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Summary
“Oh, darling, no. This isn’t about me.” Aziraphale’s hand found his face, urging Crowley to look at him. “You are so good to me, Crowley— stop squirming, you silly serpent, it’s nothing you haven’t heard a hundred times by now. You tend to my every need so thoroughly, give me what I want long before I’m aware that I even want it. I only wonder, if the tables were turned, would you allow me to do the same?”
“Ohhhh, I’m too naked to be having this conversation,” Crowley groaned.
“Well, I’m afraid I have more to say, so you’ll just have to cope,” Aziraphale said, bussing him on the forehead. “I know how much you delight in taking care of me, truly, I do. But have you ever let someone delight in you?”
[Aziraphale makes a request. Crowley submits to the mortifying ordeal of being loved.]