~*~ This is what I get for paying attention in drama class.
Warnings: Mentions of Hell, garden variety slash.
Musical Muse: My Good Omens/Supernatural Playlist
Disclaimer: I am not a 600 year old English playwright. I'm also not Neil or Terry. I'm glad about the former but not such much about the latter.
~*~Hellfire~*~
Why this is hell, nor am I out of it:
Think'st thou that I who saw the face of God
And tasted the eternal joys of heaven
Am not tormented with ten thousand hells
In being depriv'd of everlasting bliss?
~Mephistopheles, Doctor Faustus
There is an everlasting heat, deep down, residing in all demons. They carry Hell with them no matter how far they go or how long they are away. It is a physical internal reminder that they are damned, for all eternity.
Crowley occasionally likens it to constant heartburn, burning his gut and occasionally throat. Some days it is worse than usual, causing Aziraphale to observe Crowley drinking glass after glass of cool water in a vain and useless attempt to quell the fire.
There are nights when Aziraphale wakes in discomfort, feeling the heat of Crowley's breath searing his shoulder. In the morning he brushes his hand over the affected skin, feeling the bumps and distortions caused by exposure to high temperature. He can never find it in himself to bless away the imperfections.
Sometimes he can taste brimstone on Crowley's lips.
On dreary winter days, when the bookstore's heater refuses to work even under threat of bereavement, Crowley comes to Aziraphale while he's fixing his old books. He pulls the angel's cold fingers away from the texts and kisses them, his golden eyes as warm as his breath. Warming the tips, he calls Aziraphale "Jacob Marley" and smiles.
Crowley, against all the impracticalities regarding his reptilian origins, needs no heavy trappings for the winter months. A thin coat that only accentuates and draws attention to his human form is all he needs. Whenever his angelic friend gives him a questioning look, Crowley simply smiles and taps his chest.
Later those frigid nights the demon and the angel lay together, and Aziraphale doesn't mind the searing heat against his shoulder. They lay close, sharing Crowley's heat, and if some of Aziraphale's Heavenly Grace happens to gently caress the demon's skin, neither complains.