What we're meant to be

"So, we'll start with your neck and work our way down, how does that sound?"

 "Nyeah, sounds good," Crowley said vaguely, trying very hard not to feel let down by the perfunctory, business-like clip of Aziraphale's words. The other man was doing him a kindness, he shouldn't be so ungrateful. It wasn't Aziraphale's fault that he didn't understand what having Aziraphale's hands touching him was going to do to Crowley.

 "Excellent," Aziraphale replied, clapping his hands together briefly before gesturing towards the bed. "Please, won't you lie down?"

 "Shouldn't I take off my shirt first? Make it easier for you?" Crowley asked, feeling both bold and stupid. It was a risky suggestion, he knew. In many ways, it would make things harder for him, place him further along the path of temptation. And perhaps that was why he'd done it to begin with – to give Aziraphale a chance to realise that it would be impossible for Crowley to experience something like this innocently. To give him the opportunity to firmly remind Crowley that he shouldn't be reading into things, or to retract his offer of assistance entirely, and tell Crowley to leave his room.

 Wouldn't it be better, in the long run, for Aziraphale to reject him now? To leave Crowley to suffer this pain as a form of penance, without the guilt of having forced Aziraphale into doing things that he might only realise the significance of after the fact?

 Aziraphale's breath hitched and he paused, staring wide-eyed, finally seeming to realise. Silence descended between them, heavy like a shroud, and for a moment, Crowley felt the first threads of panic beginning to curl around his heart, his lungs, threatening to tighten like a vice. Much as he knew it would be for the best, the prospect of putting Aziraphale in the position of having to let him down gently made Crowley want to bury himself alive.

 "No," Aziraphale said, and the threads turned needle-sharp, piercing Crowley's organs and leaving him feeling like he was drowning. Then Aziraphale continued, shakily, the formal tone completely gone, "Please, allow me. I wouldn't want you to put any more strain on your back than you have already."

 The words were hesitant, like Aziraphale couldn't quite admit, even to himself, that the two of them touching skin to skin might not feel entirely platonic.

 He had to know. Surely, he knew, deep down, he wouldn't be behaving with such uncertainty if he didn't.

 It was still a flimsy excuse, but Crowley was far too weak to resist. He stopped breathing entirely as Aziraphale reached for him with trembling fingers. He didn't dare move an inch as the other man approached him, terrified of frightening him off after all.

 Aziraphale's fingers grazed the underside of Crowley's chin as they curled around his clerical tab, working it loose and setting it down gently on the bedside table – or, more accurately, setting it down atop the precarious pile of books stacked onto the bedside table. Crowley swallowed desperately, trying in vain to calm the goosebumps that had erupted over his skin all the way down to his wrists. The glancing path Aziraphale's fingers had travelled blazed with heat, like he'd been branded. Like anyone who looked at him, now, would instantly be able to see all the lustful thoughts that had immediately jumped to the fore of Crowley's mind. How he imagined those soft, steady fingers cupping his jaw and drawing him in close, solid arms curling around him in a protective embrace, pink lips pressing gently against his own–

 Aziraphale turned back around and reached for the top button of Crowley's shirt, then paused, the heat of his palms bleeding through the thin black cotton as his hands hovered less than an inch from Crowley's chest. "All right?" he asked.

 "Yup," Crowley replied, slowly dying.

 Aziraphale worked the buttons of Crowley's shirt open a fraction slower than propriety demanded, forcing Crowley to finally gasp in a fresh breath of air or risk passing out. The shuddering of his chest made Aziraphale's fingers graze against him again, and Crowley all but keened at the sensation, knees close to buckling.

 As a rule, Crowley avoided touch. He'd always felt that it was the better option, that any deviation would invariably set off a slow descent into sin. That by denying himself entirely, it would be easier to suppress his urges, as he wouldn't truly know what he was missing out on. He wondered, now, whether that had been a mistake – that by refusing to allow himself to receive a kind touch for all these years, he had only made himself that much more susceptible to the effects of a gentle hand against his bare skin. If this was how he was already reacting to an accidental touch, how was he going to survive Aziraphale's hands pressed against him with intention?

 The bottom button of his shirt finally popped free, almost making Crowley sway into the motion as Aziraphale's hands began to pull away. Horrified, Crowley hastily forestalled the movement of his hips, very carefully keeping his eyes glued to the floor. Still, he saw Aziraphale's hands drift upwards to the parted front of Crowley's shirt. Instead of taking hold of the fabric to ease it off over Crowley's arms, however, Aziraphale's hands slipped beneath, warm palms brushing along Crowley's shoulders as he pushed the shirt down over his arms.

 Crowley made a broken little sound and kept his face resolutely turned away, knowing that if he met Aziraphale's gaze now, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from kissing him, and ruining everything.

 "Sorry," Aziraphale murmured.

 It took Crowley a second or two to parse the fact that Aziraphale was giving him the excuse of his sore back for the sound he'd just made. "'S OK," he managed. "My own fault, anyway."

 He dared to pray that Aziraphale wouldn't notice, or at the very least wouldn't comment on, the fact that his nipples were stiffly standing at attention.

 Aziraphale caught the shirt before it could fall and stepped away, also avoiding eye contact as he rebuttoned the shirt. Crowley couldn't help but think of how it would still be warm from sitting against his skin, that Aziraphale would still be able to feel some of Crowley's heat beneath his fingertips.

 "You can go lie down, now," Aziraphale said over his shoulder, voice only a little unsteady as he carefully folded the shirt and laid it out on top of a stack of books, next to the one beneath Crowley's collar. Crowley nodded jerkily, all but rushing for the bed, grateful for the opportunity to hide the shameful reaction his body was already having to Aziraphale's proximity.

 He laid himself face-down on the bed, arms tucking in around Aziraphale's pillow. He settled in, breathing in Aziraphale's scent from the pillow as subtly as he could.

 The mattress dipped beside him, presumably Aziraphale taking a seat. Only, Aziraphale then shifted further. Crowley realised he hadn't sat down at all, just put one knee up on the bed so that he could swing his other leg over the back of Crowley's thighs, all but straddling him.

 "Wh– Aziraphale–"

 "Is this all right?" Aziraphale asked, hands resting atop his own thighs. "I just wanted to be sure I had the best angle, but I can do it differently if you aren't comfortable."

 "'S fine," Crowley managed, swallowing the quiet sound he wanted to make when Aziraphale took that as a cue to settle more firmly against his thighs. Crowley was still twisted part of the way around to look at him, and he was finding it difficult to not let his eyes linger on the thick barrel of Aziraphale's chest towering over him.

 "Neck first, yes?"

 "Mm," Crowley agreed, unable to summon words when he was trying so hard to distract himself from the coil of heat unfurling low in his abdomen.

 "Face down, please."

 Crowley shuffled the pillow down a bit, tucking it under his chin, so that he could press his forehead against the mattress and still breathe. Not that he seemed to be doing a particularly good job of that, air catching in his throat in near-inaudible little gasps.

 One thick, warm hand curved gently around Crowley's shoulder, fingertips brushing along the inked lines of the snake coiled around his arm. It was the first time anyone had touched his arm since he'd had the tattoo done. He wanted so desperately for Aziraphale to trace along every curve and scale, to openly admire the artwork and the canvas beneath it.

 He didn't, of course, hand instead pressing Crowley down onto the bed and keeping him still. The other curled around the juncture of Crowley's other shoulder and his neck, thumb digging into the tension that had built at the base of his skull.

 "Mrghhh," Crowley groaned, unable to help but react to the touch. Just a slight change of motion, and Aziraphale could be running his fingers through Crowley's hair, tugging gently on it to make him gasp, slowly petting it and telling him how lovely it looked–

 No. He had to stop thinking like that. Their duty was to the Church first and foremost, that sort of personal intimacy wasn't something either of them were destined for. This was the closest they were going to get to anything like that, and that was fine.

 It would be fine.

 The firm press of Aziraphale's fingers made their way to the nape of Crowley's neck, sending a shudder all the way down his spine.

 Crowley bit down on the blasphemy that surged to the tip of his tongue. But would it even be taking the Lord's name in vain, when Aziraphale's hands on him made him feel closer to Heaven than any prayer that had ever crossed his lips?

 Still. Better to not risk it.

 Aziraphale's hands skimmed over his shoulder blades in a way that Crowley allowed himself to think felt almost reverential, and then his thumbs pressed into a particularly knotted muscle to the right of Crowley's spine.

 "Hgnhhhk," Crowley garbled, back arching involuntarily away from the pressure of Aziraphale's touch, even as he quite literally ached for more. Dizzily, he wondered whether this was what divine ecstasy felt like, an overwhelming sweet agony that left his eyes watering and his lungs breathless.

 "There's the culprit," Aziraphale said happily, thumb rolling in firm circles as he eased the muscle loose.

 "Nghhhhn," Crowley grunted, turning his face to press it against the pillow, hiding his tears. Aziraphale's scent filled his nose and he trembled, the tension in his shoulders slowly giving way under the steady, sure pressure of Aziraphale's hands.

 "How does that feel?" Aziraphale asked softly, fingers digging into flesh. "Not too hard?"

 Crowley was, in fact, very hard at this point, but somehow he doubted that was what Aziraphale was asking. "No, no, 's perfect, more'n perfect," Crowley babbled, words slurring together in his haste. "So good, you feel so good, I–" Crowley promptly shut his mouth with an audible clacking of teeth, knowing that he was straying far too close to unacceptable territory. Instead, he let his words shift into a formless groan as Aziraphale found a new knot to press his thumbs into.

 Aziraphale tsked at him. "Just look how knotted up you've gotten, you really must take better care of yourself."

 Screw that. Crowley was going to toil in the gardens from dawn to dusk every day, if his reward would be the firm pressure of Aziraphale's hands against him.

 Aziraphale moved down along Crowley's shoulders in inches, seemingly able to home in on every tight muscle with unerring accuracy. His hands didn't seem to tire at all, and Crowley bit his lip hard enough to taste blood, trying to distract himself from the desire to turn around and watch the flex of Aziraphale's arms as he worked.

 It was hard to remember just why he wouldn't be able to get away with that. The soft glow of the reading light lent the whole scene a dream-like quality, almost made him believe that if he turned around and reached out, that Aziraphale would reach back, draw him in and hold him close.

 Crowley gripped the pillow beneath him tighter, and didn't turn.

 Aziraphale's thumbs nestled into the valley of Crowley's spine, hands spread like wings as they pushed up along Crowley's back, forming perfectly to the contours of his shoulder blades. They slowly swept back down and fluttered over the divots of Crowley's ribs, making the breath he drew beneath them shudder in kind. His waist was slender enough that when Aziraphale's hands eventually travelled that low, his fingertips curled partway around Crowley's sides.

 At this point, it seemed like it would actually be better for Crowley if he were to come to fruition, as it were. He knew how to keep himself quiet – teenage years spent living with paper-thin walls would do that to you – and at this point, it would take him so long to calm down after the massage was done that even Aziraphale would have no choice but to grow suspicious.

 "That's the spot," Crowley croaked, hips jerking in a way that he hoped looked like an involuntary response to the pressure being placed against the base of his spine. Aziraphale obligingly shifted forward, driving down more force through his thumbs. Crowley felt something loosen and shift, and groaned in relief, hips rolling against the mattress in a slow, subtle grind.

 When Aziraphale settled back down on the backs of Crowley's thighs, Crowley felt something hard pressing against the bottom curve of his arse.

 They both froze.

 Is that a Bible in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me? Crowley's brain supplied, a little hysterically, and Crowley had to tamp down on the mad urge to start giggling.

 Aziraphale's hands had gone rigid against Crowley's skin, like he wanted to pull away, but couldn't remember how. When he spoke, his voice was thick and strained. "Crowley," he rasped, sounding both shocked and horrified, like he hadn't noticed his own physical state until it had been pressed up against Crowley's rear. "I'm so sor–"

 Crowley, struck by a flash of boldness that he couldn't quite place the origin of, shifted under Aziraphale's hands and pushed himself more firmly back against the other man's lap. Aziraphale let out an agonised sound, like he'd just been shot.

 "Crowley," he said again, this time even more shakily. "This isn't, I don't– we can't. We can't."

 "Can't what?" Crowley replied, only a touch sullen.

 Aziraphale made an exasperated noise at him, voice sliding up the octave in his panic. "You know very well what!"

 "You're just helping ease the pain of your fellow clergy member, that's all," Crowley told him. "We're both still dressed – well, mostly, in my case, but that's only to make it easier for you to ease my pain. Nothing untoward about that."

 They could do that, couldn't they? Just pretend, both of them operating under a veneer of plausible deniability, and then…

 And then, after, Crowley would leave the soft golden glow of Aziraphale's room behind like it was just a dream, and they would both keep pretending that's all it was.

 "Crowley…" Aziraphale sighed once more, with an inflection that Crowley recognised from the theological debates they'd had where they took diametrically opposed positions on a topic.

 His heart sank. So, they wouldn't even have that, then. Aziraphale could be so stubborn when he made up his mind on something. And there was true pain in his tone, a bone-deep regret that made Crowley's very marrow ache in sympathy. Would Aziraphale even be able to bear looking at him come morning? Would he have a quiet word to Gabriel whenever he next visited, tell him that Crowley wasn't a good fit for Tadfield after all, giving the bishop the excuse he needed to have Crowley shuffled off to another parish? One with more oversight, one with clergy members that would take a far dimmer view on his past, one that would make him repent more fervently for his sins–

 "You were right, you know," Crowley said softly, letting all his desperation pour out of him. It wasn't as if he had anything else left to lose. "I've been pushing myself too hard, with the garden. It's just, I… I can see the potential that it has, the beauty it could hold if it's treated with the care it deserves. I want to nurture it, see it properly bloom and grow, if…" His breath hitched a little. "If only it will let me."

 Crowley didn't push back against Aziraphale again, not wanting to force anything that wouldn't be welcome, knowing just how fragile this moment was. Tellingly, however, Aziraphale hadn't moved away at all, either, and Crowley dared to let his heart rise up in his chest once more.

 Finally, Aziraphale murmured, "How is your back feeling now?"

 Crowley swallowed hard, fingertips digging further into the mattress. "Not quite there yet." He took as deep a breath as he dared. "Would it be all right if you kept going, for a little bit longer?"

 There was another long stretch of silence, then: "What kind of man would I be, if I left you when you were still in pain?" Aziraphale answered, quiet and trembling. "Where does it hurt most?"

 His instinctive reaction was to sit up and take hold of Aziraphale's hand, then press it against the flesh and bone covering his heart. But there were any number of reasons why he couldn't do that, least of all because Aziraphale was still straddling him and pinning him down by the waist. Instead, Crowley reached back and traced a thumb alongside the dip of his spine. They both stifled a gasp when Crowley's fingers inadvertently grazed along the inside of Aziraphale's wrist as he pulled away. "Both sides," he croaked, returning his grip to the sheets next to his head to keep himself from reaching back and caressing Aziraphale's thigh.

 Fingers dug into the muscle of his lower back once more, but what really made Crowley moan this time was the feeling of Aziraphale hesitantly, deliberately pressing himself against the cleft of Crowley's arse, only a few layers of cotton separating skin from skin. He whimpered at the thought of that final barrier being removed, even though he knew it wouldn't happen – he still couldn't quite believe what was already happening – and moved back slightly to meet the motion of Aziraphale's hips.

 Did Aziraphale realise that this was Crowley's first time doing anything remotely like this? He knew the general shape of Crowley's past, would Aziraphale simply have assumed that he had at least some worldly experience?

 Come to think of it, did Aziraphale have any experience himself? He was certainly hedonistic enough when he chose to be, with all his creature comforts, but that didn't necessarily mean he'd done anything like this before, either. The roll of his hips against Crowley's rear was certainly uncoordinated enough to suggest that he hadn't. Crowley tried very hard to not let that make him feel special, but it was hard not to when the belief system he'd been brought up under told him it was.

 Aziraphale's scent filled his nose, weight heavy on his legs, hands steady against his back, surrounding Crowley completely, encapsulating him in his entirety–

 Crowley groaned and buried his face in the pillow, breathing in deep as he shook himself apart. Dimly, he heard Aziraphale groan in kind behind him, hands tight around Crowley's waist as he pressed himself hard against Crowley's backside.

 Stars danced in Crowley's vision, his entire body lax and warm. The frantic whirring of his mind was momentarily stilled, and he couldn't help but let his lips part in a smile, a soft sigh escaping them. He felt safe, and satisfied, and calm in a way that he hadn't expected. He had expected guilt, and for his stomach to curdle with horror, and his throat to close over in fear, as always happened after he took himself in hand to thoughts of Aziraphale.

 Instead, he simply felt content.

 They both stayed as they were, panting breath slowly steadying into regular rhythms. Aziraphale was the first to pull away – not that there was really an option for Crowley to be first, pinned as he was – and awkwardly clambered off of Crowley's thighs, taking a seat at the edge of the bed. He'd left ample space for Crowley to sit upright, so he did, swinging his legs out and grimacing slightly at the shift of the damp patch at the front of his pants.

 At least the rectory had its own washing machine, and they didn't need to risk anyone else seeing their stained clothing.

 "You feel better, I hope?" Aziraphale asked quietly.

 "I… yeah, I do. Thank you." Crowley swallowed, trying for a little bit of laughter as he added, "Reckon I'll need another shower, now, though."

 But Aziraphale didn't look at him, instead staring down at his own fingers as they twisted tightly together in his lap. Crowley could scarcely believe they'd been pressed so firmly against his own skin only mere moments prior.

 "You should probably go do that," Aziraphale said, still staring at his tangled fingers.

 A lump formed instantly in Crowley's throat, all the guilt he'd expected earlier suddenly slamming into him full force. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, but the rising tide of shame within him drowned any words he might have spoken.

 Aziraphale regretted it. He'd regretted what they'd done together.

 Of course he did. What was Crowley, but a temptation? Aziraphale's life could only have become more complicated by Crowley's presence, bringing up questions he was far too frightened to find the answers to. All Crowley had done was push, and push, and now this.

 He had no one but himself to blame. He had known already that this was how Aziraphale would react, deep down, but had allowed his own stupid naivety to convince him otherwise. What right did he have, to force his own feelings and doubts onto Aziraphale? Was Crowley so weak, that the moment someone showed him the barest kindness, all of his own faults came surging to the fore like a flood, drowning them both? How was it fair that Crowley had clung to Aziraphale like flotsam in a storm, only to drag them both under?

 "I did mean now," Aziraphale whispered, like the words had pained him. His knuckles had gone white from how tightly he was clenching them.

 Crowley shot up from the bed as if he'd suffered an electric shock. He wanted to say something, anything, but what words that he could offer would possibly have an effect on the turmoil Aziraphale was surely feeling? What comfort could he give, what apology could he make, for the violation of an oath that they'd both sworn to uphold?

 Instead, Crowley fled the room like the coward he was, with the sinking certainty that he'd been right, earlier.

"Is he not aware of your eye condition?"

 "I tried to tell him what photosensitivity is, but seems he's of the school of thought that science and witchcraft are basically the same thing. The tattoos probably didn't help me make my case either."

 Aziraphale made a face. "Ah."

 "Yup," Crowley confirmed, and Aziraphale shook himself suddenly.

 "You've distracted me, you wily old thing!" he chided.

 "Younger than you," Crowley pointed out, grinning impishly and making Aziraphale glower at him with impatience.

 "I was about to get cross with you," Aziraphale insisted. Crowley arched an eyebrow at him.

 "Oh? Whatever for?"  

Aziraphale gestured at the gardening tools in Crowley's hands. "That! It's far too late for you to be working out here, still."

 "Still light out," Crowley muttered, poking rebelliously at the soil with his trowel.

 Aziraphale rolled his eyes and threw up his hands in exasperation. "It's summer, of course it's still light out! That doesn't change the fact that it's almost nine thirty." He shifted his weight, arms now folded. The slowly dwindling rays of sunset caught in the white-gold curls crowning Aziraphale's head, making them glow as if from within.

 Lord, but did he look like an angel.

 Crowley hissed in displeasure as he begrudgingly got to his feet, the taut muscles of his back creaking in protest. Aziraphale gave him a reproving look.

 "'S not like it's going to weed itself," Crowley grumbled in a half-hearted final objection, wincing again. Now that he was standing, the ache in his back was really starting to settle in. He tried to straighten to his full height, which would give him a few inches over Aziraphale, but found that his spine would only comfortably let him stand with their eyes level.

 All right, maybe he had been overdoing it a bit over the past few days.

 Aziraphale pursed his lips. "Be that as it may, you mustn't work like this to the detriment of your own wellbeing. It will still be here in the morning. This is your home, Crowley, it isn't as if you'll be forced to leave if you don't turn the church grounds into Kew Gardens overnight."

 "S'pose I would've been kicked out ages ago, if that were the case," Crowley acquiesced, rubbing some of the dirt on his hands onto his gardening apron. "Y'know, when I first came here, I was really excited to see the gardens," he admitted. "I'd heard how lovely they were, especially for such a small church. Was a bit of shock when I saw the state they were in."

 What he didn't add was that, given Shadwell's constant undermining of any covert attempt he made to coax the gardens back to life, Crowley would have long ago gone and grovelled to the diocese to grant him a new assignment elsewhere. That is, had he not had a compelling reason to want to stay in Tadfield.

 A middle-aged, cherubic man-shaped reason, to be specific.

 "Well, you'll have plenty of time to restore them to their former glory, now," Aziraphale said kindly. "There's no need for you to rush anything."

 Crowley hummed in agreement, and went to bend down to pick up his tools, unable to stifle a groan as he did so. Aziraphale was quick to forestall the movement with a hand to Crowley's chest, his usual hesitance to so much as brush shoulders with Crowley vanishing under his concern. Allow me, he probably said, but Crowley couldn't hear him over the sudden rush of blood to his ears, pounding through his rapidly beating heart in a way that Aziraphale would surely be able to feel beneath his fingers.

 Aziraphale said something else that Crowley's brain refused to parse, too focused on trying to keep the other priest from realising the effect the simple touch was having on him. He managed to nod, not sure what he was agreeing to, but was rather proud of himself for managing not to whimper when Aziraphale's hand pulled away.

 "We'll just put these away first," Aziraphale told him, Crowley's brain function apparently restored now that they were no longer touching. Crowley dutifully trailed after him to the shed, putting his tools back in their rightful place. He grunted slightly when he reached to the small of his back to undo the ties of his garden apron, the motion tugging at the aching muscles of his shoulders. The sound alerted Aziraphale, who immediately fussed over him again, lifting the strap holding the apron around his neck for Crowley despite his protests. Crowley scowled as Aziraphale smiled serenely at him and hung the apron on its hook by the door. Secretly, however, he was glad that the dim, fading light meant that Aziraphale wouldn't be able to see that the tips of Crowley's ears had gone a hot, flaming red.

 Aziraphale took the lead again as they both headed for the rectory they shared, both toeing off their shoes and leaving them in the rack by the door once they'd crossed the threshold.

 "I imagine you'd want to shower before we begin," Aziraphale said as they headed into the living room. He picked up a book he'd left beside the sofa and took a seat, already thumbing it open. "Take your time, I'll be waiting here for you when you're done."

 Crowley glanced down at the dirt packed under his nails, felt the sweaty stick of his shirt against his back, and couldn't help but agree. Whatever Aziraphale had had him agree to, it probably would be best if he cleaned himself up first. Not to mention it would give him a little bit of time to collect his thoughts, to slow the still traitorously fast gallop of his heart.

 He headed upstairs, grabbed a change of clothes from his room, and did his best not to run to the bathroom, knowing Aziraphale would be able to hear the creak of the floorboards overhead if he did.

 Once enshrined in the privacy of the bathroom, shower turned on and old pipes groaning laboriously as they slowly heated, Crowley sagged against the door and let out a long, shaky breath.

 "Get a grip," he muttered to himself, flicking on the ancient exhaust fan. It rattled slowly to life, letting out the occasional whining protest, as the unbalanced blades scraped against the inside of the casing. "You're acting like… like he's about to lay down rose petals for you and take you to bed, when you know he couldn't find his way out of the closet if you gave him a torch and a map. And even if he could… he wouldn't do anything about it. You've both got your vows." He tore off his clothes and left them in a sullen pile on the floor, opening the shower door. Steam billowed out and he stepped inside quickly before too much could escape. He stood directly under the scalding spray, heedless of how his pale skin went instantly pink. His face was likely beyond sun-kissed, too, given the time he'd spent in the garden.

 There wasn't much he could do about that, but at the very least he could wash the sweat from his skin, furiously scrub the dirt out from under his nails. Whatever the evening had in store for him, at least he'd be clean.

 He fruitlessly tried again to piece together what Aziraphale had asked him, out in the garden. Now, though, naked and surrounded on all sides by steam, his mind only seemed to want to offer him lewd suggestions, each one more highly improbable than the last. Unbidden, he imagined Aziraphale walking into the bathroom to find out what was taking Crowley so long, then disrobing and entering the shower with Crowley, hot water cascading over them both as Aziraphale pressed him up against the tiles–

 With a burst of self-disgust, Crowley realised that certain areas of his body were getting very excited indeed by such thoughts, and were responding in a way that was meant to encourage him to keep thinking those exact thoughts as he took himself in hand. He'd done it a few times in the past, now, even though it invariably left him riddled with guilt and shame. Somehow, it seemed even more egregious than usual to have a self-loathing-fuelled wank over the man he worked with, when said man was patiently awaiting his return downstairs, none the wiser.

 With a sigh, he turned off the heat, standing under the cold spray for several seconds to try and keep his body from getting any funny ideas, before cutting off the water completely. Skin still pink in places, but at the very least clean, he towelled himself off, squeezing as much water out of his hair as he could. A glance in the mirror told him that he'd definitely been out in the sun too long. If he was very lucky, the skin wouldn't start peeling off over the next few days, but, given how his pale skin had historically reacted to overexposure to the sun, he wasn't exactly holding out hope. He applied some moisturiser to his face to at least draw out some of the heat, and resolved to stop being so forgetful about putting on sunscreen when he needed to.

 He put on his clothes quickly, only realising once he was done that he'd gone on complete autopilot, and dressed himself as if preparing for his clerical duties, collar and all. He felt a little stupid, but knew he'd feel even stupider if he went and changed again, so he decided to leave everything as it was, and headed back downstairs. Hopefully, wearing something symbolic of the Church would help remind his unruly body, mind, and heart how they were all supposed to be behaving.

 "Ready, then?" Aziraphale asked when he came back into the living room, glancing quickly at the page number before closing the book and setting it aside.

 "Yep," Crowley answered, still having no idea what he'd agreed to.

 "We can use my bed," Aziraphale decided. "Now that I've had a moment to think about it, the couch really is far too narrow to give us enough space to work with comfortably."

 "What?" Crowley squeaked.

 Aziraphale gave him an odd look. "I suppose we could do this here, with you laid out on the floor, if you'd prefer. I know that some people like a more solid surface beneath them for this sort of thing," he said, apparently unaware that he was giving Crowley a heart attack.

 "You… you want me on the floor?" he managed.

 Aziraphale shrugged. "Personally, I would have thought the bed would be more comfortable, but the choice is yours. This is to your benefit, after all."

 "…My benefit?" Crowley asked faintly, apparently unable to do much more than echo Aziraphale's words back at him.

 "Honestly, Crowley," Aziraphale replied huffily. Crowley managed to find space amidst his confusion to feel the little thrill he always did whenever Aziraphale dropped the honorific when referring to him by name. "The massage? That we discussed not twenty minutes ago, were you even listening?"

 "Massage?" Crowley couldn't help but parrot. Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose.

 "Yes. Massage. For your back. That I offered to you. Because you've been overworking yourself in the garden all week and can barely stand upright."

 "Oh. Right," Crowley managed, nodding like a dashboard bobblehead on an unpaved country road. "That massage. 'Course."

 "Honestly," Aziraphale huffed again, but far fonder in tone this time. "So. Out here, or on the bed?" "Bed," Crowley said before he could stop himself.

 Aziraphale nodded, standing. "Shall we, then?"