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Aziraphale awoke again in a cold sweat, feeling—but not quite remembering—that he’d had another nightmare. He sat up in his bed slowly, letting his awareness unfurl across the bedroom, taking in the darkness and the subdued sounds of the city outside his window: people laughing and talking in that 3 AM volume on the street; the buzz of electricity; the occasional car horn. He ran his hands over his sheets, back and forth, slowly and methodically until his heart rate slowed.
What it was he had dreamed about had slipped from his mind as easily as it had come, but Aziraphale knew, at this point, he wouldn’t be going back to sleep that night. It wasn’t like he needed it, anyway.
Aziraphale was not used to sleeping. He didn’t like to do it, not really, and he didn’t feel like he was particularly good at it. But recently, he had become increasingly anxious in the middle of the night, in the darkness and quiet of the bookshop that he had found so comforting for all those years. He began to hear and really notice the steady tick tock tick tock tick tock of his grandfather clock, notice it until the sound tore into words he was trying to take in from the book before him. He found himself reading the same sentence twice, three times, then four times. Then, finally, he had slammed the book shut and stopped the grandfather clock with a firm hand. Even then, in the silence, the words on the page of the book seemed to elude him. He had paced.
He had done a great deal of pacing, in fact, in recent nights. Pacing back and forth between the narrow aisles and corridors in the shop, pacing across the creaking floorboards and between dusty volumes that had not felt a human (or inhuman) touch in many decades, pacing until the golden light of morning was winking in through the window above his desk, startling him into the beginning of another day. When the sun came up, the pacing stopped. Then, Aziraphale was able to tell himself that it had just been an off night, that he had just had too much on his mind.
There had been too many off nights to count, now.
So, Aziraphale tried sleeping, instead. He already had a bed, of course, in the flat above the bookshop. (The bed was purchased from Warrington and Co. Fine Craftsmen, Est. 1801, defunct by 1819. Had to keep up appearances and all.) He purchased a nice set of flannel pajamas. Aziraphale had never bothered to own pajamas and at once felt that he had been missing out. Why had no one told him how comfortable pajamas were?
As he stood waiting for the kettle to boil on this particular night, Aziraphale could not help but wonder again. What was it he had dreamed about? It was something horrid and dark, but upon waking it had slipped away like a silk sheet falling from the bed. It seemed very distant now, fragmented and so obviously unreal that Aziraphale felt silly for grasping the edge of the counter or for the nervous sputtering of his heart. He laid his hands flat on the counter. He took a few deep breaths. He waited until the kettle boiled.
Maybe it was unemployment that was causing this restlessness roiling in Aziraphale’s stomach. He had, after all, been a servant of The Almighty ever since She had first breathed life into him. But ever since the apocalypse, Aziraphale hadn’t been given so much as a paltry assignment. Not that he’d been expecting one. He had thought that he would enjoy his new free time spending even more time than usual searching for rare books, tidying or untidying his shop as necessary (had to keep the customers on their toes), trying new restaurants with Crowley.
Maybe it was that directionless way that Aziraphale’s life had just gone on—gone on even after nothing was supposed to go on—that was causing all the anxious nights, all the pacing, all the nightmares. This was a new world, after all. There wasn’t any reason he had to keep the same routine.
Maybe, Aziraphale thought, it’s time to get out there and make some new friends. Find some new hobbies. The gavotte couldn’t possibly be the only decent dance, could it?
By the time Aziraphale had finished his cup of tea, it was morning again. There was little point in trying to get back to sleep now. And anyway, he had a breakfast date.
— — —
Aziraphale mused, as he watched Crowley staring down at a cup of rich, black coffee, that maybe this type of outing could become a hobby. They had been getting together more often these days, what with both sides out of their hair. Crowley was a good conversationalist. And there was always new food to try. Crowley had just last week been talking about a food truck he had seen the other day that sold gourmet grilled cheese sandwiches. Honestly, what would humanity invent next?
Then again, Crowley didn’t enjoy eating. He must not enjoy it, Aziraphale thought, because otherwise he would be having some of these scrumptious madeleines with his coffee. Aziraphale wondered sometimes, vaguely, if it was the snake part of Crowley that kept him away from food. He had heard that some snakes didn’t like to eat if they had an audience. It could very well be that Crowley only ate in the comfort of his own flat, that he unhinged his jaw once a week to swallow whole some poor—well, it didn’t bear thinking about.
“I told her,” Crowley was saying, “I said, ‘Doris, like it or not, caladium isn’t native to this region. You had best get yourself a sun lamp if you want the poor thing to have a chance.’” Crowley took an emphatic sip of his coffee.
“Well, I do hope she takes your advice,” Aziraphale said, running his finger along the rim of his teacup.
They sat in silence for a few moments, Aziraphale fidgeting idly with his cup, looking out the window at nothing in particular. Crowley looked too and, every so often, raised the coffee cup to his lips.
“Something the matter, angel?”
Aziraphale’s heart skipped. He was actually feeling better than he had in weeks. Listening to Crowley was a fine distraction from the rattling way his insides seemed to move about in his chest any time he was left to his own thoughts. The last time he’d quieted that feeling, in fact, was when he’d helped Crowley pick out a new leather jacket from that little store in West End. It had been such a pleasant day, one of those perfectly crisp autumn days. Aziraphale shook his head, “No,” he said, making a show of knitting his eyebrows together in confusion.
Crowley scrunched his nose. “It’s your tea, isn’t it?” Crowley sat up straight in his chair. “You haven’t so much as touched it.” As their waitress passed by the table, Crowley touched her lightly on the arm. “‘Scuse me, miss,” he said in that genial way he spoke to service staff (“They have it hard enough without my influence,” he would always say.) . “My friend here usually takes seven sugars in his tea. Would it be a terrible bother to bring him a fresh one?”
It was not a terrible bother at all. The waitress, whose name was Cynthia, was that morning serving four tables: two brusque and demanding businessmen; a woman who had been dumped the night before; two women with two very sticky, fussy babies; and the polite, handsome gentleman who had brought his boyfriend out for a morning tea. All things considered, this gentleman in the dark glasses seemed the most likely to leave a generous tip. She was tired and (thanks to the babies) a little sticky herself, but she could still appreciate nice customers. She flashed Aziraphale an apologetic smile and bustled off to retrieve his fresh tea.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Aziraphale said and didn’t say, But thank you, my dear because he knew Crowley would hate it. Aziraphale had indeed noticed that his tea only had three sugars. He didn’t have to taste it to see that. A tea with three sugars was not exactly the sweet comfort he had been hoping for after last night.
“It’s no trouble,” Crowley said, slouching back in his chair again, arms crossed over his chest, one ankle hooked over his knee, settling into the picture of casual. “And our dear sweet Cynthia doesn’t mind either, does she?” Crowley flashed their waitress a smile as she returned and set down Aziraphale’s fresh tea. This one obviously had the correct number of sugars.
“Not at all!” Cynthia said brightly, her cheeks flushing. “Enjoy!”
Aziraphale took a sip of the corrected tea, letting the warmth of it wash over him, breathing it in, relishing it. When he set his cup back in the saucer, Crowley was watching him with a smirk.
If Aziraphale had known any better, he would have recognized the look on Crowley’s face as unabashed fondness but—luckily for Crowley—Aziraphale did not know any better. He was too busy mindfully noting that there, with Crowley, the knot in his stomach had eased and the tension in his shoulders had evaporated. This was all right, he thought. Everything is all right.
“So,” Aziraphale said, “You were saying, my dear, about your gardening club?”
———
Everything was not all right. Aziraphale could see that perfectly well when he jolted upright in bed on one particular night when he really had thought he’d got this sleeping thing down. His stomach felt sick at the uneasy and unfamiliar feeling of goosebumps that had erupted down his arms.
The images left from this evening’s nightmare lingered. He had been somewhere dark, under flickering, sickly lights. He had a vivid impression that he had been tightly pinched on all sides, like a too-big teddy bear being shoved lovingly into a too-small doll’s outfit. The feeling would not leave him until he was out from under his covers, out from his pajamas, and pacing again, in just his cotton boxers, hands clasped behind his back.
Could this be a punishment of some kind? Aziraphale wondered. It was true that he hadn’t heard much from upstairs in recent months. Hadn’t heard much of anything since the whole switcheroo that he and Crowley had pulled. He and Crowley had both been under the impression that their head offices would be leaving them alone for a good while. It could be that they were taking a more subtle approach to tormenting him. Keeping their distance.
Aziraphale stopped his pacing. No, this didn’t really have the mark of Heaven upon it, after all. The archangels were not a subtle bunch. It wasn’t their style at all.
Aziraphale thought, not for the first time, of calling Crowley to tell him about the nightmares. Crowley must know a thing or two about nightmares. He likely had a hand in inventing them, for Heaven’s sake. Aziraphale longed, with a dull pain that lurked deep in his stomach, to hear Crowley reassure him, to say that bad dreams didn’t mean anything. That dreams were just dreams. That everything was okay. That everything would go back to normal. He did not need to glance over to his clock to know that at this hour, Crowley would probably be asleep. That, or up to some unspeakable deed that absolutely did bear interrupting.
The phone rang twice, three times, four times. On the fifth ring, Aziraphale hung up the phone suddenly. He stood in the quiet, waiting just in case Crowley would call back.
He was being silly. What good would it do to alarm Crowley with a sudden call in the middle of the night? There was nothing wrong.
Aziraphale did not attempt to sleep for many nights after that.
———
“Some of my best early work,” Crowley said. They were in the British Museum that afternoon. They had just come to the Rosetta Stone, although Aziraphale was only dimly aware that Crowley was remarking on the thing itself. Aziraphale tucked his hands primly behind his back. “Yes,” Crowley went on, circling the stone and admiring it fondly, like one might admire their own childhood artwork, “You really can get people riled up once they can communicate with each other.”
“Mmm,” said Aziraphale automatically. He had thought that an outing like this could help him calm down. Due to an unexpectedly nasty thunderstorm, a downed power line, and a vicious chickenpox epidemic amongst the city’s school-age children (It was by a very happy coincidence that the BBC just so happened to be airing that night a special report about the chicken-pox-banishing effects of a new variety of honey out of a beekeeping facility in Warwickshire. The beekeeper, Alice Little, explained with delight the miraculous effects that just a single spoonful of their honey could have on chicken pox, canker sores, and—most bizarrely of all—late parking tickets.), the museum was quiet. Crowley and Aziraphale seemed to have the run of things. And Crowley had so much to say about art. Aziraphale loved to hear him go on about the pieces. But that creeping dread had settled back into Aziraphale’s stomach and, try as he might to force it down, he found he could not. He felt tired. He wanted to be home.
“You hear me, angel?” Crowley asked, looking at Aziraphale.
“Hm?” Aziraphale had not heard him, but there was no need to worry Crowley. Aziraphale put on what he hoped was a very natural-looking smile. “Oh, yes.”
“So, you agree then?”
“Mmm,” Aziraphale intoned rather noncommittally, hoping Crowley would interpret this noise favorably.
Crowley’s eyebrows shot up. He sauntered over to Aziraphale, who was beginning to think he wasn’t supposed to have agreed. “So,” Crowley said, his voice low, “You agree that the humans stole my idea when they invented Google Translate, then? Give credit where credit is due, eh?”
He was too far in it now to quit. “Absolutely,” Aziraphale said with conviction.
Crowley scrunched up his nose. “You’re full of it, angel. You don’t even know what Google is.”
“I do!” Aziraphale shot back. “Of course I know what Google is.” He straightened his waistcoat with a firm tug and did his best to look properly offended. He had heard the word used before, here and there. “It’s a verb, for starters—” he began confidently, but Crowley snorted and he knew at once he’d got it wrong. Aziraphale huffed indignantly.
“Look, angel, if something is bothering you, you don’t have to keep it to yourself, all right?” Crowley was conspiratorially close now, his voice low and serious. “What’s wrong?”
Aziraphale couldn’t have explained what was wrong if he wanted to. His hands were wringing themselves together and the unspeakable feelings in his gut must have been evident on his face because Crowley’s mouth had sunk into a frown. Oh, this was silly. There was no need to bring Crowley into this. “It’s nothing,” Aziraphale blurted breathily. Okay, Crowley wouldn’t buy that. Aziraphale flicked a glance at Crowley’s eyes, which he knew were watching him from behind those dark lenses, but quickly settled his gaze on a rubbish bin at the far end of the room. “I just—I— I lost a book yesterday.”
The tension poured out of Crowley like he was a styrofoam cup with a hole in the bottom. He shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to regain a semblance of his nonchalance. “Oh,” he said, and didn’t say, Is that all? “Customer got one from you, did they? Who was it?”
“A—A— Conan Doyle,” Aziraphale said, looking all around the room now, anywhere but at Crowley. “A fine first edition,” he added, for realism.
“Angel, I’m sorry,” said Crowley, so sincerely that Aziraphale felt a pang of guilt in his stomach for the lie. “If I had known, I would have taken you someplace you’d like better. What about that little cafe we passed on our way here? The one with the big elephant ears? Why don’t we go there for lunch?”
Aziraphale swallowed the lump in his throat, indeed feeling lighter at the thought of a crisp elephant ear with a cup of hot coffee. “Yes,” he said, brightening. “Yes, that would be lovely.”
———
It was cold when Aziraphale awoke one night, feeling as though he had been falling a great distance. He sat up in bed quickly. This was his first sleep in months—he hadn’t tried it since that nap in the middle of last summer, and it was nearly Christmas now—and it was already spoiled. The fireplace had gone dark, which explained the cold. Aziraphale shot the fireplace a meaningful glare and it obediently flashed to life, washing the room in warmth and orange light.
Aziraphale leaned forward in bed, crossing his arms and resting them on his knees, watching the fire. He tried to grasp onto snatches of sensations from his nightmare, but they were slipping through his fingers like water. What came to him most clearly was the smell.
Oh, that was it… the smell. An acrid smell of burning flesh and fabric. The smell of bodies pressed together in a too-small space. He had only had the misfortune to experience that scent one time.
Aziraphale could suddenly arrange all of the scraps of sensations, of memories, that he had collected from his nightmares over the past months. He could remember the pinching feeling of being inside Crowley’s sharp, angular corporeal form; the flickering of the dim, fluorescent lights that barely lit the long, black passageways; standing before Beelzebub and Dagon and Hastur, of the piercing eyes of all the demons of Hell.
Mostly, Aziraphale didn’t like to revel in being right. It was unbecoming for an angel. That being said, there was no shame in acknowledging the simple truth of one’s rightness. Simple truths just begged to be acknowledged. Far be it from Aziraphale to stop them.
But Aziraphale had hated to realize that he had been right all along about what Hell would do with Crowley. That Hell would not offer mercy. That Hell would destroy Crowley, utterly, completely, and without remorse. And it was that damn holy water that had really done it, hadn’t it?
No, Aziraphale realized with a shudder down his back. It was him. It was Aziraphale. It was the fact that Crowley chose Aziraphale that had really done it. Crowley had chosen Aziraphale’s side—their side, Crowley had said—time and time again. He had been doing that for a long time, hadn’t he?
Living in a world without Crowley was not acceptable to Aziraphale. No, absolutely not. Aziraphale’s being—not his corporeal form, but his true being—ached at the thought of a world without Crowley. To be without his mischief, his vanity, his knowledge, the inside jokes, the long nights, the knowing, the Arrangement, was to be a very lonely existence indeed. The thought of that kind of existence bore a hollow space inside Aziraphale, a black hole that swallowed all light and all hope with it, a place where the nightmares and the anxiety had seeped in, had pooled, and had poisoned, for many months now.
Was that really what all this was about? Aziraphale lowered his hands into his lap and watched them lay still there. He steadied his breath.
———
Aziraphale was inviting Crowley over to the bookshop more frequently. There seemed no reason not to - Aziraphale’s books certainly weren’t doing him any favors in recent evenings and he no longer had any assignments to focus his energy on and honestly he was just downright weary of pacing. That and, well, Aziraphale’s recent revelations about the source of his nightmares made him want to keep Crowley close. He liked to see Crowley’s face. He likes to see him smiling, see him laughing, see him chattering on about his recent mischief or his new designer dress, see him very much alive and decidedly not obliterated.
Crowley wasn’t bothered by the frequent invitations. He always showed up cheerful and enthusiastic, maybe with a delightful new wine vintage to try or a takeaway from one of the countless new restaurants that popped up in London.
Aziraphale was aware that Crowley slept. Crowley wasn’t shy about it. On this particular night, Crowley had passed out during the best part of Carmen and was sprawled most unabashedly across Aziraphale’s couch, one leg hurled gracelessly over the couch back, wine glass still sitting ready between his fingers. Aziraphale didn’t bother to wake him. Rather, he expected Crowley to conveniently come to when he picked the needle up off the record, apologizing and proffering another bottle of wine.
He didn’t, though. When Aziraphale stopped his record player, there was nothing but the quiet of Crowley’s sleeping sounds left in the backroom. Aziraphale turned. Crowley was out.
Crowley didn’t need to sleep, but Aziraphale was aware that he’d made a habit of it. It just wasn’t until this very moment that Aziraphale realized maybe he’d been keeping Crowley up by inviting him over to spend such late evenings together. Even though Crowley didn’t need to sleep, it must be an awful break in his routine to come here and stay up all night.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale said softly. No response.
Very quietly, Aziraphale went to the couch and sat down on the edge, taking in Crowley’s sleeping form. He was here. He was safe. Aziraphale had made him safe. So, why was it that Aziraphale could not banish this feeling like a stone in the pit of his stomach, the feeling that Crowley might disappear one of these days; why could he not banish the smell of that wretched place where Crowley would have been destroyed; why could he not banish the nightmares?
Tentatively, Aziraphale put a hand on Crowley’s chest, testing to see if he would wake. When he did not, Aziraphale quit his breathing and gently, very gently, laid his head on Crowley’s chest.
They had touched before, of course. But, it had always been the genial and sort-of impersonal touching that was permissible even among passing strangers: a handshake on a deal made, a brushing of shoulders walking side-by-side on a crowded street, a gentle press at the small of the back to squeeze behind. This was something different, something altogether new. The living energy of Crowley, the surprising warmth of him, the rise and fall of his chest, sent a shudder through Aziraphale.
Aziraphale could hear Crowley’s heart beating. The rhythm of Crowley’s heartbeat was unusual and somewhat familiar, although Aziraphale knew well enough that the regularity of one’s heartbeat was not entirely essential. (If he had kept up properly with modern music, he would recognize the distinct baseline of Under Pressure.) The sound was so immediate, so present. The feeling in Aziraphale’s stomach started to melt away as he listened, just listened. After a few moments of just listening, Crowley seemed to stir. Aziraphale sat up, his own heart pounding, his breathing restarting in a gasp. He hadn’t even realized that he’d stopped. He got up to put the kettle on.
The only sound now was the boiling kettle. Everything felt still, but Aziraphale’s heart would not slow. He had been waiting for something to happen. But maybe nothing was going to happen. Maybe this night could be like all the rest of the nights. Maybe this completely ordinary, completely wonderful life was what Aziraphale had been waiting for. It was already right in front of him. He was living it.
“Angel, what’s wrong?”
Aziraphale started, dropping his teaspoon in a clatter on the counter. Crowley had appeared in the doorway, his shoulder crammed into the door jamb, arms crossed, legs slung casually, but his furrowed brow betrayed his concern. Aziraphale wondered how long Crowley had been awake. He hadn’t been awake, right?
“Crowley,” Aziraphale said breathlessly. (Aziraphale hoped that he could convince Crowley—and himself—that the breathlessness was just out of surprise. It wasn’t.) “Why—I mean—no, nothing’s wrong. What makes you say that?”
Crowley sauntered over to Aziraphale and leaned over the counter. He was watching the kettle, maybe helping it along as it boiled, and not looking at Aziraphale. Aziraphale waited, not willing to allow the silence between them to draw out the truth of what was on his mind. They stayed that way for a moment, listening to the excitement of the kettle.
Finally, Crowley said, slowly, as though every word pained him, “I wish you wouldn’t lie to me, Aziraphale.”
Goosebumps washed over Aziraphale’s skin at the sound of his name. “Wh-whatever do you mean?” He asked, surprised to hear his own voice so small.
Crowley took off his glasses and set them on the counter. He did look at Aziraphale then, his eyes bright, more snakelike than usual, the human sclera disappeared. “Look, I put up with it for a while because I thought it was just something you wanted to deal with on your own. Fine. Not my problem.” He shrugged. Let the silence stretch out again, languidly. The kettle had quieted. “But, it’s been months now. We’ve been seeing more of each other now, which I wanted—which, I thought we both wanted—but you always seem so on edge when you’re with me. Like, waiting for something to go wrong. Waiting for something bad to happen.” Crowley tore his gaze away, looking instead to his hands, or through them. His hands had curled up into fists pressing into the counter, the knuckles white. “You’re a terrible liar.”
Aziraphale’s heart was still pounding, but now it ached, too. He reached out and placed his hand on Crowley’s arm. Crowley started at the contact and looked back into Aziraphale’s face. “Crowley,” Aziraphale said, letting the name spill from his lips like a prayer, like something holy. He could see a shudder run through Crowley at the sound. “I—I never meant to worry you,” Aziraphale went on, softly. “I have liked spending this time with you. It’s been the only thing…” And he stopped, very briefly looked away, overcome. “The time I’ve spent with you has been the peace I’ve known at all since that day in Oxfordshire.”
“Then what is it, angel?” Crowley asked, pleading. “What’s so wrong that you won’t talk to me about it?”
“I…” Aziraphale ran his tongue over his lips. “Well, you see—I’ve been—having—a lot of. Nightmares. Recently.” He took a breath. “Very vivid, horribly vivid really. A—about my time in your body, my time in Hell.” Aziraphale’s eyes flicked over to Crowley, who was watching him with his mouth hanging open now, but otherwise not moving. Aziraphale went on, “I suppose I never realized how worried I was about. Losing you.” Aziraphale had picked up his teaspoon again and he was twirling it between his fingers. “It seemed painfully close to reality. That day. I can’t stop thinking about it. Worrying about it. Pacing. That’s why I started sleeping to begin with, you know. I had to do something about all that pacing. Never paced much before and I didn’t like it.” He was speaking fast now, knowing full well that he was desperate to fill in the silence in the room. “But—it feels like every time I try it—sleeping—it only makes it worse. Makes me feel like I’m there again. Feel like I’m going to—that you’re going to—”
“Aziraphale.” Crowley had taken the poor teaspoon from Aziraphale’s hands and he was holding them now, halting the fidgeting. Aziraphale hadn’t realized his was shaking until he felt Crowley’s steadiness. He looked into Crowley’s eyes, which had settled back to normal. And there was something else behind them, something softer than Aziraphale had seen before. “I was worried too,” Crowley was saying, “back then, you know. That something might happen to you.”
Aziraphale laughed a little, releasing with it the tension from his body. “Oh,” he said, and it was all he could say. He felt hot tears run down his cheeks. “Oh,” he said again and he laughed some more. “Oh, Crowley.”
“Angel,” said Crowley, and brushed Aziraphale’s tears away with his thumb. “I’m not going anywhere.” Aziraphale could not face those golden eyes, feeling so silly, silly now for holding in his fear for so long, so long when Crowley had been feeling the same fear. How many nights had Crowley dreamed horrible dreams? How many nights had Crowley paced his cold, lonely apartment, feeling the same as Aziraphale had?
Aziraphale’s hands grasped Crowley’s forearms, which were still close by, as Crowley was holding Aziraphale’s face gently in his hands now, perhaps on the alert for more tears, perhaps just reveling in the touch as Aziraphale had done a few moments earlier. Crowley’s hands were so warm and steady on him that Aziraphale wondered how he had ever thought that Crowley was in any danger. His Crowley?
“Crowley,” Aziraphale said quietly and at last he was able to look back into Crowley’s face. Crowley’s gaze was on him, and he made a small, “Mmm?” in response, but seemed capable of nothing more. Aziraphale’s heart was still pounding in his chest and he could no more stop it than he could stop himself from closing the short distance between them and pressing his lips against Crowley’s.
It seemed a long moment that they stayed that way. Aziraphale closed his arms around Crowley’s neck and Crowley snaked his arms around Aziraphale’s waist. Crowley had closed his eyes, but Aziraphale had not. He watched as softness broke the sharp features of Crowley’s face, as the same tension he had not known Crowley carried melted from him as easily as snowfall on a warm spring day.
“Aziraphale,” Crowley breathed when they parted.
As though his body had all of a sudden caught up with the situation, Aziraphale felt his cheeks burning. His fingers found the hair at the nape of Crowley’s neck, which he brushed gently. “You know,” Aziraphale said, “You’re really quite good at the whole sleeping thing.” His lips curled themselves into a smile that he recognized as being quite mischievous. “A natural,” he said.
“Oh?” Crowley said, eyebrows raising. “Well, I could show you a thing or two. A few pointers. If you like.”
———
Aziraphale woke without a start. It was still dark, but the first hints of color were coming into the sky outside. Aziraphale felt a weight on his chest and he wondered if his corporeal form was finally wearing out from stress. As his awareness expanded into rational, waking thought, he realized it was Crowley’s arm slung across him. Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat. He hoped Crowley wasn’t awake to see the red in his cheeks.
Crowley was sleeping with the practiced ease of one who has honed his art over many centuries. He was on his side with one arm curled under his pillow and the other slung lazily over Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale’s right arm was quite trapped beneath him. One of Crowley’s legs had snaked itself around Aziraphale’s ankle. He was close enough for Aziraphale to feel Crowley’s contented sleeping breath on his neck.
Seeing Crowley’s sleeping face settled the racket of a heartbeat in Aziraphale’s chest. He was really quite beautiful when he slept, all pretenses gone, his features softened. Aziraphale’s free hand twitched with the longing to touch Crowley, to run its fingertips across his cheek, to touch his sweet lips, to tilt his sharply angled chin up, to wake him and see those luminous golden eyes.
So, sleeping could be like this, Aziraphale thought, absent-mindedly rubbing the back of Crowley’s neck with his trapped hand. Like many human activities that Aziraphale had tried throughout the years, he felt once again that he could never get it right until Crowley had shown him the proper way. There didn’t have to be nightmares. There didn’t even have to be dreams. For Crowley, it seemed, sleeping was just another way of being, just another state and—maybe—a very good excuse to have your arm around someone very special.
“Is it morning already?” Crowley croaked out sleepily. He did not open his eyes, but sighed, “Want to go find some breakfast, then?”
“No,” Aziraphale said softly, “No, it’s still too early. You should sleep a little longer.” Boldly, bravely, Aziraphale wrapped his arm around Crowley’s shoulder and pulled him closer. Crowley gave in easily to the touch and lay his head on Aziraphale’s chest, his arm tucking in beside Aziraphale’s head.
“You should sleep too,” murmured Crowley. “Won’t be having any bad dreams if I’ve got anything to do with it.” He sighed again, drifting off. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Aziraphale stayed listening to Crowley’s breathing until it was clear that he had fallen asleep again. Then, he closed his eyes and let the sound of it lead his consciousness to the place where Crowley had gone. Aziraphale did not dream.
Through some miracle, time that morning seemed to take a little longer than usual, much to the chagrin of the businessmen commuting and the mothers urging their children from bed. But there were at least two in London who were unbothered by the inconvenience, partially because they had brought it about and partially because they were unaware that it had even occurred: a demon who was enjoying the best in a long, successful series of sleeps and an angel who was enjoying his very first good one.