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Angels are sexless unless they really want to make an effort. Crowley has been highly sexed since forever. He wonders, these days, about Aziraphale though.
A couple of hundred years ago it had been more cut and dried: unless they were very rich, a person caught fornicating in any circumstance other than that of the blessèd procreation-in-the-missionary-position-whilst-married would have bought themselves a quick ticket to Hell. Do not pass GO etc. Crowley had sinned at every opportunity… which would mean that Aziraphale, presumably, hadn’t.
There has been a lot of ineffable chess played since then though, with memorable moves such as the partial liberation of womankind (one that he’s secretly planning to let Aziraphale win), contraception and methods of ‘safer sex’, and, more recently, the dawning of gay rights. On reflection, Crowley might be getting soft. He refuses to entertain the notion that his subconscious has ulterior motives (the first two letters of which begin and end the English alphabet).
These days, one mortal might ‘give’ of his- or herself in the name of comforting another mortal, in such a way that even the most dogmatic evangelist would be hard-pressed to call it a sin (particularly if the correct Hollywood lighting and music were applied). And where the mortals lead, the evolution of morality follows. Times, as noted by the tambourine guy, are a-changing.
Would Aziraphale be more likely to consent to some rumpy-pumpy with Crowley in this, the Brave New World? Such musings have set Crowley’s mind scheming recently, now that the lines are blurred. It wouldn’t necessarily mean an immediate fall anymore, as it would have done once.
An awful thought occurs to Crowley. Aziraphale may already have tried it with a human, or worse, with another non-human. Jealous rage rises inside and he lets it sit there, thrumming in his blood.
“Vous obtenez l'argent quand nous obtenons les marchandises,” insists the leader of the band of mercenary arms dealers, bullishly.
And abruptly Crowley decides that he wants to be elsewhere. There’s an open-ended conversation waiting for him in a backroom in Soho. He says, “Whatever, pine d'huître,” and opens fire on the roomful of them. There’s a lot to be said for a little spontaneity from time to time.
****
Aziraphale makes a put-upon face when Crowley gets blood on the couch, but it’s just for show, Crowley can tell. His angel is pleased to see him, as always. The question is no longer ‘Why does Aziraphale put up with me?’ but ‘Is Aziraphale genderless underneath those trousers?’
“I was studying the Gnostic Gospels, making headway with the Gospel of Philip,” Aziraphale grumbles. “Until you interrupted.”
“You must have been bored out of your skull,” Crowley replies, because that’s his part of their dance. It’s the dance they always dance and the only dance they have ever danced together …so far. “You should thank me for saving you from the part by Eugnostos the Blessed. I’ve read that bit. It’s awfully dull.”
As the kettle rumbles to a boil, Crowley wonders if his friend has male bits or female bits, or if Aziraphale is as smooth as a Ken-doll down there. Crowley can’t decide which he would prefer, or even if it matters beyond keeping his imagination busy. If Aziraphale had female genitalia it would make things easier he supposes. His smile spreads like an oil-slick as he considers multiple orgasms and easy access. Aziraphale shoots him a suspicious look as he hands over the tea. “I don’t think I want to know,” he says.
“Too much milk,” Crowley complains, and Aziraphale makes his put-upon face again as he banishes some, touching a fingertip to the surface of the steaming liquid. “Better,” Crowley allows, and follows Aziraphale back to the couch. If Aziraphale had male genitalia tucked away they would certainly appeal to Crowley’s proclivities. You don’t get to live six millennia making an artform of Biblical sin without picking up a few proclivities.
“Shortbread or rich tea?”
It’s the last option, the smooth genderless flesh of innocence, that makes Crowley shiver. It's possible he's developing some new proclivities. “Why not both,” he decides.
“So what brings you back from Africa in such a hurry?”
It irritates Crowley that the angel still won’t dunk his biscuits in his tea. He makes a show of dunking his own biscuits and making obscene groaning noises of pleasure at how much better they taste that way. “I wanted to talk to you about sex,” he announces.
Aziraphale’s pupils dilate a fraction but his shoulders go stiff. Crowley has become accomplished at monitoring such signs. “Oh no, not again,” Aziraphale says quietly.
Crowley smirks. It’s time to ask some pressing questions, angelic sensibilities be damned, but Aziraphale cuts him off before he can get started.
“How long have you been able to do that telephone trick anyway?”
“Ah!” says Crowley, knowing he’s being diverted but unable to resist the chance to gloat. “Now the telephone trick,” he says, proudly, “Is the best new mode of transport. The only mode of transport. All the cool guys are doing it. Namely, me.”
“Go on.”
“You really must try the telephone trick. In fact,” Crowley says, lifting the receiver, “I can show you how to do it, right now.” He neglects to mention that the long-distance calls can get a bit hairy. All things in good time.
****
“How long have I been sleeping?” Crowley asks, wiping drool from the corner of his mouth and the couch cushion.
“Three hours,” Aziraphale says, not bothering to look up from his book. “You could have warned me about the long-distance calls. I needed a stiff drink after that last trip to Australia and when I came back you had already conked out.”
“I like sleeping,” Crowley says, defensively. “You have to admit, the telephone thing is pretty cool.”
“It’s certainly fast,” the angel admits.
Crowley sits up and takes stock of his surroundings. The lamps are lit, which means the daylight has gone, which, in turn, means it’s a fine time for more drinking and some conversation. Pertinently, those questions he didn’t get around to asking earlier. He raids Aziraphale’s cabinet for brandy and vodka and deposits the brandy on the desk in front of his friend. “If you had to choose a new body, today, right now,” he asks, “Would you choose another male one?”
Aziraphale sips the brandy. “Are you threatening to discorporate me?”
Crowley makes a hurt face. “I haven’t done that for centuries.”
“Then why-”
“You see, I tend to be male, you probably noticed. I mean, I’m female when the job requires it, and sometimes just for kicks,” he leers at Aziraphale’s disapproval, “But this body, this complete body, is how I’ve come to think of myself over the years.”
“That’s…” Aziraphale clears his throat, “That’s understandable.”
“So… are you-”
“I knew there was something I’d forgotten to do,” Aziraphale says loudly, pushing back from the desk and dressing hurriedly in his scarf and coat. “Mrs Brennan from the St Theresa’s. If I forget to help her with the church flowers again she’ll be angry enough to commit all seven of the deadlies.”
“Oh, come on!”
“No Really! I missed her last week and the Reverend Sandy took the brunt of it. Sorry. Got to run. Help yourself to shortbread.”
The door latches shut behind him. “Hellfire and damnation,” Crowley mutters. He had promised himself he wouldn’t let Aziraphale get away again but there’s not much he can do about it now. He can’t exactly chase him down the street calling ‘I just need to stick my hand down your trousers because curiosity is getting the better of me.’
****
Crowley is both completely wired and cold to the bone. His mission, in the snows of Colorado, had been exhausting, physically and emotionally. It had been successful, which is to say the Powers Below think it had been successful, but then they never were much for forward planning. The scientist had died horribly, as planned, and it had all been very demonic, the burning of texts, even if they are all now digital, and so on. That his death will ultimately mean saving millions doesn’t seem to bother Them, and it’s better perhaps that They remain ignorant. Still, Crowley complains about it at length to Aziraphale. He doesn’t want millions to die, obviously, he just wishes for more intelligent colleagues.
Aziraphale says, “There’s always me,” shyly, and Crowley realises it’s the truth. There’s ALWAYS Aziraphale.
“You ran me a hot bath.” Crowley says, shocked.
“So I did.”
“You’ve been tempting me with… with niceties,” Crowley accuses, “This whole time.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re the one who does the tempting.”
Crowley doesn’t know what to do. The stress and frustration of the last few hours have transformed into a hollow feeling inside, as though he’s an open pipe on a windy day. He wipes at his face and Aziraphale politely turns away.
The water is delicious, almost scalding. He hisses in pleasure.
“There’s a robe on the door.” Aziraphale says, closing it behind him. “I’ll be in the study,” he calls, footsteps retreating. “I finally got hold of an August Brizeux edition of The Divine Comedy.”
A pathetic ‘thank you’ wants to come out of Crowley’s mouth and sob its way into the world. He bites down on it. He bites down hard.
****
“Do you think we’re becoming something other?” Aziraphale says, later, during a commercial break.
“Other,” Crowley says, considering it. “Yes, probably. You mean because of the Free Will and the-” he gestures at his own lap, “Male bits?”
Aziraphale goes predictably tense, so Crowley swings his legs onto the couch too, and shuffles up until his head rests in the angel’s lap. And he still can’t tell, damn it all.
“I’m feeling different these days,” Aziraphale says softly.
Crowley lets the confession sit in the room with them.
When the commercials end and Mel Gibson is once again spewing his terrible one-liners, Aziraphale’s hand comes to rest, ever so lightly, in Crowley’s hair.
****
Feeling cold is Crowley’s least favourite sensation, so of course his next ‘job’ is in the Siberian Tundra. It’s not only cold but absolutely buttock-clenchingly freezing and Crowley hates it. This time, however, at least Crowley has warm socks. Hand-knitted warm socks, a gift from Aziraphale and honestly, who knits their own socks these days? Crowley had said as much and made his angel blush prettily, but then of course Crowley is wearing the socks now, and what does that say about him? His feet are secretly lovely and cosy, the only warm part of him. He would die of shame if the other demons knew about the socks.
“Throw it in the pile to burn!” screeches Błędnica in Russian, and Crowley’s mind races.
“They’re worth a fortune,” he hisses in her ear, eyeing the Fabergé eggs nervously. “Think of how many new money laundering souls we could reap.”
But Błędnica is implacable. She has never been about money and priceless artefacts. No, with Błędnica it’s all lost souls and haunted forests. “Burn them now!” she screams, “Or you all die instead and we burn them anyway.”
Crowley sidles in the direction of the fire. If he could save just one for Aziraphale… repair it by force of will or something-
“Crowley!” barks Astaroth. “Get back here, Crowley.”
And so Crowley is forced to watch as the eggs burn, crumpling and twisting into useless hunks of ash. He hates the mangy imbeciles of the Sixth Circle more than ever before.
Three and a half thousand miles away, and ten minutes later, Aziraphale receives a phone call. “Call for Mr Pertwee Roundbottom?” the operator says, without a hint of humour. “Reverse call for you, from-” there’s a rustle of papers, “Siberia?”
“Yes, thank you. Just send him through,” Aziraphale says, setting the phone receiver on his desk and stepping back nervously.
A moment passes before Crowley materialises, muttering under his breath. He stumbles, rights himself, and sets the receiver back in its cradle. “I’ve had a mother f-”
Aziraphale covers Crowley’s mouth with his hand. “You’re freezing,” he observes. “Again. Come on, it’s warmer in the kitchen because I’m baking. You can tell me all about it over tea.”
They drink tea and the combination of hot liquid, Aziraphale’s soothing presence and the distracting smell of freshly baking bread calms Crowley’s frayed nerves.
Aziraphale, on the other hand, becomes more agitated as the conversation progresses. “Twelve Fabergé eggs!” he says again, in disbelief. “For what? Just to prove that they’re cultural Philistines as well as denizens of Hell?”
Crowley shakes his head sadly. He has no use for Fabergé eggs himself, couldn’t care less about the things, except… that’s not true anymore. He hates it when he has to destroy something Aziraphale loves. Aziraphale is angry now but it won’t last. Soon the angel will get all sad about it. A renewed flash of anger courses through Crowley, directed, this time, at himself. He’s nothing more than a coward. “I wish I could have saved them for you,” he says. I wish I could save you the loss, he adds, but only in his own head. Recently Crowley has been feeling fiercely protective of Aziraphale, of the angel’s person and of his feelings. It’s a strange experience, not unlike the empty pipe thing, except this time he’s full to bursting. It burns.
Aziraphale steps into his space and before Crowley can protest they’re hugging. It’s… good. At first in a you’re mine way that gratifies the serpent inside. Gradually though, as he allows the hug to continue (much to his own surprise) Crowley starts to notice other things, sexy things. Aziraphale smells nice. He can feel the contours of Aziraphale’s body against his own, not the parts he has been daydreaming about, but lots of other bits: the shape of his arms and shoulders beneath the sweater for example; the small but pleasing curve of his belly. Crowley could just reach out and… But he doesn’t want to lose this. Aziraphale’s arms are around his neck and there is nothing, not the smell of bread or the warmth of his friend, that Crowley wants to change.
Aziraphale wriggles free eventually. Not that Crowley had been hanging onto him. “The bread’s ready,” he says. He’s cosy looking, pink-cheeked with ruffled hair, like maybe he just had a quick nap.
“Oh.” Crowley smiles a wide smile (it’s what he does when he’s extremely unnerved) and wanders back to the couch without needing to be told. The trouble is, the smile won’t fade. It’s very uncharacteristic and he tries to stop it but he’s just so damn happy, like his body used up all its negative emotions earlier, and this is all he has left.
He’s still smiling when Aziraphale reappears with a tray. The angel looks at him in a strange way. He sets aside the bread, which smells even better now with lashings of melting butter, and pushes Crowley back into the cushions until he’s lying flat. Carefully, and with much fuss and aplomb, Aziraphale arranges himself on top of Crowley, eventually settling with one knee between Crowley’s body and the cushions, straddling Crowley but taking his own weight. And then Aziraphale kisses him on the mouth.
“Mh!”
“I thought this is what you wanted,” Aziraphale says, breaking the kiss and looking deliciously peeved.
Crowley’s arms lock around his angel faster than a striking serpent, dislodging his leg and pulling him down before Aziraphale can do something inconvenient like moving away. A hard line of flesh presses against Crowley’s upper thigh and it can only be one thing.
“You’ve got…” Crowley gropes downwards between them to be sure, and yup, “Male bits.”
Aziraphale moans, embarrassed. “I’ve been like this for a while actually.”
“When you say ‘a while’?”
“A few centuries. Please don’t stop.”
“Because of me?”
Aziraphale kisses him again instead of answering. It’s awkward enough that Crowley’s only remaining dignified course of action is to take over. It’s long past time Aziraphale learnt a few things about quasi-sinning anyway, and Crowley intends to demonstrate with style.