The little ripple of warmth that laps at the underside of his skin whenever they kiss also stirs to life in Aziraphale at the sight of that smile, the one that neither smolders nor scalds but bathes him in a perfectly comfortable glow. Every time there's a touch of wonder in it: you're happy, here with me, and I'm happy with you, the simplest and most profound of human joys.
He reaches over to tuck a stray lock of red hair behind Crowley's ear. He's been growing it long, lately; it feels wonderful to run fingers through.
"You'll look splendid." He can't help himself--he drops a kiss on the end of Crowley's nose before settling into the comfortable circle of intimacy, both their heads on the same pillow, limbs and bodies tangled without the urgency of sex. "I'll have to dig out something suitably elegant, to match you."
Not for the first time, Aziraphale wishes stockings on men would come back into fashion. He misses the dashing suits and ruffled cravats of the eighteenth century--you can get away with a waistcoat and a high-collared shirt, but these days it's a highly conspicuous silhouette. Still, he's got plenty of good options, and he knows that he'll walk taller for having Crowley on his arm.
"Shall I do crepes for breakfast?" he murmurs, punctuating the question with a kiss brushed against Crowley's throat as he leans in to tuck himself closer still. "Or will you keep me here till the last possible moment?"
It's pretty good! I like Bourne's work, he's a good storyteller.
He reaches over to tuck a stray lock of red hair behind Crowley's ear. He's been growing it long, lately; it feels wonderful to run fingers through.
"You'll look splendid." He can't help himself--he drops a kiss on the end of Crowley's nose before settling into the comfortable circle of intimacy, both their heads on the same pillow, limbs and bodies tangled without the urgency of sex. "I'll have to dig out something suitably elegant, to match you."
Not for the first time, Aziraphale wishes stockings on men would come back into fashion. He misses the dashing suits and ruffled cravats of the eighteenth century--you can get away with a waistcoat and a high-collared shirt, but these days it's a highly conspicuous silhouette. Still, he's got plenty of good options, and he knows that he'll walk taller for having Crowley on his arm.
"Shall I do crepes for breakfast?" he murmurs, punctuating the question with a kiss brushed against Crowley's throat as he leans in to tuck himself closer still. "Or will you keep me here till the last possible moment?"