Crowley doesn't even shiver as his clothes fall apart around him. They were halfway to that point on their own anyway, and he's never cared much about whether or not he's nude, around Aziraphale or anyone else. Bit awkward in some of the early days when he walked the Earth more openly as an angel and didn't bother with a full set of...human accoutrements, as it were.
He has those now, has for millennia. There were a few too many awkward occassions with awkward explanations needed. Besides, over the last few hundred years with Aziraphale he's actually found opportunity to use them, on the lucky, far too short times when they've been together.
None of that on his mind at the moment, however, for all that he snuggles into Aziraphale's hold with complete trust and surrender. Even though they haven't seen each other since...fuck, he's not sure how long. Too long. Time spent apart is always too long.
Crowley knows, deep down in the parts of himself where he keeps the things that he's not thinking about just now, that...recent times...wouldn't have been nearly so difficult with Aziraphale nearby. He wouldn't have hidden in alcohol and something like madness, pulling insensibility around himself like armour. And yes, he is ashamed of himself, hates to be seen in this state by Aziraphale of all people. Aziraphale, who deserves so much better than a sodden wreck of an angel.
At the same time, there's no one he'd rather see or be seen by. Now or ever. He keeps his face buried in Aziraphale's chest, just breathing in the smell of him, the reality of it. He shivers a little as lips gently touch his head again, tries not to wonder how the demon can stand it. Can stand him, in this state.
Worse things in Hell, no doubt.
Crowley clenches his eyes shut harder, grits his teeth. Tries to concentrate on the way Aziraphale's chest rises and falls against his cheek, the support of an arm under his knees, another against his back. The gentle splashing of water nearby. The slow, careful lowering into the tub.
He could weep at the feel of the water against his skin, soft and caressing. He could weep more at the actual soft caresses of careful fingers cleaning a year's worth of dirt and grime. He tries not to, tries to just...be there. Not shaking apart, not babbling inanely, not anything. Just to rest his head on arms folded across his knees as he accepts this kindness the way he's accepted so many of Aziraphale's kindnesses.
(It's not kindness, or not just kindness. It never was. It's love, it was love as far back as Babel or even further, and he knows it. But that's a little too hard to remember just yet. Love has more weight than charity and he doesn't know yet what he can carry, now. I missed you, I missed you, I needed you, I don't know how I've managed anything without you, I've been so lost and I missed you so much...
It's too much, and the words stick in his dry throat the same way the dirt sticks to his skin, all but embedded in the pores. It will take a little time to shake them loose)
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timeasmymeasure
No arguments from Crowley about *that*!
Date: 2020-04-18 05:19 pm (UTC)He has those now, has for millennia. There were a few too many awkward occassions with awkward explanations needed. Besides, over the last few hundred years with Aziraphale he's actually found opportunity to use them, on the lucky, far too short times when they've been together.
None of that on his mind at the moment, however, for all that he snuggles into Aziraphale's hold with complete trust and surrender. Even though they haven't seen each other since...fuck, he's not sure how long. Too long. Time spent apart is always too long.
Crowley knows, deep down in the parts of himself where he keeps the things that he's not thinking about just now, that...recent times...wouldn't have been nearly so difficult with Aziraphale nearby. He wouldn't have hidden in alcohol and something like madness, pulling insensibility around himself like armour. And yes, he is ashamed of himself, hates to be seen in this state by Aziraphale of all people. Aziraphale, who deserves so much better than a sodden wreck of an angel.
At the same time, there's no one he'd rather see or be seen by. Now or ever. He keeps his face buried in Aziraphale's chest, just breathing in the smell of him, the reality of it. He shivers a little as lips gently touch his head again, tries not to wonder how the demon can stand it. Can stand him, in this state.
Worse things in Hell, no doubt.
Crowley clenches his eyes shut harder, grits his teeth. Tries to concentrate on the way Aziraphale's chest rises and falls against his cheek, the support of an arm under his knees, another against his back. The gentle splashing of water nearby. The slow, careful lowering into the tub.
He could weep at the feel of the water against his skin, soft and caressing. He could weep more at the actual soft caresses of careful fingers cleaning a year's worth of dirt and grime. He tries not to, tries to just...be there. Not shaking apart, not babbling inanely, not anything. Just to rest his head on arms folded across his knees as he accepts this kindness the way he's accepted so many of Aziraphale's kindnesses.
(It's not kindness, or not just kindness. It never was. It's love, it was love as far back as Babel or even further, and he knows it. But that's a little too hard to remember just yet. Love has more weight than charity and he doesn't know yet what he can carry, now. I missed you, I missed you, I needed you, I don't know how I've managed anything without you, I've been so lost and I missed you so much...
It's too much, and the words stick in his dry throat the same way the dirt sticks to his skin, all but embedded in the pores. It will take a little time to shake them loose)