#and clinking a cup of hot cocoa with the rest who dont

[daily-snufkin]

🌿 DAY 15

Season's Greason's

[thefatedthoughtofyou]

Soft

(((i've wanted to write something like this for awhile. and i ranted to a friend (@tinyboop thanks lovely!!!) and finally did. My depression has been acting a fool the last week or so, so i may revisit this concept and like... flesh it out, and add more things and just... i dont know. do more with it. but for now, have this. enjoy lovelies i hope you like it! <3 thanks for reading as always!)))

Ao3

The sun shining on him through the windows of the bookshop was warm, verging on hot really, for how long he’d been laying in it. It was perfect. He had his arm draped over his eyes, listening to Aziraphale rattling around the shop. He heard cups clinking in the kitchen and smiled to himself, he could see the angel, washing all his forgotten cocoa mugs that had been gathering around the shop. Crowley rubbed his eyes, shifted deeper into the couch, and the sun, and threw his arm back over his face. Settling into his sunspot with a wiggle and a sigh.

He hears the angel’s footsteps and nearly smiles again. But the footsteps are coming toward him and he doesn’t want to risk it. He listens to him pace. A frown creases his brow under his arm. Aziraphale pacing never bodes well. He keeps still, listening, waiting to see if he’ll stop. Or say something. It’s usually one or the other.

“Am I –“ Aziraphale starts and then pauses.

“What angel?” Crowley asks, encouraging him.

“Am I soft?” Aziraphale asks, standing still now. Crowley snorts into his elbow.

“Of course you’re soft angel.” He says it like it’s obvious. Because it is.

Silence.

He moves his arm off his eyes the smallest amount.

More silence. And then a small tinkling sound.

Crowley sits up quickly, looking around at the, now empty, bookshop.

“Angel?” his voice is quiet. He shoves himself to his feet, peeks into the next room.

Empty.

“Angel?” a little louder.

“Where in the…” he sways in a circle, his arms flailing and then falling to his side. His stomach sinks as he checks the other rooms. No angel. He sighs, grabs his sunglasses, shoves them onto his face, and walks out the door, flipping the sign to closed as he goes, locking the doors with a snap as he crosses the street to the Bentley. He watches the bookshop for two hours. The sun drops behind the horizon and the windows stay dark. He sighs again and drives away.

Two weeks.

Two weeks and nothing.

All of Crowley’s calls go unanswered. There are several calls. More than Crowley would ever admit to. The windows of the bookshop stay dark. Crowley swears, one day, he’d seen the lights blink out just as he’d rounded the corner, he’d sat outside that day. Waiting. He didn’t know for what.

He pulls up to the bookshop, the sun long gone down, the streets long empty, and the lights. The lights in the bookshop are shining. He climbs out of the Bentley and walks to the door nervously. He shouldn’t be nervous. This was ridiculous. It was Aziraphale. He didn’t need to be nervous. He was pretty sure he didn’t need to be nervous. But things were different now. After everything that had happened, maybe he should be nervous. He looked down at the fancy French chocolates in his hand, rolled his eyes at himself, and stepped through the door silently.

He blinked slowly, not sure exactly what he was seeing. Aziraphale was there. But he was wearing… was that a track suit? A bright, white, track suit with baby blue pinstripes up and down the sides. He was doing some kind of stretching, facing away from Crowley. His neck was red, flushed, and Crowley could see the sweat dripping off him. He was suddenly very hot. His fingers drummed quietly against the box of chocolates as he watched Aziraphale bend down, touching his toes and then back up again. Crowley bit his lip and watched the angel rest his hands on his hips. He could hear him breathing heavily, he licked his lips as he watched his shoulders rise and fall heavily.

“What in heaven are you doing angel?” he can hear how off his voice is, all high and squeaky. He clears his throat, opens his mouth to say more but something isn’t right. Aziraphale is looking at him, all red faced, and sweaty, and… beautiful. But there’s… something else. Crowley cocks his head to the side. He looks… sad. And tired, dark circles coloring the skin under his eyes.

“Angel…?”

Aziraphale is silent. His hands clasped together in front of him as he looks at the floor. Crowley clears his throat again.

“I erm… Listen I’m not… sure. What I did to upset you. But I know that you are upset, and I’m sorry.” He walks toward the angel slowly, holding out the chocolates at arm’s length. Aziraphale looks up at him, takes the chocolates gently, and then seems to deflate.

“Oh Crowley.” He sighs, and collapses onto the couch. His track suit replaced by his normal threads between the moment his knees begin to bend and when his thighs hit the cushion. And Crowley, like they’re magnetized, follows him. Knee pressing against Aziraphale’s thigh, and he notes the way he pulls away slightly, tries to make himself smaller. And it clicks.

He'd asked if he was soft. And Crowley remembered the way Gabriel had talked to him. The way he'd looked at him. All hard judgment and sharp edges. And his chest aches. He reaches out. He can’t help it. He always wants to touch him. Needs to. His hand falls gently on Aziraphale's thigh, closer to his knee really. And he feels him move away again. He squeezes his fingers, pressing them into Aziraphale with a purpose.

"Angel." and Aziraphale won’t look at him. His cheeks still red. Almost the color of cherries now.

"Aziraphale. Look at me." and he does. Because it's Crowley. And no matter how upset he is, he'll listen to Crowley.

"You're soft."

Aziraphale frowns, his hands wringing in his lap.

"Hey. Soft is good."

Aziraphale snorts.

"No it is!" Crowley argues, his fingers pressing harder into the meat of Aziraphale's thigh. He notes the way Aziraphale squirms, doesn’t stop.

"I like you soft. Softness fits you. You're... you're comfortable. Like a... eh... em.. uh... like ..." he stammers.... words failing him as they often do. He pulls his sunglasses off and rubs at his eyes with his free hand, trying to find the right words.

"Like your favorite comfy reading chair!" He pulls out of nowhere, shouting it a bit too loud. But Aziraphale looks at him for a moment and then smiles. So it doesn't matter.

"I'm a reading chair?" He asks, and Crowley can hear him suppressing amusement. He nods, moves his hand up a bit higher, making Aziraphale’s eyes lock onto it, his throat making a little sound as he tries to swallow.

"My favorite reading chair." He says with a smirk. Aziraphale rolls his eyes.

"You don’t even read." He dismisses.

"I don’t read books." Crowley corrects. Aziraphale looks him, puzzled now. Crowley sighs, swallows down his nerves. He moves closer. His hand moving to rest on Aziraphale's soft stomach, Aziraphale tenses under the touch, Crowley presses closer still, crowding into his angel’s space.

"I don’t read books." He repeats, his voice low.

"But I've been reading you for almost 6000 years." Aziraphale's breath catches.

"Crowley-" 

"I've been reading you since we met and I can tell when somethings wrong. I can feel it angel. And I promise you." He moves his hand to Aziraphale's side, his thumb moving in slow circles.

"There is nothing wrong, with you being soft. It's not a bad thing to be. You being soft is perfect. You're supposed to be soft. It’s part of who you are. It's part of why I -" he cuts himself off and Aziraphale stares at him, eyes moving over Crowley’s face, stopping at his mouth more than once and Crowley swallows hard again.

"Part of why you what?" Aziraphale whispers, his hand moving to Crowley’s shoulder, finally moving toward him instead of away.

"I um... well.... it's uh..." he sighs and drops his head on Aziraphale's shoulder suddenly. He can feel Aziraphale press closer, feels him smile into his hair.

"Oh go on, you've said so many nice things already. Might as well finish your thought dear." His hand moves up over Crowley’s neck and into his hair, Crowley shivers and hums, a strange sounding rumble in his chest that makes Aziraphale smile again.

"Stop fishing for compliments. It doesn't look good on you" Crowley mumbles. Aziraphale chuckles, moves his fingers over Crowley’s scalp slowly.

"I think we both know you think most things look good on me." His voice low now, deeper than usual. Crowley’s head shoots up and he stares at the angel, he can feel his eyes changing, can feel the yellow in them bleeding out.

"I-"

Aziraphale smirks at him.

"You?" And he's positively insufferable now, nearly wiggling with delight in Crowley’s grasp.

"I... I love you." He breathes, a sigh, like a breath of air he's been dying to let out and finally can. Aziraphale's cheeks tint, just the smallest amount. And then he's smiling, grinning at Crowley, and he can feel his own cheeks heating up, he goes to drop his head again but Aziraphale catches him. His hand on Crowley’s cheek.

"I love you too. You must know that." Aziraphale's eyes are so wide, so honest. Crowley swallows again.

"I- I hoped. I didn't- I wasn't-"

"I do. I do very much." Aziraphale reassures, not letting him finish. Crowley nods. He doesn't know what else to do. Aziraphale does though. Because he always does.

"Let’s make a deal." Crowley’s eyebrow jumps, curious.

"I'll stop this working out and worrying nonsense, no more thinking I’m not- not good enough." Crowley’s nodding already, Aziraphale smirks at him.

"If you, stop wearing those retched sunglasses." Crowley frowns, his stomach drops, he tries to pull away, doesn’t want to talk about that, not right now, Aziraphale holds him still.

"Not always. Just here. Just with me. When it's us. Here. Together.” He moves his thumb against Crowley’s cheek.

“I do so love your eyes you know." He moves his hand to Crowley’s face, finger tips trailing gently under Crowley’s eye, and then up along his cheekbone.

"You do?" He sounds skeptical, and Aziraphale frowns at him.

"Of course I do. They're part of who you are." He smiles, a soft thing. And Crowley can’t help himself, he needs to taste that softness.

He presses forward. Aziraphale sighs into him, holding him close. Their lips move together for a moment. Or maybe several moments. Or maybe no time at all. Crowley doesn't know. Doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. They move apart at the same time, together. Crowley rests his forehead against Aziraphale’s, trying to level his breathing. He can hear Aziraphale trying to steady himself as well. He opens his eyes and finds his angel matching his smile. He moves his hand to Aziraphale's hip, fingers pressing in again, Aziraphale moves into the touch with a sigh.

"Deal." Crowley sighs, and pressed forward again, already needing more. Always more.