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If someone had suggested to Aziraphale a few millennia ago that he’d end up spending eternity together with a demon, he would have scoffed, told them they were being absurd, and quietly but quite visibly fretted about what about him made them suggest such a thing.
As a reality, however, it was actually rather nicer than he would have expected. Aziraphale was a creature of habit, but Crowley fit into his life like he’d always been there. When he thought about it more, Aziraphale supposed, for all intents and purposes, that he always had.
In fact, Aziraphale would go as far as to describe himself as happy. He had his books in his bookshop which kept confusing hours, and more often than not, Crowley could be found somewhere on the premises. He could be poking about the shelves or taking a nap on Aziraphale’s sofa; Aziraphale didn’t need to know exactly what Crowley was up to every second of every day, but he did know when Crowley was around, and it was always a cheering thing to notice. After having had his body for over six millennia, Aziraphale was mostly used to his, but he still had the occasional thought about how bodies were funny old things. Crowley making Aziraphale feel all happy and warm in his chest was no longer surprising, but rather lovely all the same.
Right now, though, Crowley was not in the shop. Aziraphale vaguely remembered him arriving with a plate of darling little pastries, but Aziraphale had been rather immersed in his book at the time. The plate was still there, and Aziraphale helped himself to a particularly delectable looking one, while idly wondering where Crowley had gone off to.
On one quiet Thursday, early in the evening (it was around five o’clock, and the sign on the door to his bookshop had been turned over to CLOSED for several hours now), Aziraphale found an amusing passage in his book. He looked around, wishing to share it with Crowley, who had just been there. Aziraphale was quite sure of it. “Crowley?” he called out, picking up his book and looking around his shop. It was pointless, really; he could tell Crowley was no longer there, but he was a little irritated that he hadn’t noticed him leaving. “I really must start paying better attention,” he said out loud, pleased with his decision.
Then something caught his attention and he sniffed the air. It smelled like- “Risotto?”
Aziraphale followed the scent to the little table he had tucked away at the back. On the table was a covered dish, and on it, a note written in Crowley’s hand.
“‘Eat me.’” Aziraphale read out loud and shook his head a bit. He pictured Crowley grinning while writing the note, waiting for Aziraphale to catch in on the joke (the wording was quite on purpose, Aziraphale was sure), and smiled despite himself.
He lifted the cover and underneath discovered, as he had suspected, a rich and very tempting mushroom risotto. “How lovely! And so thoughtful. Why, it looks like the risotto we had…” Aziraphale sat down and tasted the meal, trailing off as the rich flavor hit his taste buds and overrode his ability to use words. He really must remember to thank Crowley later. Aziraphale hadn’t been aware that the restaurant they had been to even had a take-away option.
The following evening, Crowley was stretched out on Aziraphale’s sofa, his fourth glass of wine nearly empty in hand, when Aziraphale finally remembered what he’d been meaning to say to him all day. (They had opened a rather nice red or three, and Aziraphale was having trouble pronouncing the name of the wine.) “Oh, my dear fellow!” he said, interrupting himself mid-sentence. Wine sloshed in his glass a bit, but it was thankfully empty enough that none spilled. Crowley’s eyebrows climbed slightly upwards on his face. “What I meant to say was, I very much enjoyed the risotto. How on Earth did you get the restaurant to-”
Aziraphale took a small break to hiccup quietly.
“Ah- to get a take-away from the restaurant? It was just the ticket, last night.”
Crowley looked at him, and Aziraphale got the vaguely unnerving feeling that there was some sort of joke here that he wasn’t getting, but Crowley just raised his glass at Aziraphale and grinned. “Wouldn’t be fun if I told you, now, would it, angel?”
“Oh, you really are impossible,” Aziraphale sighed, but raised his glass to Crowley anyway, before they both downed the rest of their drinks. Aziraphale fidgeted in his seat, and noticed the reason his chair was more uncomfortable than usual was that the wood had splintered and was poking him in the back. “Oh, dear,” he said.
“Best not miracle that till you’ve sobered up,” Crowley interjected from the couch, peering around to see what Aziraphale had objected to. “You know how you get. You’d have the Queen’s throne or somethin’ equally ridiculous there before you even knew it. Come sit here,” he suggested instead, lifting his legs.
Aziraphale did, and ended up with a lapful of Crowley’s feet. Unusual, but not unheard of. Still, Aziraphale was feeling slightly flustered. “Must be the wine,” he muttered to himself.
“What must?” Crowley turned his attention to Aziraphale and blinked lazily, his sunglasses off for once. Aziraphale was never more reminded of Crowley’s serpentine form than when Crowley was drunk. Or maybe when both of them were drunk. Aziraphale wasn’t sure of that, only that he wished Crowley had his sunglasses off more often. His eyes really were lovely, in their own demonic way.
“Do you know, I can’t remember,” Aziraphale said. The sofa was pleasant and snug, and he rather enjoyed the weight of Crowley’s legs atop his own. He gave one of Crowley’s calves an experimental squeeze, and Crowley grunted appreciatively. A success! Aziraphale did it to the other one, too. Crowley sighed and toed off his boots.
“Y’ever try sleeping?” Crowley asked after a moment of companionable silence, sloppily refilling his wine glass and trading it with Aziraphale’s to fill that one too.
“I don’t have to sleep. I’m an angel,” Aziraphale reminded Crowley.
“I know you’re an angel, angel. But it‘s not like you have to eat, either. And anyway, I wasn’t asking if you had to. I was askin’ if you’d tried to.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale said, trying to recall. “I don’t believe I have. Not that I recall, anyhow.”
“You should. It’s great fun, really relaxing. You were never curious?” Crowley took a generous sip of his wine and slid down lower on the sofa, looking to all the world as though he was about to have a nap right there and then.
“I suppose a little, but not enough to ever try it,” Aziraphale said after a bit of consideration. Earlier the thought hadn’t crossed his mind, and lately there was always something good to read, instead.
“Worth it for the dreams,” Crowley said. “Brilliant things. Your mind just comes up with ‘em. Never know what you’re going to get. I don’t think I’ve had a repeat dream once, and I slept through most of the 19th century.”
Aziraphale remembered it well. It had been the most boring- no, peaceful time he could think of. Aside from learning the gavotte. “Are you trying to tempt me?” Aziraphale said, letting a hint of suspicion in his voice. Crowley grinned, just like Aziraphale had known he would.
“Little bit, maybe,” Crowley said, grin widening. “Come on. It’s fun. Humans do it all the time. You must be curious.”
“Well-” Aziraphale wasn’t coming up with any reasons why not - like Crowley said, humans did do it all the time, all of them, so it couldn’t be inherently bad, even if Crowley was tempting him into it. He could tell Crowley had guessed he’d won, because Crowley was scooting off to the side of the sofa. “Alright, why not. ...How does one go about it?”
Crowley took Aziraphale’s wine glass and set it down with his own. “You lie down,” he said, and tugged Aziraphale to lie down next to him. Aziraphale looked at Crowley and then quickly up at the ceiling. Through the haze of the alcohol, this suddenly felt a little bit- dangerous. “Then you close your eyes and just… rest, quietly. You’ve seen me do it before, angel.”
“Right. Well- I suppose it can’t be that hard.” Aziraphale swallowed a bit thickly and closed his eyes. He was very aware of Crowley lying there next to him, and it suddenly felt very strange to not be talking, but Crowley had said quietly.
Crowley shifted next to Aziraphale, and Aziraphale kept his eyes closed, though he was very tempted to open them and look. “Sofa’s too narrow,” was the only warning Aziraphale got before Crowley threw an arm across his chest and slid his leg over Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale stayed very carefully still. Crowley’s breath was right next to his ear, very close to his ear, and it was unnerving. After a while, he thought, it was also quite nice. Soothing.
The tension in Aziraphale’s body melted away, and he no longer felt the need to talk. In fact, even thinking seemed like too much work. Crowley’s breathing was steady and huffy, and it lulled Aziraphale to sleep.
In the morning, Aziraphale woke with a cup of cocoa and a cinnamon bun waiting by his aching head (a matter dealt with quickly with just the tiniest effort) and Crowley nowhere to be seen. He ate the cinnamon bun, which was delicious, and ignored the cocoa, which was cold, while trying to make sense of the images in his head during his sleep (why would the Kraken be wanting to learn how to knit?). Then he wrote it down, so he could ask Crowley if dreams were normally like that, or whether he ought to worry.
On the whole, sleep had been an interesting experience. He wouldn’t be opposed to trying it again, sometime. Perhaps the next time Crowley spent the night. Yes; that sounded like a marvelous plan.
It took Aziraphale another fortnight to realize Crowley had been rather uncharacteristically thoughtful and kind to him lately, and once he noticed, it became a worrisome thought. Certainly Crowley was, deep down, kinder than he wanted to let on, but he didn’t normally go out of his way to do this many small and thoughtful things. And they were nearly all food related.
Aziraphale wondered whether he needed to be thwarting something, but it seemed unlikely. Surely they were past being pitted against one another?
Another worrying thought occurred to Aziraphale. What if Crowley was ill? He had seemed his usual self otherwise; why, just two nights earlier he’d been stretched out on Aziraphale’s sofa, watching old Golden Girls recordings on his mobile phone. (Aziraphale had considered purchasing a television set for Crowley to watch his programs on, but hadn’t yet quite convinced himself to do it. Those infernal machines.)
He decided keeping a closer eye on Crowley was just the thing to do.
“Wha’s the matter with you tonight, Aziraphale?” Crowley asked, eyeing Aziraphale with suspicion. “You haven’t stopped staring at me since I walked in.” Crowley paused for a moment, let it linger, and leaned in closer with a roguish grin. “See something you like, angel?”
“Oh, I, yes, I mean no, I mean- I don’t know what you’re talking about, Crowley. I’m quite normal. Everything is perfectly fine. Tickety-boo.”
“Well now I know something is going on,” Crowley said, sounding amused.
“Well- If you must know, I’m simply- concerned about you,” Aziraphale huffed reluctantly. He wasn’t able to decipher Crowley’s reaction; his sunglasses were in the way. On a whim he reached over and plucked them off Crowley’s face, then stopped and stared at them in his hands, surprised at himself. “So sorry. I don’t know what came over me. Well, that’s not true. I wanted to see your eyes, but I still shouldn’t have…” Aziraphale trailed off. He could see Crowley’s eyes now, the slits of pupil and the whites behind the yellow, but he still couldn’t make out what he was thinking. He feebly offered Crowley back the sunglasses. Crowley took them, but hesitated for a moment before putting them back on.
“Why are you concerned, angel?” Crowley asked, all joking gone from his voice.
Aziraphale looked down at his hands, fretting. “Well- Oh, you’ve been so- nice, lately. I started wondering, perhaps you’re not well.” He added, hopefully, “I don’t suppose I should be thwarting anything, should I?”
Crowley relaxed back in his seat. “Everything’s fine, Aziraphale. Stop looking so worried. I told you before, we’re on our side now, hey?”
Aziraphale had known Crowley long enough to know when he wasn’t getting the entire truth of it. “There’s something you’re not telling me, Crowley,” he said, quite certainly.
Crowley groaned and leaned his head back, looking exasperatedly up at the ceiling. “Angel! You know it’s infuriating when you-” He stopped mid-sentence, then sighed. “Fine. But I don’t want a whole big to-do about it.” He waited for Aziraphale to nod in agreement before continuing. “I’ve been taking a- ugh, a cooking class.”
Out of all the things Aziraphale had been preparing himself to hear, this was not on the list. “But- But you barely eat.”
“Good job, Aziraphale, well done, very observant. You do eat, you- you- angel.” Crowley sounded sarcastic and frustrated, and oddly, it made Aziraphale feel better.
“You mean to say all those delightful pastries and meals were your doing? You made those?”
Crowley shrugged, slightly embarrassed. “Jus’ thought I’d go for a hobby now that the world isn’t ending. And you like food.” He must’ve picked up on how Aziraphale was feeling, because he groaned again. “Don’t start, angel. I told you, no big to-do.”
“Right,” Aziraphale agreed, beaming at Crowley. “No big to-do, I quite understand.”
“Will you stop that,” Crowley growled, and Aziraphale tried, he really, really did.
“I can’t help it,” he told Crowley. “It’s how I react to feeling love. My dearest Crowley.”
Crowley cleared his throat. “Well- s’pose it can’t be helped, then,” he said, and, in the silence that followed, many things were unspoken - ineffable, even - but understood.
“Dinner?” Crowley said, finally.
“Yes,“ Aziraphale replied, adding, “With perhaps a little nap, afterwards?”
Crowley smiled. Aziraphale did, too.