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It's a stupid mistake. Even after averting the goddamn apocalypse, it just takes one stupid mistake, and a sickening crash from the back of the bookshop, and Crowley is watching, helpless, as Aziraphale's spirit leaves his body.
Fire -- the image of fire assaults his vision. He can smell burning leather, hear the crack of falling plaster and the wail of distant sirens. And then his head snaps up as he gets a hold of himself. If Aziraphale ascends to Heaven, they'll probably try to murder him again, and this time Crowley won't be there to spit hellfire in their faces. But Aziraphale isn't gone yet, and Crowley refuses to lose him again.
He dashes forward and reaches out -- both with his hand and with his metaphysical essence, searching for the last traces of Aziraphale in the air. He feels something, and catches on it, and clings to it like the stubborn asshole he is. He uses only his fingertips -- he doesn't dare pull an angel fully into the body of a demon -- but he holds Aziraphale fast with everything he has, anchoring him to himself. After all this, after everything they've been through, Crowley refuses to let him be taken away again.
"Crowley ... Crowley, you're here, thank God," Aziraphale says with a shudder, sounding nearly as panicked as Crowley feels. Crowley can't actually tell where his voice is emanating from, but he's there, Crowley feels him grasping at his fingertips. He's frantic ... but stable. That's what matters.
Crowley takes a breath, and it seems to settle them both a bit. At the very least, Crowley's heart rate is obeying the laws of physics again. Aziraphale's definitely present in his fingertips, in some sense, because it feels bizarre. It's hot and cold at the same time, with some sort of buzzing feeling wrapping the whole thing together. "You ... you alright, angel?"
Aziraphale's voice shakes. "I ... well, I'm still here, and that ought to count for something," he says.
"Alright, just keep holding on until we can get you back in a body."
"What about that one?" Aziraphale asks, and Crowley knows without seeing that he's indicating towards his corpse.
Crowley grunts. "I could get it back up and running with time and effort, sure. Not sure I'd manage it while keeping a hold of you. Can't you go find someone to possess, like you did that chick from the airbase?"
"That's different," Aziraphale says, and his voice is shaking again. "I'm ... I'm on my way up now. If I let go, it's ..." He trails off, but Crowley definitely gets his meaning.
"And I was thinking ..." Aziraphale continues. "Well, perhaps ... What I mean is, this doesn't feel quite as bad as I expected it to. Less of an, er, impending explosion."
Crowley considers it. Being a demon, he knows a thing or two about possession, and he's very aware that it's usually not pretty. A human body typically processes being possessed by a demon as a series of unpleasantly nonsensical supernatural stimuli. When the human knows it's a demon, or if the demon is being particularly malicious, it can be intensely painful.
He's never heard of anyone being possessed by someone they love with their entire being.
Aziraphale's right, though: the place where Aziraphale is possessing his fingertips feels strange, certainly, but it's not unpleasant. It's more like ... he feels his fingertips more than he usually does. Like driving down an open stretch of road three times faster than the speed limit.
"And at least ..." Aziraphale is continuing. "At least this way, if I can't return to my body ... there are worse people to be stuck to, I would say."
Crowley feels those words like a punch to the chest. "You really wouldn't mind being stuck to me for all eternity?"
"Yes, it would be alright," says Aziraphale, sounding very serious. "It's the only tolerable situation I can think of."
More goopy, mushy, undemonic things slither through Crowley's body than he has words for. But what did Aziraphale expect, turning him down so many times over six millennia only to hit him now with, 'I wouldn't mind being joined to you, in body and spirit, forever'? His fingertips feel like they're vibrating, and he's starting to feel very inclined toward the 'Aziraphale possessing him' plan. It suddenly feels like a very, very good idea, in a way that makes Crowley certain it's a very, very bad idea.
"I'm going to try now, alright?" Aziraphale asks. He sounds sure, like he's gathered up his courage and made a firm decision.
How could Crowley possibly deny him? "Yeah, go ahead, ang--"
He's cut off by the sensation of Aziraphale starting to enter him. It’s hot, just like the fingertips were. It's not a burning, though, or an imminent explosion -- more like an indulgent swallow of hot soup on a cold day. The essence of Aziraphale fills his hand, and the farther Aziraphale travels up his arm the more total the feeling becomes. It’s the feeling of sensation returning to a hand numbed from the cold, and it feels loving. Caring. Crowley can feel the muscles of his hand relax as if they already know there’s someone to take care of him now.
He doesn't realize he's closing his eyes and shivering until he is, and this definitely isn’t an explosion. It feels warm and good and loving and good and before he realizes it, a small helpless sound escapes his lips.
Aziraphale is everywhere. Or is he? No, he hasn't even spread through half of Crowley's body. He lets his head drop back and tries to relax into the sensation, deal with the too-much-ness of it by not trying to fight it. It's Aziraphale. He can entrust himself to him.
Just when he thinks he has a handle on it, Aziraphale's thoughts hit him.
The fear hits first. Heaven! Crowley's desperately afraid of being sent back to Heaven, but, no, it's not his fear, it's Aziraphale's. Crowley burns with anger as Aziraphale's fear leaks into him, but then the relief crashes in only a second behind. Here is safe, here is home. He could sob with it. Crowley feels like a tempest inside, but he's Aziraphale's safe harbor. Aziraphale's thoughts are centered intensely on him, spiraling around him, and for a moment Crowley fears they'll lose their mind in an endless loop of Crowley and Aziraphale.
Crowley moans from the burn, the good burn of Aziraphale continuing to enter him. And all at once he scrambles to realize that he has to get a grip, he can't just lean back and let the waves of feeling buffet him.
Because if he can feel Aziraphale like this, Aziraphale can surely feel him, the way he's burning in ecstacy, and -- any minute now -- all the filthy, grimy, lustful ways he's thought about Aziraphale and pleasure.
"This is ... different than last time," is the only thing Aziraphale says, and his voice is far off, drowned out by every other sensation. Madame Tracy wasn't desperately in love with you, Crowley thinks, as he's staggered by another wave of what he can no longer deny is pleasure. Aziraphale's in his head now, even his most tightly-held fantasies about the angel won't stay secret for long, and yet all he can feel is every point of contact of Aziraphale's essence with his flesh.
He's sunk to his knees without realizing it. He can barely remember he's in a room. All external sensation is pale and thin and distant compared to the roaring, melting warmth within. These feelings struggle to fit in his demonic body, and it's all he can do to stay upright, a thin sliver of self-control away from writhing on the floor. Aziraphale's name bubbles up in his throat and he catches it before it escapes -- but surely he must know, can't not know, at this point, regardless of whether Crowley fights the feeling or lets it ravage him. Aziraphale is molten gold in his veins. His heart beats slowly and thickly, his pulse shattering into his body.
Finally, finally Aziraphale is possessing him completely. Every hair on his head, every fingernail is full of Aziraphale's essence pressing against Crowley's corporation. Everything's too full, too tight, too swollen. Crowley knows Aziraphale feels his arousal, because he can feel Aziraphale in every pump of blood that's darkening his over-flushed skin. It's unbearable.
"Angel ..." he manages weakly. "Are you alright?"
He can feel Aziraphale shuffling around thoughts in their head, barely more composed than Crowley is. "Yes ..." he manages, though Crowley can hardly hear it over the jumble of sensations flooding into his head. He's experiencing some echo of everything Crowley is, the stretch, the fullness, the way his whole body is quivering and ready to burst, and he's just as overwhelmed and flustered as Crowley.
Crowley's body jerks forward without his say-so, and he catches himself before he falls to the floor. The urge to just give in, to surrender his body to Aziraphale, is overwhelming. Instead he straightens up and does his best to keep his body stiff and still. He's afraid he'll come if he moves an inch, and he doesn't even want to think about how Aziraphale would react to that.
"It's ... a lot, isn't it?" Aziraphale adds, sounding very much elsewhere. "Crowley ..." and Crowley is hit with a wave of staticky thought as Aziraphale struggles to put one word in front of another. "I don't mind, you know." Something tips, then, because Aziraphale's thoughts suddenly snap into clarity for Crowley, spilling over into his mind all at once.
You can feel whatever you want to feel, Aziraphale is thinking. It's alright, it's safe, I've got you, I'm holding you.
It's too much for Crowley's last strand of willpower, and he gives himself over. He falls to the floor, limbs seizing up, so full with Aziraphale he could die. He feels it all, he feels everything, and his fingers dig into the carpet as his mind registers nothing but Aziraphale.
No chastisement follows. No discomfort, no disgust. You ought to feel good, Crowley, you ought to enjoy it. Crowley moans, or more accurately, he notices that he has been moaning for some time. Yes, please, Crowley, feel all of it, feel everything ... I ... you ... Aziraphale's thoughts dissolve into something wordless, pure pleasure at Crowley's pleasure in a loop that reverberates between them until it blots out every other sensation. Crowley is undone, he arches, he yells. He jerks against the carpet as he makes a mess of his pants, wracked by spasm after spasm in long seconds that feel like hours, until the pulses of climax finally bleed into aftershocks. He's hypersensitive in every nerve, and his muscles twitch as they relax, one by one, and then all at once. His face presses into the carpet. Oh, Hell would destroy him if they knew, wouldn't they? Possessed by an angel and in ecstacy every minute of it.
Aziraphale takes control for a second, then, picking them off the floor and dragging them to the couch. They slump across it, boneless and exhausted, to take long, heavy breaths. Crowley would really love to know what Aziraphale's thinking right now. But Aziraphale's mind is a dizzy, wordless haze. Crowley decides it's understandable.
"At the risk of stating the obvious," Aziraphale finally says, "It seems we are too, ah, intimate for this to work."
Crowley nods. That stings a little, even in his wrung-out, post-orgasmic state, and even though it's completely accurate. Can't be a proper vessel for your best friend because you're too hopelessly choked up with lust for him.
"No, that's not ... that's not what I'm saying, dear." Oh, and there it is again -- that feeling of I've got you, that warm concern, that surety that every cell in his body feels, knowing it's held by Aziraphale. He can't be upset, not like this.
"This wasn't, er," Aziraphale continues, and he sounds as wrecked as Crowley, "... this wasn't all your doing, you know. I'm a mess over you. Always have been."
His cheeks flush, which is one or both of them reacting to that. I'm a mess over you echoes in his head, that ridiculous inversion, as if it's Aziraphale who's been wanting more and more and more from Crowley for the past six thousand years.
Aziraphale gets all flustered at that -- he can tell by the bursts of incoherent sensation that flash in his head. It thrills him, that Aziraphale feels like that over him, and there's a feeling of warmth that floods into his body where the glow of arousal is fading. All at once, the past six thousand years have a new clarity to them -- that where he'd seen a demon hopelessly pining over an angel for millennia, Aziraphale might have seen two lovers tragically kept apart by circumstance.
"I'm sure it wasn't quite as dramatic as all that, my life is not a romance novel," are the words that ring clearly in their head, but behind that -- and so much more powerful -- is a wave of love, and exultation at finally being able to indulge it. Aziraphale flares in embarrassment as if he hadn't meant to let that slip, but it's too late now, the only thing in Crowley's head now is I love you I love you I love you. His arms wrap around his body, either his doing or Aziraphale's.
I want to stay like this forever comes filtering through from Aziraphale's consciousness, and Crowley lies back against the arm of the couch and laughs. "Don't need a body after all, then?"
Aziraphale makes a tiny noise of entirely performative irritation, and it's really only then that Crowley remembers the body, the whole point of this exercise.
He brings it over to examine, at a relaxed pace now that Aziraphale is safe and settled inside him. Aziraphale's presence is still suffusing his body with pleasure, but it's more like being wrapped up in a particularly loving blanket than an imminent disaster. It's both warm and dry, he realizes, meaning Aziraphale has cleaned them up at some point. With a contented hum, he runs his fingers along the neck of Aziraphale's corpse where the injury is. Looks like something got him in the spinal cord -- delicate stuff, but well within Crowley's capabilities to fix. He snickers as he becomes privy to some thoughts about his fingers tracing over Aziraphale's neck that he's not sure Aziraphale meant to share.
"Good as new," he pronounces, settling all the bits of anatomy into their proper places. Truthfully, he's a bit reluctant to see Aziraphale go, now that he knows how it feels to be squished into the same corporation.
Aziraphale seems to feel the same way, because he dithers for a few seconds before muttering, "I'm sure it won't hurt to share a body for just a few more minutes." He's shy about it, and Crowley blushes, and then he laughs, because he's so full of love that it has to spill over into the space around them somehow.
Aziraphale kisses him soundly when he does return to his body, which ends up being a bit more than a few minutes later. But who could blame them for getting distracted?