Aziraphale makes love with his eyes closed.
It shouldn’t surprise him anymore, but it still does: despite the fact that they’ve been doing this in one form or another for nigh unto a thousand years, despite how they know each other’s preferences like the end bit of an often-told story—really, it should almost be old hat except it very much isn’t—
Every time, Aziraphale covers his eyes. With a hand, an arm, burying his face in his elbow, sometimes a wing flickering into being to shade his face as his cheeks go pink and his soft mouth puckers. Every time.
Sometimes Crowley wonders if Aziraphale’s trying to hide.
Crowley doesn’t feel that way at all. Well, all right, yes, the very first time he had felt something like that: a feeling, a Knowledge that getting this far into the whole body business was probably not something ethereal and/or occult beings were Supposed To Do—but then sleeping was okay, wasn’t it? A bit strange, but okay. Better than okay: one of the Pleasures of the Earth. And eating was quite nice, when you got right down to it, and even using the loo, which followed from the eating, and so from there it was only a matter of time until it had seemed quite plausible that this other thing which a human body could do might be quite fun to try out, just once, needn’t do it again if we don’t like it, come on, angel, what do you think?—
—and it was. Just once hadn’t been nearly enough.
So, now, sometimes it’s dinner and sometimes it’s drinks and sometimes it’s the sofa and sometimes it’s the bed and sometimes it’s the floor and once, interestingly, it had been the air over a large Mediterranean city,  and it hasn’t gotten stale yet. They’ve got lots of options, between them. Sometimes they make the effort to manifest the relevant bits, sometimes not; sometimes one of them is different than the other, sometimes the same; sometimes it’s in private and sometimes deliciously in near-public (he quite enjoys interrupting Aziraphale behind the shop counter, and Aziraphale has rather a liking for Crowley’s expensive memory-foam mattress); sometimes it’s sound and fury and sometimes it’s really an excuse for mostly-horizontal chit-chat. It’s always fun.
And no one has cared! At least, no one has said anything. He wasn’t fool enough to think they didn’t know, but perhaps as far as Head Office was concerned, sex with an angel wasn’t considered any worse an offense than regular dinner and conversation with the same. And if it did come up, he’d told himself, he could pass it off as corruption of an innocent. No point in hiding that, it was practically laudable.
So Crowley’s fine with the whole thing, really. And even if Aziraphale doesn’t want to watch him, he does like watching Aziraphale. Aziraphale is fleshy and soft and makes really excellent noises when Crowley does the right things; he lies back and turns his head away, craning his neck; oh, dear, he says, and Crowley, and sometimes he’ll inhale sharply and bite his lip, which Crowley likes very much, and he’ll take and take and take for hours, as long as Crowley feels like giving. He’s decadent. Crowley devours him bite by bite, nibbles and sucks until Aziraphale needs both hands to cover his face, to muffle the sounds he’s making with bitten fingers. Crowley thrums to his voice.
And to tell the truth, Aziraphale, as inhibited as he sometimes seems, does really seem to have warmed to the idea. It isn’t that surprising, really. Crowley’d known he had it in him: Aziraphale wants. He’s a glutton, he’s greedy - books, food, wine, easier for him every day. This is just one more thing for him to want. And when he wants, Aziraphale can be a force to be reckoned with: soft warmth suddenly getting rather hotter than expected, licks of holy flame stroking Crowley’s skin until he sometimes feels quite burnt, later. Crowley has known incubi.  Aziraphale would make a good one.
It’s just the bit about the eyes.
Why would Aziraphale close his eyes?
It shouldn’t bother Crowley. It does, a bit. After nearly a millenium, it really does niggle. He’s got it narrowed down to two options, he thinks, because there are two things he knows very well about Aziraphale: one, when he relishes something, he really relishes it; two, when he’s worried about something, he’s very worried indeed.
So there’s the thought that perhaps making love with Crowley (or rather, with a demon, although Crowley really does feel he’s rather good in bed) is like enjoying a particularly decadent bite of cheesecake: worth closing one’s eyes for, worth shutting down the conversation for a moment to really savour.
And then there’s the thought that sometimes, if one is worried about looking down at a particularly long and dangerous Fall, one closes one’s eyes.
He wishes he knew which it was.
Still, doesn’t matter, not really. He’s still got Aziraphale in every way that really matters. After all, there’s no one else that gets to coil up around him, or if they’re somewhere that coiling won’t work, then to be allowed to help him to stand, to lean against him, wrap arms around him from behind and flicker a tongue against his neck, waiting for Aziraphale to crane his neck, angling himself so that when those blue eyes do open he’ll have a full view.
Softness, widening; oh, and what a view it is. Worth savouring. Worth the fall. At least from his end.
Aziraphale’s end: well, that’s his business. Crowley is happy to take what he can get. Perhaps there are some things that a demon can’t ask for. Corrupting the incorruptible is its own reward; perhaps it’s a bit much to ask the incorruptible to thank him for it afterward.
For now, for the eternal moment: arms around each other, wings enfolding, and no questions asked. It’s enough. It really is.
And if one day it isn’t… well, they’ve got time, and Crowley's eyes are well open.
1 On a cloudy day, of course. And only once. Managing limbs and wings and wind currents while corporeal had been much too much work. They’d called it off and gone out for souvlaki instead. [ return to text ]
2 Not that way. [ return to text ]