#the oysters were to blame

Crowley touches his neck, unconsciously, feeling some smooth scales beneath his bristly line of hair. He’s still not used to his shorter hairdo. It was more or less a hasty decision after he witnessed the crucifixion at Golgotha, the exhibit A of how cruel mankind can be and how little Heaven cares about… anything. Seriously, the young man screamed for hours, and no one showed mercy, not a single human, not the Almighty herself, and certainly no angel showed his feathered arse to support the poor man. Heaven is broken and evil, that’s it. Almost comparable to Hell, but with more sickening hypocrisy and less fancy drinks.

Crowley knew in this exact moment at the top of Golgotha, that he desperately needed to get rid of this shit. So he cut off his hair.

Somehow, it had been an acrimonious feeling to hold the coppery strands of hair in his fingers, the last reminder of his angelic past. Odd and liberating. Sometimes he can sense the tips of his hair, touching his shoulders lightly like a ghost pain, still haunting him.

“I like it,” someone says.

Crowley’s lips twitch. It’s barely visible, but it’s there. “Ah, shut up.”

“Honestly, dear, it suits you.”

Aziraphale breathes a gentle kiss on the bare skin of his neck, as if he wants to emphasize on how much he’s intrigued by the sight he’s given. Well, in his defence, the demon’s look is rather new to him.

The angel wraps almost protectively his arms around him, warm and strong, pressing his silky-soft chest against Crowley’s back. He can feel his curly hair tickle his skin. The demon is suddenly cocooned by a naked angel. And the operative word here is naked. Aye, naked as in ‘I slip right out of my tunic and seducing you’-naked. 

The oysters were to blame, seriously.

A silly smile tugs on the corner of Crowley’s lips, and he can’t do much about it.
Frankly speaking, it’s not the first time, no, not really. And after their first time, he had been so surprised he had already mentally put it on his list of ‘Sod it, Crowley, that’s too good to be true’ and considered it as over and done with. Just an accident. A terrible mistake.

So much for that then.

“Don’t get me wrong, dear. I adored your long locks and braids, I truly did, but your short haircut, well…” The angel’s fingertips wander over Crowley’s spine, slowly, tenderly above every small elevation. “It’s tempting.”

A small shiver runs through Crowley’s body. He feels strangely lightheaded and his chest is tight. It’s almost as if they can slip into another role once they’re naked. And that’s just as frightening as it is exciting.

“It’s the style these days,” he says, trying to sound suavely, and not as if it scares the shit out of him that the angel’s implying he looks hot.

They don’t talk about what they tend to do after eating oysters or after a relaxing afternoon at the caldarium. It’s not angelic, and probably not appropriate for a demon as well. So, no one ever talks about wet kisses, naked skin or sweet moans. What happens in Rome, stays at Rome. That’s really fine with Crowley because whenever he does think about it, he freaks out.

“Do you miss it?” Aziraphale asks quietly. “Your long hair?”

Aziraphale slides a little closer to him, closing the last possible gaps. It’s warm and strangely comforting. Crowley really wants to touch him right now, just something small and childlike, like holding the angel’s hand. But he doesn’t even dare to turn around. Actually, the demon is filled with dread and excitement, which is a fucking combination. Some day Aziraphale will fall, no doubt about that, and it will be Crowley’s bloody fault. He’s wondering if he should regret this entire thing and cancel it before it has got a name. Angels and demons don’t fraternize for a reason.

“Pfff, hell no! It was bloody unmanageable hair,” mumbles Crowley, hating that hollow feeling whenever he thinks about the past. He likes to move forward. Or run. Fastly, without turning back. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You and your perfectly fluffy white curls which hardly ever split.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, and he knows without seeing Aziraphale’s face that he is softly smiling, not minding the demon’s well-camouflaged compliment. Instead, he starts painting small circles with his fingers over Crowley’s shoulder blades, soothingly. 

Oh,sod it!

The demon reaches for his hand, finally, intertwines their fingers. His thumb caressing the oversoft back of Aziraphale’s hand, while the angel places small wet kisses on every inch of his neck. The scales on his skin are almost gone, faded to a soft yellowish colour, glittering golden in the sunset. 

“Thanks.”

He isn’t sure what, exactly, he is thanking him for. The best sex of his life? The distraction? For not asking why he was sitting alone and sulky in this Roman pub? Or perhaps just for the feeling in his chest, warm and pure, that has removed all his gloominess… Everything is as good and as warm and pleasant as it can be. Mostly because of Aziraphale. 

Crowley doesn’t need the bloody long hair anymore. He only needs his angel.

Author’s note: I love to write flashbacks of their past so much! I created this little Rome scene after I drew both pictures. The idea with Crowley’s hair inspired me to use parts of it for my fanfiction ‘Creating Grey’ as well. So this is kind of a (not proofread) sneak peek for chapter 4 :) Hope you enjoyed it!