Chapter Text
Bourne, Lincolnshire, 1805
“They simply wouldn’t believe me, I tried telling them, but they would insist.”
Aziraphale, curls askew, stood, adjusting the lace at his wrists and looking as ruffled as he ever allowed himself to be.
“Why didn’t you just, y’know.”
Crowley wiggled the languid fingers of the hand not currently holding a goblet of wine, and watched as the angel fussed with his clothing, pulling at the lapels of his ornate embroidered coat, then smoothing the long planes of his cream waistcoat with soft, immaculate hands. Standing there, a sonata of bright, clean, creams and beiges, with his pink cheeks and a delicate pout on his lips, Aziraphale looked plump and pretty — Crowley couldn’t help but be hopelessly enamoured. The spotless pink stockings stretched over his biteable calves was not helping either. Rosy, pampered, cross and adorable Aziraphale was everything. Crowley — irritated, fond, mildly amused, wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else. The room upstairs at the local inn had been free because Crowley expected it to be. Now they were socialising over a bottle of burgundy that was miraculously far better than either of them had any right to expect.
“My dear, I couldn’t possibly. They would have noticed, and I am supposed to be keeping a low profile. Gabriel made it quite clear in his last briefing that I am not to give even a hint of what I am here for.”
“Good way to go about it, angel, getting hauled up before the Quarter Sessions. What happened — in the end, I mean?”
“Well,” said Aziraphale, taking the seat on the opposite side of the fire and picking up his own wine, sipping delicately and sighing.
“It was all rather embarrassing. They were insisting it was a wig, and that the colour wasn’t natural — like anything that people do with their hair these days could be called natural. I had to, to let them touch it.” He grimaced. “So that they could see it was all my own and had no powder in it. I am fond of the humans my dear, as you know, but it was so invasive and really…”
He looked petulant and embarrassed, eyebrows raised in the middle, eyeing Crowley plaintively as he continued to speak.
“It wouldn’t have been a problem had I been a parson — they have an exemption, you know, but my assignment requires something entirely different this time, so I had to go along with it. Perhaps I should have just paid the fine, but it was the principle of the thing, and the government is using the money to finance their wretched war with France, and I can hardly say I approve of that…”
Crowley stood, and circled round behind Aziraphale’s chair, gazing intently at the corona of hair that blazed so brightly above it.
“I can sort it for you, if you like.”
There was a note of tension, a finely tuned thing that stretched out between them after the words left his mouth.
“Oh, would you?” breathed the angel tipping his head back slightly so that their eyes met. “There are no mirrors here and,” he shuddered, delicately, “I can still feel them, pawing at me. I’m sure you understand.”
“Yeah, course. No problem.”
Crowley had looked at that hair, from the very beginning, from that day on the wall, and had wanted to touch, run his fingers through those pretty locks and give his angel pleasure. He had always thought Aziraphale would enjoy being petted, that he should be stoked and pampered, imagined how, once that reserve had been caressed away, he would close his eyes and lean in to the sensations, making all those interesting noises that characterised the angel’s sensual appreciation of his favourite foods. Crowley had entertained thoughts of how he might spoil Aziraphale for some time, the angelic curls featuring regularly in these imaginings. The fact that Aziraphale was clearly signalling that he wouldn’t mind his touch, was thrilling. He had picked up suggestions that this was the case previously, but none quite as blatant as this. Now here he was, permission given, breath held, hand stretched to bridge the gap between them and sink his questing fingers into the angel’s crowning glory.
It was soft, just as soft as he had thought it might be, like silk between his fingers as he slid them gently between the tousled curls, setting them to rights. Crowley passed his hand through the platinum strands and felt the thrumming warmth of ethereal power beneath the angel’s skin, smelled the floral notes of his personal scent, all lilac and citrus zest, that drifted up towards him. He almost missed the slight pressure of Aziraphale’s head back against his hand, almost didn’t hear the quiet exhalation, a muted sound of pleasure. He stroked and petted, gently teasing the strands into their proper place, gave a final pass, his fingertips grazing the skin slightly, then withdrew his hand. The angel sighed, tipped back his head again and smiled at Crowley, a blazing beam of gratitude that lit the room with its effulgence.
“Thank you, Crowley,” he said, “that was most, ah, helpful of you.”
“ ’S alright angel. Any time.”
Somewhere in the South Downs, August 2019
“Oh darling, that’s so lovely. Mmmmnh,”
Aziraphale was almost sprawled on the sofa, the warm weight of his head secure in Crowley’s lap while the demon ran his hand through his partner’s hair. The angel had his eyes closed and was smiling softly. Crowley, glasses abandoned as soon as he had handed over his haul of wine and sushi, and settled on the sofa, smiled down at the recumbent figure below him. He knew that it was likely he had the softest. most indulgent expression on his face at that moment, most unbecoming of a demon, but couldn’t bring himself to care.
Aziraphale’s happiness was tangible in the dimly-lit confines of the bookshop’s back room, the air almost glittering with it. Strictly speaking, Crowley should not have been able to detect the presence of such a soft emotion, but the weight of the angel’s affection for him was evident, even to one of his disposition. Crowley could not help but notice it, as it covered and protected him, cloaking him like the softest, sweetest comfort blanket. He should have shrugged it off, but, as ever, contrary to what should have been his essential nature, he pulled it more closely about him, and revelled in the feeling as he indulged the object of his own deepest affections.
There had been tentative, then heartfelt expressions of their long-held devotion when they repaired, happy-drunk and fulsome, back to the bookshop on that fateful day. Dizzy with the fact of their survival, they had walked arm in arm from the Ritz, words unsaid hanging in the air between them. Ever afterwards they never could agree on who had been first to turn to the other. All at once, it had seemed, they were in each other’s arms tipsy and laughing at first, then holding on to each other as if they never wanted to let go, gasping out their fears and hopes hotly against one another’s necks and shoulders.
Consequent on such a desperate collision there had been a time of adjustment, fear and joy commingled as they tentatively explored what it was they wished to be to one another. There had been a general recognition of how each of them craved the proximity of the other. All the other necessities had come in train with that understanding. They shared space, touch, breath, and eventually, a bed. Now, a year later, they were comfortable together, able, if sometimes hesitantly, to ask for what they wanted. Aziraphale, it turned out, adored to have his hair petted, and even more, aspired constantly to return the favour.
“Yes, Crowley, just there. Ah, ooh! Wonderful. Dear boy.”
Crowley grinned to see the normally strait-laced angel wiggling happily at having his scalp gently scratched. The ability to show affection in these small, intimate ways was one of the greatest gifts they had received after the failed apocalypse, that and the freedom to speak honestly of their love for each other. Crowley found himself thankful for every small thing, and by his attitude and expressions, it seemed that Aziraphale felt similarly.
Aziraphale had seemed to be quite content, but after a while he sat up slightly and put his arms around Crowley, drawing him into a gentle hug.
“That was delightful, my dear. I have never forgotten the first time you did that for me. I hardly knew where to look.”
“Yeah, I kinda picked up on that at the time.”
Aziraphale chuckled, and held him more tightly, then drew away and made to get up.
“Your turn, darling,” he cooed.
“What?” said Crowley.
“Come along dear, you know you want to. I owe you a good scratch.”
The angelic smile grew wider, and the angel gifting it wiggled in his place. Aziraphale freed from the constraints of his erstwhile masters was a light-hearted delight at times. Crowley adored being permitted at last to bear witness to this levity.
“Never let it be said that I don’t pay my debts.”
“Just not your fines, eh angel?” said Crowley, and nudged him.
“Not if I can help it, no. And besides, I was innocent on that occasion, as you may recall,” he said, primly.
“I don’t think you’ve ever been really innocent, angel.”
“Be quiet, serpent,” said Aziraphale as Crowley established himself in the soft cradle of the angel’s lap. “and submit to the terrible ordeal of being subdued by affection. I think I shall read us some Donne, that suits my mood this evening.”
Crowley did indeed submit to the most tender of touches, as deft fingers wound their way through the dark shiny mass of his hair, rubbing his scalp gently. When he finally fell into a delightful doze, it was to the carefully modulated tones of Aziraphale telling him about the unruly sun, and how the Earth might be encapsulated in one room, where a pair of lovers met and made a little life of love, just for the two of them. They had world enough, and time, after all.