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Aziraphale drew his hand through the water of the bath he’d drawn for his beloved, stirring in the scented oils, testing the scalding temperatures. Crowley hadn’t said anything—he never did—but he hadn’t needed to. Aziraphale understood that the chilly temperatures could be…difficult…for him.
The demon in question was sat on the toilet, wrapped in Aziraphale’s fluffiest towel and nodding off against the bathroom counter. Aziraphale stole a glance, then reminded himself such things were no longer forbidden and indulged in a long, lingering look, complete with a soppy grin. If Crowley noticed, he didn’t react, his eyes sliding open and shut with all the urgency of a languid summer breeze. Aziraphale stood, laid aside his own towel, and walked over to Crowley. He slid his fingers through Crowley’s short-chopped hair and stroked his thumb over Crowley’s temple and Crowley made a sound between a hiss and a purr as he leaned into the contact.
“Bath’s ready, darling,” Aziraphale said gently, and Crowley groaned, leaning forward to plant his face in Aziraphale’s belly, nuzzling into the bare skin.
“Carry me,” Crowley mumbled. “m’ tired.”
“As you wish,” Aziraphale agreed, and swept Crowley up in his arms, divesting him of the towel in the process. Crowley, in more temperate weather, would have yelped and clutched at his shoulders, or nearly made Aziraphale drop him with his wriggling and posing. Today, with a steady snowfall drifting past the window, Crowley leaned his whole body into Aziraphale’s and sighed. Aziraphale himself had to repress a shiver; so much skin-to-skin contact between them was still too heartbreakingly new. He planted a kiss against Crowley’s nose. “Incoming.”
Aziraphale stepped into the tub, larger on the inside than the outside would suggest, and carefully lowered himself and Crowley into the water. It was just barely too warm for Aziraphale himself, but he knew Crowley liked it hot, and so he would handle having heat-pink sensitive skin if it meant Crowley would be more comfortable. Crowley sighed again and made other vaguely pleased noises as Aziraphale adjusted him so his back was against Aziraphale’s chest. They could sit and soak before the washing began in earnest; the water knew better than to cool and Aziraphale had nothing but time.
Crowley was relaxed but not snoring, his head nestled under Aziraphale’s chin. Aziraphale began tracing over his skin in long, gentle strokes, cataloging the bumps and scars one did tend to accumulate after six thousand years of life, particularly if one was a demon whose superiors not only believed in corporal punishment but invented it. One in particular always stood out to Aziraphale, but he avoided it with his fingers for as long as he could, instead content to leave long stripes of water against Crowley’s comparatively cool shoulders and dipping back down again into the water to start the process again. When at last the edge of Aziraphale’s fingertips brushed against the angry, always-warm scar just under Crowley’s collarbone, Crowley shifted, not flinching or shrugging him off as he’d done in the past, but acknowledging Aziraphale’s presence near it.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured, and circled the scar.
Crowley grunted, reaching up and grasping Aziraphale’s wrist. Aziraphale expected to be gently redirected or pushed away. He was not expecting Crowley to lay Aziraphale’s palm against the scar and for Crowley to flatten his hand over Aziraphale’s. This close, Aziraphale could feel the hellish heat that always emanated from the scar, the prongs and loops of toughened scar tissue that were not physically tender but somehow always gave off the energy of being raw and new.
“Reminder,” Crowley said, his voice rough and sleepy. “S’what happens when Hell takes notice.”
“Notice?” Aziraphale asked as his stomach swooped.
“Paris,” Crowley said, and it took a moment, but when the penny dropped, Aziraphale’s ears rang with the deafening clarity of it.
“The Bastille,” Aziraphale breathed, and if he could press Crowley close enough to hide him within the curves of his body, he would have—as it was, he could only gather Crowley against him and hold him, one hand flat on the scar, the other encircling his chest and entangled with Crowley’s free hand. “Oh, my dear.”
“Don’t regret it,” Crowley said, not bold or fierce, a simple statement of fact. “I don’t. Not really.”
Aziraphale chewed on his lip. “It…still hurts, doesn’t it.”
“Lots of things hurt,” Crowley said, and pressed his forehead to Aziraphale’s cheek. “Don’t really notice it much anymore.” Aziraphale felt more than saw Crowley’s almost-shy smile. “Worth it just to see you in those shoes.”
Aziraphale snorted and Crowley chuckled. Aziraphale tilted Crowley’s head up and kissed him, pressing as much love into it as he could, until Crowley made a little gasping sound that Aziraphale so adored.
“You’ve taken such good care of me,” Aziraphale murmured. “Let me return the favor?”
Crowley flushed but nodded.
And Aziraphale did take care of him—he started with wetting down Crowley’s hair, letting the hot water trickle across his scalp and enjoying the goosebumps that popped up across Crowley’s shoulders. Crowley’s shampoo was nearby, of course, and Aziraphale liked it, but there was something primal inside of Aziraphale that made him reach for his own shampoo instead—working the suds into Crowley’s scalp, marking him with his scent in the fussiest way possible. After the shampoo washed away came the conditioner, Crowley’s this time, though as it sat in Crowley’s hair Aziraphale reached for his own soap and a soft cloth to start washing down his beloved’s limbs. Crowley sighed and gasped and made all manner of noises, which electrified Aziraphale more than the overwarm water ever could. Was this what it was like for Crowley to watch Aziraphale eat? He could understand the appeal; the deep, satisfied groan as Aziraphale began kneading Crowley’s back was sweet enough to discorporate Aziraphale instantly, were he not too disgustingly in love to contemplate ever leaving.
“Lean back, dearest, need to rinse out the conditioner and I don’t want to get it in your eyes,” Aziraphale instructed, and Crowley obeyed, the sheer level of trust taking Aziraphale’s breath away as he lowered Crowley back into the water. There was some metaphor about baptism in there somewhere, Aziraphale thought hazily as he rinsed Crowley’s hair, but for the life of him he couldn’t find the words. He raised Crowley back up and leaned Crowley against him, miracling the water clear again as they settled back against the wall of the tub. Crowley mumbled, then rolled over, pressing chest-to-chest and throwing his arms around Aziraphale’s neck, tucking his face against Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale smiled and held him and kissed his ear, since that was the closest bit he could reach.
“Love you,” Crowley mumbled sleepily into Aziraphale’s ear. Aziraphale felt his heart tremble. Then he sat up, forcing Crowley to sit up as well, and when Crowley was upright and blinking blearily at him, Aziraphale leaned forward and pressed his lips to Crowley’s scar.
There was a burst of heat, not unpleasant but intense, and Aziraphale and Crowley both cried out, Crowley pushing Aziraphale back and retreating to the far wall of the tub. Water sloshed in improbably high waves but didn’t overflow the tub as Crowley put his hand over the scar, eyes wide and breathing hard, and Aziraphale could have cursed himself in every language he knew for breaking Crowley from his relaxed state if he wasn’t so terrified he’d hurt him.
“I’m okay,” Crowley said automatically, and Aziraphale twisted his fingers together to stop himself from reaching for Crowley again. Crowley blinked a few times, then peeked under the hand covering his scar. He stared. Then he looked up at Aziraphale and uncovered it. Aziraphale stared, too.
Where a cruel brand had once been was now something…else. The twisted red flesh had softened to pink, for a start, and the harsh lines had become more…sinuous. Familiar. It could have been the twin for the snake on Crowley’s temple but for the faint spread of gold wings on either side. Crowley carefully poked at it and winced, but the sound that tumbled out of his mouth was an incredulous laugh.
“What—did—did I do that?” Aziraphale cried, and yelped again as he found himself with an armful of joyful demon (this time, water did make it onto the floor).
“Looks a sight better than it did before,” Crowley said, and put Aziraphale’s hand back over it. Aziraphale blinked, startled—he could tell it still pained Crowley, but the difference was night and day, an old ache rather than an endless torment. “Wings are new.”
“Yes, well. I didn’t know I was doing anything,” Aziraphale said. Crowley grinned.
“You do plenty just being you, angel,” Crowley said, and very nicely kissed Aziraphale’s eyelids when he had to squeeze his eyes shut against a sudden wave of tears.
“I love you too, you old serpent,” Aziraphale said shakily. Crowley kissed him again, once on each cheek and for a good long time on the mouth.
The water got cold and the floor had to be mopped up, but such things were forgotten once Aziraphale got Crowley toweled off and bundled up in their nice warm bed. It was with considerably more caution that Aziraphale touched the former scar, but the adoration in Crowley’s eyes made him brave.
“Will you tell me the full story one day?” Aziraphale asked, tracing the loops that hadn’t been there just an hour ago.
“Not much to it,” Crowley shrugged. “I got careless, stopping time like that, Hastur took issue, he dipped a hellfire brand in holy water, and…poof. Scar.”
Aziraphale’s heart crowded into his throat. Holy water and hellfire together? It was a marvel Crowley hadn’t died.
“Wasn’t the holiest stuff, Aziraphale, wasn’t gonna hurt me much more than this,” Crowley protested, but didn’t argue when Aziraphale gathered him up. Instead, Crowley held him like he mattered and was precious and it was almost more than Aziraphale could bear.
“Hey,” Crowley murmured as Aziraphale shook in his arms. “Hey. Had you written in my heart long before anything else was branded on my skin, angel.”
“And you in mine,” Aziraphale whispered.
“Forever,” Crowley promised.
And forever it would be, if Aziraphale had any say in it.