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Crowley wasn't perfect. But he tried to be.
Perfection wasn't necessary in a demon; after all, the fallen were beings who had gave up the perfection and righteousness of Heaven for the lust of autonomy and rebellion.
But deep down, Crowley always sought perfection. He would never admit it, simply because he didn't understand where that little obsession came from, but behind every action he took there was always an attempt to being flawless, to make no mistakes. Even if he didn't always succeed.
Crowley didn't like his freckles. He hated those little spots that formed on his cheeks. Those little imperfections that were slightly darker than his pale skin and he insisted on covering them up. Because that would mean that even the demon Crowley was not exempt from imperfection.
And so, throughout his eternity, from his fall to the present day, he's striven to hide those marks that he felt were a source of shame, using miracles or more mundane means such as make-up.
And he made even greater efforts to hide them from Aziraphale. For some reason, he couldn't bear the thought of his angel seeing what he considered his greatest flaw, beyond his eyes or his demonic condition.
What Crowley didn't know, or at least chose to ignore, was that sooner or later scars are discovered when you least expect it. And, oh, all his efforts to hide them were in vain because of his own bloody mistake.
For Crowley slept shirtless, summer or winter. It didn't matter how tired he was, he never wore a shirt to bed. And Aziraphale had no complaints.
But one night, as they shared a bed, Aziraphale managed to make out what looked like small specks of dust, until he looked closer and realised it was a cluster of tiny freckles scattered across Crowley's skin, forming little constellations.
"You have freckles," he murmured in astonishment, not daring to touch them.
Crowley just pursed his lips in annoyance, as if he did not like the fact at all, and that surprised Aziraphale because when it came to self-praise, Crowley was the first to praise his own attractiveness in the name of vanity.
"Dear..." Aziraphale began, reaching out to touch one of the tiny specks that seemed to dust the demon's bare skin, but Crowley recoiled as if his touch burned. "Crowley..." he scolded sternly, but with curiosity and concern in his demeanour.
"Angel..." Crowley muttered in apology, feeling like a child being scolded by his mother. "'They're hideous," he replied vaguely, but Aziraphale understood what he meant.
"Crowley," Aziraphale said, laughing incredulously, unable to believe that Crowley considered his freckles a flaw, when to him they only added to his attractiveness, which was saying something, as the demon was quite handsome in his eyes.
"Please don't laugh, angel," Crowley replied, hurt by his angel's laughter. "'They're like scars to me."
And they were indeed. The marks on his skin weren't freckles in the traditional sense; they were star dust, remnants embedded in his skin when he created stars in a distant past when he was called Raphael and was an archangel, one of the most important.
These memories surfaced when reminiscence mingled with melancholy, causing the most painful regressions into his past, when he vaguely remembered his former life as an archangel, creator of stars and galaxies.
One of the many punishments he received upon his fall, in addition to the gradual loss of some of his memories and the transformation of his golden eyes into that amber serpentine gaze, was that the glorious dust that once covered his being would burn upon his fall, searing his skin with intense heat until they finally fused into dark patches that painfully reminded him that something he loved had become a mark of his grief and doom.
"It's like seeing an entire galaxy on your skin," Aziraphale pointed out, jolting him out of his reverie as he admired the tiny specks that adorned his skin. He ran his hands over the freckles as if he couldn't believe they were real, and for the first time, Crowley allowed himself to relax as he felt the touch of the angel's hands all over his skin.
And that's when Aziraphale Fell became damned and completely enamoured with the marks that adorned Anthony J. Crowley's body, not only on his face but also on his arms and legs, not to mention the other marks that who knew where else on his body they might be.
Top to bottom, side to side, face to elbow.
How was this possible? How was it possible that Crowley could be even more beautiful? How could the marks on his skin make him an Adonis in the eyes of the world? And, more importantly, why would Crowley insist on hiding them from the gaze of others?
"That's beautiful," Aziraphale exclaims as if it were an absolute truth, and to him it is.
"Angel," Crowley tries to protest, but Aziraphale silences him with a kiss, not on his lips, but on the demon's bare skin, treating it with a reverence no demon would think they deserved.
"They say freckles are kisses from angels..." he murmurs against Crowley's skin, and the argument is enough to silence the demon's protests and let him feel the angel leave a trail of kisses all over his body.
"Oh, then," Crowley interrupts Aziraphale's meticulous work to kiss him on the lips, "turn my skin into a galaxy, I'm a blank canvas just for you."
And suddenly the scars of hellish punishment were turn into stars made by heavenly kisses.