He smelled like Aziraphale.
Crowley woke up and the world was new and he smelled like Aziraphale.
He lay in bed in morning sunlight, wrapped in his angel, skin on skin on skin--an infinite recursion of touch that still wasn’t enough. The room smelled like him, like Aziraphale, like them, and the world was new.
Hell would have harsh words, he was sure, but Hell could fuck right off. Heaven, too (the vision of Gabriel condemning his angel rose behind his eyes, and he leaned farther in--buried his face into softness, dug his nose into the sensitive skin behind an angel’s ear and breathed the scent of them until it faded, faded, broke apart entirely).
“Mmmm. Dearest.” Stout strong arms circled him; fingers traced his spine, flattened over the curve of hip, curled into lean muscle.
“Morning,” he mouthed into angelic flesh. He could stay there forever, touching and touching and touching.
Maybe not forever. Eventually Aziraphale would get up, and he would follow--wherever the angel wanted to go, he would go.
“Out? Don’t have much in just now.” He’d have to move, sometime, but he wasn’t in a hurry.
Aziraphale stretched. “Mmmmm. In, I think. I’m perfectly happy with toast, but I’m going to get a little rumbly in my tumbly soon.”
Crowley shifted enough to laugh. “I’ve fallen in love with Winnie the Pooh!”
“I do love my honey.” Aziraphale pulled Crowley’s hips in with careless, intoxicating strength.
“That’s terrible,” Crowley said, but he’d be a fool to resist so he didn’t.
Aziraphale laughed. “Yes,” he said, and took a breath.
Whatever he might have said was forgotten, though. “That smells lovely!”
“It’s us,” Crowley said, thinking, It’s you.
“No. I know what you smell like. This is… oh, it’s wonderful!”
He tasted the air. No. No no no… “Hang on, angel. I need to check something.”
He slithered out of bed, ignoring Aziraphale’s whine, donning jeans with a hurried miracle. He wouldn’t bother but that scent… that meant trouble, and he wasn’t going to meet it naked.
The hallway held no visitor--human, hellish, or heavenly.
“Oh, no. No. You didn’t. You didn’t!”
Aziraphale padded out. “Crowley? Is everything all right?”
“What did you do?!”
“What?” Aziraphale looked around, radiantly delighted. “Oh, they’re enchanting!”
“They’re TRAITORS, is what they are!” He glared at the varicolored riot of blooms exploding from his plant room into the hall. “Lousy turncoats, every one! Did you do this?”
“I might have, I suppose. You made me feel, well... divine.” Aziraphale blinked coquettishly, which was a fucking joke considering he was standing there starkers. “They might, perhaps, be reacting to my… well. But you mustn’t blame them! They’re simply doing their best!”
Crowley took a careful breath. “These plants don’t flower. None of them. I picked them specifically because they don’t flower, and now they’re sprouting flowers.”
“Oh, I see,” said Aziraphale, who clearly didn’t.
“I’ll never get them properly disciplined again. Not now they’ve decided to just grow random reproductive organs and display them everywhere!”
“You mean… like we’re doing?”
“Right, I--” He stopped. “That is not the same thing!”
“Naturally.” Aziraphale nuzzled his neck. “You smell better.”
He clutched at his fading anger. “I smell like you.”
Aziraphale tugged him back toward bed. “I know. It makes me feel... possessive.”
Anger couldn’t compare to a randy angel. “Possessive?”
“Let me show you.”
Disciplining his plants could wait. He glared instead. “This isn’t over!”