Old-Fashioned Loverboy: Shape of You
Aziraphale had done an abysmal job of spending the month in bed.
The angel had too many pastimes, too many daily routines that brought him joy. Early mornings, cups of tea, button nose buried in books, that sort of thing.
Crowley took partial responsibility, though. One week in, he'd accidentally fallen into a deep, well-satisfied sleep, and Aziraphale had tried, multiple times, he'd grumbled, to rouse him—in vain, obviously. He had no recollection of this whatsoever, but it sounded exactly like the kind of thing he would do. And Aziraphale would know, wouldn't he?
But now, both angel and demon were awake, in various states of undress—alright, Aziraphale looked prim as always; Crowley was the one lounging in a bedsheet and nary a piece of clothing—browsing through a digital restaurant menu. After all, if they were feeling peckish, why not support the local businesses during this chaotic period of human history?
Aziraphale bent over Crowley's shoulder, squinting down at the phone screen.
"What are you planning to order, my love?"
Thumb still scrolling, Crowley raised his shoulders, uncommitted. "Eh, it's hot out. Caesar salad, maybe. Sounds alright."
"Oh, that does sound delightful." Aziraphale tugged at his waistcoat. "Make it two, will you, my dear?"
Wot.
Crowley's eyes grew round.
Wot?
The demon's elbow unhinged, sending both his phone and hand crashing heavily onto his knee.
"That's it," he barked. "What the Heaven is going on?"
Aziraphale whipped around, mildly startled.
"What do you mean, Crowley dear?"
"You've lost weight," Crowley announced. "Don't think I haven't noticed!" Beneath his hands, within his arms, against his body. "And now, you're ordering a salad? What is going on, angel?"
"Really, my dear!" Aziraphale smiled, the epitome of innocence.
Crowley snorted. Wickedness shone in the angel's eyes. He knew damn good and well what Crowley was talking about.
"Your meal selection sounded refreshing." Aziraphale shrugged. "Is that any fault of mine?"
Crowley sat straighter in the bed, leaning forward, coiled to strike. His eyes narrowed.
"I never developed a habitual appetite." He jabbed his bare chest. "Youhave. I'm the one who picks at salads, not you! If you go to the trouble of eating, you make it worth your time. Something rich, and decadent, and delicious. Doesn't always do much for me, but it does for you, and I—" Crowley hesitated, sputtered. "Why, angel?" he weakly finished, turmoil roiling inside him.
Aziraphale's smile broadened, indulging, yet somehow, unpatronizing. He placed a very proud hand upon his stomach.
"Nearly ten pounds in three weeks, to be precise."
Crowley physically slumped at the confirmation.
"But . . . why?" he repeated. "I mean, don't get me wrong, angel. I love you. No matter what, corporation be damned. But . . . if you're not happy . . . I . . . don't you realize . . .? You do understand, don't you—?" Crowley crumpled, face and voice softening. He reached a hand toward the angel. "How beautiful, and attractive, and sexy you are, not only to me, but in every possible—"
"Damn straight, I am!"
Aziraphale cut him off, looking for all the world as if he did know it—shoulders back, chest out, hands on hips, grin confident.
Crowley stared. "Oh." He swallowed. "Ngh, ah, well then. Glad that's settled . . ."
Chuckling, Aziraphale took a step closer, ready to put Crowley out of his misery.
"Oh, my darling. Hearing you say such lovely things . . ." He pressed his lips to Crowley's forehead. "I love you so much, my dear. Thank you."
Crowley smiled, allowing the warmth of the angel's words to sink slowly into his skin, like a beam of summer sunlight.
"And I do owe you an explanation" Aziraphale sheepishly continued. "I didn't mean to rile you so. It's just that, while you were asleep, I got to thinking. Were, Heaven forbid, something to happen to our respective corporations, it would no longer be a matter of filling out the paperwork to simply, ah, apply for a new one, shall we say? Since we've both been succinctly barred from Heaven and Hell, I realized that we can no longer rely on anyone to lend a hand when needed. We're on our own.
"So, I thought it might be prudent . . ." Aziraphale ran aimless hands across his chest and torso. "Not to take the body I have for granted. To have a little more care with it, so to speak. It's served me well for so long—the least I can do is return the favor.
"General maintenance, if you will. That's all, my dear. I haven't changed. I still love food as much as I always have, and I'm never going to stop eating. In fact . . ." Aziraphale's voice lowered. "Discipline makes the treats and rewards all the more delectable."
Crowley gulped. That tone Aziraphale typically reserved for the bedroom. Well, they were in the bedroom, yes, but . . . Crowley swallowed again.
Aziraphale smirked. "I find I appreciate the finer things all the more."
"So . . . you're still going to swoon over every bite you take?"
"Of course!"
"And . . . the down-sizing?"
"Merely an added perk. Or consequence," he amended, watching Crowley's mouth curl. He grinned. "No need to worry, my dear. Your favorite pillow isn't going anywhere."
Crowley hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of the angel's trousers, tugging him forward.
"Better not," he mumbled into Aziraphale's belly. Mmm . . . so soft, so warm. . . . Beaming, Crowley snuggled closer.
Yum.
He felt, more than heard, Aziraphale's deep laughter. His fingers raked through Crowley's hair—once he'd finally had Aziraphale's permission to give his head a long overdue trim, Crowley had miracled several inches of length onto his own hair, entirely for the angel's benefit. Satisfaction flooded him whenever he caught sight of Aziraphale eyeing the auburn waves, nibbling his lower lip, calculating every conceivable way that he might pet, stroke, twirl, yank. . . .
They both had an Achilles' heel, it seemed—simple things, ridiculous things, really. But Satan below, did they do the trick. Face burning, Crowley thanked Whoever-Cared-To-Listen that, from this angle, Aziraphale couldn't feel the hard press of his relief. He bit the inside of his cheek, stifling a whimper.
YUM.
It was all very selfish of him, he admitted.
Of course it was.
He was a demon.
That's what he did.
Crowley grinned. And what did it matter, so long as his beloved Aziraphale was happy? And if the angel's happiness meant the demon could retain his own, then . . . all the better.
He doubted Aziraphale would ever truly understand just how much he loved him.
Him.
No matter what that looked like.
But especially the way it looked at this very minute.
"You know, my love," Aziraphale muttered. "I'd gladly stay this way forever—"
Crowley laughed. "No, you wouldn't. Look how well setting the alarm clock for July has gone for you thus far." He could practically hear the angel's eyes rolling back.
"Point taken," Aziraphale chuckled. "But you do know, the sooner we get that food ordered . . ."
Crowley pressed a long kiss against the angel's stomach.
Aziraphale was right.
Silly to wait, really.