says, leaning forward to tuck the towel around Crowley’s waist. “There,” he says, sitting back on his heels again. “Are you warm enough for a tick?”
Crowley, always so consummately fashionable, looks nothing so much like a fleeced duck sitting on Aziraphale’s blue couch with a towel around his shoulders and another over his lap. He gives Aziraphale a crooked smile. “For now, I am.”
“Won’t be long,” Aziraphale promises. He turns his attention back to Crowley’s legs. “Beautiful,” he hums, running his hands up Crowley’s right shin. He doesn’t let his hands go above the knee, only grasps the bunched fabric and inches it down Crowley’s leg.
“Oh,” Crowley says, his eyes wide, his entire attention focused on Aziraphale’s hands on his skin.
“Sweetheart,” Aziraphale says, bending forward to press a kiss into the dimple on the inside of Crowley’s knee. “There we go.” He slides the fabric past Crowley’s heel, slipping it easily off his oiled foot. “Now the second one.”
Too soon Crowley is naked, wrapped in nothing but Aziraphale’s towels, shivering slightly on his chaise. “Up now,” Aziraphale says, his voice soft. “Up and into the bath.”
Crowley looks dizzy, halfway down into his head already, his eyes wide and yellow and perfect. He manages to nod, though, and after a brief wobble stands up. Aziraphale holds the towel carefully, preserving Crowley’s modesty as he helps him walk the five steps it takes to reach the bath.
The heat from the oven has kept the copper tub warm. Aziraphale checks the temperature with two fingers before helping Crowley in. “One leg,” he says softly. “Then the other.”
Crowley hisses as his toes touch the water. “Oh,” he says. “That feelsss good.”
“I’m glad,” Aziraphale murmurs as he carefully removes the towel from around Crowley’s waist. He holds it up and looks away as Crowley sinks into the tub, grimacing when he notices that Crowley’s knees are still poking up out of the water. “Oh, I’m sorry, my dearest, I couldn’t get a tub larger than this. I should have miracled one earlier.”
“Sss fine,” Crowley says stretching as far as he can. It isn’t much. He seems more focused on Aziraphale, though, cocking his head curiously. “You wouldn’t fit in here either, angel. You didn’t make it bigger for yourself?”
It’s Aziraphale’s turn to blush and look away. He reaches down to grasp the copper dipper lying on a towel beside the tub. “I haven’t used it yet.”
Crowley blinks. “You haven’t?”
Aziraphale shakes his head. “I rented the house and set it up, but then I didn’t… ” His words fall to pieces in his throat. He has to swallow them and start again. “I didn’t want to. It didn’t seem to have a point.”
Crowley looks sad. “Oh, angel.”
Aziraphale sighs. “Yes, well. I did say your timing was impeccable, my dear.”
“I’m beginning to think it wasn’t soon enough,” Crowley murmurs. He looks over and quirks a smile. “You should take a nice long soak tomorrow.” He leans back and rests his head on the edge of the tub. “It’s nice. Feels good.”
Aziraphale can’t resist smiling back. “Maybe I will.” He folds the towel that had been under the dipper and gestures to Crowley’s neck. “Here, let me, my dear.” He wedges the towel under Crowley’s head. “Better?”
“Mmm,” Crowley agrees. His eyes drift shut.
“That’s it, just relax,” Aziraphale murmurs. “Let me keep you warm.” He picks up the dipper and scoops water from the tub, pouring it gently over Crowley’s knees. “How’s that?”
“Nice,” Crowley murmurs. “”Ss hot.”
“Yes, that is the idea,” Aziraphale says, charmed. His demon has never been easily impressed, finding things he’ll enjoy — and admit to enjoying — is far from a simple task. He had enjoyed himself immensely the day they’d taken off and gone to the Roman Baths together, though. Aziraphale’s glad. He’d never have thought of this otherwise. “Let me know if you get overheated. I have some cold tea set aside.”
Crowley smiles. “‘Course you do.”
Aziraphale chuckles and fetches a stool — with his hands, not a miracle — and sets it at Crowley’s side. “I’m going to ask for your hand now,” he says, picking up a towel and laying it across his lap. He checks to make sure the second bottle of oil is close at hand. “Your right, please.”
Crowley makes a face but slips his arm out of the water and gives it to Aziraphale. Aziraphale dries it lightly on the towel in his lap and then pours some of the oil into his palms. Taking Crowley’s hand, he begins to massage the oil into his skin. Crowley hisses in pleasure. “That’sss good.”
“I’m glad,” Aziraphale says. He keeps massaging. “Just relax, darling. Let me take care of everything.”
Crowley sighs and settles more fully against the back of the tub. “Okay, but you’re going to spoil me.”
“That’s the idea,” Aziraphale says lightly. His shoulders had tensed at some point but they feel relaxed now. It’s so wonderfully good to take care of Crowley in this way, to look after him. “You simply lay there and enjoy it, my dear. That’s your only job right now.”
Crowley’s eyes drift close. “Whatever you say, angel.”
The words spark a thrill of possession that runs up Aziraphale’s spine. His hands tighten instinctively. “Yes. Whatever I say.”
Crowley cracks one eye open to look at him. There’s an ocean of meaning in that look, leagues of yours and yes and what might be always. Aziraphale has to drag Crowley’s fingers to his lips and kiss them, and it’s a superhuman effort to keep the gesture chaste. He manages, though. After a moment, he lays Crowley’s hand back in his lap and starts to work on it.
He takes his time. Aziraphale first massages Crowley’s palm, working the oil into every line, and then starts on his fingers, reaching every knuckle and fold of skin. There are small scales hidden here, too, in the dip of Crowley’s palm and the corner of his nails. Aziraphale ensures that every one is smooth and oiled before he moves onto Crowley’s wrist. Such a sight, delicate thing. He handles it carefully and works his way up to Crowley’s elbow. As he goes he smoothes away every knot and feels Crowley relax completely under his hand. It’s intoxicating.
When Crowley’s right arm is warm and pliant, he replaces it in the water and moves quietly to Crowley’s other side. He takes just as much time with his left, starting with his palm and working his way to his fingers, paying attention to every knuckle, knot, and knob. Crowley’s wrist and arm are already relaxed by the time Aziraphale gets to them, but he doesn’t rush, smoothing more oil over his skin. He’s completely lost track of time by the time he reaches Crowley’s elbow. He only knows that the level of light in the room has changed, the water is still warm, and Crowley is still and perfect under his hands.
Eventually he has to admit that he’s done. Crowley looks peaceful, completely boneless in the water and more than half asleep. Aziraphel take a moment to assess his own corporation and realizes that he feels good. There was a tight spot between his shoulder blades he hadn’t even realized had been paining him until it had eased. More than that, he feels Good, as though he’s been acting according to his nature for the first time in hundreds of years. Long before he was a warrior and gifted with a flaming sword he’d been created as a being of love. His purpose had been to spread peace and joy. Looking at Crowley dozing in the tub, he feels as though he’s accomplished at least a fraction of that today.
Fortunately there’s still more to do. Aziraphale leans in. “Crowley,” he says softly, not wishing to startle him. “Darling. I’d like to wash your hair now. Is that okay?”
“Mmm,” Crowley mumbles. He blinks open his eyes, focuses on Aziraphale, and then closes them again. “”S okay.”
“Thank you,” Aziraphale says with a smile. He stands and moves to Crowley’s back, taking his stool with him. Putting one hand on Crowley’s warm, steam-wet shoulder, he pushes gently until Crowley grumbles and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Beautiful,” Aziraphale can’t help but murmur, and then catches his breath when Crowley hums and bends his head. His hair falls forward, exposing his neck, and a lump forms in Aziraphale’s throat at the sight of Crowley’s trust.
“Sweetheart,” Aziraphale breathes, brushing the last damp strands of hair from Crowley’s neck. His hair hangs just past his shoulders, long enough to tie into a simple cue. It’s probably the style, Crowley is always so good at blending in. For his part, Aziraphale’s glad it’s at least that long. He loves Crowley’s hair. He’s wanted to run his fingers through it since — since — since the Garden, most likely.
Crowley turns his head to lay it on his knees. “Hey,” he murmurs. “Okay there, angel?”
“Yes, my dear,” Aziraphale promises him. He shakes himself and picks up the dipper, pouring water over Crowley’s back and shoulders. “I’m going to wet your hair now. Hold your breath a moment.” He scoops water up and pours it carefully over Crowley’s gently curling locks. The water catches on some hairs and cascades off others. Aziraphale smiles and repeats the process, enjoying the way the warm water turns Crowley’s vibrant locks a deeper, darker red. “Once more, there you go.” Finally — finally — it’s his turn to touch. Reaching forward, Aziraphale flexes his hands once, twice, and then touches the tips of his fingers to Crowley’s hair. “Oh,” he breaths.”
Crowley shivers. “Angel.”
“Yes, my darling,” Aziraphale promises. He takes a deeper handful of hair. “There you go.” He flexes again, working the water through the strands, using the dipper as needed, until all of Crowley’s hair is fully wet. Then, just because he can, he rubs circles into Crowley’s scalp, enjoying the feel of him warm and pliant beneath his hand.
Crowley is moaning low in his throat. “Nnnnnugh. Angel. Aziraphale. Please.”
“Shh,” Aziraphale soothes. He takes one hand away. Keeping the other firm on the back of Crowley’s neck, Aziraphale reaches for the bottle of Aleppo soap. The olive oil, sweet bay oil, water, and lye combination makes for a wonderful shampoo. “I’m going to wash your hair now.” He pours some of the soap into his hands. Rubbing the together, Aziraphale leans forward and digs his fingers deeper into Crowley’s hair.
He’s not sure which of them moans louder. Crowley presses his head up into Aziraphale’s hands and Aziraphale pushes firmly down. “Angel,” Crowley gasps. He sounds wrecked.
“Darling,” Aziraphale echoes. He know he sounds nearly as bad. He scratches lightly with his fingers. The shampoo creates a gentle lather. Aziraphale pours a little more on his hands and takes his time, working first behind Crowley’s ears, then behind his head, over his crown and to the tops of his eyebrows. It feels amazing.
Crowley’s breath catches at every motion Aziraphale makes. When Aziraphale digs his thumbs into the back of his neck, he groans. When he scratches his nails down Crowley’s scalp, he gasps. Aziraphale takes in every sound and hoards it, keeping it close, memorizing the cadence and rhythm of it. He needs this. He’ll need this. He’ll crave this always.
He’s not sure he hasn’t made a horrible mistake. Is it possible to only do this once? It’s going to hurt so very much to let Crowley go. But he also knows that Crowley is right, he’d rather have this, and the memories of this, then have never have had it at all.
And he does feel better. So, so much better.
Finally the lather turns grey. Aziraphale reluctantly draws his hands away and rinses them in the bath. He reaches for the dipper and warns Crowley with a hand on the back of his neck. “Close your eyes again, dear.”
He does. Aziraphale ladles water over his head until his hair rinses clean. Feeling indulgent, he reaches for the soap again.
Crowley doesn’t say anything, just groans when Aziraphale’s fingers dig back into his hair. This time the lather stays fresh and Aziraphale knows all the dirt is gone. He rinses Crowley again and then reaches for the other bottle Domani has left by the bath. It’s sweet clove oil. Aziraphale pours a little into his hand and then cards his fingers gently through Crowley’s hair.
“Mm,” Crowley says, letting his head hang back again. His tongue darts out to taste the air. “Gonna make me all pretty, angel?”
Aziraphale smiles. “You’re always pretty.” He soothes away a tangle. “It’s not too strong for you?”
Crowley shakes his head, gently, careful not to disturb Aziraphale’s hands. “No.”
Aziraphale nods. When all the major knots in Crowley’s hair have been dealt with he reaches for a comb. He has several, most wide-toothed wooden things designed for curly hair, but this one is special. This one is narrow and even and carved from bone. He’d always thought it’d card wonderfully through Crowley’s hair.
It does. Aziraphale catches his breath as the beautiful white comb slides effortlessly through the red, wet, oiled locks. It thrills him, another squeeze of possessiveness, to use this instrument he’d bought years ago for its purpose at last. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathes.
Crowley smiles and tips his head back. “All for you tonight, angel.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale says, running the comb again through his hair. “All for me.”
They sit together in silence, the steam from the floor and the gentle sounds of water from the tub the only sounds in the room. Aziraphale isn’t sure he’s even breathing. He brushes Crowley’s hair until it’s nearly dry, the comb lifting and falling, lifting and falling, in a hypnotic sway that whiles the time away. The light level changes again, eventually enough that Aziraphale realizes it’s getting dark outside. Finally, reluctantly, he leans back. Despite the work of the furnace, he knows the bath must be getting cold.
“Up, my dear,” he says to Crowley, reaching for a towel. “Let’s get you out.”
Crowley’s expression turns mullish. He drops his chin into the bath. “I don’t wanna.”
Aziraphale has to laugh at the site of him, a wet soggy demon in a copper tub. “Yes you do, up now. I’m going to rub more oil into your skin.”
“Oh, well,” Crowley says, sitting up quickly. “When you put it that way.”
Aziraphale grins and holds the last towel ready. Crowley stands in the tub and let’s Aziraphale dry him, holding still while Aziraphale is careful about his waist. He works quickly, not wanting Crowley to get cold, and finally wraps him in the towel and helps him out of the tub. “This way, my dear,” he says when Crowley has both feet on the floor. “We’re going to walk across the hall.”
It’s not quite fully dark outside but the candles have been lit. Aziraphale is glad for Maria’s competence and quietness as he leads Crowley across the hall. The next room is his bedroom. He hardly uses it, and never for sleeping, but it’s a comfortable room — the wind off the sea keeps it cool in the summer, and a grate by the wall adds warmth in what winter Messina gets. It’s never really cold here, not by northern standards, but Aziraphale is glad that Maria lit the fire anyway. The last thing he wants is Crowley getting cold.
“On the bed now,” Aziraphale says. “Keep your towel. Lay on your front, please.”
Crowley looks at the bed and swallows. “Angel,” he says, low.
It’s a quiet, needy sound. Aziraphale holds his promise in his mind like a talisman. “Now, Crowley,” he says firmly. Crowley shivers but does as he’s told. Aziraphale allows himself a smile. “Very good, sweetheart. You’re being so good for me.”
Crowley shivers again. He clutches at his towel and goes on his knees on the bed. “Azira— ”
“Shh,” Aziraphale gentles. He puts one hand on Crowley’s back, in the space between his shoulder blades, where his wings are hidden from view. “Lie down. It’s okay. I’m here.” He presses him gently down. “You can do it. There you go.”
More oil has been set by a warmer dish near the fire. Aziraphale walks back for it, picks it up, and carries it to the foot of the bed. He picks up the stool by the window and sets it by Crowley’s right leg. “I’ve already done your feet, my dear, so I’ll do the rest of your leg now. Just lay there and relax. I’ll take care of everything.”
“Aziraphale,” Crowley starts, but cuts himself off when Aziraphale puts warm hands on his skin. “Ohhh.”
“That’s right,” Aziraphale whispers. He digs his thumbs into Crowley’s shins. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
“Oh, Satan,” Crowley groans. He pushes his face down. His body goes tense all over, just for a second, until he relaxes, absolutely pliant, melting into a boneless heap on the bed.
“Good boy,” Aziraphale murmurs, keeping his hands steady. “That’s good. You’re ever so good for me, Crowley.”
Crowley moans.
Aziraphale takes his time. He moves his hands up Crowley’s leg, from his shin to his knee to his thigh, working soft the knots he finds along the way. He pays special attention to the ligaments around Crowley’s knee, digs his thumbs into the meat of Crowley’s thigh, soothes his fingers down the wonder of his hamstrings, and keeps going right into the fullness of Crowley’s arse.
“Aziraphale,” Crowley moans. He’s gone tense again. “Please.”
“Shh,” Aziraphale says. He won’t deny that it feels good to be touching Crowley like this. If he could, oh, if he could — ! But he can’t. They can’t. They know this. “Take what I can give you, sweetheart. Just take it. Lie there. This is all yours.”
Crowley swallows hard. He closes his eyes and turns his head back into the bedcovers. “Angel,” he chokes out.
“That’s it,” Aziraphale soothes. He doesn’t let his hands stop, massaging oil deep into Crowley’s skin. He keeps his touch firm, in control. He doesn’t wander. “That’s it. All for you.”
When he’s made it to the small of Crowley’s back, he stops, reverses course, runs his hands back down Crowley’s right leg and then over to his left side. He starts again at the ankle, scooping more oil into his palms, and starts again. First his left calf, then his left knee, then again his thigh and hamstrings, and finally the wonderful, plush roundness of Crowley’s arse.
“You’re killing me, angel,” Crowley mutters, when Aziraphale is once again careful not to let his hands give in.
Aziraphale can’t help but smile. He bends over and presses a kiss to the back of Crowley’s spine. “You’ll live.”
Crowley hisses something Aziraphale can’t understand. He doesn’t tell Aziraphale to stop, though. Aziraphale adds more oil to his palms.
The dip of Crowley’s lower back is a wonderful thing. Aziraphale is careful as he works the whipcord muscle. He uses his thumbs to massage deep into Crowley’s spine. When Crowley is a groaning, pliant mass, he moves on, pressing firm with every finger, finding knots and spots of tension that he works carefully free with his hands.
His middle back isn’t bad, but Aziraphale still takes his time with it. His upper spine is tense. Aziraphale has already paid some attention to his arms and shoulders but clearly not enough. He has to pour more oil into the warming dish before he’s satisfied. It takes a while. Each of Crowley’s shoulder blades is a knot of tissue.
“How long has it been since you’ve had this seen to?” Aziraphale can’t help but ask as he does his best with the stubborn muscle. There are knots here he can’t seem to undo.
Crowley grumbles something.
“What was that?” Aziraphale asks.
“Rome,” Crowley says, louder this time. “But I didn’t — even there, I didn’t like — ” He twitches. “My chest and arms and everything was okay, but, but there — ”
“Oh, yes of course,” Aziraphale says, touched again by Crowley’s trust. Crowley’s back, where his wings come out, where he’s vulnerable, must be a sensitive spot. “I’ll just do my best then.”
His best isn’t quite good enough. It would be better if Crowley could manifest his wings. There are knots of tension here Aziraphale is sure would come loose if he could massage them around the hidden muscles. The effort of holding them incorporeal probably isn’t helping.
“Hell would sense it immediately,” Crowley says, speaking into the silence Aziraphale hadn’t realized he’d left. “I can’t let them out.”
“No, I know,” Aziraphale says regretfully. His own wings itch with the sudden need to spread them. He holds them back. “I’ll just do the best I can, then.”
Crowley smiles into the bed. “You’re best is more than good enough. I’m half asleep as it is.”
Aziraphale smiles. “Then go ahead and nap, my dear. I’m not nearly finished yet.”
Crowley chuckles. “You’ll spoil me, angel.”
Aziraphale presses a feather-light kiss to the back of Crowley’s neck. “Impossible,” he says. “You’re spoiled already.”
Crowley looks over his shoulder to smile at him. “Ain’t that the truth.”
Aziraphale laughs and gets back to work. He does the best that he can with Crowley’s shoulders and then moves on to his neck. Too soon his entire body is glistening with oil. Crowley is more than half asleep now, his mouth is open and he’s breathing deeply, back rising and falling under Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale lets him rest and moves back down the bed to Crowley’s feet. They’ve gone slightly cold. He dips his fingers in the last of the heated oil and rubs them down gently again.
Crowley sighs. “Mmm. Aziraphale?”
“Yes, darling?” Aziraphal asks.
“Come ’ere.”
Aziraphale presses a kiss to Crowley’s heel and then puts his leg down. There’s a soft wool blanket folded near the fire. Aziraphale picks it up and unfolds it, spreading it out over Crowley back, tucking the edges in around his lanky frame. Then he takes off his own shoes and climbs onto the bed beside him, careful to stay above the covers.
“Yes, darling,” Aziraphale says. He puts a hand on Crowley’s shoulder.
“Angel,” Crowley breathes. He rolls over. His eyes are shut — tightly shut — and he doesn’t open them as he buries his face in Aziraphale’s chest. The blanket turns with him, stretching over his shoulders, a warm chaperon. Aziraphale wraps his arms around Crowley as best he can. “How long do we have?”
“Several hours more,” Aziraphale reassures him. He presses a kiss to the still damp hair behind Crowley’s ear. “Sleep.”
Crowley pouts. “Don’t want to.”
“No?”
Crowley shakes his head. “Read to me?”
“Oh,” Aziraphale says, touched. “Really?” He’s always wanted to do that.
“Yeah.” Crowley snuggles in closer to his chest. “Anything you want.”
“Okay,” Aziraphale says. “Well.” He twists his neck to look behind him. He doesn’t spend much time in this room, but he does keep a few volumes here. The sight of one makes him smile. “Have you ever heard Petronius’s Satyrica? ”
Crowley chuckles. “Isn’t that the erotic one?”
Aziraphale reaches for the book. “Only in part. It’s quite funny.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Aziraphale turns onto his back and holds the volume over his head. Crowley rolls with him, pillowing his face on Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale drops one hand so he can reach around and hold Crowley close, rubbing absent circles into the faint line of tension still held in his back. “‘It has been so long since I promised you the story of my adventures,’” he begins, reading aloud, “‘that I have decided to make good my word today; and, seeing that we have thus fortunately met, not to discuss scientific matters alone, but also to enliven our conversation with witty stories. Fabricius Veiento has already spoken very cleverly on the errors committed in the name of religion, and shown how priests, animated by a hypocritical mania for prophecy, boldly expound mysteries which are too often such to themselves. But are our rhetoricians tormented by another species of Furies when they cry, “I received these wounds while fighting for the public liberty; I lost this eye in your defense: give me a guide who will lead me to my children, my limbs are hamstrung and will not hold me up!””
Crowley snickers.
Aziraphale smiles. “‘Even these heroics could be endured if they made easier the road to eloquence,’” he continues, “‘but as it is, their sole gain from this ferment of matter and empty discord of words is, that when they step into the Forum — ‘”
He read steadily, doing his best with the voices, trying to encapsulate the humour of the situation and reminded, always, of Patronius himself. Crowley, despite his protests, falls asleep quickly, as Aziraphale had suspected he might. He has a smile on his face, though, and threatens to stir whenever Aziraphale stops, so he reads on, until the faint light coming in through the windows deepens into something truly dark.
Their eighteen hours are almost up. Aziraphale closes the book regretfully and looks down at his demon.
He looks wonderful. Gorgeous, as always, but also peaceful in a way Aziraphale has never seen before. The lines of tension around his eyes is gone, the watchfulness between his shoulder blades has eased. Aziraphale aches to keep him here with him always, to possess him fully, to comfort and care and watch over him for all the ages they have left in the world. But he can’t. He isn’t allowed to. Crowley is not his to have and that burns, worse than any Hellfire ever could, and aches, a weight heavier than even his Grace.
There must be a reason for it. She would not torment them like this if it were not to Her purpose. Aziraphale believes that, truly believes it, and he holds to that belief as he reaches down and squeezes Crowley’s shoulder carefully.
“Darling,” he whispers. “It’s time to wake up.”
Crowley twitches. “Mmffh,” he says, rolling over in his sleep. He tucks himself in closer to Aziraphale.
Aziraphale smiles. “Sweetheart.”
Crowley’s face scrunches. “”M not sweet,” he murmurs.
Aziraphale chuckles, reaching over to brush a lock of hair from his face. “I disagree. You are the sweetest demon I’ve ever known.”
“Well, if you’re comparing me to Hastur, then sure,” Crowley grumbles. He presses closer for a moment more before giving up and very reluctantly opening his eyes. He looks up at Aziraphale and his face creases in a smile. “Hey.”
“Hello,” Aziraphale echoes. He knows his own smile is ridiculously fond. Wholly besotted, that’s what he is. “Did you sleep well?”
Crowley stretches. “I believe I did. Better than I have for a century, at least. Oh,” he stops and blinks at Aziraphale. “Shit. What time is it? How many minutes did I waste?”
Aziraphale shakes his head, reaching down to cup Crowley’s cheek with one hand. “You didn’t waste any,” he assures him. “It was a pleasure to hold you while you slept. It is a memory I will carry with me for the rest of my days.”
Crowley blushes and looks away. “Oh. Well.” He clears his throat. “Sappy angel.”
Aziraphale redirects his gaze with the hand still holding his chin. “About you? Always.”
Crowley squirms. It’s a token protest, but a protest all the same. Aziraphale smiles sadly and lets him go. One day. One day he’ll be able to shower Crowley with affection and keep him close. He has to believe that. “Should we get up? I fancy I’m actually a little hungry.”
That makes Crowley’s eyes lit up. “Oh, are you really? That’s great, angel.” He turns and rolls and slips out of bed. He stands up. “We can get you bread. Sweetmeats and sausages, maybe. Or would you rather some cake? I know a good place over on— ” He stops and looks down. His feet are flat on the floor and he’s standing tall in the moon-lit room. “I’m naked,” he says blankly.
Aziraphale can’t resist a smile. “Yes, you are,” he says, not bothering to sound unappreciative.
Crowley blushes. “Angel.”
“Oh, fine,” Aziraphale says. He rises from the bed himself and turns his back, reaching for the wardrobe he keeps in this room. “Maria should have taken your things to be laundered but I have a few shifts you can wear. None of them black, I’m afraid, but then,” he turns to look over his shoulder and give Crowley a wink, “I don’t mind the idea of you wearing my clothes.”
Crowley’s face turns beat red. He twitches to hide his groin from view. Aziraphale’s pretty sure he’s getting aroused. “Angel.”
“Sorry,” Aziraphale says, actually contrite this time. He’ll break his promise if he keeps this up. Turning back to the wardrobe, he takes a deep, unnecessary breath, and then looks for the darkest clothing he owns. There’s a blue undershirt he’s worn sometimes, rather an experiment in colour, and leggings that are cream instead of full white. “How about this?”
“Looks great,” Crowley says, sounding relieved and disappointed all at the same time.
Aziraphale understands the combination. “I’ll just be outside,” he says sadly. He keeps his eyes only in front of him as he turns and slips out the door.
The hallway is deserted. The entire house is quiet. Aziraphale stands and breathes for a moment in the corridor, fighting the urge to go back into the room, pin Crowley to the bed, and work him until he cries Aziraphale’s name.
“None of that now,” Aziraphale says softly to himself. He thinks of his God. She wouldn’t condemn him for love, he’s sure, but Heaven would. The other angels, the ones who’d left Earth, who hadn’t understood it and couldn’t see what was so remarkable about humans and their complicated desires, absolutely would.
Demons wear black, Aziraphale thinks, not for the first time. Angels wear white. It has to mean something. He doesn’t dare think of what, not yet, but love, protect, cherish, isn’t that what angels are supposed to do? And who could appreciate that more than demons? And who more than angels, Aziraphale now knows, could benefit more from earning the deep-seated wariness of a demon’s trust?
It’s a thrillingly thought, and a nauseating risk. It’s hubris beyond measure to think he could understand the mind of his Creator, but something about the match pluck a chord in him. Heaven wouldn’t agree, but Aziraphale dares to hope that one day he’ll find the words to explain it to them. They might understand. It’s Hell he’s not sure he could ever help understand.
Then again, maybe he won’t need to. Maybe, eventually, it will make perfect sense.
“Hey,” Crowley says quietly from behind him. Aziraphale startles and spins around. Crowley shifts from foot to foot. “Uh, still hungry?”
Aziraphale can’t take his eyes from him . Crowley looks ravishing in his colours. The soft blue of the shift catches the red of his hair and sets it aflame, even in the dim light of the quiet house. The beige leggings don’t suit him, really, but that’s okay, he’s a vision as he is.
“Yes,” Aziraphale says, too honestly, and then clears his throat. “I mean, yes, I am a little peckish. The kitchen is this way.”
He gives into temptation and takes Crowley by the hand, squeezing once and then leading him carefully through the darkened house. Their feet are nearly silent on the flagstone floors and Aziraphale feels like an intruder in his own home. It gives him a strange thrill, as though this is a moment stolen out of time.
The kitchen is dim, the only light coming from the moon hanging through the windows and the fire banked low in the oven. Aziraphale doesn’t bother stirring it. Instead he finds yesterday’s bread, a jar of olives, and half a wheel of cheese.
Crowley teases him. “You don’t know how to make supper in your own home?”
“This is a perfectly acceptable dinner,” Aziraphale shoots back with a smile.
Crowley snickers. “No meat? How about pate? Cake?”
“Unnecessary,” Aziraphale declares. He finishes slicing the bread and arranges the whole of it on a plate before carrying it over to the table. “Oh,” he says, bending over. “Those olives do smell good.”
Crowley’s smile has shifted into something impossibly fond. “Glad they do, angel.”
They sit and eat together. Crowley, as per his usual, doesn’t take very much, but Aziraphale finds himself actually enjoying his food. The olives are rather fabulous, the cheese is nicely tart, and the bread — while slightly stale — is wonderful with oil. “Mm,” he says, licking juice from his fingers. “That was just the thing.”
Crowley is leaning against the table, his chin propped on one hand, watching him. “It’s good to see you eating again.”
“It’s good to feel like eating again,” Aziraphale admits. He pushes the empty plate away. “Crowley, I — I really do want to say thank you. No,” he shakes his head, “don’t say anything. Just allow me, please allow me, to thank you. Just this once.”
Crowley swallows and looks away. “‘Was a selfish act, really. You know that.”
Aziraphale smiles sadly. “Mutually selfish, maybe. Mutually beneficial.”
“Yeah, well,” Crowley shrugs and avoids his eye. He does look better, though, more relaxed. “You’re welcome, or whatever.”
Aziraphale impulsively reaches over and squeezes his hand. “That’s the spirit.”
Crowley chuckles. “Yeah.” He looks up and his eyes seem to catch on the window. “Oh,” he says, frowning at the lightning sky, “I guess I’d better…”
Aziraphale sighs. “Yes,” he says. He feels for the miracle he casted earlier. It has been eighteen hours, or near enough. “I suppose you must.”
Crowley nods. He looks down at the table. His hands are clenched around the edge. He stares at them until they, very slowly, begin to let go. “Aziraphale,” he says. “Angel, I — ”
Aziraphale wants to cry. He wants to rally and scream and fight and would take on the entire host of Hell right now, if it would keep Crowley with him. Keep him safe. He can’t do any of that, though. Instead he stands. “I’ll. I’ll walk you to the door.”
Crowley nods and gets to his feet. He follows Aziraphale out of the kitchen. The house is lightening around them, pre-dawn seeping in through the windows. Aziraphale can hear Maria somewhere close by. She’s up, just waking, on the cusp of beginning to start her day.
“Oh, your things,” Aziraphale says suddenly, looking back towards the bathing room. “I haven’t retrieved them. I don’t know where Maria sent them to be laundered.”
Crowley shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. Keep ‘em, angel. I can miracle myself a new set just as soon as I’ve left town.”
Aziraphale swallows. “Right,” he says. They’re almost at the door. He wants to touch Crowley’s elbow, draw him in. Except he knows that if he does, he’ll never let him go. “Back to England you said?”
“Yeah,” Crowley agrees with a sigh. He quirks Aziraphale a shaky smile. “Maybe the Lionheart will want to go, and then I’ll meet up with you again in Jerusalem.”
Aziraphale knows he should say no. He should hope that Richard stays home, so Heaven gets the glory and the Crusades end all the quicker. “I’ll save you a bottle of date palm wine,” he promises instead.
Crowley’s smile shifts into something more real. “I’ll hold you to that.”
They’ve made it to the door now. Aziraphale stares at it. For all that they’ve come this far, he can’t bring himself to actually reach over and open it.
Crowley proves himself the stronger one. He always is. He turns to face Aziraphale, hesitates, and then steps forward, tilting his chin up and pressing a small, soft, chaste kiss to the underside of Aziraphale’s jaw. Then he blushes and steps away.
Aziraphale can only stare at him. Crowley shoots him a shy smile and then turns and reaches for the door. Before Aziraphale can do anything, he’s opened it and is stepping through, and then he’s on the step, and then he’s walking away.
Aziraphale watches him go. He realizes that his hand is up, his fingertips pressed against the place were Crowley’s lips had been.
One day, he prays. Please God, one day.
He turns away. He closes the door. He takes a step further into his rented house and sighs. He has things to do. It’s time to face another day.
Aziraphale nods once to himself and gets back to work.
~ The End