Work Text:
The night of passion is Crowley's.
Crowley is the one who points out that there is still one human pleasure they haven't tried together, one last experience, if tomorrow is their last day. Crowley is the one who peels slowly off their clothes, seductive, the one who shows Aziraphale the million shades of pleasure that the human flesh can offer, who takes him to the edge again and again and again like relentless water; he's the one who guides them both through the night, until their spirits are as exhausted as their bodies, and they fall asleep in each other's arms.
But the morning, the morning after is Aziraphale's.
Aziraphale is the one who wakes up with the first rays of sunrise through the window, the one who steps lightly out of bed to make a sumptuous breakfast, who silently slides under the covers again. He's the one who wakes Crowley up gently with a forehead kiss and a murmured caress, smiling at him softly but intensely like a warming fire; he's the one who curls up with Crowley all through their breakfast in bed, quietly, gently, until they have said all the words and basked in all the feelings, and they have plans for both the day and the life ahead.