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“Crowley, dove?”
“Hmm?” Crowley rolled his head around lazily where he was lying it in Aziraphale’s lap, his lashes fluttering a little.
They were cuddling around each other in their shared bed, safe and warm and at home in their cottage; the sun had long risen outside, but today, they had mutually decided, was a day just for them. A day when they reveled in the peace that they now had with one another.
Thus, they had not deemed it necessary to move, save for snuggling even closer — crossing that line that had been so long uncrossable, tearing that veil that had seemed untearable.
It was wonderful, and lovely, and so peaceful that it made everything seem bathed in gold and love and joy. It was almost a sort of grace. It was everlasting love and bliss, and they were happy.
“May I braid your hair, my dear?” Aziraphale’s voice was soft and almost purring, his chest rising and falling peacefully against Crowley’s head. His broad, warm hands were gentle and soothing where they were stroking through the demon’s cascading ginger-and-silver-streaked hair, which he had been letting grow out almost naturally since he and Aziraphale had found their home with each other and their cottage in the South Downs.
“I do not have to, of course, if you aren’t partial, but . . . it’s so very soft, Crowley, so beautiful, it deserves to be adorned, to be praised, just like every part of you.”
Not even a little while ago, such words would have made Crowley groan and hiss and protest. Now, however, he only hummed pleasantly and nuzzled closer, tipping his head back to look adoringly up at his angel.
He was happy.
“‘Courssse, angel,” Crowley whispered, feeling so very warm and comfortable and happy and safe. He no longer forced himself to repress his hiss, nor did he wear his sunglasses round the cottage. “I’d love that, actually.”
There was something else new, right there. That word. Love.
After Crowley had accepted that he could love, and Aziraphale had accepted that he could be loved, it had become a word that slipped off the tongue much more comfortably, for the both of them. Nowadays, I love you’s were said casually, but not with any less weight as that first time when they had both been angry and filled with grief; when their lips had crushed together painfully, rather than pressed together softly.
Everything seemed to have softer edges, now. It was lovely.
Aziraphale smiled down at Crowley, who gave him a happy glimmer of his eyes back. The angel leaned down to press a gentle kiss to the demon’s forehead, making Crowley let out the tiniest of involuntary whimpers, his eyes fluttering closed as Aziraphale’s warm hands began working through his hair with purpose, carding through coppery silver strands and stroking occasional thumbs over Crowley’s soft cheeks as he worked.
His hands were ever so gentle as they moved over Crowley’s scalp, and the demon allowed himself to drift and float into a golden pool of tranquility, relishing in the angel’s touch.
Aziraphale’s hands were so soft and careful and warm as his fingers pulled gently at the demon’s hair, brushing through wild tufts and twisting them around each other in braids that were neither too tight, nor too loose. The touch was familiar, and gentle, and so very kind, and it made Crowley feel so, so safe.
He liked that feeling. And he was happy, now, to be able to keep it.
“Y’know wha’ this reminds me of?” He mumbled after a long, long while, when Aziraphale had nearly finished and the sun had risen ever higher in the sky, likely to the pleasure of the garden of apple trees outside the cottage.
“What’s that, my dearest?” Aziraphale indulged him, brushing a hand over Crowley’s cheek; the demon smiled as he opened his eyes to see the angel’s beaming, bright face, and to hear his soft voice filled with love.
“Mesopotamia,” Crowley responded with a little sigh, nuzzling into Aziraphale’s chest. “The children there. They braided my hair. Not all of it, but . . . one braid."
He sighed again, more wistfully; while he and Aziraphale experienced less lasting grief over their relationship and companionship, other past events still carried many heavy burdens that they were still working to place down. "Haven’t done it since then, but I kept that braid in till the population got back up again after the Flood.”
“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale hummed, with a slight tinge of sadness. “You were very good with them, you know.”
“With who?” Crowley questioned, his brow furrowing.The angel chuckled, stroking a hand over the back of his neck, cradling him in his palm.
“The children, dearest. They always love you, don’t they?”
“Prolly my aura of wickedness,” Crowley grunted, humoring the angel. “Nasty buggers, kids.”
“Oh, you love them,” Aziraphale cooed, leaning down to pepper kisses over Crowley’s forehead even as he squirmed and pretended to wriggle away. “My good, kind demon.”
“Hmm,” Crowley grumbled, but he was still smiling, because he had accepted that to be true, now. It was, and he was happy for it. “Only for you, angel,” he settled on, and Aziraphale rolled his eyes heartily, kissing him again.
“Silly dear.”
Crowley grinned cheekily, and then he leaned up and kissed his angel, braided hair cascading in lovely copper-and-silver twists behind him.