Crowley knows every shade that Aziraphael's face can turn; has caused most of them, one way or another. And now he's standing there. It makes Crowley feel like his ribs are being crushed, bone grinding inwards against all the messy bits he doesn't even need, anyway. And now he's standing there, all hurt blue eyes and hair that Crowley can always smell on his pillows, and turning that stupid, delicate pink that Crowley loves to feel the heat of against his mouth.
He always wants Aziraphael.
But Aziraphael turned it into -
(The memory is sudden and strong, prickling over him like a sensory after-image: the heat of Aziraphael's thighs against his sides, the shaky inhale as he'd looked down at Crowley's grin, the plump, too-careful hand buried in his hair - )
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Crowley knows every shade that Aziraphael's face can turn; has caused most of them, one way or another. And now he's standing there. It makes Crowley feel like his ribs are being crushed, bone grinding inwards against all the messy bits he doesn't even need, anyway. And now he's standing there, all hurt blue eyes and hair that Crowley can always smell on his pillows, and turning that stupid, delicate pink that Crowley loves to feel the heat of against his mouth.
He always wants Aziraphael.
But Aziraphael turned it into -
(The memory is sudden and strong, prickling over him like a sensory after-image: the heat of Aziraphael's thighs against his sides, the shaky inhale as he'd looked down at Crowley's grin, the plump, too-careful hand buried in his hair - )
And now he's standing there, blushing.
It feels like his ribs are