there is one thing one must understand upon knowing Crowley, it is that Crowley
is almost always cold. Hell is a cold, cold place despite their demonic
connection with hellfire. It stinks of a million unwashed and slowly molding
socks, and all the demons are freezing, icy skin brushing against each other as
they shuffle and try their best not to come in contact with the walls.
He’d blame it on his reptilian tendencies but to be honest, he has felt cold even before he became the Serpent of Eden, even before The Fall.
Heaven is not exactly a very warm place either. All white walls and white pillars and nowhere to fucking sit–it hadn’t been comfortable then during Crowley’s time as an angel and it still isn’t comfortable now, even after all these millennia, when Crowley had visited unwillingly, disguised as Aziraphale and supposedly burning to his death.
(The air conditioning had been miracled to the maximum setting. Crowley has no proof but he blames it entirely on the poor taste of that bastard, Gabriel.)
The point is, Crowley is cold most of the day, on most days, and no one knows this–
–except Aziraphale, who one day just comes out of Crowley’s bathroom swaddled in a bathrobe (imagine Crowley’s devastation. imagine the painful screeching stop of his brain, of his reality, at the sight of Aziraphale in a robe and nothing more. A sliver of Aziraphale’s chest is bared for all to see. The hair on it is light, and it looks soft. Crowley could cry.) and with a delighted grin, tells him, “Crowley, dear, I drew us a bath.”
Crowley’s jaw falls open. “You drew what?”
“A bath,” Aziraphale repeats with a happy wiggle. “Come now, while the water’s warm, darling.”
And with that, Aziraphale disappears back into the bathroom and leaves Crowley to stare after him on the sofa, mouth still agape. He doesn’t know how he’s able to do it but Crowley stands and walks to the bathroom somehow, and when he peeks into the open doorway, his already open mouth falls even wider in disbelief.
Like Aziraphale has promised, he’s beaming up at Crowley from the tub, soaking in what seems like very warm water indeed, warm enough that the whole bathroom’s gotten steamy and the mirror has fogged up. There is a box of chocolates on the table next to the tub. There are clean towels in reach and there’s wine and glasses on the floor and–
–dear Lord in Heaven. There are flower petals, in the bath water. Some of them have stuck themselves so greedily on Aziraphale’s skin.
“How–when–Angel, when did you come up with all of this?” Crowley demands, flustered. When he swallows, he can feel the dryness of his throat, itching for something. “I was in the sitting room with you all day!”
“You were busy on your phone, dear,” Aziraphale supplies easily, sitting up a little. (it makes the water fall away from his chest. there’s a rose petal right above his nipple. Crowley swallows harder.) “Trolling people on the comments of The U-Tube.”
“YouTube, yes, that’s what I said.” Aziraphale sighs, and then sends him an expectant look. “Well? Aren’t you joining me?”
Crowley fumbles. “In. In the bathtub? Naked? With you?”
“Crowley, we’ve had sex,” Aziraphale reminds patiently.
“Still,” Crowley shoots back weakly, but finally, he begins undressing until he stands naked in front of Aziraphale and studies the tub, considering his options. Though he doesn’t miss the way Aziraphale’s eyes go hungry as he watches Crowley strip . (he has two choices. he can sit opposite Aziraphale, face to face, and fall apart slowly underneath all of Aziraphale’s tender looks. or he can sit with his back to Aziraphale’s chest, back to chest and skin on skin on skin on endless skin, and fall apart very fast.)
Crowley strides towards the tub, back facing Aziraphale as he lowers himself into the water, and chooses to die a quick death. He can’t help the groan that escapes him as he’s slowly enveloped by the water, just hot enough to leave an impression and soothe the aches Crowley didn’t know he had on his body. It’s a gentle collision against Aziraphale’s firm chest as Crowley sinks, and he finds it easier to close his eyes and melt against the body under him than he originally thought.
(but their legs are tangled under water. Crowley is hyper aware of the smooth softness of Aziraphale’s thighs, and of the plains of his back fitting so perfectly to the rest of Aziraphale’s body. there is nothing fast about this chosen death.)
“May I?” Aziraphale asks gently and even when Crowley doesn’t know what he’s asking for, he nods anyway, giving Aziraphale the permission to do anything and everything to him. Crowley feels the touch on the back of his head then, undoing the messy updo of his hair and letting it fall down in waves of crimson over his collarbone.
“There,” Aziraphale breathes out, captivated. One of his hands twirls itself around strands of Crowley’s red hair, the other hand mindlessly tracing patterns on Crowley’s wet arm that makes Crowley’s eyelids flutter. “That’s lovely. You’re so lovely, darling.”
“M’not lovely, you’re lovely,” Crowley mutters back and tilts his head to the side to let Aziraphale play with more of his hair. His voice slurred from all this dizzying pleasure. He feels boneless. He’s so relaxed, how can Crowley feel so relaxed? “S’niccceee, angel.”
“Oh?” Aziraphale asks, pleased. And just the tiniest bit smug. “How nice?”
“Very nice,” Crowley drawls out, hissing the vowels and delighting in the way it makes Aziraphale giggle. The bath water sloshes as Crowley turns to place a clumsy kiss on Aziraphale’s jaw. “Nicer than heaven, even. Loads better than heaven.”
“Better than heaven,” Aziraphale echoes with a thoughtful hum. His fingers still play with the red red red hair, and his hand still writes old poetry on Crowley’s wet skin. The smile can be heard from Aziraphale’s voice alone. “You know what, Crowley, I think you’re right.”