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Crowley stepped into the frigidarium, already regretting her decision to leave the palace, with its underfloor heating- lovely invention by the clever little humans. She’d forgotten that she would have to walk through this godforsaken place to get to the nice warm steam rooms, terrible idea really, cold rooms– they could’ve just stepped outside if they wanted to freeze to death–
“Crawley! There you are, I have been looking for you.”
What the blazes was Aziraphale doing here at this time of night, looking like that ? And was she really so predictable (although there are only so many places she’d be in. She is a snake, where else would he be in the brutal cold of Italian summer nights?)
“It’s Crowley, angel.” Was Aziraphale drunk ? He’d only been introduced to wine a couple of months ago and here he was, absolutely plastered. Crowley had never seen an angel drunk, it might’ve been funny if it wasn’t Aziraphale slurring his words and (for the first time) not walking like he had a stick up his arse.
“Crowley, yes. Sorry, dear-” Aziraphale squinted at him, “girl?”
“What are you doing here, Aziraphale? It’s in the middle of the night.”
Aziraphale knelt down next to her, his face too close, the fumes of Roman ‘wine’ enveloping her in their sickly-sweetness. Crowley wrinkles her nose– it’s not just the alcohol, Aziraphale smells… different somehow. More human than he usually does.
This isn’t the first time that Crowley had noticed this change, that was when Aziraphale ate most of the grapes that they were supposed to share, up on that wall scarcely a few days after he’d slithered up. This, however– Crowely knew it was different. She had been picking up on this change the past couple of years, but it had always been subtle, so subtle it might’ve almost gone unnoticed by anyone except Crowley. Because it was Aziraphale.
“Well, I got drunk, and I was feeling a little… amorous, and I didn’t want to afraid- to frighten a human by accidentally revealing my true form, and I thought I might find you here, the snake that you are.”
Crowley’s glasses slid down, as did his jaw. “you- what?”
“you-” she cleared her throat to get it working and tried again, “you came here to-”
“Yes.” Aziraphale said firmly.
Well. That was new.
“Right, yeah, okay.” Crowly pushed his glasses back up his nose. “You’re obviously sloshed, ang- Aziraphale, you need to sober up.”
“’m too drunk for that, Crowley, look at me”.
“Alright” Crowley got off the stone benches, dusting his robes and holding a hand out to Aziraphale, “we’re getting you back to your room”.
They make their way back to Aziraphale’s quarters in the eastern wing of the complex, Crowley trying to weave in and out of the servants making their way back home while trying to keep Aziraphale as upright as possible for an angel who seemed to only realise when he was drunk that he didn’t really have a backbone, primordial being of wheel and wings that he was.
Crowley deposits Aziraphale on his bed, who lays there in an ungainly heap.
"Crowley!" Aziraphale sounds better now, knocking into all those walls must've sobered him up a bit– "I must thank you for getting me here safely".
"Couldn't have you out there inspiring humans to be good willy-nilly now, could I? Go to sleep Aziraphale, maybe tomorrow we can see what else Petronieus does remarkable things to."
"Surely," Aziraphale starts, "surely no one would find it strange if you… well. If you took advantage," he says, pausing suggestively, "of the situation."
"Take advantage? What, you mean go round in the middle of the night, looking for humans to tempt? The ones up late are all already sinning, angel. they don't need a push."
“Of me, Crowley. Of this. The room, the night, the drink–”
Crowley shuts his mouth. Of-fucking-course the ang- Aziraphale would- That’s what Aziraphale sees him as, isn’t it? Crowley doesn’t know whom to blame. Himself, for letting Aziraphale believe he was evil, complicit, maybe even gleeful at the idea of the sinful, the depraved, the corrupt? Aziraphale, for believing it despite knowing him? Heaven, for their damned pamphlets about demons, ones that probably painted all demons with the same brush?
“I’m a demon, Aziraphale, not a monster. I don’t go around fucking people.”
“Oh come off it Crowley, surely you're not implying that you've never-”
“No! Why the everloving fuck would I? You know what the other demons look like, you don’t expect me to have sex with a bunch of houseflies or maggots now, would you?
“I was talking about here, crowley.”
“That's- they're not on the same- I'd never do that to a human.”
The casual way Aziraphale is talking about– about this sets off alarm bells in Crowley’s head.
“ You’ve–? ”
“Well yes, I have sometimes… formed meaningful connections with humans, and well, all that those entail.
Crowley looks almost affronted, “Why don't you just do that then?”
“Because I'm not a… I’m not promiscuous , Crowley, I don't just pick men off the streets to- that is, well, I need to form bonds with the humans that I wish to be intimate with, and I’m rather in-between lovers right now, as they say.”
“So I’m just, what? A cold body for you to shag?”
“I know you, Crowley, better than I do others that I’ve-”
"You don't want to- you don't want me, Aziraphale, not really. what you want is a warm body, and I can't-" he steels himself, "I won't give you what you want." As if any part of him would ever be able to refuse Aziraphale, as if he would want to. But he knows it is now his turn to let Aziraphale lead, in this dance that they haven’t yet perfected, a dance still where one of them stumbles sometimes, and the other dare not hold him.
"And what if it's you that I want, Crowley? Would you give in if I said it's you that I want, you that I've wanted for near a decade?"
Crowley feels it, the moment that his heart cracks when he hears Aziraphale lie. He can taste deceit in the air, and Aziraphale’s words are thick with it, creeping out in tendrils and wrapping themselves around Crowley, almost choking him as he tries, against his wish, his heart, his very nature, to deny Aziraphale.
Crowley knows he doesn’t mean it, doesn’t mean a word he’s saying, but his voice still slips when he says, "Is that what you're saying, Aziraphale? Is it really? Would you say that sober, with your wings out? Would you say it once your lusssst hasss been quenched?" He swallows to get his tongue back under control.
"I've only gotten inebriated to be able to- to have the courage to proposition you."
He knows it’s not a battle he will win, not against himself. There are no two sides of himself warring to assume control over whether he would give in or not: his entire being knows what’s going to happen, after spending so long tuned into Aziraphale, his needs, his desires, his hunger.
“Don’t tell me that I’m allowed to want you, angel- it’s not something I could stand watching you take back” His words are unexpectedly raw, they’re not the words he’d been turning over in his mind, but now they are what he said, and he must stand by them, because Crowley is nothing if not a stubborn, persistent demon.
“Oh Crowley- if all you needed was for me to tell you that–”
“Don’t.” Crowley’s quiet word is sharp, angry, jagged in the silence that follows it.
Aziraphale falls silent.
Crowley clenches his fist, trying to breathe, he may not strictly need to regulate his oxygen levels or his kidneys, but his body has a tendency to revert to its original form when he forgets to have bodily functions, the creaky old thing that it is. It's especially bad now, when he needs to control it the most.
"Crowley–"
The voice is soft. Too soft.
"Don't step closer," he warns.
"I don't believe for a second you want that. I know you, Crowley. I see the way you look at me." Aziraphale unclasps the golden angel wings holding his robes up, all the while looking at him with swordless fire in his eyes, "No?" he all but snarls, stepping forward. "Go on then. Walk out."
A small red bowl shatters against the wall.
Aziraphale whimpers, the scent of lust in the air that Crowley had been trying to ignore all night only grows thicker, and Crowley loses his control over his corporation for a single second, his true form briefly flickering to the surface
"Damn you, Aziraphale," Crowley snarls, his teeth glinting from the low, flickering lamps they’re lit by, now that Aziraphale’s miracle has dimmed. He tugs on Aziraphale’s robes and pulls it apart so he can get to Aziraphale’s cock. “This is what you want, isn’t it?”
He moves his hand roughly, pausing only to miracle on a thin sheen¹ of oil. He hisses under his breath, his hands glistening a little. “Here you fucking go. Get yourself off, and maybe we can put this whole thing behind us. I do this, and you’ll leave me alone, won’t you? Oh look at me, guess you were right, I am a demon, full of bitterness and spite. Is this what turns you on, Aziraphale? Is my anger helping get you off? IS IT?”
Aziraphale moans, a sound so unexpected Crowley nearly jumps. Once he starts, Aziraphale seems unable to stop, gasping full, rich moans from the back of his throat, murmuring Crowely’s name, and cutting himself off before taking the Lord’s name in vain. Crowley is hardly able to stand it, his hands stuttering to a stop for a few seconds before resuming. (And if Crowley files the sounds Aziraphale makes in a dark recess of his brain, well, it hurts no one except himself.)
Maybe he’ll play them in his mind as he drinks himself to death tomorrow. Maybe they’ll play in his mind as he searches the streets for someone Aziraphale shaped, a blond head standing out from a sea of dark hair, maybe they'll play in his mind when he’s serviced by a man, someone who’s been instructed to make Crowely feel like he’s worth something , someone who’s paid to be kind, to be respectful, someone who looks at him with worship in his eyes, worship instead of cold desire and unfeeling lust.
Aziraphale tangles his hands through Crowley’s hair, and pulls him sharply forward so Crowely falls to his knees in front of Aziraphale.
He insistently tugs on his hair, forcing Crowley to take him into his mouth, who gingerly opens his mouth to accept Aziraphale’s weight past his lips. His tongue, now barely resembling that of a human’s, flickers out against Aziraphale’s head, and Aziraphale groans , somehow soft and needy at the same time, something that makes Crowely unhinge his jaws and take him in deeper, his unwillingness turning to lust, not lust for Aziraphale, no, but for Aziraphale’s approval.
He suddenly, desperately needs Aziraphale to spill in his mouth, to come apart in his hands, to tell Crowley that he’s doing good, that he’s taking him so well, and wasn’t he a dear boy?
He moves his head to the same rhythm that Aziraphale was trying to establish, his throat squeezing around Aziraphale’s head in a way that makes him moan, long and low.
Crowley can tell he’s getting close, Aziraphale is nearly gasping now, his fingers curled tighter around his fair and pulling from his scalp in a way that Crowley knew would leave it tender and sore.
When Aziraphale lets go of his hair, squeezing his shoulder in warning, Crowley pulls his head back, taking him in his hands once more, and slows his strokes.
He's prolonging it, hating himself for doing it, but he knows that Aziraphale, the hedonist that he is, would want his release to be slow and languid, reminding him of the mornings that he wouldn't let his lovers get out of bed without being serviced.
He does this again and again, till Aziraphale is weak, his voice raspy from letting his pleasure be heard, his eyes rolled back in his head. He slows down after a while, jaw aching from being stretched too wide, his lips smarting from when his own teeth grazed them in an attempt to protect Aziraphale’s cock.
He seems to take the silent hint, pulling out of Crowley’s throat, and instead shallowly fucks Crowley’s mouth, his strokes getting shorter, along with his breath. He buries himself in Crowley’s throat again, once, hard , and pulls out, covering Crowley’s face.
They both stay like that for a second, Aziraphale trying to surreptitiously clean Crowley’s face with a miracle, and Crowley trying to come to terms with what just happened.
Aziraphale is suddenly, painfully aware that Crowley hadn’t taken off his glasses.
"Crowley," he breathed, "my dear, would you like me to-"
Crowley gets up abruptly, making Aziraphale stutter to a stop.
He crossed the room in two strides, going to stand by the window.
“The stars are beautiful tonight,” Aziraphale tries.
Crowley doesn't look at him. “Goodbye, Aziraphale,” Crowley says, as softly as he can, “I'll see you around.”
Aziraphale watches, slightly alarmed, still a little inebriated, as Crowley falls out the window. He rushes to it just in time to watch Crowley unfurl his wings at the last second, moonlight glinting off his dark feathers as he gracefully pulls out of his freefall.
If Aziraphale is still watching him when Crowley appears to bring his arm up as if to brush something out of his eyes, he forgets by morning.