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Aziraphale’s hands dig into the soil. His broad fingers interlace with the roots of a small geranium plant, pull, then carry it into the new pot. For a second, they disappear into the fresh earth; then they emerge again, and he pats the top of the flowers delicately, proudly, as if he were a father patting his son’s head after a winning game of ball.
Crowley takes a sip of his mojito, which does little to quench his thirst.
There is dirt under Aziraphale’s squared fingernails, and wet brown stains up to his wrists, mingling with pale arm hair. Then a miracle, in the space of a blink - the now pristine fingers move to stroke petals and leaves. Aziraphale whispers words of praise, and the flowers wiggle happily, opening trustfully under his touch. It’s May, and he’s repotting geraniums and peonies. In September, it will be the daffodils’ turn.
Crowley has never liked flowers.
There is one time when Aziraphale pets a dog. To be fair, Aziraphale has petted many dogs in his long existence – it just doesn’t happen very frequently.
He is not one to ask strangers if he can pet their dog, of course. It’s the dogs, usually, that insist. Crowley supposes animals are drawn to the angel; his inherent goodness, and all that. They usually recoil from Crowley, but this particular dog is a golden retriever, and golden retrievers are notoriously bad at reading the room.
“Oh, aren’t you a dear,” Aziraphale coos, beaming and hunching to scratch the dog behind his ears. “What’s his name?” He asks the owner, a woman who seems as delighted as her dog to be talking to Aziraphale. “Chad”, she replies. Crowley struggles not to scoff.
“Why, hello, Chad!” Aziraphale is using such a stupid, fond voice, and Crowley is overtaken by second-hand embarrassment, though he is the only embarrassed being around, it seems. “What a good, handsome boy you are! Having a nice stroll, are we?”
Chad wiggles his tail and leans his whole body against Aziraphale’s legs to be petted more thoroughly. Aziraphale obliges. Crowley watches, rapt, as the angel's palms seemingly hit all the right spots, and his fingers comb through the dog’s golden fur. How pathetic must you be, he wonders to himself, to be envious of a four-legged creature?
“Must have been love at first sight,” the woman says to Crowley, with a giggle. “He doesn’t usually do this.”
“Relatable”, Crowley mutters, so low that anyone but Aziraphale – who turns to eye him warily – would hear nothing more than a mumble.
Crowley doesn’t usually eat, but when he does, he uses cutlery. In more senses than one, he doesn't see the point in getting his hands dirty.
How could he not react, then, at the sight of Aziraphale grabbing a piece of chocolate cake with his bare hands, straight from the fridge, and shoving it in his mouth? The angel’s making a mess – there’s frosting sticking to his fingers, to the corners of his mouth, to the tip of his nose, even. He doesn’t seem to mind, though: he just closes his eyes, chews, and moans blissfully. When he licks the side of his hand Crowley has to look away for a second. It’s the middle of the night and, lit only by the cold light of the fridge, Aziraphale looks like something out of a horror movie.
Or some movie, anyway. Crowley is not sure. The only sure thing is the sudden heat in his lower belly. Must be the shock, the disgust, the…
“Crowley! What are you doing, looming in the dark?”
“Looming, wh- I don’t- I’m not looming. I just came looking for my earphones. What are you doing, eating like some- some feral- some blessed racoon at 2 AM?”
Aziraphale stutters, and tuts, and stutters some more. “I woke up hungry. It’s your fault, for taking me to that nightmarish nouvelle cuisine place. Wouldn’t fill up a human, those dishes, let alone me.”
Crowley raises his hands in defeat. Aziraphale is still covered in chocolate, still reaching for the cake, and he just physically can’t deal with this right now.
“You know what,” he goes, “You know what- goodnight.”
No one tells you, really, no one prepares you for this simple truth: freedom takes some getting used to.
They are free, now. They can spend a whole night curled up on a couch that is, in fact, a compromise. Leather, but white; with tartan blankets, but lined with red. Crowley allows himself the simple pleasure of a blanket, and Aziraphale reclaims his right to long, uninterrupted stares at Crowley.
Aziraphale’s hands curl elegantly around a glass of Port, clear nail polish glittering in the light of the fire. This up close, Crowley sees everything – the little finger dimples, the fine hair on each of his fingers, the barely-there writer’s calluses. He can smell the lemon and mint of his hand cream.
Aziraphale is looking at him as if he were waiting – but never, ever pushing – for something. He must notice the lingering look Crowley gives his hands, but if he does, he doesn’t say.
See, the thing is, Crowley is not very keen on touching and being touched. There is plenty of touch in Hell – the sinful kind, of course. And given a choice between torture and an orgy…
But demons are not often given a choice, are they? And regardless, Crowley hasn’t dealt with demonic touch in a good while and doesn’t plan on doing so for the next eternity.
See, the thing, the core of this problem, is that Aziraphale is neither a demon nor a human to be tempted. He’s safe and he’s solid and he’s holy, and when Crowley looks as his hands he thinks, he wouldn’t hurt me. Then, more daringly and dangerously, he thinks, he would be good to me. But whenever Aziraphale hands him, say, a piece of bread, or taps his arm to get his attention, or slaps him very lightly as they’re laughing, he recoils. He’s starting to believe his body is incapable of distinguishing between bad and good touches.
It is the most terrible thing, to fear something you want. It is a terrible thing to want, in general. For a long time, Crowley has wanted nothing, or so he’s told himself. Now he can’t stop wanting, and wanting, and wanting. He doesn’t know whether it’s better or worse than before.
For better or for worse, there is the present matter of Aziraphale’s hands, one finger now idly stroking the rim of the glass. Touch me, Crowley wants to say. The words stumble and fall on his tongue. He tries, he does, opens his mouth and he’s almost there, touch me, but instead…
“You’re not wearing your ring.”
Aziraphale winces, then flexes his hand and turns it a couple of times, as if he were only now noticing, himself.
“Yes”, he says, slow with alcohol and warmth, “figured it kept me bound to the past.” He smiles a sad smile. Crowley, well-versed in the language of Aziraphale’s eyes by now, reads in them some regret, but also a kind of determination that hasn’t faltered ever since they’ve chosen each other, this side. This life.
“Perhaps”, he mumbles at last, looking away, “we could get you a new one.” He wishes he were himself a pinkie ring, wishes Aziraphale would wear him and never take him off. He hopes this implication doesn’t slither through his words. That would not be ideal. His eyes fall once again onto Aziraphale’s hand, which is now resting on Aziraphale’s knee, not too far from his own knee, as a matter of fact – please, please, please touch me.
“Oh, that would be nice, dear.” And then, miracle of all miracles, Aziraphale’s hand does come to cover his, though the touch is somewhat hesitant. “Perhaps you could choose one for me. I trust your taste.” Aziraphale’s thumb is stroking his knuckles. “Well, most of the time, anyway.” With his last spark of lucidity, Crowley thinks now would be a prime time to pass out.
He doesn’t. Instead, he starts wishing for more; for Aziraphale's fingers on his cheeks, for example. It’s such a simple wish, and yet the weight of it presses down on his chest, preventing speech. He swallows painfully.
“You, um…” Nothing. He tries again. “Would you, um…?”
Aziraphale takes his hand away, giving Crowley just enough time to plan an emergency escape as he places his glass on the coffee table. Then, slowly, deliberately, he comes closer and raises both his hands until they’re cupping Crowley’s face.
Lord Almighty, Crowley thinks in a panic, I am done for. The thought is so strong his eyes sting with the power of a holy name he’s not even pronounced.
These palms are broad, this he already knew, he has studied them well, but theory has got nothing on practice. These hands hold him like they were made for this purpose alone, these fingers caress him like he’s a fragile, new-born, essential piece of creation. They are – this, too, was to be expected – supernaturally warm, so much so that the touch hurts, but whether from holiness or pleasure Crowley couldn’t say.
Too much. The loneliness he’s been carrying around plants its feet on the ground, refuses to move, growls, desperate to make itself heard. Too much. This is what he could never have, offered to him with unacceptable simplicity. He lets out an unclassifiable sound, from deep within his throat, and latches onto Aziraphale’s wrists.
“Are you alright? Is this alright?”
The sheer audacity of this question, Crowley thinks, but at present he can only nod in response. Aziraphale’s thumbs caress the space between the bridge of his nose and the skin under his eyes. The other fingertips massage the hairline at his temples. It’s a lot. It’s a lot to handle, honestly, especially as Aziraphale is staring at him with such openness, such earnestness. Crowley feels like an unexploded bomb, like an open wound: exposed, raw, dangerous. He feels like he wants to be very far from Aziraphale, which is absurd, given how much he’s wanted this.
He compromises by putting his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, but even then, the angel’s hands won’t leave him alone – one tangles in the hair at his nape, the other rests on the small of his back, steadying him, pulling him closer.
“Angel”, he breathes out in supplication. Another compromise, this – this time, between stop and more.
“Oh, love,” Aziraphale replies, sounding worried and chocked up. He strokes Crowley’s spine, ever so gently, and rests his soft cheek on top of Crowley’s head. It is entirely too much, and Crowley has to whimper and quiver to let some of the tension out. He grabs a handful of Aziraphale’s shirt for good measure, just so the angel won’t think of leaving.
“Crowley, you don’t have to- I’ll stop, if you- “
“No, no, angel,” he holds on tighter, though he can’t stop trembling, try as he might. “No, please, it’s just…”
What is this called, exposure therapy?
Something like that, Crowley thinks hazily, as he lets go of the angel’s shirt. He circles Aziraphale’s waist with his arms and buries his face in Aziraphale’s chest. It helps with the trembling, a little bit, but does little to calm the total-body overstimulation he’s currently experiencing.
He takes a deep breath through his nose. “I’ve waited very long and I’m not used to, erm.” He finds that he has no dignified words at his disposal to explain his predicament but trusts that Aziraphale will understand anyway. “So, it’s fine if you… well, if you keep doing… this. Only as long as you want to, that is. If you want to at all. I’m not saying- “
Aziraphale hushes him and pulls him closer still, until they’re practically laying on top of each other. With a snap of his fingers a quilt is covering them both, and that puts an end to the discussion, it seems. It gets better for Crowley, from here on. The pressure of Aziraphale’s palms is constant on his back, so his skin stops tingling. The warmth they share puts an end to his trembling.
“I’m sorry my brain’s rotten,” he mouths against Aziraphale’s waistcoat. “I’m sorry I’m pathetic.”
“The only pathetic thing about you is when you say you’re pathetic.”
Crowley mulls over this for a second; then he says, “pretty sure that doesn’t make sense.”
“Oh, shush! Go to sleep,” Aziraphale says, sounding very much like the fussy librarian he was clearly created to be. There are a few minutes of silence, then the angel speaks again. “It’s lovely to hold you.”
Crowley emits some embarrassing sounds. He considers both getting up – no can do, his body promptly decides – and staying quiet. But he has to say something back. “Y-yeah, likewise, your hands.” Dammit. “Your hands are… good.” Good? He covers his face with a hand. What an idiot. He feels more than he hears Aziraphale’s chuckle, close as they are.
“You need to learn to ask for things.”
Indeed. It has taken him 6001 years and two falls to learn the lesson, but Crowley decides that good things can come from asking.