Title: have you got colour in your cheeks
Fandom: Good Omens (TV/Book)
Characters/Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale
Rating: PG-13
Length: 950~
Content Notes: post-canon
Summary: Dante had gotten a lot of things wrong, but one thing he had managed to recall from their drunken encounter: Hell is fucking cold. That’s where Crowley had gotten the idea for general air conditioning in offices, after all.

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Dante had gotten a lot of things wrong, but one thing he had managed to recall from their drunken encounter: Hell is fucking cold. That’s where Crowley had gotten the idea for general air conditioning in offices, after all.

For the past few months, communication with home office had been— strained, to say the least. So he really wasn’t expecting Timothy Dalton’s expression to darken in his —rather expensive, might he add— television screen. “Crrrrowley,” he had said, slow and guttural. And look, The living daylights is not even one of his favourites, but he’d rather keep it separate from work.

“Haagenti,” Crowley had attempted to sound light and breezy. “It’s been… Well. Midas, wasn’t it?”
“Not a social call, Crowley.”
“Right, of course, of course.”

And voilà, on his desk had appeared three copies of his bicentennial performance review, to sign and deliver in person to Basement 9.

“What I don’t get,” he tells Aziraphale, who’s still looking for something in one of his drawers. “Is how on… How on earth is still Disobedience marked so low, it’s one of the” he groans as he spits it out “core values. Rebellion is our whole thing.”

He’s still shivering, from head to toe. Don’t get him wrong, it beats getting showered with rocks. Been there, done that: he’d rather get his paycheck in the traitors’ den. He also likes having feeling in his extremities. While he has them, at least.

“Uh,” Aziraphale is still not looking at him. It took him about two minutes after Crowley’s arrival to dive head first into what appears to be the deepest drawer in all human and angelkind. “Well, it might have to do— Ah, there it is” a smile spreads in the small portion Crowley can discern of his face, lights up the whole room. “Sorry, dear”, he turns around, the ugliest, thickest and somehow blandest sweater known to existence is in his hands. “I was saying, it might have to do with the whole disobeying your employer thing.”

Crowley rubs his arms energetically, with little result.

“Still. I think I might take it up with HR, that was a big bonus.”
“Sure.”

Then he stares at Crowley, who, in turn, stares right back.

He’s holding the sweater out to him.

“Absolutely not.”
“It’s cozy.”
“It’s three hundred years old.”

Aziraphale still doesn’t back out, looking strangely smug and tight-lipped. He can almost hear the response, even though he won’t speak. Why don’t you miracle something up then, he seems to be saying, as if there was something that could alleviate demonic hypothermia. And they’ve been through this before. Not this this specifically, but if there ever was a being who just couldn’t let things go: that was Aziraphale. He’s the main reason Crowley even tried eel sushi, and definitely the only reason he’d been to Waitress. Twice.

“Ugh,” he rolls his eyes, even if you can’t see it through his glasses. “You know, tequila’s not a bad option either.” Aziraphale pushes the damn sweater against his chest, and Crowley sighs. “Fine. Ugh.” He flexes his fingers before grabbing the stupid thing. “I’m not going out in this.”

Aziraphale pushes his own glasses against the bridge of his nose.

“I don’t know, you might find it to your taste, the nineties are coming back. Or so they say.”

Crowley hisses at him. This seems to draw a dry laugh out of Aziraphale, who goes back to his hellishly uncomfortable couch and abandoned book.

He takes a deep breath before putting it on. The sweater is two sizes too big and still somehow short on his belly, but the thing that stands out is how the fabric itches the moment it comes in contact with his skin. “Is this—” he starts to say, and Aziraphale lifts his gaze up from the book.

“Is something wrong?”

Is there ever, he wants to say. He shakes his head, already feeling that familiar wave of warmth and nausea. “Something’s always wrong with me, otherwise I’d be out of a job.” He sits down next to him and props his boots on the small coffee table, he tugs at the too-long sleeves and burrows his nose in them. The fabric smells spicy and warm and righteous. “Do you wear this a lot?” he asks, and hopes his skin isn’t coming back redder when he reclines on the couch.

Humming distractedly, Aziraphale nods, he doesn’t turn to look at him.

Of course.

Crowley takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes, his cutting cheekbones. The skin there is still ice cold, but the prickling sensation from the sweater spreads through him like sunburn. It’s not unlike those few instances his fingers have brushed against Aziraphale’s, not unlike the way his hand has absentmindedly found Crowley’s knee sometimes, like he doesn’t notice how it wanders. He feels himself sliding too close for comfort, almost leaning his head against Aziraphale shoulder, who says “just let me know if it gets too— “ His voice doesn’t crack, exactly, only drifts off. He wonders if he’s remembering it too.

(If it hurts, then why— they’ve always been drunk for that. See, that’s not a conversation to have sober. Not six thousand years ago, not now, not ever, probably. “It’s not like it’s consecrated ground, angel,” and he grabs Aziraphale’s hand, lifts it up between them. “See?” He’s making a point, it’s not like it means anything. The skin under his fingers feels feverish.

“Crowley.”
“Anyway, I think we need more alcohol.”

If it hurts, then why—
Do you know? He says one time. Do you know how sometimes someone hurts you. But— That’s still better, right. Because at least it means they remember you exist.)

“Sure, yeah,” he tells Aziraphale, and closes his eyes.