Work Text:
INT. BOOKSHOP - EVENING
Crowley never complains. Well, that’s simply not true, he complains a lot — but most of the time, it’s just harmless grousing about small things, usually human-related and innocuous in nature. It’s an important part of his personality to appear perpetually grumpy — keeping up appearances with the demonic code of conduct and all. But when it comes to the big stuff, he’s very careful not to unload that onto Aziraphale.
But Aziraphale is a smart man — or smarter than man, at least — and he can tell when something is troubling Crowley, even if the demon won’t just come right out with it. So one day, when Crowley returns from his Sunday tour of the local garden centre, he finds the bookshop closed. That itself is not entirely unusual — Aziraphale tends to keep the shop closed most of the time these days (it’s more conducive to amorous activities, you see). What is unusual is that most of the lights are dimmed or off, a soft lilt of classical music is flowing from the gramophone, and Aziraphale is nowhere to be found.
“Angel?” Crowley calls as he enters the shop, shutting the door one-handed behind him. (It may be locked to the public, but it’s never locked to him.) He sets down his new potted begonia from the other hand and cranes his neck around for any sight of his angel.
“Just a moment, dear!” Aziraphale’s voice calls from the second floor.
Crowley busies himself flicking random books and objects around the room until Aziraphale rushes down the stairs, all smiles and breathless energy.
“All right, Angel?” Crowley asks as they meet midway for a hello kiss.
“Splendid,” Aziraphale says, placing his palms flat on Crowley’s chest. “I have a surprise for you upstairs.”
Crowley quirks an eyebrow. “A surprise, you say?” he asks with a smirk as Aziraphale brushes a few stray strands of Crowley’s red locks away from his forehead. “Color me intrigued.” He pulls Aziraphale’s hips toward his own and leans in to brush lips across Aziraphale’s ear. “Does this surprise involve me taking my clothes off?” he wonders in a low voice.
“I would think so, generally,” Aziraphale says, which only stretches Crowley’s smirk further to the corners of his face.
“Let’s get on with this surprise, then.”
INT. BEDROOM/BATHROOM - MOMENTS LATER
Crowley stands in front of a bathtub filled halfway with water, the countertops around it lined with a few dozen battery-operated candles, and a grinning Aziraphale at his side. “This is not what I had in mind,” he says dryly.
“I know,” Aziraphale grins — far too giddy about it — as he takes Crowley’s jacket off his shoulders. He places the garment on a hook behind the door and then rushes around to the tub’s brass faucet. He turns on the hot water to fill another quarter of the tub. “I didn’t want to fill it all the way until you got here to ensure it stayed nice and warm. Well, it’s miracle-locked to stay at the perfect temperature, but...”
“You really didn’t have to go to all this trouble, Angel,” Crowley mumbles, sounding far more embarrassed than he probably intends.
“But I wanted to,” Aziraphale says with sad puppy-dog eyes. “You’ve been having such a hard time lately.”
“No, I haven’t,” Crowley argues stubbornly, but he doesn’t put a whole lot of effort into a convincing tone.
“You know you have,” Aziraphale deadpans. He shuts off the faucet and reaches beneath the tub where he pulls from the shadows —
“A rubber duck?” Crowley laughs at the sight of the affronting thing. “Really?”
“Yes, really,” Aziraphale says cheerfully, dropping the little fowl fellow into the water.
“I hope that’s not holy water, then,” Crowley jokes warily.
“Far better,” Aziraphale grins. He taps the ducky on the head, and a stream of soapy bubbles flows from his orange rubber beak, filling the tub with lavender-scented suds. “Now, undress, please,” he says primly.
“You’re so polite,” Crowley groans as he starts to unbutton his shirt. “Takes all the fun out of it.”
Aziraphale blinks. “Would you rather I be rude about it?”
Crowley smirks again. “Kinda, yeah.” Aziraphale rolls his eyes while Crowley nods at him. “You gonna join me?”
“Not enough room, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale says with a dramatic pout.
“Angel,” Crowley laughs as he slides the shirt off of his slender frame and onto the tile floor. “We could easily change that.” He lifts his fingers in a snapping formation, but Aziraphale rushes over and clamps two hands over it.
“This is a vintage porcelain clawfoot bathtub, you heathen,” he says dangerously. “Don’t — you — dare.”
“Pffft,” Crowley blows through pursed lips as Aziraphale reluctantly releases his grip. “Yes, ma’am,” he adds with a slight curtsy.
Aziraphale retrieves the discarded shirt from the bathroom floor. “I’ll take those, too, thank you, kindly,” he says, holding out his hand expectantly as Crowley drops his trousers and pants in one fell swoop. He takes all the garments over to the marble countertop and begins to fold them.
“Just toss ‘em in the laundry,” Crowley says as he arches his leg up and over the bathtub to dip his toes in, testing the temperature. “No need to fold ‘em.”
“No need to launder them,” Aziraphale points out as he completes his neat pile of clothing.
“Point taken,” Crowley concedes, lowering his whole leg into the tub up to his knee before stepping the other leg in and sinking beneath the water. “Ohhhh,” he sighs as he leans back against the tub. “That’s nice, innit...”
“I’m very glad to hear it.” Aziraphale returns to the tub with a bottle of shampoo he fetches from a shelf. He sets it down on the floor, kneeling at the head of the tub before unbuttoning his shirt at the wrists, rolling one up to his elbow.
“You could just take that off,” Crowley says innocently as Aziraphale rolls the other sleeve up.
“I could,” he agrees. “Now, close your eyes.”
Crowley does as he’s told and lets his eyes drift shut. He folds his hands over his stomach, sinking a little further down until the water reaches his shoulders. Aziraphale rubs his hands together and then dips them into the tub at Crowley’s sides. He cups a bit of water and then runs it through Crowley’s hair.
“Mmmm,” Crowley sighs, rolling his neck a little as the water saturates his hair.
Aziraphale pulls his fingers softly through Crowley’s hair to ensure an even distribution of the water. Once finished, he takes up the shampoo bottle, squeezing a coin-sized amount of the gel into his palm. He rubs his hands together again, warming and lathering up the shampoo before applying it to the sides of Crowley’s head. He works the foam through Crowley’s hair with the delicate poise of a pianist’s fingers, curled at the tips, gingerly scratching the shampoo through his hair and scalp.
“How’s that feel?” he asks after a few moments of uncharacteristic silence from Crowley.
“Heavenly,” he responds. Aziraphale’s fingers pause, tip Crowley’s head back. Crowley blinks one eye open to look up at him. “Don’t tell anyone I said that,” he mutters before closing it again.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Aziraphale smiles. He sets Crowley’s head right.
“You don’t dream,” Crowley points out stubbornly. “You don’t sleep.”
“Hush,” Aziraphale whispers as he resumes gently scratching. “I’m pampering you.”
Crowley chuckles into a soft snort. “Of course. My apologies, Angel.”
Aziraphale continues to card his fingers through Crowley’s hair, from the top of his head down around the sides, working the shampoo through every strand, pulling it along to fully saturate every pore along the way. Aziraphale and Crowley have discovered in their time together that, in many ways, the grooming of human hair produces many of the same benefits as the grooming of wings. The stimulation of blood flow beneath the skin, the deep nourishment from the essential oils and perfumes, the releases of the same relaxing neurochemicals... And Crowley’s physiological responses, which Aziraphale is selfishly enjoying with a forbidden sort of thrill, would certainly confirm it.
“Smells amazing,” Crowley says on the summit of a contented sigh. “What is that?”
“Lavendar eucalyptus,” Aziraphale says as he rinses his soapy hands in the bath. “Tip back.” He scoops a handful of water into his palm and pours it over Crowley’s head, keeping his other hand across his forehead to prevent the soapy rinsewater from going into his eyes.
“Remember that bathhouse in Rome in the eighth century?” Crowley reminisces fondly as Aziraphale pours another scoop of water over his head. “You always used to wear that long, hideous tunic-shirt thingy?”
“Yes, well, I wasn’t keen on sharing my...” Aziraphale drops his voice and whispers, “naked corporation,” like it’s a secret, “with all those humans.”
“But demons are all right, then?” Crowley asks.
“If you recall, dear,” Aziraphale says, combing his wet fingers through Crowley’s hair to ensure a thorough rinse, “that didn’t come until much later.”
“I recall,” Crowley says. “Six thousand years of pining.”
“And you were very brave to have survived it,” Aziraphale coos, brushing his fingers along Crowley’s hair line before pressing a kiss to the wet skin of his forehead.
“I was talking about you!” Crowley cries indignantly.
“You were talking about both of us,” Aziraphale suggests.
“Yeah, all right, that’s fair.”
Aziraphale presses the tips of his fingers into Crowley’s temples, rubbing in soothing concurrent circles. As he continues to massage, a flourish of Crowley’s love manifests and courses through the air, enveloping Aziraphale with its warm, honeyed notes. He smiles, encouraged by the reflexive affect. Crowley slips a little further into the tub, the water up to his neck now.
“Try to stay awake, dear,” Aziraphale hums amusedly.
“I am,” Crowley protests, although his words sound like the verbal equivalent of a drawn-out yawn.
Aziraphale pushes his hands down to the sides of Crowley’s neck, increasing the pressure to accommodate the stiffer muscles there. “You’ve neglected your corporation for quite some time,” he notices.
“Yeah, well... you should see my wings,” Crowley mutters.
Aziraphale lowers his head to rest beside Crowley’s. “I would like that very much,” he murmurs, and even in the steadfast warm water, Crowley shivers.
“Maybe I’ll break them out for you later tonight,” he replies, more of a gasp in than a breath out.
Aziraphale presses another kiss to Crowley’s damp temple. “I will hold you to that.”
He pinches Crowley’s neck and shoulders between his thumbs and forefingers, tenderly working the tension out of the muscles with a firm but soothing pressure. Crowley rolls his head, stretching when one side or another feels as though it needs more attention. Aziraphale dips his hands back into the water to warm them, then resumes the pressure at Crowley’s shoulders with a gentle roll of his knuckles. Crowley lets out a soft sound that Aziraphale has come to appreciate in their evenings together.
Once he’s satisfied with his work, Aziraphale places a kiss atop Crowley’s shoulder before he slides his hands up and down Crowley’s arms, keeping the pressure consistent along the way — deltoids to biceps to triceps and back again.
“You’re real good at that,” Crowley notes with a pleased hum. “Should I be concerned about where you got the practice?”
Aziraphale chuckles amusedly. “You mean, upon how many others have I bestowed my caretaking services?”
“Yeah,” Crowley says, latent jealousy in his grumble.
Aziraphale smiles. “I wouldn’t worry about it, dear,” he assures him. “I’ve hands only for you.”
“Fuckin’ right,” Crowley says smugly, shimmying his shoulders in a small victory dance.
Aziraphale brings both of his hands to Crowley’s left hand, pulling it out of the water and bringing it closer to his face. He massages from the wrist up to the palm of his hand, alternating between more and less pressure from each thumb as he goes. He then applies a light stippling along each finger in turn, from the knuckle to the tips and back again. When finished, he repeats it all again on Crowley’s other hand.
“You’ve gone uncharacteristically quiet,” Aziraphale notes as he places Crowley’s right hand back into the water.
“Just enjoying myself,” Crowley sighs. “Enjoying you, rather.”
“Good.”
“Hey, you know better than to use that word around me.”
Aziraphale smirks as he shuffles on his knees down to the foot of the tub. He dips his hands into the water up to his elbows, rubbing his hands from Crowley’s ankles to his knees and back again, just as he did with the arms. He applies pressure, putting extra attention into the calves, using both hands to massage them one at a time.
“I’m startin’ to run out of body parts,” Crowley laments.
“Don’t worry, I’m sure I can find some more later tonight.”
Crowley grins widely. “And I’m gonna hold you to that.”
“Please do,” Aziraphale smiles.
He picks up one of Crowley’s feet and rests it on the side of the bathtub. He starts with his thumbs at the heel, his fingers wrapped around to the top of the foot to keep a pleasant compression. Crowley giggles a little as his thumbs work their way along the arch of the foot.
“I’ll do my best to avoid your more ticklish spots,” Aziraphale says, course-correcting to the toes. He starts with the pinky toe, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger and pulling gently. He does the same along each toe, occasionally getting a soft pop of released tension, and but for an occasional tickled jerk or twitch, Crowley seems to tolerate it well. Aziraphale finishes off by massaging the ball of the foot with his thumbs, frowning at the depth of the tension.
“You spend too much time on your poor feet,” Aziraphale notes as he sets the foot back into the water.
Crowley opens his eyes, that signature wicked grin of his painted across his face. “I could spend more time on my back, if you like,” he offers slyly.
Aziraphale breaks out into a rare blush. “That does tend to be my job.” He scoops Crowley’s other foot out of the water, placing the ankle on the edge of the tub.
“Doesn’t have to be,” Crowley smiles. “You’re proving quite good at being the man in this relationship.”
“My darling, neither of us are men,” Aziraphale points out as he begins to massage the ankle and heel.
“Close enough,” Crowley shrugs. “Got the parts for it.”
“Don’t you have some being quiet to do?” Aziraphale asks beneath an affectionate raised eyebrow.
“You’re so mean,” Crowley whines, closing his eyes again and tipping his head back against the porcelain.
“Earlier you complained that I was too polite,” Aziraphale huffs. “I simply cannot win.”
“You just need to strike a good balance, ‘s all,” Crowley says simply. “I believe in you.”
“Your confidence is overwhelming,” Aziraphale deadpans, pressing into the ball of Crowley’s foot and rolling the metatarsals between his thumbs and fingers.
“I’ll try to rein it in for you,” Crowley says.
Aziraphale finishes with the light pressure at each of Crowley’s toes, then places a kiss on the big one.
“Ugh. Angel. You know where that foot’s been?” Crowley asks, eyes open under narrowed brows.
“Yes,” Aziraphale says, gesturing toward the water below, “quite thoroughly cleansed in this bath.”
“You’re a brave man,” Crowley laughs, sitting up fully and sloshing a little water onto the floor on the way. He swings around onto his knees and splashes over to the foot of the tub, kissing Aziraphale firmly on the mouth. “Whatever did I do to deserve you?” he wonders, running a hand through the curly blond hair.
Aziraphale takes his other hand and kisses that, too. “Whatever you did, I must have done it, too, to deserve you,” he says.
“You big softie,” Crowley says affectionately before grabbing Aziraphale’s half-buttoned collar in his fist and yanking him in for a deep kiss. Aziraphale careens over the tub, grappling quickly for the sides to steady himself. He pulls back in a huff.
“Anthony J. Crowley,” he warns, “don’t you dare pull me into this water.”
“But I’m getting so chillyyyyy,” Crowley whines, pawing at Aziraphale’s arms, trying to maneuver them to wrap around his body. “C’mon, warm me up with some of that angel delight.”
“It’s far too late for dessert, my dear,” Aziraphale says, regaining his balance and sitting back on his haunches.
Crowley groans with his whole body as he sinks back and down to the bottom of the tub, a mouthful of protesting air bubbles surfacing in his wake.