Crowley has long decided that Aziraphale is soft. (1)

The angel is so different than he is, not light to dark but… well… soft to sharp.

Aziraphale's words are soft, coaxing ducks from a pond, Crowley from mass destruction. Crowley barks or hisses, a straight-forward blow to the eardrums or an insistent pricking on the nerves, Aziraphale's voice sounds on the ansaphone, and Crowley decides he will go over, if only for tea. (2)

Aziraphale's smile is soft, gentle curving of the lips and soft, familiar delight. Crowley smirks with poisoned fangs or forked tongue. Aziraphale smiles when Crowley comes in, and again over homemade cookies, and Crowley decides he will take a cookie. (3) And 'Zira will smile.

Aziraphale's body is soft, especially his ass. Aziraphale is soft on Crowley's lap on the sofa (4) he shifts, and Aziraphale's soft voice floats in his ears, Aziraphale's soft smile curves up at him. Crowley decides this is nice.

Crowley takes the opportunity to decide that Aziraphale has very soft lips.


(1) – or, at least, padded.

(2) – which would, by the fifteenth cup or so, turn into wine. Crowley had given up trying to explain this (after he'd asked himself 'why?').

(3) – which was black, had salt instead of sugar and, worse of all, had oatmeal in it. Crowley was fairly certain Aziraphale did this on purpose.

(4) – this usually happened after two or three pots of 'tea', which had been right on cue.

A/n: Fluff. And possible OOC-ness. Keep in mind that none of their actual thought processes surface here.