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Aziraphale traced Crowley's arm with the soft pads of his fingertips. Up and down, slow enough to cover up the demon in goosebumps. Gentle enough to bubble up a foreign yet nostalgic emotion in his chest. It was everything he yearned for, for 6,000 years.
Crowley moved his face further into the pillow to keep his minor sounds of contentment for his ears alone.
“My dear?” The lush Angel beneath him cooed into his ears.
Nothing.
“Love?”
Silence.
“Dearest,” the angel was closer, now at neck as he whispered his golden word into it.
“Mmm,” the demon let out, with a speck of a whine at the end.
“You're breathing,” the angel queried picking up the speed in his trailing fingers.
Oh somebody, did that feel bloody amazing.
“What about it?” Crowley questioned, curling up into Aziraphale's chest.
“It's just, you, well you never breathe.”
Crowley knew this, a dreadful human quirk, no bloody use for a demon to do it.
And yet.
And yet here he was, inhaling and exhaling, faultlessly, unhurriedly.
“S'just you, your, the thingy you're doing right now.”
“Hmm? And what is that?”
“Oh, you bloody know what, angel! The affection, mushy stuff, not used to it.”
“Ah, I suppose I must do this more often? To help you get used to it of course.”
“Don't wanna get used to it. I...like this feeling.” Crowley replied, pressing a kiss to his angel's plump cheek.
“Mmm, as do I, dearest.”
Crowley kissed the angel's jaw in return, settling back on his chest. He breathed in the scents of paper, ink, and Early Grey. All-encompassing around him. Maybe this was why he breathed, to feel every sensation a human does. He's never felt more human than with Aziraphale, more loved, more in love.
He never wanted it to end, and it never will.