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Aziraphale regarded himself in the mirror, and sighed.
Crowley liked him, he knew. Crowley loved him, that demon full of too much love to be kept in Hell. He knew that. He did.
Sometimes, though, Gabriel got into his head.
“Whatcha doin’, angel?” Speak of the demon, the demon appeared, sauntering around the corner. “Ready to go? Tickets are for seven.”
He took one last look at himself and straightened his bowtie one more time. “Just coming along. How do I look?”
“Cherubic,” Crowley said with a grin. They both headed downstairs toward the shop and, beyond it, the Bentley.
“Oh don’t even joke about that, you know what dreadful bores they are.”
“Seraphic?”
“If I never hear another celestial harmony I think I shall be quite all right.”
“Principalic? Principalitic? Principial? Of or relating to a Principality,” Crowley said. “Principalitish.”
“None of those equate to ‘acceptable by current human standards,’ which is generally what I was asking about,” Aziraphale said. He climbed into the car through the door Crowley opened for him and waited patiently until his demon was settled in the driver’s seat. “Tell me I won’t embarrass you to be seen with me.”
“Oi, of course not. What’s got into you?” Crowley pulled out into traffic, weaving improbably through the London streets. “Oh. Oh, sod. Did you get a note from upstairs?”
“No,” he sighed. “Not this time. They’ve done quite well at adhering to our bargain, actually. Only I was out earlier and one overhears things, and humans have such opinions about what shapes are acceptable, and it all made me self-conscious.”
“Angel. Aziraphale. You are the best angel.” Crowley took a right turn into traffic at a vastly unsafe speed, flipping off a half-dozen outraged motorists. “And your corporation is not just perfectly delectable, it’s entirely appropriate to your guardianship. Nobody wants to be helped by a paragon of unattainable planes and angles, no matter what fucking Gabriel says. People want to be helped by someone who feels kind and soft and caring. There is nothing more boring on this earth than someone who spends all their time trying to get the ‘perfect’ body, and I include his arsehole archangelness in that count.”
The Bentley screamed to an illegal stop outside the theatre.
“Do you really think so?”
“Absolutely. I love your corporation. Ask me again after the show, and I’ll make sure you don’t forget in a hurry, yeah?”
“Oh that does sound delightful. Perhaps we’ll leave before the final call!”
“No you won’t, you always want them to feel they’re doing well.”
“No, I won’t,” Aziraphale agreed. “But I’ll hold you to it nonetheless.”
“I still think the 1838 production was better,” Crowley said as they walked back into the shop.
“But this Beatrice and Benedick were absolutely marvelous.”
“Yeah, but the rest of them were solid English Oak, angel. You could have built shelves.”
“Oh, pooh. You’ve become a snob, that’s what.”
Crowley laughed, but his eyes never left Aziraphale’s. “I do love nothing in the world so well as you. Is not that strange?”
“Strange, possibly.” Aziraphale stepped in close. “But good to hear. Are you... staying?”
“Promised, didn’t I?” Crowley took his angel’s hand and tugged. “Come on upstairs.”
They made it up the stairs with whispered kisses, undone ties, unhurried caresses, until Aziraphale stood by the bed in his shirtsleeves.
“Allow me.” Crowley traced his finger down, unbuttoning as he went. “I need you to know how much I appreciate this flesh you’re wearing.” He buried his face into the soft corner of Aziraphale’s neck. “How much this softness appeals.”
“Too soft?”
That quaver wouldn’t do. “Never. Strong and soft is a hard combination to find.” He kissed his way down the exposed skin. “Nobody wants to be hugged by an iron bar. Or a coat hanger. Nobody writes songs or sonnets to visible ribs.”
“You’re not soft, and I would write sonnets to you.” Aziraphale’s voice broke a little. “If I could write sonnets.”
“You have a rosy view of me, angel.” He reached Aziraphale’s trousers, knelt, and kept going. “Okay, not all soft.”
That won him a laugh, but he wasn’t done. “Maybe I’ll write a sonnet to your thighs. I should spend more time there.”
“You write sonnets?”
“Well. A limerick, probably.
There once was an angel so thicc
That his thighs just attracted my di--”
Aziraphale was using that strength now, hauling him up and pressing an angelic mouth against his. “You wicked thing,” he laughed when they parted. “Get your kit off and tell me how lovely I am.”
Crowley was only too happy to comply.