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Seated on the park bench, Aziraphale gazes somewhat forlornly down at himself, his hands running over the gentle curve of his waistcoat. "Gabriel insinuated that I… well. That I had some, er, work to do."
"He what?" Crowley narrows his eyes.
Aziraphale doesn't look up. His fingers trace the line of worn buttons. The only sound is the nearby dabble of ducks in the water.
Crowley's squint intensifies. "Surely you don't mean… he couldn't have meant… that doesn't even…" He sputters out, flounders, falls back on repeating, "He what?"
"I'm soft."
It's said so quietly that Crowley almost misses it, drowned out by his balking disbelief that's swiftly boiling into something acrid. His jaw works with the aborted beginnings of nascent curses that haven't yet been invented.
After a moment, he finally settles on, "That's just rude."
(About ten paces away, a small bush flares up in sudden and inexplicable flame. It crumbles to spent ash within seconds. None of the ducks seem too bothered.)
"I didn't think it mattered," Aziraphale muses softly. "I've taken good care of it – this body. Or, at least, I thought I had. It's just… it's been so lovely, all the biscuits and cocoa and crepes and… I'm afraid I've got to give it all up now." His gaze drifts to the water, and the wistful look in his eyes is almost physically painful to witness. He huffs a small, forced chuckle. "I suppose none of us will have any of it anymore, soon, anyway."
That settles it. Crowley had already been loath to accept the tragic waste of an ended world. Now, though, it's not only about maintaining humanity's dastardly inconveniences and minor embarrassments. The biscuits and cocoa must stay, as well.
And Aziraphale is not to be made to feel like he's done wrong with his bodying. It's a perfectly (if not very) fine body and any allegation otherwise is just– just–
(Another nearby shrub ignites and snuffs out just as quickly.)
Crowley surreptitiously scans the immediate area as he rolls his neck to crack out some of the coiled-up tension there. No other angels; no demons, either. Only ducks, and they've been trustworthy confidants for decades.
He rolls one shoulder, then the other – this one up in a wide arc that lifts his whole arm up, up, over, until it drapes across the bench back behind Aziraphale's shoulders.
Aziraphale's attention is abruptly diverted from the peaceful water to Crowley's hand, which is resting a nonchalant three inches away from the shoulder of his coat.
"What, um," he stutters.
“Did you know,” Crowley begins with a sliding pitch, “that humans are mortal? That they age?”
Aziraphale turns to face him, baffled and squinting as though Crowley’s gone mad. “I… yes,” he allows guardedly. “I did know that.”
Crowley claps the nonchalant hand nonchalantly down onto the angel’s shoulder, jostles it with nonchalance. “What’s the usual shelf life? Thirty, forty years?”
“With advances in medicine in the last century or two, they’re more like eighty now. Not so impressive as their pre-Flood performance, mind, but–” here, Aziraphale brightens in that incorrigible manner he always does– “they’re so innovative, you know, the ways they’ve come up with to battle entropy, it truly is remarkab–”
“And,” Crowley interrupts, “how long have you kept up your gifted corporeal form, hm?”
“Well. Ah.” Aziraphale lays his palms on his knees. His thumb brushes absently along the inseam of his trousers. “It’s been quite… quite a while, I suppose. As long as you’ve had y-yours… pardon, what are you doing?!”
The indignation is somewhat lost in the arc of Aziraphale’s spine as it curves away from Crowley’s hand meandering down his rib cage.
“In light of what they usually manage, I think six thousand years is fairly impressive. Don’t you?”
Aziraphale stammers, jolts at a prod to his ribs. “Wh– Crow– ah! Would. Would you s-s-stop that.”
Crowley hums and doesn’t. There’s a bit of flesh under the side seam of Aziraphale’s waistcoat that’s perfectly pinchable (and deliciously soft, who ever decided that was a defect?), so he sets a few fingers to work on it. Pinch pinch pinch.
The side seam crumples around Crowley’s fingers as Aziraphale’s middle dodges away from the tickle, which is to say he nudges urgently into Crowley’s side and doesn’t actually dodge anything at all. A surprised sound is strangled behind Aziraphale’s lips as he pins them together in a tightly wavering curve.
Restraint just won’t do.
“Come onnnnn, you love having a chuckle. Let it out.” Crowley provides some encouragement with his other hand, reaching over to slither fingertips between well-worn waistcoat buttons.
Whatever protest Aziraphale had been preparing gets mangled into a panicked giggle. The strained levees of decency begin to crack; nudging becomes squirming, becomes grabbing at the invading hands, becomes an ineffectual flurry of swats and spluttering laughter. Much better. Crowley absorbs it all easily while his fingers impishly seek more soft, ticklish places. Every last muffin and mimosa deserves credit for making this a delightful pursuit.
“Interesting things, bodies,” he muses aloud. “All those nerve clusters. Sensation’s not really a deterrent for beings like us, but it’s certainly distracting, wouldn’t you say? Even with obstacles like that, though, you’ve done well with the maintenance. Bravo.”
Aziraphale, curling in on himself, snorts into his lapels and crumbles against Crowley like a day-old biscuit.
(The ducks dabble on, seemingly as unbothered by a hysterical angel as they are by incinerated shrubbery.)
Crowley only retreats when Aziraphale is sniggering breathlessly, melted to a mere lump of spent laughter. He leans back, outstretching his arms along the bench back and extending his fingers in a wiggling stretch. Aziraphale slumps warm against his side, only quivering slightly when a leftover giggle trembles its way from his chest.
“Mmh. That was…” Aziraphale begins.
Mean, Crowley expects him to say, but all that finishes the sentence is a prim harrumph that doesn’t manage to sound all that put-out. And then there’s a wriggle. Not a snuggle, mind, nor a cuddle, nor even a nestle, but Aziraphale’s body subtly moves in a way that fits it more neatly against Crowley’s, with fewer gaps and more pressing of weight.
Aziraphale hums again and doesn’t move any more.
The sensation of it, of the compression and warmth communicated from the nerve clusters beneath Crowley’s jacket, is as much a distraction as he assumes a tickle must be. Crowley finds himself unable to take his attention from it; though, he can’t claim it’s unpleasant. Certainly not a deterrent. In fact, it is… quite nice. If this is something the angel decides to do with his body more often, Crowley will readily cooperate.
Of course, that sort of thing requires the world to stick around, with both of them present and properly corporeal. He’s sure they’ll manage it. Well, half-sure. A solid quarter, at least.
He doesn’t register that his arm is slipping back down around that welcome body until Aziraphale tenses upon the return of a hand on his side. Crowley isn’t cruel, so he doesn’t launch another onslaught. He is, however, a demon, so when Aziraphale relaxes after a moment, he spiders a quick tickle on the spot that caused an amusing gigglesnort not too long ago. Aziraphale startles with a small yelp. Then he harrumphs again, and performs a perfectly executed snuggle.
“You’ve always managed to set me the right way ‘round,” Aziraphale murmurs, his cheek pressing on Crowley’s shoulder. “Thank you, I suppose.”
Crowley hasn’t the faintest how to reply, so he doesn’t.
(Behind the bench, a bright flower springs up from nothing and unfurls its petals into the waiting sun.)