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Walking through St James park, Aziraphale chatting away his round body animated as he spoke, expressive hands and gestures emphasising his points. Crowley wanted to reach out and hold one of those hands, take it in his and never let go, those hands that healed the injured during wars (and witches hit by Bentleys) and cured the sick, the hands that had held a flaming sword and the hand of a young human helping him defy Satan and save the world.
Elegantly manicured hands that were gentle and caring but strong, hands that would fidget when anxious, hands that tugged on the old waistcoat when it rode up, hands that were a channel and an outlet for the angels nerves.
Crowley imagined how well those hands would fit in his own as if they were made for that purpose, he wanted to take them and kiss them and tell Aziraphale how perfect they were like the rest of him.
The angels hand hung by his side, Crowley reached out his own hand inching forward before snapping back. He was a demon he couldn’t touch an angel, couldn’t taint him, couldn’t make him fall, couldn’t subject Aziraphale to hell, heaven may have been as bad in many ways and Aziraphale was too good for both of them, he couldn’t let him be hurt or tortured.
Crowley always tried to keep his feelings hidden, tried to keep his emotions to himself but Aziraphale was an angel who sensed love all around him and had already experienced ‘flashes of love’ that came from Crowley’s heart. As if hearing the thought Crowley felt his hand being gripped, chubby fingers linked between his long ones, the hand that held his was soft and oh somebody it was so warm, the warmth spread up his arm and into his chest it tingled slightly from the angels divinity and the demon could picture it thawing his heart releasing the love he felt.
Crowley was stunned but Aziraphale just smiled at him, bright enough to outshine the sun, “now my dear” the angel said “shall we get some lunch”.