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Crowley, for lack of a better word, acted like a cat in heat when wanting attention. He'd learned better then to push things off Aziraphale's desk to get his attention; but simply sitting beside him was enough to get what he wants. Sometimes you'd have to give the angel a little nudge but he does get awfully engrossed in his books.
He liked to be scratched. There were certain places even a demon couldn't reach himself and all the other tactics to scratch said itches seem unsatisfying. Aziraphale was more than happy to oblige, especially when he wasn't paying attention. When he was paying attention he'd make little comments that would ultimately ruin the mood entirely.
There'd been times they were having lovely moments only for the angel to say a phrase terribly outdated or a newer phrase that he didn't entirely understand. These ended with Crowley having to excuse himself from embarrassment or laughing to much. Aziraphale would often be confused, but light-hearted about it.
The two, currently, were in Aziraphale's favorite reading spot since the Armageddon't. This was because Crowley wanted to be as close as humanly- or not humanly on occasion- possible. This was on a bed, in a bedroom, on a floor that the angel had conjured for the exact purpose of these cuddles.
He was reading a book he'd read nearly 20 times before, something by Wilde- does it really matter? Crowley was in that half asleep state that's pure bliss when you're trying to sleep and pure agony when you're trying to wake up. He was laying down, head on his angels lap, staring up at the ceiling. It was a nice experience.
Aziraphale let his hand, the one on Crowley's shoulder, move up into his hair. He smoothed it back, scratching along the scalp before doing it again. It was a soothing motion, one he didn't mean to do but was proud to do regardless. Crowley leaned into it, making noises of appreciation as Aziraphale continued.
This could go on for hours. The demon knew this but he was happy for it. It satisfied that little itch he couldn't get rid of himself.
Aziraphale's hand moved just behind one of his ears, right to the spot where hair doesn't grow (it doesn't grow there, really, feel behind your ear). His other hand carefully flipped to the next page.
He had always liked this, Crowley, the simple things in life. He likes to be close and he likes to touch. Once he was granted permission to touch the angel he didn't want it to end. The angel was his bit of heaven. His own slice of unaltered, unpolluted, pure heaven.
There was a sharp tug where Aziraphale's hand must have gotten caught in a tangle. Crowley had been growing his hair out more, after all, so it'd expected to tangle like that. Aziraphale hears the wince- a miracle in and of itself- and puts his book down.
"Sorry, my dear," the blond apologies, carefully working the hair free with his hands. They didn't want to use miracles when they were like this. "All done," he smiles once he finished undoing the tangles, picking up where he left off in the book.
Oh, this was his favorite thing. Aziraphale has to know that. This is obvious. He's always loved this, affection. You don't get that in hell. No one cares in hell, but here, here with Aziraphale he cares. He cares a lot.
Crowley rolls over then, allowing his face to burrow in those nice thighs. He likes those, they're a nice contrast to his boney ones. Where he's angled, Aziraphale is round.
The angel runs a hand up Crowley's back, once, twice before dipping under his shirt. He dragged those manicured nails over his back, over his shoulders. He scratched down, and up, and down. He moved to his ribs, one side then the other.
Crowley sighed. God- Satan- somebody he's so glad the world didn't end. He's so glad he got to experience this, experience life with this angel. This perfect life. He's glad he gets to spend eternity with this creature. This dumb old Guardian of the Eastern Gate who gave up his sword for the first humans to procreate.
He was warm and soft and everything Crowley needed.
Crowley woke up what must have been days later. Aziraphale was still reading and drawing symbols into his back with his nails.
It was nice.