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There are many strange things in this world. Among them is the sight of a demon and an angel spooning atop black satin sheets in nothing but boxer briefs and vests.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale whispered, opening his eyes.
“Mmm?” the demon hummed absentmindedly, gently carding his fingers through the angel’s soft white hair.
“I’m... soft...”
“Well, I know that, angel.” Crowley pressed a soft kiss to the nape of his neck.
“Yes, but...” Aziraphale winced and opened his eyes, looking down at himself as they lay spooning atop the demon’s plush duvet. “Could we...be under the covers tonight?”
“O-oh...” Crowley felt his heart break in two, but he didn’t show it, continuing to run his fingers lovingly through the angel’s locks. “Why? Are you cold?”
“I don’t want to look at myself.” Aziraphale’s voice was barely above a whisper.
Crowley could’ve wept right there and then, but decided against it. His angel needed him, and he wasn’t about to make this all about him.
“Can I join you?”
“Of course, dearest.”
One minor miracle later and the pair were engulfed in the soft black blankets that adorned the demon’s bed.
“Better?” Crowley asked, snaking his left arm around Aziraphale’s waist and pulling him closer, their bodies now flush against each other.
“Better. Crowley-“
“Yes, angel?” Crowley was resting his chin on the angel’s shoulder, and turned slightly to press a kiss to his soft white cheek.
“What is it you want to say?”
“What do you mean, angel?”
“Crowley, I’ve known you since the invention of the sheep, I know when you want to say something. What is it?”
The demon flushed a soft pink and held his angel tightly, and he told him. He told him how much he loved him, for how long, and how every little thing he does is magic. He told him how, if the angel would ever let him, he’d cover every inch of his plush angelic body with kisses, and how he had shown him - and would continue to show him - how much he loved him, for as long as was physically possible.
He told him how he looked him up and down every morning and fought the urge to touch him - sexually and non - to just feel his soft skin under his hands, his lips, to worship his body in a way that no human could ever understand, and how he wanted to murder The Archangel Fucking Gabriel for ever making him feel insecure, or that he was less than; for ever making him feel like he was any less than - at least, as far as Crowley was concerned - perfection and a bag of chips.
He told him how he would never tire of eating in the swankiest restaurants, even though he himself hardly ate at all, if it meant that he could watch Aziraphale savour every morsel of food placed in front of him, and smile tenderly at him from across the table.
And he told him he would have this conversation a million times over if he had to, if it would ease the angel’s pain even for a second. He told him how he’d give everything, in this life and the next, to be able to hold the angel no matter what form he took, and that he loved his entire being - mind, body and soul - in a way that only he, as an angel of love, could ever hope to understand.
As the sun set and the moon rose, and the lights dimmed in the demon’s sparse bedroom, the pair snuggled deeper into the blankets and Crowley felt the angel release some of his tension.
“Crowley?”
“Yes, angel?” He whispered, eyes closed, on the verge of submitting to the oh-so-human practice of sleeping.
He felt Aziraphale squeeze his hand in his and nuzzle against him.
There was a pause, then the angel whispered back, “Thank you.”