Fic: Touch

[cuddles_and_jam]

Title: Touch
Rating: PG
Fandom: Good Omens, by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman
Characters/Pairings: Aziraphale/Crowley
Warnings: Do not drive drunk or feed ducks bread. Seriously, bread is bad for birds.
Word Count: 2,334
Summary: Crowley is touch-starved.
Notes: The line about Culloden is lifted from the BBC radio show.


"Alright," Crowley slurred and stood on unsteady legs. "'M goin' back to the flat. Get some sleep."

"Oh," said Aziraphale, raising his head from the table, which was strewn with bottles. He hiccuped as he squinted up at the demon. "So soon?"

"I like to sleep," Crowley explained. "Drunk sleep is ssshpe -- special. I mean. You wake up after a few hours and have to miracle yourself back to sleep again, but otherwise. 'S good. You should try it."

"Mmm, I think I'll just." Aziraphale hiccuped again and heaved himself to his feet. "Read." He patted Crowley's shoulder heavily.

Crowley chuckled, leaning into Aziraphale's hand for balance. "G'night."

"Good night, my dear." Aziraphale beamed, took a step forward, and wrapped both arms around Crowley's shoulders.

Crowley froze.

The demon had gone six thousand years without being hugged, and he was totally bewildered by the new experience. Everything was warm. Aziraphale's drunken head was swaying almost onto his shoulder and Crowley was acutely aware of the angel's cheek centimetres from his. His tongue flickered out involuntarily, picking up the scents of soap and bare skin.

Crowley found his hands pressing flat against Aziraphale's waist, as though he were going to push him away, but he didn't want to push him away, did he? His hands just stayed there, stupidly, feeling warmth and softness through layers of knit wool and cotton.

Then he snapped out of it. He had seen humans hug a thousand times. He raised his arms and gave a tentative squeeze of Aziraphale's torso. Then a slightly firmer squeeze. There.

When Aziraphale let go (the hug had only lasted a few seconds), Crowley found he was still clinging to the angel. He disentangled his arms and pulled away with a jerk. "Right, well, thanksss." Profoundly embarrassed, he swivelled and tottered towards the door.

"Do try not to run over anyone," Aziraphale called after him. "Or hit a tree and discorpate -- discorporta -- get yourself killed."

"'M a good driver," Crowley muttered. "I only run over people on purpose."

"Of course you do, dear."

It rankled that Aziraphale didn't believe him capable of vehicular homicide, but Crowley didn't want to stay and argue the point. Between the lingering warmth of the hug and the alcohol flooding his veins, he felt dizzy. Sobering up felt like it would be dangerous. He just wanted to leave.

Back at the flat, Crowley sprawled across his bed and waited for the waves of drunkenness to ease him into sleep. But his heart was racing. He couldn't stop thinking about those few seconds of physical contact. The hug had reminded him of something he couldn't place. Some dim memory. What was it?

He lay staring at the ceiling and biting his lip in thought. Then he brightened and snapped his fingers, or tried to (his fingers didn't quite cooperate). He had it. Aziraphale's embrace reminded him of something he hadn't experienced since before his Fall, back when he was one of the lowliest angels in Heaven. The feeling of being warm and safe.

The smile slipped from Crowley's face. He scowled. The easy haze of the alcohol had abandoned him. It was a long time before he managed to get to sleep.

***

After that, Crowley looked for excuses for the two of them to get drunk together again. "Another glass?" he would suggest in his best tempting voice. "One more won't hurt." Luckily Aziraphale was fond of drink. More than once, they staggered tipsily out of restaurants together, shoulders bumping, laughing over a private joke about ineffability. One night Crowley surprised Aziraphale with a bottle of fine Scotch, and another night with a selection of sugary liqueurs (the angel had a definite sweet tooth).

It worked. Every drunken night when Crowley got up to leave, or when he walked Aziraphale from the Bentley to the front door of the shop, the angel hugged him goodbye. Every single time. With practice, Crowley was getting the hang of it. He found he enjoyed the press of the angel's chest against his, the hands splayed over his back, the warm breath on his ear. And he didn't hold on too long anymore, although he sort of wanted to.

Once, Aziraphale's hand came up and cupped the back of his head, petting his hair. It made Crowley's scalp tingle pleasantly.

Then one night, as they headed to the backroom of the bookshop, Aziraphale said he wasn't in the mood for wine. Or beer. Or whiskey. "How about cocoa?" the angel suggested.

"How about some liqueur to go with it?"

"I'm afraid we finished it all last night."

"I could magic up some more." Crowley tried not to sound desperate. He waved a hand in the air and produced a bottle of (unusually high-alcohol) amaretto. "Here."

"Oh, none for me, thanks." Aziraphale fetched a pair of mugs. "Marshmallows?"

Crowley sulked. Aziraphale paid him no attention.

Faced with Aziraphale's relentless cheerfulness, Crowley found himself thawing as the evening went on. They played cards. Crowley let Aziraphale catch him cheating, as usual. Aziraphale complained about the customers he'd had that day, and Crowley marvelled at the angel's ingenuity in protecting his books from would-be buyers. They debated the merits of Aziraphale's favourite medieval prophets (all of whom were wrong, but some of whom, in Crowley's opinion, were wrong in funnier ways than others). When Aziraphale remarked that it was getting late, Crowley had to admit to himself, grudgingly, that he'd had a good time.

"Well, good night," Crowley was saying when Aziraphale stepped forward and hugged him.

It felt different sober -- more real. Possibly more dangerous. Crowley hugged him back carefully. He turned his face away from the angel's to avoid making eye contact, or some other form of contact. The warmth and solidity of Aziraphale's body were as steady as ever.

Aziraphale released him and laid both hands on his shoulders as he stepped back, smiling at him. "Good night, my dear." For some reason, a shadow of hesitation crossed the angel's face, then was gone.

Crowley left, a bit bemused. Apparently the secret wasn't inebriation after all.

***

Evening was falling, and the ducks in St. James's Park were leisurely heading for their nests, no longer bothering with the bits of crust Aziraphale threw them. Crowley vanished the rest of the loaf with a thought, leaning back on the bench and watching the fading streaks of gold in the sky.

Aziraphale was rambling about the latest dance class he was taking. "... and then I stepped on her skirt, and she fell and bumped into another couple, and there was something of a domino effect." He sighed. "I'm afraid I'm never going to master these steps. The trouble is I have no one to practice with outside of class. Unless perhaps you would ... ?" He looked at Crowley hopefully.

Crowley stared at him. "You want me to dance with you?"

"Oh, it really is fun, even if you're not very good at it. I'll show you." Aziraphale rose to his feet and gestured for Crowley to do the same.

Crowley, wondering what he was in for, got up and let Aziraphale place one of his hands on the angel's shoulder. Aziraphale rested his own hand on Crowley's back and clasped their free hands together. It wasn't a hug, but it was a loose embrace. Their auras overlapped. Crowley rather liked it.

"Now take two steps back as I take two steps forward. Right foot, left foot ..."

Crowley stepped carefully backwards over the grass. He didn't see what was so difficult about this, but he refrained from saying so.

"Now to your right ..." Aziraphale went on like that for a bit, and Crowley quickly picked up the steps. It occurred to him that Aziraphale was teaching him the woman's part. He chuckled under his breath.

"Da da da dum, da da da dum," Aziraphale sang in a low mumble, then hummed the next few bars. Crowley recognized the tune from an early twentieth-century song, something about a nightingale. He wondered if Aziraphale was aware of the irony of dancing with a demon to a sentimental love song. Probably not. Aziraphale was good at compartmentalizing; it was practically the basis of their Arrangement.

Aziraphale broke off his humming to exclaim, "Oh, this is quite a bit easier with you, dear."

"Well, it's been a while since I wore a skirt."

"Culloden, 1745," Aziraphale recalled.

"Right." Crowley found his face warming for some reason he couldn't place, and kept his eyes on his feet, although he didn't need to at this point. They were moving smoothly over the grass, their corporeal forms in perfect sync.

The sun had nearly vanished over the horizon. In the dimming light, Crowley could feel Aziraphale's eyes resting on him. He deliberately willed away the blush creeping over his cheeks before looking up.

There was a tenderness in Aziraphale's gaze that made Crowley's heart pound, but he only saw it for a moment before Aziraphale hastily averted his eyes, looking embarrassed. The easy rhythm of their bodies halted.

"Thank you, my dear, I think practising with you has done me some good, really it has," Aziraphale babbled, dropping Crowley's hand and pulling away. "Very kind of you to help."

Crowley felt the angel's aura slip away from his and leaned forward without thinking, trying to get it back -- leaned forward a little too far. Aziraphale went very still, staring at him, their faces a hand's breadth apart.

What was he doing in Aziraphale's personal space? He had no idea. He swayed back onto his heels, just as Aziraphale's hand came up, reached for his retreating face, faltered, and dropped.

"It's getting dark," Aziraphale said as he turned away. Crowley felt like he'd missed a step.

His heart was still pounding.

***

Crowley dreamt he was sinking into a sea of hot cocoa. The syrupy liquid closed over his head, but he didn't need to breathe, so he didn't mind. It was warm. It enveloped him completely. He lay perfectly still and content.

When he woke up in his ridiculously oversized bed, he felt as though Aziraphale had been here just moments ago and departed.

***

One night, Aziraphale didn't hug him. Instead he stood near the entrance of the bookshop gazing at Crowley, his hands clasped and almost wringing together, looking like he was struggling to put a thought into words.

Crowley waited. They looked at each other. After a long moment the demon felt foolish. "Erm, good night," he said for the second time, and was about to turn to the door when Aziraphale abruptly stepped forward.

Aziraphale leaned in, but not the way Crowley had been expecting at all. Instead of warm arms about his shoulders he found Aziraphale's face looming alarmingly close, and a soft dry mouth pressing against his. The angel's lips parted with a sound like a raindrop on a lake. Then Aziraphale was pulling back, cheeks pink, looking half shamefaced and half hopeful.

Crowley stared at him blankly. After a few seconds Aziraphale's face fell and he started to turn away. And it suddenly seemed very important that Aziraphale not turn away, so Crowley seized him by the arms and racked his brains for everything he knew about kissing.

It wasn't much. He had seen a fair number of plays over the centuries. And he had watched a lot of telly.

Crowley tilted his head to the side, like on television, and leaned forwards to press his lips back against Aziraphale's. At the last moment he remembered to shut his eyes, though perhaps that didn't matter if you were wearing sunglasses. Aziraphale seemed to have a better grasp of the act. Crowley gratefully let him take the lead.

They kissed and kissed. Aziraphale's arms circled his waist and drew him close. Being held, Crowley discovered, was actually better than being hugged, because it felt like it could go on forever. When Aziraphale broke off and ducked his head to kiss the side of Crowley's neck, he brought their bodies flush from hips to shoulders. Crowley laid his head on the angel's shoulder and panted a little.

"You could have said something, dear," Aziraphale murmured chidingly in his ear.

"Hmm?" Crowley had no idea what he was talking about. He tucked his face into Aziraphale's neck and inhaled deeply.

"I didn't know you felt the same way."

"Hmm."

It was a while before Crowley managed to utter a complete sentence. Which was just as well, he would reflect later.

***

The second floor of the bookshop contained a rarely used bedroom. Aziraphale had looked embarrassed when they'd first entered, and had hastily miracled away a considerable amount of dust. The bed was small, with a squashy mattress and a pile of heavy, faded quilts. Stacks of uncatalogued books covered the bureau. It was as different from Crowley's bedroom as any room could possibly be.

Crowley loved it.

They lay in each other's arms. Their warm breath brushed each other's necks, and now and then they drew back and exchanged a kiss. Crowley was greatly enjoying the kissing, but it seemed to him that it took a lot of concentration, and he was relieved to get a few breathers.

"You have the most marvellous tongue, my dear," Aziraphale murmured in his ear after a especially wet kiss.

"Comes with being a ssserpent." Crowley darted out his forked tongue to lick Aziraphale's earlobe and was answered with a sigh.

It was fascinating to learn how many ways he could touch Aziraphale, now that he seemed to have carte blanche. It was even more fascinating to learn how Aziraphale responded. That particular sigh was one he had never heard before in all their six thousand years of enmity and friendship.

"My dear, dearest Crowley," Aziraphale whispered, and something in his voice made Crowley's chest feel light. It felt like someone had opened a window inside him and let a fresh breeze blow in.

"Yeah," Crowley answered him. "Ditto."