A/N: Hello, my beautiful ducks.


The Next Day

"You know, Crowley. It wasn't my intention … That is, I hope you don't think I was trying to seduce you."

When they'd finally managed to disentangle themselves from each other's arms, out of an overabundance of caution, they'd retreated to their bases of operation for the evening. They were both known to high society now, and being mysterious figures, the gossip surrounding them was unavoidable. They were two male-presenting beings, after all.

One knew they were in real trouble when being inconveniently discorporated by humans who were overly concerned about the genitals they didn't actually have was the least of their problems.

Going home had also allowed him time to think. Or try to think, anyway. It was remarkably difficult to string two sentences together in his own head when the memory of Crowley's soft, slow, deep kisses replayed. He was more aware of this body than he had ever been—his skin, every nerve ending raw and wanting; the twist and turn of his insides with excitement and nerves.

He was in turns walking on air, wrought with conflict, wracked with fear, and overcome with desire so acute it was very nearly pain.

And the first thing out of his mouth when Crowley ushered him inside was his vehement assertion that he hadn't planned any of this.

He was sitting on the couch, watching Crowley, who was leaning against the wall next to the window, looking out. His hair was long and loose today, and Aziraphale couldn't for the life of him understand why he was so fixated on little details like that. Crowley looked over his shoulder, a grin spreading wide across his face. "Oh, yes, angel, I know that."

His tone suggested no one could have mistaken that as the case.

Aziraphale grimaced and straightened a bit in his seat. Crowley's antagonism was so familiar as to ease some of the terrible awkwardness that had settled between them on first sight. Aziraphale smoothed an invisible wrinkle out of his pants. "It's not such a funny thought," he said, indignant. "How do you know I didn't plan that whole scene? Asking you to dance. It could have worked, clearly."

Crowley pushed himself away from the window. He tilted his head down, his smile sly, and his eyes intent on Aziraphale. He took a slow step toward him in that slow swagger of his, hips rolling, one hand low at his side with a glass of wine held almost carelessly in his fingers. He took one step, then another, and Aziraphale found his mouth had become quite dry. His heart was in his throat, nerves fluttering. He should have had something to say, something to do, but he couldn't think. He could only look up as Crowley stood at his feet. Crowley leaned down, bracing one hand on the couch on either side of Aziraphale's head, wine glass and all. He leaned all the way down, cocking his head, and he held Aziraphale's gaze.

"And such a good dancer you were," Crowley said, his voice a purr.

Aziraphale opened his mouth but only a little squeak came out. Even this was swallowed as Crowley pressed a little, sweet kiss to his lips.

It was all but impossible to think when Crowley was kissing him. He was made of emotion and little to nothing else.

Crowley pressed a second kiss, and then a third to his lips. And when he started to pull away, Aziraphale's hand shot out. He pulled him back, his hand at Crowley's neck. Crowley snickered and sunk down onto the couch, putting his arm around him and kissing him with more intent.

"Are you trying to say you're better at seduction?" Aziraphale asked, his eyes closed, and his mouth still so close to Crowley's he could feel the heat of his skin. "Because I wouldn't put it down to personal skill so much as part of the job description."

"I've never seduced anyone before," Crowley said, trailing the tip of his finger up Aziraphale's side, making him gasp. "Why? Are you saying it's working?"

Aziraphale just whimpered, losing the ability to speak yet again. Instead, he cupped Crowley's cheek and angled his body more fully toward him. He slid his hand from Crowley's cheek up into his hair—remarkably soft—mussing it as he hadn't been able to the night before.

Minutes went by before anoetic consciousness bled into insistent thoughts. Aziraphale sighed. "We should talk." But he kissed Crowley instead.

Crowley growled, the sound vibrating in Aziraphale's throat. The demon grasped him tighter about the waist. "That sounds like a terrible idea."

Aziraphale found he was easily convinced on that score, and he didn't press the issue. What he did press was his own body up against Crowley's.

This was a new kind of hunger indeed—this sense that they might have been right up against each other, in a tangle of arms, connected at the mouth, yet he still felt starved. It wasn't close enough.

"You're not wearing a collar," Aziraphale said, realizing belatedly that his questing fingers hadn't had to battle the large collars that were in vogue these days.

"Yes, I noticed you didn't bring along that monstrosity you had around your neck last night." Crowley trailed his fingers along Aziraphale's skin, much more easily accessible with the wider collar of his current shirt.

Aziraphale made an offended noise. "What would you have me wear to a ball at the palace?"

"You could have snuck in as a servant rather than a member of the gentry." Crowley smiled with an air of innocence. "You'd look quite fetching in the uniform."

That cheeky smile sent flutters through his stomach. Oh, but he was smitten. And the feeling wasn't new. It was, he thought, about as old as the world.

Something in him calmed and stilled.

None of this made sense; not on any level. He believed God was good, that God was truth, and yet, in thousands of years, he had never once known Crowley to be truly wicked. And he adored the demon. More than adore, he …

But no. He wasn't going to think about that now. He was simply going to bask in how good it felt to be this close to Crowley. To be able to stare at him without looking away.

Crowley's smile fell, and he ducked his head. "Why are you looking at me like that, angel?"

Aziraphale chuckled—a tiny, incredulous laugh. He looked down, realizing that Crowley's hand rested on his knee. Such an incredibly intimate gesture. The pure joy that blossomed in his heart was almost too overwhelming. He put his hand over Crowley's on his knee. With his other hand he reached out and cupped Crowley's cheek. "That is a very silly question, my dear."

Despite the fact they had spent so long the night before and a considerable part of this morning kissing, their hands eagerly moving over each other, there was something much more tender about the way Aziraphale touched him now. And even before Crowley flinched at his touch, Aziraphale knew him well enough to understand that tenderness wasn't easy for him to accept. If he had to venture a guess, he would think the demon—so strange, how that word had lost its foul taste in his head—was even now battling not to make some caustic remark.

Aziraphale let the hand resting on his knee move up along Crowley's arm. He stroked his shoulder and then, with uttermost gentleness, cradled Crowley's face in his hands. Crowley let out a soft, shuddering sigh, closing his eyes. When Aziraphale tilted his face up, he made no protest.

Because Crowley was so still, and because he could, Aziraphale lifted a hand and brushed his hair back. He kept the other hand cupped to his cheek, stroking a thumb behind Crowley's ear in slow circles. He wrapped one wavy curl around a single finger, marveling again at the softness. He traced the fine lines of his face with a fingertip. The arch of his eyebrows. The bridge of his nose. His cheekbones. The fine cut of his jaw.

"You're beautiful, you know," Aziraphale said, his tone reverent.

Crowley cringed, but he didn't move away. "Angel. I don't—"

"Shhh." Aziraphale put a finger to his lips. "You didn't want to talk. Remember?"

Crowley shook his head back and forth slowly, eyes still closed. "If you don't think there are better uses for your mouth, maybe I'm not doing this right."

Aziraphale's lips quirked, and he leaned in to brush his lips with Crowley's. And when he, yet again, found the absolute bliss of kissing him, he let himself linger. After all, he was an angel and capable of two lines of thought at once. He could marvel at how their mouths seem to fit together just so, with the languid press, taste of it all—why did Crowley taste so good? Like the finest wine and something, well … Crowley.

He could dwell on that and still indulge in the tactile experience of Crowley beneath the palms of his hands.

As he'd observed earlier, Crowley was wearing much more casual dress than he would have been if he were out and about town. Still, his casual shirt was made of the finest silk. It was cool and soft beneath Aziraphale's hands as he slid them over his shoulders, down his back. He liked that he could feel the flex of Crowley's back as he moved. The feel of Crowley's body was so different from his own; sharp and smooth where he was soft and pillowy. Such a delicious variance.

Crowley's shirt was open at the top. Aziraphale trailed his fingers along the edge of it, right along the seam where cloth met skin. He pressed two fingers against his chest, feeling the pounding of his heart.

He let his hands drift down, and when he brushed his fingers down Crowley's stomach, the demon shuddered, pulling away from his kiss. "Ah," he said, the sound raspy. "That's, uh … That's sensitive."

"You're ticklish," Aziraphale said with a grin

Crowley's eyes narrowed. "I am not ticklish."

"Oh?" Aziraphale made to tickle him again, but Crowley caught both his hands by the wrist. Aziraphale laughed and tucked that little bit of information away for later use.

Crowley's stern expression turned soft again, and he didn't resist when Aziraphale found his hands and twined their fingers together. Crowley looked down at their hands, and Aziraphale looked at him. He was warm; a profound sense of rightness settled over him. He thought he could stay just like this until …

Until they were called to fill the roles they were meant to, he supposed.

He let out a sharp breath and closed his own eyes. "Crowley …" he said after a moment, but he found he didn't know where to start.

"I know, angel," Crowley said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. "I know we need to … talk." He shifted, tugging Aziraphale until he was pressed against him, tucked against his side that time. "It's not that there are things I don't want to say, it's just …"

Aziraphale had never known him to struggle so hard with his words. Tentatively, he put his head to Crowley's shoulder. Crowley sighed and rested his head against Aziraphale's. "I quite understand," Aziraphale said.

They could just exist, just like that, for a while longer.