Innocence and Experience Redux
Title: Innocence and Experience Redux
Author: Musegaarid
Rating: PG-13
Pairing(s): Crowley/Aziraphale
Summary: Aziraphale has had some... experience and Crowley hasn't.
Disclaimer: Both Aziraphale and Crowley are owned by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett
Author's Notes: This fic was based on a wonderful story called Innocence and Experience by louiselux. I borrowed her idea and daegaer's sensibilities and come up with this. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, right?
"...and, dear, you won't believe it, but as it turned out, he wasn't the father after all. It's all quite shocking, of course, but they're in love, so what can you do? Oh, you know that reminds me, I read the most amusing thing in the Times this morning..."
Crowley was sitting at a grubby little table in the back room of Aziraphale's dusty bookshop in Soho. He was feeling tipsy, warm, and content, which he attributed entirely to the excellent wine and not at all to the soothing babble which, in his heightened state, felt almost like a physical force flooding across the table, washing over his body, and gently stroking his hair. Taking the time to finish off his third bottle of 1978 Montrachet before setting it carefully back on the table, Crowley gave the angel a blank stare. Aziraphale took that as sufficient encouragement to continue.
"Some German archaeologists are apparently claiming that they have found the ancient palace of King Minos."
Aziraphale looked expectantly at him. Crowley thought he ought to attempt some kind of response. He blinked, but that didn't seem to be enough. He tried again. "Th' one in Knossss... Knossssosss... Crete?"
"That's the one."
Crowley concentrated and tried to remember back four thousand years. "Tha' wasssn't a palace. It wasss definitely a brothel."
"The largest in the world," giggled Aziraphale. "Whatever do you think they'll make of those mosaics in the primary courtyard?"
Crowley raised an eyebrow. "You ssssaw thossse?"
"Of course! The craftsmanship was extraordinary even if the subject matter was a bit risque."
"A bit risssque?" repeated Crowley incredulously, "I don't think I was that flexible when I was a sssnake! For Adam's ssake, what were you doing there?"
"Those poor girls needed all the help they could get," said Aziraphale defensively.
"And the fact that they had the finessst wines on the Balkan peninsssula had nothing to do with it, I'm sssure."
"Oh do sober up a little, Crowley dear,” Aziraphale said petulantly, “You're hissing again."
Crowley rolled his eyes and willed some of the alcohol out of his bloodstream. “Sorry to switch this scintillating subject,” he raised a smug eyebrow, “but where were you yesterday? I came by to tell you my gossip about Belial but you weren't here. Have a hot date?”
Aziraphale frowned and looked slightly flustered. “Really, now...” he protested, “I'm sorry, but that's none of your business.”
Crowley leaned forward and smirked. “None of my business? Tsk, tsk, angel. What about the Arrangement?”
“What about it?”
“You know as well as I do that we've agreed to keep the other appraised of all of our business dealings. I've already told you what I've done this week. If this little rendezvous was for business rather than pleasure...” he scoffed, “then you have to reciprocate.”
“Er. Fine, if you must know, I spent the afternoon with Sally Archer who works for that small insurance company on Charing Cross Road.” Aziraphale gave the demon a rather pointed look as if to indicate that the subject should now be dropped, thank you very much.
Crowley sat back in his chair and blithely ignored the hint. “Sally Archer, huh? So, did you take her to church for a fun day of Bible reading and sing-alongs?” he asked sarcastically.
Aziraphale flushed, but angels couldn't lie. “No, not exactly...”
“So you must've gone on an educational walk through the British Museum, followed by high tea in the atrium?”
If anything, Aziraphale's cheeks got pinker. “No, nothing like that...”
“Okay... a rambling discussion about Regency silver and an exciting ten-hour marathon of The Antiques Roadshow?”
“No.”
“What the bloody hell did you do, then?” demanded Crowley, exasperated, “Shag her through the mattress?”
Aziraphale looked away. His face was ablaze. “Well... I prefer to call it making love...”
“YOU WHAT!?! You're joking, right? There's no way you can be serious.” Crowley jerked off his sunglasses and stared at the angel with wide yellow eyes. Aziraphale stared steadfastly at the empty bottles of wine on the table. He looked more nervous than Crowley could remember seeing him since the whole business with the Anti-Christ.
“But, you can't... You're a... She's a... Wait...” Crowley ducked down to try and catch Aziraphale's eye, “Did you Fall?”
Aziraphale stared up at him, shocked. “What? Of course not! What a horrible thing to say. Why would I Fall?”
“Well,” said Crowley slowly, like he was talking to a child, “Lust is one of the seven deadly sins.”
“This had nothing to do with lust,” explained Aziraphale. “I just told you it was love. You can't Fall for expressing love.”
Crowley blinked at this new admission. Something inside his chest felt incredibly tight, “You're in love with a human?”
“No, of course I'm not,” insisted Aziraphale.
The tension in Crowley's chest lessened a little. He tried to speak more calmly than he felt, “But you just said...”
“I said that we made love, not that I was in love with her.”
“Angel, sex without love is the definition of lust. If you weren't attracted to her, why on earth would you sleep with her?” Then he shook his head and spat out, “I cannot believe I am sitting here talking to you about your sordid conquest.”
“Sordid conquest? I expect you'd know all about those,” Aziraphale sniffed. He glared at Crowley. “Look, when I took Sally to bed...” Crowley winced. “...it was a matter of general ethereal love, not specific romantic love, and it was for her benefit, not mine.”
“General ethereal love doesn't generally involve you shoving your...”
Aziraphale interrupted. “Please, dear. I know what it involves.”
“Obviously.”
A few minutes passed in awkward silence. Crowley was trying to put a name to the odd clenched feeling he was having in his chest and figure out why his heart was racing. He was so tired of this bloody human body and all that blasted adrenalin. Worst of all, he just didn't know why this unexpected news was bothering him so much.
In the meantime, Aziraphale took a deep, unnecessary breath, refilled one of the bottles of wine, and drank about half of it in one embarrassed go.
It was Crowley who broke the silence first. “Listen, I know you don't want to talk about it anymore and I know I'm going to regret asking you this, but what exactly did you mean that it was for her benefit and not yours.”
Aziraphale paused thoughtfully, the bottle halfway to his lips again. “I meant just that,” he explained. “The girl was having trouble recovering from a nasty breakup with her long-term boyfriend and she was feeling depressed and unattractive. My focus was entirely on making her feel loved and wanted.”
Crowley leered nastily. “Sex therapy, huh? So this was just one of your missionary assignments.”
“If you're going to be crude, dear boy, I'm going to ask you to leave.”
“Fine, I'm sorry,” said Crowley flippantly, not sounding sorry at all. His stomach lurched again as he thought of something else. “When do you see her again?”
“I won't,” replied Aziraphale shortly.
“One night stand? I'm sure that will make her feel really good about herself.”
“It's the rules, Crowley. Why are you trying to be so hurtful?”
Crowley's eyes flashed angrily. For a moment Aziraphale thought he could see something else in there. Something like... jealousy? But why? And of whom? He'd have to think about that later.
After a moment, Crowley regained control of himself enough to ask, “What rules? Why would you need to make up a whole set of rules for one meaningless, experimental encounter with a woman?” He looked at Aziraphale's concerned expression and answered his own question. “This wasn't just one woman, was it? You've done this before.”
“Yes,” sighed Aziraphale, resigned.
“How often?”
“Oh, Crowley. Why does it matter?”
“How often, angel?” he demanded through clenched teeth.
“Usually it's about once a month or so.”
“ONCE A MONTH! Chr- Adam on an Adam cracker. How long has this been going on?”
Aziraphale couldn't meet his eyes. “Since the Bronze Age.”
“The Bronze Age,” repeated Crowley sarcastically. He pushed back his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and glowered at Aziraphale. “So, just to clarify, about once a month for four thousand some odd years, you have gone out and found a woman who needed to get laid and obliged her. Please correct me if I am wrong about any of the details.”
“You're quite close to the truth actually,” explained Aziraphale, pleased. “But I don't just choose someone at random. There are criteria I use to determine who needs my help.”
“I see, like 'Thou shalt not have VD?'”
Aziraphale gave a sanctimonious little smile. “I think you'll find that afterwards they don't.”
Crowley shuddered. “I'm not drunk enough for this.” He stood up and started rooting around Aziraphale's liquor cabinet. Finding a bottle of 130 year-old single-malt scotch, he returned to the table, sat down, and said, “So, tell me, if disease isn't an issue, what is?”
“Well, I decided a long time ago that age was a major factor. Over the years, the minimum age limit has varied due to life expectancy and societal norms, you know, but now I won't be with anyone under the age of 18.”
Crowley decided to drink straight from the bottle this time. “Oh, do go on.”
“There are only two other requirements. I will not be with anyone who is a virgin, for obvious reasons, I should hope, and no one in a committed relationship because adultery is a sin.”
“One out of three,” muttered Crowley into his bottle. He took another swig and rested his elbows on the table.
“What was that, dear?”
He thought quickly. “I said, 'What about no woman who is too old or ugly?'”
“Outside appearance really makes no difference, Crowley. Their souls look the same. Besides, why do you keep insisting on saying woman?”
Crowley's elbows slid out and he nearly hit his nose on the table. “Just how many shocks do you think I can handle in one day, angel? You're telling me you 'make love' to men too?”
“Of course. A human being is a human being. I visited with Mr. Allen in March. He's the green grocer on Broadwick. His mother had just died and he needed an outlet for his grief, poor chap.”
“Uh huh. Do you change your...” Crowley waved a vague hand towards Aziraphale's seated body.
“Sometimes.” Aziraphale looked puzzled. “Most of the time they seem to prefer that I appear male, though. Very odd, that. I'm pretty sure that wasn't the original intention.”
Crowley choked on his drink and started to cough violently. Aziraphale had to miracle the liquid out of his wind pipe and bring him a glass of water before they could continue. Crowley ignored the water and drank more of the scotch.
“You said earlier that you wouldn't see whats-her-face again because of the rules. What rules?”
“Sally,” corrected Aziraphale absent-mindedly. “Just as there were three criteria, there are three rules. You already know the first - no second encounters. That rule I set up as a safeguard for myself to prevent personal attachments. Other angels had such problems that I wanted to avoid the whole issue altogether.”
“How practical,” said Crowley dryly.
“Yes, thank you.”
Crowley rolled his eyes.
“For my own protection, I had to set up the second rule, too. At the end of each visit, I modify my partner's memory. He or she still remembers the encounter - or else what would be the benefit - but not precisely who it was with, which prevents them from tracking me down later. And, of course, every visit takes place away from the shop since I don't have a bed. That one is not so much of a rule as a convenience.” Aziraphale gave a nervous smile. “That's about it, really.”
A terrible thought suddenly occurred to Crowley. “You've never had any kids have you?” he asked warily.
Aziraphale looked dumbfounded. “Oh, good heavens no! What a horrible thought.”
Crowley silently agreed. He drummed his fingers on the table in the quiet room for a while before he suddenly stood up, grabbed Aziraphale's wrist and dragged him to his feet.
“Come on, angel. We're leaving.”
“Where are we going?”
“Out.”
Crowley pulled Aziraphale out of the shop and deposited him in the Bentley. He drove erratically through London and only just managed to avoid running over two pedestrians, a small dog, and a lamppost by Aziraphale's quick and desperate intervention. When they arrived at a block of Mayfair flats, Crowley parked in what had previously been a no parking zone, leaped out, and stalked towards the building. White knuckled and shaking, Aziraphale followed. They took the elevator to the sixth floor and walked through the unassuming door at the end of the hallway.
“Crowley, what are we doing at your flat?”
Crowley's golden eyes caught and held Aziraphale's blue ones. “I wanted you to 'visit' with me.”
Aziraphale let out a soft little “Oh.”
Crowley wondered how such a tiny noise could feel like a punch to the stomach. His eyes were fever bright and his pulse raced. Wondering if he could try to pass off this crushing disappointment as a routine temptation, he said, “Come on, Aziraphale.
Don't tell me you only 'help' humans.”
“Well, angels don't need this. And I don't know any other demons.”
“Then how do you know I don't need your help?”
“Even if you did, what about the rules? I couldn't modify your memory. I... I don't think I'd want to.” He looked down.
The room suddenly felt very warm. “It's different with me, angel. Demons don't follow rules. You could do it this time because you wanted to, not because some human needed your help.”
Aziraphale looked agitated. “Please don't try to tempt me, Crowley. It's not fair. You know I could Fall for that and I don't want to.”
He stumbled over to the fastidious white couch in Crowley's living room and dropped onto it. Crowley followed and settled in more gracefully. He reached out, took Aziraphale's chin gently, and turned his head so that they were once again eye-to-eye.
“This isn't business, Aziraphale. This is personal. I'm not trying to convince you to Fall. I just think that you ought to be able to make your own choices sometimes.”
“That's the whole problem. Angels don't have free will. Angels who try to make their own choices become demons.”
“And Adam knows that demons don't have free will, either,” grumbled Crowley.
“At least you meet all the criteria,” Aziraphale joked weakly, attempting to lighten the mood.
He'd expected some kind of witty retort or a suggestive comment after that; something reassuringly Crowley. What he wasn't expecting was for Crowley to blanch, drop his hand, and look away, confused. Crowley wasn't expecting to be confused, either. Every instinct in his body, honed over six millenia, was telling him to lie, but this was too important. It was the angel's existence on the line, not his, and he couldn't let him go into this blindly. He'd have to tell the truth.
“I don't, actually” declared Crowley more confidently than he felt.
“Don't what?”
“Meet all the criteria.” There was no going back now.
“Oh, my dear, of course you do.” Aziraphale looked stunned for a moment and his
throat clenched. “Unless... unless you are in some kind of committed relationship that I don't know about?”
“Uhm. No, not really.”
“Then what's the...” Aziraphale's eyes narrowed. “Come now, Crowley. You don't expect me to believe that... that you're a...”
“I believe the word you're struggling for is virgin,”smirked Crowley, amused. “And yes, I am.”
“Don't lie to me, you old serpent. I may be an angel, but I'm not stupid. I pulled you out of that ridiculous orgy in Covent Garden not two weeks ago. If I recall correctly, you were entwined with a large-breasted young woman and a man with green hair and a tattoo of a dragon on his rear end.”
“Did you also happen to notice that I was fully clothed at that moment?”
“That only means that I arrived on time,” said Aziraphale darkly.
“Look, angel, I promise that I have never had sex with anyone, human or otherwise. No one has ever interested me that much. I've never really been keen on one-on-one tempting.”
“And the orgy?”
Crowley's cheeks flamed but he held his gaze steady as if to prove his sincerity. “Well, it's the cold-blooded thing, right? Sometimes it's kind of nice to be wrapped around something warm.”
Aziraphale fluttered his perfectly manicured hands. “Oh, dear, I'm sorry. I never thought of that. I've been so insensitive.” He laid his hand on Crowley's arm. “But I'm afraid that I still don't understand. If you've never made love with anyone before, why would you want to start now? And why with me?”
He had to think about this. Eventually, he said, “I... I trust you, Aziraphale. Well, as much as I can trust anyone. And since you already know how to do everything then why not?”
“I can't imagine that they'd be too pleased Upstairs. Or Down Below for that matter. This is rather more involved than an amiable dinner at the Ritz.”
“More involved than defying Heaven and Hell to stop the Apocalypse from happening?”
“Good point. I suppose we couldn't get into any more trouble.”
“It's settled, then. You'll visit with me the same way you would with a human. And no tricks, shortcuts, or substitutions. I insist on the same experience.”
Aziraphale pondered this for a moment before he finally acquiesced, “All right. I can agree to that.”
Crowley looked suddenly nervous. “Really? Uh, I mean, of course.” His eyes darted around the room and he licked his lips. “So, erm, now what happens?”
Aziraphale said nothing, but leaned forward and took Crowley's hand in his. His thumb made little circles on Crowley's palm as Crowley stared wide-eyed back at him.
They sat this way for a few moments before Aziraphale came to a decision. He stood and pulled Crowley up with him. Still holding hands he guided them to where he knew Crowley's bedroom was. He opened the door, ushered Crowley inside, and closed the door behind them.
The room was well-proportioned, impeccably decorated, and comfortable. The luxurious mahogany bed opposite the door was the focal point of the room. It had been made up with crisp, white sheets and the deep burgundy duvet on top had almost a Baroque feel. On the left wall, sumptuous curtains framed a picture window that overlooked the Roosevelt Memorial and on the right was another Da Vinci, The Annunciation. Aziraphale raised a slight eyebrow at this.
“You have a picture of Gabriel in your bedroom?” he murmured, bemused.
“I've always thought it looked more like you,” replied Crowley quietly. “Except for the nose. But then again, Leonardo usually had trouble with noses.”
Aziraphale smiled enigmatically and let go of Crowley's hand. He walked to the window and closed the drapes. The room was dim without the light from outside, so Crowley miracled the recessed electric lights on. Aziraphale miracled them off again and instead materialized about a dozen, tall, white candles which hovered around the bed casting a soft, steady light. With another gesture, quiet, relaxing music began to play. Crowley listened a moment.
“Elgar?”
“Mm hmm. Variations.”
As if to forestall any comments about his choice of music, Aziraphale glided back to where Crowley was standing. He reached up, brushed Crowley's cheek affectionately with his knuckles, and began to push Crowley's jacket off his shoulders. Crowley froze.
“Calm down, dear. I won't hurt you.”
Crowley forced himself to relax while Aziraphale removed his jacket and draped it over a high-back rococo chair in the corner. Next Aziraphale directed his attention to the buttons on the demon's black shirt. He undid them slowly, one-by-one and the deliberate pace was driving Crowley to distraction. After the fourth button was gently slid open, he said, “What's taking so long? Why don't I just miracle this off?” He raised a hand which Aziraphale grabbed and pulled back down.
“Don't even think about it.” He gazed into Crowley's eyes. “This is not just an act to be completed as quickly as possible. If you want to do it right, you have to evoke a mood, a... a feeling. Otherwise it's not meaningful. You said you trusted me to do this, so let me do it properly.”
Crowley didn't know whether he was more worried about it being meaningful or not, so he cut off that line of thinking altogether and tried to concentrate entirely on the moment. That particular moment featured Aziraphale tugging Crowley's shirt tails out of his equally black trousers and undoing the last two buttons. He slid the shirt off smoothly and placed it neatly atop the discarded jacket. Then he returned to the demon and placed his pudgy hands lightly on Crowley's chest. After a second, his fingers began to ghost over the smooth, olive skin and he whispered, “I certainly don't mean to encourage vanity, but you really are impossibly lovely, dear boy. I've always thought so.”
Crowley inhaled sharply and forgot to breathe out. Aziraphale took the opportunity to run a hand down Crowley's firm chest and around his narrow waist. He led the demon over to the foot of the bed and asked him to sit. When Crowley was comfortable, Aziraphale knelt down and pulled off his shoes.
“Snake skin?” he murmured.
Crowley nodded. Aziraphale smiled. Then he stood and ran his fingers briefly through the demon's thick, dark hair before turning his attention to Crowley's trousers. He deftly unfastened the button and the zip. With a careful touch to the knee, he encouraged Crowley to stand. Aziraphale slid the slacks off of Crowley's hips and traced their slow descent to the ground with his fingers. Dazed, Crowley stepped out of his trousers and Aziraphale carried them to the chair.
Crowley was left standing in nothing but his black, silk boxer shorts. Although it wasn't cold in the room, he was shivering and felt vulnerable. He wondered if all this was a good idea and if it was possible for the anticipated pleasure to be worth the queasy, fluttery feeling in his stomach. Distracted, he sat back down on the end of the bed.
For his part, Aziraphale was removing his own clothing quickly and efficiently. He pulled his tan and brown tartan jumper over his head, unfastened all the buttons on his white shirt, kicked off his brown shoes, pulled off his brown socks, and divested himself entirely of shirt and trousers (brown). All his clothing joined Crowley's in a neat pile on the antique chair.
Aziraphale turned around and slowly began to make his way back to the huge bed in the center of the room. Despite the dim light, Crowley was able to see him clearly. The angel was wearing white, cotton, Y-front underpants which did nothing to conceal his soft, rounded belly. His absurdly feminine blond curls were mussed from when he took off the jumper. But Crowley also noticed his faintly luminescent skin, the supernatural grace that he usually suppressed, and something else... There was something about the expression in Aziraphale's eyes that was, well, ineffable. And it frightened him.
Trying to regain some measure of control over the increasingly bizarre situation that he found himself in, Crowley reverted to snarky bastard mode. “Nice pants, angel.”
Aziraphale, however, was unfazed. “They are comfortable and economical,” he said calmly. Sitting on the bed beside Crowley, he laid his hand on his arm and continued. “I know what you're trying to do, dear, but there's no need to be nervous. I am not going to hurt you. And, after all, this was something you requested.”
“Yeah, but I didn't expect...” he put his head down.
“You didn't know what to expect,” said Aziraphale kindly, “but it's alright. Just trust me. You won't regret it.”
Crowley looked directly into Aziraphale's face, searching. After a few seconds he swallowed and nodded.
“So,” he gestured to his shorts, “is this the point where I should make an effort?” He tried to make a disparaging little smile, but as he hadn't had much practice, it wasn't very good.
“Why don't we just stay androgynous for a while?” said Aziraphale, rubbing soft circles above Crowley's knee. “The other is just so distracting.”
Crowley sighed in relief. “Okay.”
“Good. Now I want you to lay face down on the bed for me.”
Crowley looked at Aziraphale suspiciously for a moment and then complied. Once he was comfortably settled, Aziraphale crawled across the bed until his knees were on either side of Crowley's thighs. Crowley's eyes widened as he looked back over his shoulder and started to sit back up.
“Hang on! You can't just start like that. Aren't there certain things that you have to do first?”
Aziraphale pushed Crowley back onto the bed and leaned forward so that he could whisper into his ear. “I know what I'm doing.” He reclined back into his original position and Crowley anxiously grasped the duvet in his fists when he heard some disturbingly wet sounds coming from behind him. Suddenly, the angel's warm hands were on him.
It was glorious. Crowley was glad that Aziraphale had insisted upon them not making the effort because the sudden release of all his tension could have been messy indeed. It was just oil. Aziraphale was just anointing him with oil and he could have cried with relief. As he turned his head in order to breathe better (not technically necessary, but soothing), he caught a faintly familiar woody, spicy aroma that he couldn't place.
“What is that?” he asked.
“Massage oil,” said Aziraphale simply.
“No, the scent.”
“Sandalwood, rosemary, and frankincense.”
Crowley nearly purred. “It's been a long time.”
“About two thousand years, I'd imagine. Now no more talking.”
At these words, Aziraphale, who had been lightly gliding his fingers all over Crowley's bare back, gave up his tentative touch and instead began working the oil into the tight knots in Crowley' neck and shoulders. Crowley moaned in ecstasy.
He lost track of time as the angel's hands drifted down, first to soothe the aches in his lower back, and later to reach his thighs and calves. Although Aziraphale's fingertips occasionally brushed against the edges of his shorts, it seemed that any area covered by black silk was currently off limits. Crowley didn't mind. This just allowed him to relax further.
After what seemed like hours, Aziraphale carefully rolled him onto his back to continue the massage. As he moved, Crowley lazily slit open one eye. He saw a tiny frown of concentration mar Aziraphale's otherwise serene face as he applied more scented oil to his hands from a delicate, cut-glass bottle. Crowley closed his eyes again and sighed as the angel began to work on his right arm.
Crowley's mind was blank as Aziraphale worked from shoulder to palm and each individual finger. Crawling down the bed, Aziraphale continued his clever ministrations to the front of the demon's thighs, shins, ankles, and sensitive feet. Then he climbed across Crowley to do the same to his left side. By the time he finished and sat back on his heels, the candles had burned halfway down and Crowley was a melted blob of contentment.
It was odd, thought Aziraphale, to see Crowley like this. He had never before seen him as entirely defenseless as now, draped limply across the bed with eyes shut, brow smooth, and lips parted. In the past, during the few instances that Aziraphale had seen him asleep, Crowley had still managed to project the deep-seated frustration and annoyance that drove him at all times. Though, to be fair, these feelings, when channeled constructively and tempered by his innate optimism, had accomplished much and prevented his self-destruction for six millenia. That essence was completely absent at the moment and it left Aziraphale feeling both protective and mildly concerned. He watched the demon's chest rise and fall in time to the music. Aziraphale had enjoyed relieving him of his frustration temporarily, but he was worried that should Crowley ever find a way to do it permanently that he wouldn't be Crowley anymore. Was this the balance that Adam had talked about? Was this the reasoning behind the eleven-year-old's decision not to change the world? Aziraphale shook his head to clear it and smiled fondly at the demon before him. Well, if he could only do this once an eon, he might as well do it properly.
For his part, Crowley wasn't thinking anything at all.
“It's time to sit up, my dear.”
Suddenly the moment was broken. Crowley was instantly wide awake and some of his nerves had returned. Surely the angel didn't want to do this now!
“Come on, I'll help you.”
'Apparently he does,' thought Crowley, as Aziraphale hoisted him into a more vertical position. He curled his legs under and sat on the bed indian-style, keeping a wary eye on the angel.
“Alright,” continued Aziraphale. “Now, let's get your wings out.”
“Ooh. Kinky, angel. Never been able to do it with wings, before?”
“No,” replied Aziraphale calmly. He knew that Crowley often resorted to sarcasm in self-defense when he felt threatened. When Crowley made no move to comply, he caught the demon's eye and released his own wings. Although they hadn't been properly groomed in a while and looked a little mussed, they were still clean, white, and shimmered with a faint glow that stemmed from the angel's current feelings of satisfaction and contentment. He then crawled up the bed to rest against the headboard and sat facing Crowley's back. Crowley started to turn around, but Aziraphale placed his hand on the center of Crowley's back and said, “Wings.”
Crowley unfurled his own wings, slowly. Contrary to popular belief, the wings of demons are the same as the wings of angels - white and feathery - but whenever Crowley had brought his wings out in the past, he had instantly miracled them black. Aziraphale had asked him about this once, but he only said that black wings matched his outfit better. In this time, however, and in this place, Crowley had no need to pretend and he left his wings in their natural state.
Aziraphale tentatively ran one tidy hand over Crowley's right wing from the joint, over the arch, and down to the wing tips. Crowley shuddered.
“Crowley, dear, may I groom your wings? I mean, you keep them in good condition, but it can be hard to reach those semiplumes near the root without assistance.”
Aziraphale's fingers lightly brushed over the fluffy semiplumes in question and it felt like an electric shock down Crowley's spine. He hadn't had anyone else groom his wings in over six thousand years. It was a uniquely angelic pastime, as a demon would never trust another demon enough to turn his back on him. It was also the closest thing angels had to an erotic pleasure and it was all Crowley could do to respond casually.
“Sure, angel. Whatever you like.”
Crowley watched wordlessly as Aziraphale smiled and crawled off the bed. With wings out and wearing nothing but white underpants, he opened the bedroom door and padded quietly into the cool, dark living room until he found what he was looking for. Bringing it back into the bedroom, he closed the door behind him to preserve their sanctuary of soft light and gentle warmth, and returned to his position behind Crowley who closed his eyes and waited with breathless anticipation.
“Are you ready?”
“Yesss.”
With no further delay, Aziraphale adjusted the nozzle of the plant mister that he had retrieved and lightly sprayed the entirety of Crowley's left wing. He did it carefully so that no drips would form and fall on the crisp sheets. The mist instead lay glistening on the pristine white feathers, making shimmery little rainbows as it caught the light. Crowley shivered uncontrollably. Aziraphale went on to mist the right wing and then set the bottle aside.
After that, both sat very still until Aziraphale could wait no longer and abruptly immersed his hands in the sensitive wing root near Crowley's back. Crowley gasped and squeezed his eyes tighter. For his part, Aziraphale was luxuriating in the sensation of running his fingers through the layers of soft feathers. It had been a long time since he'd done this for anyone and he'd forgotten how much he enjoyed it.
Angel and demon wings are made up of two kinds of feathers: fluffy, soft semiplumes for body and flexibility and long, sleek contour feathers for flight. They have no need for the insulating properties of down feathers, which is just as well, since those are the feathers that tend to molt and shed everywhere.
Aziraphale, after indulging himself a minute more, began with the semiplumes at the wing joint. Reaching under the flight feathers, he fluffed and straightened all the soft feathers, working his way up towards the wing bend and back down towards the tip where the semiplumes trailed off. Because Crowley's wings had been folded for so long, these feathers lay flat and awkward along the thin skin of the wing. Once the semiplumes were properly puffed out, they provided a solid base for the contour feathers. Aziraphale turned his attention to these, smoothing, straightening, and interlocking them, whilst removing a few that were bent or broken. After this long process, Aziraphale took a moment to reach up and stretch before beginning the other wing.
Meanwhile, Crowley felt as if he'd been temporarily forgiven and accepted back in Heaven. He was adrift in a sea of unconditional love. But, just as he'd identified the feeling, it transmuted into something warmer. The fingers buried deep in his wings were no longer relaxing, but energizing. He felt all the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end and he became super sensitive to the stimuli of the room.
The music sounded louder, richer, more enveloping. As the strings and woodwinds soared, so did Crowley's spirit. In the quieter moments, he went so still that he could feel the warmth of the candles on his skin and cool drafts from closer to the door. With his eyes shut tight, he couldn't see anything in his room, but in his mind's eye, he watched Aziraphale as he worked. He saw each feather fall into place. He saw the angel's nimble fingers and intent expression.
More than anything, he noticed the odors of the room: candle wax, the earthy and woodsy aromas of the spiced oil, a slight must from the antique furniture, stale water from the plant mister, and the angel. Oh, the angel. His scent was so familiar that it could never be mistaken or forgotten. He smelled like sunshine and roses and wind. Add to that moth balls, dust, and book binding glue. Stir in tea, chocolate, and cinnamon and finish it all with something uniquely and indescribably his own. It wasn't normal angel smell. Crowley had smelled a lot of angels, but no one smelled like Aziraphale. He didn't wonder about this. It was probably ineffable.
“Aziraphale...,” Crowley moaned under his breath. Aziraphale didn't hear him, but knew what he'd said all the same. He smiled. No one had ever said his real name before in an intimate situation and he glowed with happiness.
With the feathers of both wings in order, Aziraphale spent a few moments more massaging the tendons at the top of each wing, near the bone. Then he gave the wings one final sweep and sat back, exhausted. His legs were stiff from having been in the same position for so long, and he extended them at Crowley's side.
He miracled the music off so that the room was quiet before he said, “You can tuck your wings back in now.”
Aziraphale actually helped Crowley fold his wings up flat before winching in his own. He placed one hand on Crowley's shoulder and gently tugged him down onto the bed until they were laying next to each other. Placing one plump arm under Crowley's neck and the other across his bare chest, he held the demon close. Crowley was tense at first, but relaxed into the angel's embrace when he realized that nothing else would be expected from him.
They lay together in silence for some time, each thinking similar thoughts, as the candles gutted out and their stubs sank slowly to the floor. Crowley had to ask, though.
“So, uhm, that was it, then? Making love? Visiting?”
“Yes,” came the murmured reply.
“That's exactly what you do with all these humans?” he persisted.
“Yes. Except for the wings, of course. And staying afterwards. I've never done that before.” Aziraphale turned and snuggled his face into Crowley's shoulder. “Why? Didn't you like it?”
“No, er, I mean yes. It was... quite enjoyable actually.”
Aziraphale smiled against Crowley's chest and closed his eyes. Crowley sighed, pressed closer to the angel, and miracled the sheets and blankets on top of them.
'You idiot,' thought Crowley fondly. 'All this time you've been thinking that you've had sex with thousands of people but you've really just been giving them massages.' In fact, he was utterly relieved that the angel's innocence was intact. Just as he was falling asleep, he vowed that he would never do anything to jeopardize that.
Aziraphale opened one eye and peeked at the sleeping demon.
'You idiot,' thought Aziraphale fondly. 'What I do for the humans is figure out exactly what they need in order to feel loved. Most of the time it is sex. But not for you. You're special.'
And the angel and the demon slept in each other's arms.
Author: Musegaarid
Rating: PG-13
Pairing(s): Crowley/Aziraphale
Summary: Aziraphale has had some... experience and Crowley hasn't.
Disclaimer: Both Aziraphale and Crowley are owned by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett
Author's Notes: This fic was based on a wonderful story called Innocence and Experience by louiselux. I borrowed her idea and daegaer's sensibilities and come up with this. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, right?
"...and, dear, you won't believe it, but as it turned out, he wasn't the father after all. It's all quite shocking, of course, but they're in love, so what can you do? Oh, you know that reminds me, I read the most amusing thing in the Times this morning..."
Crowley was sitting at a grubby little table in the back room of Aziraphale's dusty bookshop in Soho. He was feeling tipsy, warm, and content, which he attributed entirely to the excellent wine and not at all to the soothing babble which, in his heightened state, felt almost like a physical force flooding across the table, washing over his body, and gently stroking his hair. Taking the time to finish off his third bottle of 1978 Montrachet before setting it carefully back on the table, Crowley gave the angel a blank stare. Aziraphale took that as sufficient encouragement to continue.
"Some German archaeologists are apparently claiming that they have found the ancient palace of King Minos."
Aziraphale looked expectantly at him. Crowley thought he ought to attempt some kind of response. He blinked, but that didn't seem to be enough. He tried again. "Th' one in Knossss... Knossssosss... Crete?"
"That's the one."
Crowley concentrated and tried to remember back four thousand years. "Tha' wasssn't a palace. It wasss definitely a brothel."
"The largest in the world," giggled Aziraphale. "Whatever do you think they'll make of those mosaics in the primary courtyard?"
Crowley raised an eyebrow. "You ssssaw thossse?"
"Of course! The craftsmanship was extraordinary even if the subject matter was a bit risque."
"A bit risssque?" repeated Crowley incredulously, "I don't think I was that flexible when I was a sssnake! For Adam's ssake, what were you doing there?"
"Those poor girls needed all the help they could get," said Aziraphale defensively.
"And the fact that they had the finessst wines on the Balkan peninsssula had nothing to do with it, I'm sssure."
"Oh do sober up a little, Crowley dear,” Aziraphale said petulantly, “You're hissing again."
Crowley rolled his eyes and willed some of the alcohol out of his bloodstream. “Sorry to switch this scintillating subject,” he raised a smug eyebrow, “but where were you yesterday? I came by to tell you my gossip about Belial but you weren't here. Have a hot date?”
Aziraphale frowned and looked slightly flustered. “Really, now...” he protested, “I'm sorry, but that's none of your business.”
Crowley leaned forward and smirked. “None of my business? Tsk, tsk, angel. What about the Arrangement?”
“What about it?”
“You know as well as I do that we've agreed to keep the other appraised of all of our business dealings. I've already told you what I've done this week. If this little rendezvous was for business rather than pleasure...” he scoffed, “then you have to reciprocate.”
“Er. Fine, if you must know, I spent the afternoon with Sally Archer who works for that small insurance company on Charing Cross Road.” Aziraphale gave the demon a rather pointed look as if to indicate that the subject should now be dropped, thank you very much.
Crowley sat back in his chair and blithely ignored the hint. “Sally Archer, huh? So, did you take her to church for a fun day of Bible reading and sing-alongs?” he asked sarcastically.
Aziraphale flushed, but angels couldn't lie. “No, not exactly...”
“So you must've gone on an educational walk through the British Museum, followed by high tea in the atrium?”
If anything, Aziraphale's cheeks got pinker. “No, nothing like that...”
“Okay... a rambling discussion about Regency silver and an exciting ten-hour marathon of The Antiques Roadshow?”
“No.”
“What the bloody hell did you do, then?” demanded Crowley, exasperated, “Shag her through the mattress?”
Aziraphale looked away. His face was ablaze. “Well... I prefer to call it making love...”
“YOU WHAT!?! You're joking, right? There's no way you can be serious.” Crowley jerked off his sunglasses and stared at the angel with wide yellow eyes. Aziraphale stared steadfastly at the empty bottles of wine on the table. He looked more nervous than Crowley could remember seeing him since the whole business with the Anti-Christ.
“But, you can't... You're a... She's a... Wait...” Crowley ducked down to try and catch Aziraphale's eye, “Did you Fall?”
Aziraphale stared up at him, shocked. “What? Of course not! What a horrible thing to say. Why would I Fall?”
“Well,” said Crowley slowly, like he was talking to a child, “Lust is one of the seven deadly sins.”
“This had nothing to do with lust,” explained Aziraphale. “I just told you it was love. You can't Fall for expressing love.”
Crowley blinked at this new admission. Something inside his chest felt incredibly tight, “You're in love with a human?”
“No, of course I'm not,” insisted Aziraphale.
The tension in Crowley's chest lessened a little. He tried to speak more calmly than he felt, “But you just said...”
“I said that we made love, not that I was in love with her.”
“Angel, sex without love is the definition of lust. If you weren't attracted to her, why on earth would you sleep with her?” Then he shook his head and spat out, “I cannot believe I am sitting here talking to you about your sordid conquest.”
“Sordid conquest? I expect you'd know all about those,” Aziraphale sniffed. He glared at Crowley. “Look, when I took Sally to bed...” Crowley winced. “...it was a matter of general ethereal love, not specific romantic love, and it was for her benefit, not mine.”
“General ethereal love doesn't generally involve you shoving your...”
Aziraphale interrupted. “Please, dear. I know what it involves.”
“Obviously.”
A few minutes passed in awkward silence. Crowley was trying to put a name to the odd clenched feeling he was having in his chest and figure out why his heart was racing. He was so tired of this bloody human body and all that blasted adrenalin. Worst of all, he just didn't know why this unexpected news was bothering him so much.
In the meantime, Aziraphale took a deep, unnecessary breath, refilled one of the bottles of wine, and drank about half of it in one embarrassed go.
It was Crowley who broke the silence first. “Listen, I know you don't want to talk about it anymore and I know I'm going to regret asking you this, but what exactly did you mean that it was for her benefit and not yours.”
Aziraphale paused thoughtfully, the bottle halfway to his lips again. “I meant just that,” he explained. “The girl was having trouble recovering from a nasty breakup with her long-term boyfriend and she was feeling depressed and unattractive. My focus was entirely on making her feel loved and wanted.”
Crowley leered nastily. “Sex therapy, huh? So this was just one of your missionary assignments.”
“If you're going to be crude, dear boy, I'm going to ask you to leave.”
“Fine, I'm sorry,” said Crowley flippantly, not sounding sorry at all. His stomach lurched again as he thought of something else. “When do you see her again?”
“I won't,” replied Aziraphale shortly.
“One night stand? I'm sure that will make her feel really good about herself.”
“It's the rules, Crowley. Why are you trying to be so hurtful?”
Crowley's eyes flashed angrily. For a moment Aziraphale thought he could see something else in there. Something like... jealousy? But why? And of whom? He'd have to think about that later.
After a moment, Crowley regained control of himself enough to ask, “What rules? Why would you need to make up a whole set of rules for one meaningless, experimental encounter with a woman?” He looked at Aziraphale's concerned expression and answered his own question. “This wasn't just one woman, was it? You've done this before.”
“Yes,” sighed Aziraphale, resigned.
“How often?”
“Oh, Crowley. Why does it matter?”
“How often, angel?” he demanded through clenched teeth.
“Usually it's about once a month or so.”
“ONCE A MONTH! Chr- Adam on an Adam cracker. How long has this been going on?”
Aziraphale couldn't meet his eyes. “Since the Bronze Age.”
“The Bronze Age,” repeated Crowley sarcastically. He pushed back his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and glowered at Aziraphale. “So, just to clarify, about once a month for four thousand some odd years, you have gone out and found a woman who needed to get laid and obliged her. Please correct me if I am wrong about any of the details.”
“You're quite close to the truth actually,” explained Aziraphale, pleased. “But I don't just choose someone at random. There are criteria I use to determine who needs my help.”
“I see, like 'Thou shalt not have VD?'”
Aziraphale gave a sanctimonious little smile. “I think you'll find that afterwards they don't.”
Crowley shuddered. “I'm not drunk enough for this.” He stood up and started rooting around Aziraphale's liquor cabinet. Finding a bottle of 130 year-old single-malt scotch, he returned to the table, sat down, and said, “So, tell me, if disease isn't an issue, what is?”
“Well, I decided a long time ago that age was a major factor. Over the years, the minimum age limit has varied due to life expectancy and societal norms, you know, but now I won't be with anyone under the age of 18.”
Crowley decided to drink straight from the bottle this time. “Oh, do go on.”
“There are only two other requirements. I will not be with anyone who is a virgin, for obvious reasons, I should hope, and no one in a committed relationship because adultery is a sin.”
“One out of three,” muttered Crowley into his bottle. He took another swig and rested his elbows on the table.
“What was that, dear?”
He thought quickly. “I said, 'What about no woman who is too old or ugly?'”
“Outside appearance really makes no difference, Crowley. Their souls look the same. Besides, why do you keep insisting on saying woman?”
Crowley's elbows slid out and he nearly hit his nose on the table. “Just how many shocks do you think I can handle in one day, angel? You're telling me you 'make love' to men too?”
“Of course. A human being is a human being. I visited with Mr. Allen in March. He's the green grocer on Broadwick. His mother had just died and he needed an outlet for his grief, poor chap.”
“Uh huh. Do you change your...” Crowley waved a vague hand towards Aziraphale's seated body.
“Sometimes.” Aziraphale looked puzzled. “Most of the time they seem to prefer that I appear male, though. Very odd, that. I'm pretty sure that wasn't the original intention.”
Crowley choked on his drink and started to cough violently. Aziraphale had to miracle the liquid out of his wind pipe and bring him a glass of water before they could continue. Crowley ignored the water and drank more of the scotch.
“You said earlier that you wouldn't see whats-her-face again because of the rules. What rules?”
“Sally,” corrected Aziraphale absent-mindedly. “Just as there were three criteria, there are three rules. You already know the first - no second encounters. That rule I set up as a safeguard for myself to prevent personal attachments. Other angels had such problems that I wanted to avoid the whole issue altogether.”
“How practical,” said Crowley dryly.
“Yes, thank you.”
Crowley rolled his eyes.
“For my own protection, I had to set up the second rule, too. At the end of each visit, I modify my partner's memory. He or she still remembers the encounter - or else what would be the benefit - but not precisely who it was with, which prevents them from tracking me down later. And, of course, every visit takes place away from the shop since I don't have a bed. That one is not so much of a rule as a convenience.” Aziraphale gave a nervous smile. “That's about it, really.”
A terrible thought suddenly occurred to Crowley. “You've never had any kids have you?” he asked warily.
Aziraphale looked dumbfounded. “Oh, good heavens no! What a horrible thought.”
Crowley silently agreed. He drummed his fingers on the table in the quiet room for a while before he suddenly stood up, grabbed Aziraphale's wrist and dragged him to his feet.
“Come on, angel. We're leaving.”
“Where are we going?”
“Out.”
Crowley pulled Aziraphale out of the shop and deposited him in the Bentley. He drove erratically through London and only just managed to avoid running over two pedestrians, a small dog, and a lamppost by Aziraphale's quick and desperate intervention. When they arrived at a block of Mayfair flats, Crowley parked in what had previously been a no parking zone, leaped out, and stalked towards the building. White knuckled and shaking, Aziraphale followed. They took the elevator to the sixth floor and walked through the unassuming door at the end of the hallway.
“Crowley, what are we doing at your flat?”
Crowley's golden eyes caught and held Aziraphale's blue ones. “I wanted you to 'visit' with me.”
Aziraphale let out a soft little “Oh.”
Crowley wondered how such a tiny noise could feel like a punch to the stomach. His eyes were fever bright and his pulse raced. Wondering if he could try to pass off this crushing disappointment as a routine temptation, he said, “Come on, Aziraphale.
Don't tell me you only 'help' humans.”
“Well, angels don't need this. And I don't know any other demons.”
“Then how do you know I don't need your help?”
“Even if you did, what about the rules? I couldn't modify your memory. I... I don't think I'd want to.” He looked down.
The room suddenly felt very warm. “It's different with me, angel. Demons don't follow rules. You could do it this time because you wanted to, not because some human needed your help.”
Aziraphale looked agitated. “Please don't try to tempt me, Crowley. It's not fair. You know I could Fall for that and I don't want to.”
He stumbled over to the fastidious white couch in Crowley's living room and dropped onto it. Crowley followed and settled in more gracefully. He reached out, took Aziraphale's chin gently, and turned his head so that they were once again eye-to-eye.
“This isn't business, Aziraphale. This is personal. I'm not trying to convince you to Fall. I just think that you ought to be able to make your own choices sometimes.”
“That's the whole problem. Angels don't have free will. Angels who try to make their own choices become demons.”
“And Adam knows that demons don't have free will, either,” grumbled Crowley.
“At least you meet all the criteria,” Aziraphale joked weakly, attempting to lighten the mood.
He'd expected some kind of witty retort or a suggestive comment after that; something reassuringly Crowley. What he wasn't expecting was for Crowley to blanch, drop his hand, and look away, confused. Crowley wasn't expecting to be confused, either. Every instinct in his body, honed over six millenia, was telling him to lie, but this was too important. It was the angel's existence on the line, not his, and he couldn't let him go into this blindly. He'd have to tell the truth.
“I don't, actually” declared Crowley more confidently than he felt.
“Don't what?”
“Meet all the criteria.” There was no going back now.
“Oh, my dear, of course you do.” Aziraphale looked stunned for a moment and his
throat clenched. “Unless... unless you are in some kind of committed relationship that I don't know about?”
“Uhm. No, not really.”
“Then what's the...” Aziraphale's eyes narrowed. “Come now, Crowley. You don't expect me to believe that... that you're a...”
“I believe the word you're struggling for is virgin,”smirked Crowley, amused. “And yes, I am.”
“Don't lie to me, you old serpent. I may be an angel, but I'm not stupid. I pulled you out of that ridiculous orgy in Covent Garden not two weeks ago. If I recall correctly, you were entwined with a large-breasted young woman and a man with green hair and a tattoo of a dragon on his rear end.”
“Did you also happen to notice that I was fully clothed at that moment?”
“That only means that I arrived on time,” said Aziraphale darkly.
“Look, angel, I promise that I have never had sex with anyone, human or otherwise. No one has ever interested me that much. I've never really been keen on one-on-one tempting.”
“And the orgy?”
Crowley's cheeks flamed but he held his gaze steady as if to prove his sincerity. “Well, it's the cold-blooded thing, right? Sometimes it's kind of nice to be wrapped around something warm.”
Aziraphale fluttered his perfectly manicured hands. “Oh, dear, I'm sorry. I never thought of that. I've been so insensitive.” He laid his hand on Crowley's arm. “But I'm afraid that I still don't understand. If you've never made love with anyone before, why would you want to start now? And why with me?”
He had to think about this. Eventually, he said, “I... I trust you, Aziraphale. Well, as much as I can trust anyone. And since you already know how to do everything then why not?”
“I can't imagine that they'd be too pleased Upstairs. Or Down Below for that matter. This is rather more involved than an amiable dinner at the Ritz.”
“More involved than defying Heaven and Hell to stop the Apocalypse from happening?”
“Good point. I suppose we couldn't get into any more trouble.”
“It's settled, then. You'll visit with me the same way you would with a human. And no tricks, shortcuts, or substitutions. I insist on the same experience.”
Aziraphale pondered this for a moment before he finally acquiesced, “All right. I can agree to that.”
Crowley looked suddenly nervous. “Really? Uh, I mean, of course.” His eyes darted around the room and he licked his lips. “So, erm, now what happens?”
Aziraphale said nothing, but leaned forward and took Crowley's hand in his. His thumb made little circles on Crowley's palm as Crowley stared wide-eyed back at him.
They sat this way for a few moments before Aziraphale came to a decision. He stood and pulled Crowley up with him. Still holding hands he guided them to where he knew Crowley's bedroom was. He opened the door, ushered Crowley inside, and closed the door behind them.
The room was well-proportioned, impeccably decorated, and comfortable. The luxurious mahogany bed opposite the door was the focal point of the room. It had been made up with crisp, white sheets and the deep burgundy duvet on top had almost a Baroque feel. On the left wall, sumptuous curtains framed a picture window that overlooked the Roosevelt Memorial and on the right was another Da Vinci, The Annunciation. Aziraphale raised a slight eyebrow at this.
“You have a picture of Gabriel in your bedroom?” he murmured, bemused.
“I've always thought it looked more like you,” replied Crowley quietly. “Except for the nose. But then again, Leonardo usually had trouble with noses.”
Aziraphale smiled enigmatically and let go of Crowley's hand. He walked to the window and closed the drapes. The room was dim without the light from outside, so Crowley miracled the recessed electric lights on. Aziraphale miracled them off again and instead materialized about a dozen, tall, white candles which hovered around the bed casting a soft, steady light. With another gesture, quiet, relaxing music began to play. Crowley listened a moment.
“Elgar?”
“Mm hmm. Variations.”
As if to forestall any comments about his choice of music, Aziraphale glided back to where Crowley was standing. He reached up, brushed Crowley's cheek affectionately with his knuckles, and began to push Crowley's jacket off his shoulders. Crowley froze.
“Calm down, dear. I won't hurt you.”
Crowley forced himself to relax while Aziraphale removed his jacket and draped it over a high-back rococo chair in the corner. Next Aziraphale directed his attention to the buttons on the demon's black shirt. He undid them slowly, one-by-one and the deliberate pace was driving Crowley to distraction. After the fourth button was gently slid open, he said, “What's taking so long? Why don't I just miracle this off?” He raised a hand which Aziraphale grabbed and pulled back down.
“Don't even think about it.” He gazed into Crowley's eyes. “This is not just an act to be completed as quickly as possible. If you want to do it right, you have to evoke a mood, a... a feeling. Otherwise it's not meaningful. You said you trusted me to do this, so let me do it properly.”
Crowley didn't know whether he was more worried about it being meaningful or not, so he cut off that line of thinking altogether and tried to concentrate entirely on the moment. That particular moment featured Aziraphale tugging Crowley's shirt tails out of his equally black trousers and undoing the last two buttons. He slid the shirt off smoothly and placed it neatly atop the discarded jacket. Then he returned to the demon and placed his pudgy hands lightly on Crowley's chest. After a second, his fingers began to ghost over the smooth, olive skin and he whispered, “I certainly don't mean to encourage vanity, but you really are impossibly lovely, dear boy. I've always thought so.”
Crowley inhaled sharply and forgot to breathe out. Aziraphale took the opportunity to run a hand down Crowley's firm chest and around his narrow waist. He led the demon over to the foot of the bed and asked him to sit. When Crowley was comfortable, Aziraphale knelt down and pulled off his shoes.
“Snake skin?” he murmured.
Crowley nodded. Aziraphale smiled. Then he stood and ran his fingers briefly through the demon's thick, dark hair before turning his attention to Crowley's trousers. He deftly unfastened the button and the zip. With a careful touch to the knee, he encouraged Crowley to stand. Aziraphale slid the slacks off of Crowley's hips and traced their slow descent to the ground with his fingers. Dazed, Crowley stepped out of his trousers and Aziraphale carried them to the chair.
Crowley was left standing in nothing but his black, silk boxer shorts. Although it wasn't cold in the room, he was shivering and felt vulnerable. He wondered if all this was a good idea and if it was possible for the anticipated pleasure to be worth the queasy, fluttery feeling in his stomach. Distracted, he sat back down on the end of the bed.
For his part, Aziraphale was removing his own clothing quickly and efficiently. He pulled his tan and brown tartan jumper over his head, unfastened all the buttons on his white shirt, kicked off his brown shoes, pulled off his brown socks, and divested himself entirely of shirt and trousers (brown). All his clothing joined Crowley's in a neat pile on the antique chair.
Aziraphale turned around and slowly began to make his way back to the huge bed in the center of the room. Despite the dim light, Crowley was able to see him clearly. The angel was wearing white, cotton, Y-front underpants which did nothing to conceal his soft, rounded belly. His absurdly feminine blond curls were mussed from when he took off the jumper. But Crowley also noticed his faintly luminescent skin, the supernatural grace that he usually suppressed, and something else... There was something about the expression in Aziraphale's eyes that was, well, ineffable. And it frightened him.
Trying to regain some measure of control over the increasingly bizarre situation that he found himself in, Crowley reverted to snarky bastard mode. “Nice pants, angel.”
Aziraphale, however, was unfazed. “They are comfortable and economical,” he said calmly. Sitting on the bed beside Crowley, he laid his hand on his arm and continued. “I know what you're trying to do, dear, but there's no need to be nervous. I am not going to hurt you. And, after all, this was something you requested.”
“Yeah, but I didn't expect...” he put his head down.
“You didn't know what to expect,” said Aziraphale kindly, “but it's alright. Just trust me. You won't regret it.”
Crowley looked directly into Aziraphale's face, searching. After a few seconds he swallowed and nodded.
“So,” he gestured to his shorts, “is this the point where I should make an effort?” He tried to make a disparaging little smile, but as he hadn't had much practice, it wasn't very good.
“Why don't we just stay androgynous for a while?” said Aziraphale, rubbing soft circles above Crowley's knee. “The other is just so distracting.”
Crowley sighed in relief. “Okay.”
“Good. Now I want you to lay face down on the bed for me.”
Crowley looked at Aziraphale suspiciously for a moment and then complied. Once he was comfortably settled, Aziraphale crawled across the bed until his knees were on either side of Crowley's thighs. Crowley's eyes widened as he looked back over his shoulder and started to sit back up.
“Hang on! You can't just start like that. Aren't there certain things that you have to do first?”
Aziraphale pushed Crowley back onto the bed and leaned forward so that he could whisper into his ear. “I know what I'm doing.” He reclined back into his original position and Crowley anxiously grasped the duvet in his fists when he heard some disturbingly wet sounds coming from behind him. Suddenly, the angel's warm hands were on him.
It was glorious. Crowley was glad that Aziraphale had insisted upon them not making the effort because the sudden release of all his tension could have been messy indeed. It was just oil. Aziraphale was just anointing him with oil and he could have cried with relief. As he turned his head in order to breathe better (not technically necessary, but soothing), he caught a faintly familiar woody, spicy aroma that he couldn't place.
“What is that?” he asked.
“Massage oil,” said Aziraphale simply.
“No, the scent.”
“Sandalwood, rosemary, and frankincense.”
Crowley nearly purred. “It's been a long time.”
“About two thousand years, I'd imagine. Now no more talking.”
At these words, Aziraphale, who had been lightly gliding his fingers all over Crowley's bare back, gave up his tentative touch and instead began working the oil into the tight knots in Crowley' neck and shoulders. Crowley moaned in ecstasy.
He lost track of time as the angel's hands drifted down, first to soothe the aches in his lower back, and later to reach his thighs and calves. Although Aziraphale's fingertips occasionally brushed against the edges of his shorts, it seemed that any area covered by black silk was currently off limits. Crowley didn't mind. This just allowed him to relax further.
After what seemed like hours, Aziraphale carefully rolled him onto his back to continue the massage. As he moved, Crowley lazily slit open one eye. He saw a tiny frown of concentration mar Aziraphale's otherwise serene face as he applied more scented oil to his hands from a delicate, cut-glass bottle. Crowley closed his eyes again and sighed as the angel began to work on his right arm.
Crowley's mind was blank as Aziraphale worked from shoulder to palm and each individual finger. Crawling down the bed, Aziraphale continued his clever ministrations to the front of the demon's thighs, shins, ankles, and sensitive feet. Then he climbed across Crowley to do the same to his left side. By the time he finished and sat back on his heels, the candles had burned halfway down and Crowley was a melted blob of contentment.
It was odd, thought Aziraphale, to see Crowley like this. He had never before seen him as entirely defenseless as now, draped limply across the bed with eyes shut, brow smooth, and lips parted. In the past, during the few instances that Aziraphale had seen him asleep, Crowley had still managed to project the deep-seated frustration and annoyance that drove him at all times. Though, to be fair, these feelings, when channeled constructively and tempered by his innate optimism, had accomplished much and prevented his self-destruction for six millenia. That essence was completely absent at the moment and it left Aziraphale feeling both protective and mildly concerned. He watched the demon's chest rise and fall in time to the music. Aziraphale had enjoyed relieving him of his frustration temporarily, but he was worried that should Crowley ever find a way to do it permanently that he wouldn't be Crowley anymore. Was this the balance that Adam had talked about? Was this the reasoning behind the eleven-year-old's decision not to change the world? Aziraphale shook his head to clear it and smiled fondly at the demon before him. Well, if he could only do this once an eon, he might as well do it properly.
For his part, Crowley wasn't thinking anything at all.
“It's time to sit up, my dear.”
Suddenly the moment was broken. Crowley was instantly wide awake and some of his nerves had returned. Surely the angel didn't want to do this now!
“Come on, I'll help you.”
'Apparently he does,' thought Crowley, as Aziraphale hoisted him into a more vertical position. He curled his legs under and sat on the bed indian-style, keeping a wary eye on the angel.
“Alright,” continued Aziraphale. “Now, let's get your wings out.”
“Ooh. Kinky, angel. Never been able to do it with wings, before?”
“No,” replied Aziraphale calmly. He knew that Crowley often resorted to sarcasm in self-defense when he felt threatened. When Crowley made no move to comply, he caught the demon's eye and released his own wings. Although they hadn't been properly groomed in a while and looked a little mussed, they were still clean, white, and shimmered with a faint glow that stemmed from the angel's current feelings of satisfaction and contentment. He then crawled up the bed to rest against the headboard and sat facing Crowley's back. Crowley started to turn around, but Aziraphale placed his hand on the center of Crowley's back and said, “Wings.”
Crowley unfurled his own wings, slowly. Contrary to popular belief, the wings of demons are the same as the wings of angels - white and feathery - but whenever Crowley had brought his wings out in the past, he had instantly miracled them black. Aziraphale had asked him about this once, but he only said that black wings matched his outfit better. In this time, however, and in this place, Crowley had no need to pretend and he left his wings in their natural state.
Aziraphale tentatively ran one tidy hand over Crowley's right wing from the joint, over the arch, and down to the wing tips. Crowley shuddered.
“Crowley, dear, may I groom your wings? I mean, you keep them in good condition, but it can be hard to reach those semiplumes near the root without assistance.”
Aziraphale's fingers lightly brushed over the fluffy semiplumes in question and it felt like an electric shock down Crowley's spine. He hadn't had anyone else groom his wings in over six thousand years. It was a uniquely angelic pastime, as a demon would never trust another demon enough to turn his back on him. It was also the closest thing angels had to an erotic pleasure and it was all Crowley could do to respond casually.
“Sure, angel. Whatever you like.”
Crowley watched wordlessly as Aziraphale smiled and crawled off the bed. With wings out and wearing nothing but white underpants, he opened the bedroom door and padded quietly into the cool, dark living room until he found what he was looking for. Bringing it back into the bedroom, he closed the door behind him to preserve their sanctuary of soft light and gentle warmth, and returned to his position behind Crowley who closed his eyes and waited with breathless anticipation.
“Are you ready?”
“Yesss.”
With no further delay, Aziraphale adjusted the nozzle of the plant mister that he had retrieved and lightly sprayed the entirety of Crowley's left wing. He did it carefully so that no drips would form and fall on the crisp sheets. The mist instead lay glistening on the pristine white feathers, making shimmery little rainbows as it caught the light. Crowley shivered uncontrollably. Aziraphale went on to mist the right wing and then set the bottle aside.
After that, both sat very still until Aziraphale could wait no longer and abruptly immersed his hands in the sensitive wing root near Crowley's back. Crowley gasped and squeezed his eyes tighter. For his part, Aziraphale was luxuriating in the sensation of running his fingers through the layers of soft feathers. It had been a long time since he'd done this for anyone and he'd forgotten how much he enjoyed it.
Angel and demon wings are made up of two kinds of feathers: fluffy, soft semiplumes for body and flexibility and long, sleek contour feathers for flight. They have no need for the insulating properties of down feathers, which is just as well, since those are the feathers that tend to molt and shed everywhere.
Aziraphale, after indulging himself a minute more, began with the semiplumes at the wing joint. Reaching under the flight feathers, he fluffed and straightened all the soft feathers, working his way up towards the wing bend and back down towards the tip where the semiplumes trailed off. Because Crowley's wings had been folded for so long, these feathers lay flat and awkward along the thin skin of the wing. Once the semiplumes were properly puffed out, they provided a solid base for the contour feathers. Aziraphale turned his attention to these, smoothing, straightening, and interlocking them, whilst removing a few that were bent or broken. After this long process, Aziraphale took a moment to reach up and stretch before beginning the other wing.
Meanwhile, Crowley felt as if he'd been temporarily forgiven and accepted back in Heaven. He was adrift in a sea of unconditional love. But, just as he'd identified the feeling, it transmuted into something warmer. The fingers buried deep in his wings were no longer relaxing, but energizing. He felt all the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end and he became super sensitive to the stimuli of the room.
The music sounded louder, richer, more enveloping. As the strings and woodwinds soared, so did Crowley's spirit. In the quieter moments, he went so still that he could feel the warmth of the candles on his skin and cool drafts from closer to the door. With his eyes shut tight, he couldn't see anything in his room, but in his mind's eye, he watched Aziraphale as he worked. He saw each feather fall into place. He saw the angel's nimble fingers and intent expression.
More than anything, he noticed the odors of the room: candle wax, the earthy and woodsy aromas of the spiced oil, a slight must from the antique furniture, stale water from the plant mister, and the angel. Oh, the angel. His scent was so familiar that it could never be mistaken or forgotten. He smelled like sunshine and roses and wind. Add to that moth balls, dust, and book binding glue. Stir in tea, chocolate, and cinnamon and finish it all with something uniquely and indescribably his own. It wasn't normal angel smell. Crowley had smelled a lot of angels, but no one smelled like Aziraphale. He didn't wonder about this. It was probably ineffable.
“Aziraphale...,” Crowley moaned under his breath. Aziraphale didn't hear him, but knew what he'd said all the same. He smiled. No one had ever said his real name before in an intimate situation and he glowed with happiness.
With the feathers of both wings in order, Aziraphale spent a few moments more massaging the tendons at the top of each wing, near the bone. Then he gave the wings one final sweep and sat back, exhausted. His legs were stiff from having been in the same position for so long, and he extended them at Crowley's side.
He miracled the music off so that the room was quiet before he said, “You can tuck your wings back in now.”
Aziraphale actually helped Crowley fold his wings up flat before winching in his own. He placed one hand on Crowley's shoulder and gently tugged him down onto the bed until they were laying next to each other. Placing one plump arm under Crowley's neck and the other across his bare chest, he held the demon close. Crowley was tense at first, but relaxed into the angel's embrace when he realized that nothing else would be expected from him.
They lay together in silence for some time, each thinking similar thoughts, as the candles gutted out and their stubs sank slowly to the floor. Crowley had to ask, though.
“So, uhm, that was it, then? Making love? Visiting?”
“Yes,” came the murmured reply.
“That's exactly what you do with all these humans?” he persisted.
“Yes. Except for the wings, of course. And staying afterwards. I've never done that before.” Aziraphale turned and snuggled his face into Crowley's shoulder. “Why? Didn't you like it?”
“No, er, I mean yes. It was... quite enjoyable actually.”
Aziraphale smiled against Crowley's chest and closed his eyes. Crowley sighed, pressed closer to the angel, and miracled the sheets and blankets on top of them.
'You idiot,' thought Crowley fondly. 'All this time you've been thinking that you've had sex with thousands of people but you've really just been giving them massages.' In fact, he was utterly relieved that the angel's innocence was intact. Just as he was falling asleep, he vowed that he would never do anything to jeopardize that.
Aziraphale opened one eye and peeked at the sleeping demon.
'You idiot,' thought Aziraphale fondly. 'What I do for the humans is figure out exactly what they need in order to feel loved. Most of the time it is sex. But not for you. You're special.'
And the angel and the demon slept in each other's arms.