Aziraphale was on his hands and knees, head hanging low, arms shaking dangerously. The sight would normally drive the demon crazy, and in a way… it did.
Oh, he was mad, alright.
The angel couldn’t breathe and his tears dropped on the carpet rapidly.
“Get off the bloody floor and help me!!”, Crowley hissed.
Aziraphale raised his head, face red and contorted, trying to catch his breath. “I can’t!!”
He laughed again until he almost collapsed on the floor.
“Fucking great. Just… brilliant.”
“Oh, dear,” the angel tried.
Three very important facts had lead to the scene of an angel almost passing out from laughter, rendered weak enough he was unable to stand, and a very scratched and bleeding piss-soaked half-naked demon on the couch in the back of a bookstore in Soho on a Thursday evening. Three very important facts indeed.
The first of them being Aziraphale’s latest obsession with drawing. He found that, with the right tutor and an immense amount patience, he could learn to draw just about anything. He was in that stage in which the aspiring artist would look at models and sculpt their bodies through a lot of sketching of stickmen, then sausagemen, then actual men. With one eye always inconspicuously hidden and hands often behind their backs.
The second being Crowley’s never-ending pining of six thousand years packed into one stupid, stupid idea.
The third, perhaps the most important, of them being the kittens. Five very small and cute kittens with razor-sharp paper-thin nails. “It’s just temporary,” the angel’d said. “Just until I find their forever homes,” he’d promised as he brought in that cursed soggy cardboard box meowing into the back. “They were left to die, Crowley.”
If you combine those three elements and a very horny demon, this is what you get. Oh, add a recent re-watch of Titanic – “draw me like one of your French girls”, he thought.
With kittens he would be infallible.
Aziraphale sighed content, wiping the finals tears off his cheeks, and propped his left hand at the end of the couch.
One by one the cats were collected and cradled, even that one whose nails refused to leave Crowley’s collarbone, taking a biopsy of him for good measure. She may look cute, but she was not to be messed with in the future and the demon would know it.
“Oh, my poor darling.”
Crowley sniffed and nodded, poor me, Angel, console me, but then he realized the angel was not talking to him, cooing at one of the animals squirming in his arms. “You look so scared. Shh, it’s alright now. Let's take you lot back to your box for a nap, shall we.”
Crowley fumed, the very last bit of dignity ripped from him.
“It’s a fucking Dior, too,” he mumbled, tearing off the piss-soaked black boxer shorts, strutting naked to the bathroom upstairs. “No amount of Tide is gonna get this stench out.”
He nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard Aziraphale’s voice in the angel’s bedroom. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed and amusement dripping in his voice.
“Really, my dear,”
Crowley turned around so quickly the towel fell to the floor, exposing the very last bit Aziraphale hadn’t seen yet.
“What were you trying to achieve?”
He could not, for the life of him, fathom an excuse plausible enough, although he did distinctly remember placing each of them carefully on him then throwing the box over the back of the sofa. It was Lilith, that evil little shit, that meowed at him so sweetly. It made him smile, that demonic evil, evil heart of his, and gently placed her on his stomach. It padded around in circles and then looked him in the eyes with that innocence only the very young possess. It looked him dead in the eyes and peed.
He barely had time to process that this is really happening and he felt in utter agony as the hot liquid trailed down his sides and his stomach to soak front of his boxers.
BLOODY FUCKING HELL.
So he chose an awkward silence of half-mumbled incoherent noises in the middle of the room he’d invaded in search for clean clothes.
“Were you trying to seduce me?” the angel asked, narrowing his eyes and following the trails of cold droplets rolling down heated skin, over flesh and bruises.
“Goodness, they made a mess of you. My poor darling…”
Crowley blinked. This time it was unmistakably aimed at him. Him. It distracted him from the fact he had yet to pick up the towel off the floor and he was, as a matter of fact, still very naked. “I-”
“Would you mind putting something on? It’s terribly distracting.”
Crowley gave him a lopsided grin. It faded when it was wasted on Aziraphale’s impassive frown, and he realized he didn’t have anything to wear. He could, of course, miracle himself a brand-new high-fashion designer outfit, but he kind of got in the habit of making it more difficult than it had to be. They both had, merely because they didn’t seem too keen on miracling everything easily away and falling into endless boredom. Aziraphale firmly believed that difficulties exist so we can cherish when times were easier, but Crowley was a fan of smooth sailing. Truthfully, though, when had they ever been through the sort of difficulties humans go through?
None of that matters, the point is – Crowley was naked. That was the point. A very valid, stark, blushing point.
“Second drawer on the left,” Aziraphale informed idly, disappearing for unknown reasons. Crowley opened the drawer to find boxer shorts of all patterns, and nearly fainted on the spot. These were Aziraphale’s underwear and his face burned imagining the angel wearing each one he shyly laid eyes on. A shaky hand reached and grabbed the first dinosaur-with-moustache-and-a-sombrero-patterned grey pair and slipped it on. It was more than a little loose on the waist, but it would do.
The angel returned and tossed Crowley’s clothes to him, momentarily puzzled as to what could possibly be making the demon so uncomfortable. He chuckled when he realized it. “Really??”
Crowley tried to shrug but it was just an awkward movement of his shoulders.
He pulled the undershirt over his head and by the time his arms slipped in and he pulled it down, Aziraphale was in front of him. Dangerously close.
The blonde scrunched his face in empathy. “They really made a scratch-post of you, didn’t they. And you still smell of cat piss.”
Crowley groaned. “Little fuckers.”
“They are so cute, though,” Aziraphale whispered, closer.
And closer. And closer.
Two hands on each side of his waist.
A kiss on his collarbone.
“My poor darling,” and another, longer. His lips would touch his skin and linger, setting him ablaze. “Does it still hurt?”
Crowley swallowed. “Y-Yes,” he lied. “It burns a little,” it didn’t.
“Oh, that can’t be right,” and closer. “Does this help? Are you feeling better?”
“What were you trying to do, there?”
“Was that for me?”
“W-Well… I… they… ngk.”
“I thought so.”
Aziraphale smiled. Crowley was still trying to figure out what the Heaven was going on when they heard the doorbell.
The angel turned to leave but Crowley grabbed his wrist. “Leave it.”
“It’s just a costumer, you don’t care.”
Aziraphale smile and cupped his face, leaning in gently to kiss him. A brief brush of lips, soft as feathers. Then he was gone.
Crowley was left stumped in the middle of the room, still rather shower-wet in his borrowed dinosaurs-in-sombreros boxers and black undershirt and bruises and blooms of kisses, a sharp tone of red beautifully tainting his face. What the fuck just happened.
Oh, he knew. Of course he knew.
Before he could admit it, Aziraphale was back, broad smile on his lips, the kind we would show no one but his only friend.
This is not to be misunderstood – he knew a lot of people and was fond of most of them, but he had met very few in his centuries upon Earth who deserved to be called his friend. And, truth be told, he only ever need one. Crowley sufficed in every aspect, and how lucky it was that he was around almost every second these days, after the Armaggedidn’t.
“A family just adopted all five of them,” he explained, and his smile fell a little. “I’m gonna miss them, I think. I was getting attached…”
“You should know better than to try pets again, Angel,” the demon said softly, not a suggestion of an accusation in his tone. If anything, he understood.
And that was the thing about Crowley – he understood. Whatever it was, he understood.
Aziraphale hummed sadly and searched for Crowley’s face.
“Where were we?”
Crowley gulped. Flushing all over, all over again. “You were… You were tending to my wounds, I think.”
“Right. Should I miracle them away?”
“I will survive, Angel.”
“So you don’t need my assistance?”
Crowley tried to come up with an answer. It was tricky, and he was being played. “Bastard.”
Oh, he had no idea.
Aziraphale pushed him onto the bed and Crowley thought, This is it. This is finally it. My body is ready.
The angel laughed and sat on the chair across the room, snapping his fingers for his drawing pad and pencil.
“Like my French girls, hmm?”