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It was one of their lazier days.
They had spent the morning arguing good-naturedly about the virtues of classical versus modern music ("modern" being anything written in the last fifty years), and had come to no kind of agreement at all. After that they had taken a very long lunch and eaten far too much, putting an end to any vague plans of going for a walk. It was barely past two and a gorgeous sunny afternoon, but they had already retired to the bedroom to relax and eventually nap. Sunlight was pouring in through the window, painting the entire room in golden tones and brightly illuminating the tartan coverlet on the bed. An open box of chocolate biscuits sat on the side table, already half gone, along with a mostly-empty mug of cocoa.
Crowley was sitting up against the wooden headboard with Aziraphale held in his arms, between his knees. The angel had one of his better classic novels, Treasure Island, propped up on his own drawn-up knees. He was reading out loud while Crowley rested his chin on his shoulder, occasionally following along on the page.
He loved hearing Aziraphale read, especially when he picked an exciting story like this one. He wasn’t one for reading, himself - he far preferred films - but his angel could make anything interesting. He was so very eager to share his hobby with him, and adorably enthusiastic. He would get excited at the dramatic parts and even, on occasion, take a crack at different voices when he got particularly carried away.
He was doing it now, in fact, and Crowley tightened his arms around his waist and indulged in a private grin. Hearing his soft, proper Aziraphale try to imitate the harsh tones of a pirate captain was really something else.
He would never let him see him laughing, though, or he might stop doing it, and he didn’t want that.
He especially liked this story, he had to admit. John Silver seemed like an excellently entertaining fellow; he could admire anyone with that level of charisma and recklessness. And piratical life sounded like it might be a very interesting way to spend a decade or two. If not for the sea rations and lack of amenities.
He turned his head a little and kissed Aziraphale’s neck. The angel didn’t react, but he could hear the smile and increased warmth in his voice as he continued reading. Crowley briefly considered trying to distract him further, but decided he was too content the way he was. He rested his chin back on his shoulder and closed his eyes, just listening to the sound of his voice. It was such a familiar sound, as old-familiar as the earth itself and as comfortable as a pair of favourite slippers, yet there was something new and wonderful about it now that he belonged to him. He never got tired of hearing it.
He slid his hands up his chest a little, navigating under the braces. The angel had deigned to take off his jacket, at least, leaving just his button-down and tie, but couldn’t be persuaded to change into something more casual. Ugh, his clothes were just ridiculous. Completely absurd, practically unwearable- something no sane person with an ounce of fashion sense would ever be caught dead in.
He found it almost unbearably attractive. He loved that he thought tartan was stylish. He loved that he still thought bow ties were the epitome of fashion. He loved the care he took with his clothes, and the unselfconscious enthusiasm he poured into everything, no matter how stupid or how much it drove him crazy. Crowley fought to keep a foolish smile off his face, then decided what the hell. No one could see it, so it didn’t matter if he looked like an idiot.
At moments like this, he hardly felt like a demon at all.
Joy. That’s what these moments were comprised of. Sheer joy. He sighed in utter contentment and let his gaze wander around the little bedroom. He had never, never in a thousand years, imagined this for himself. Married like a human of all things, to an angel no less, living in a bookshop, and loved. Loved. It felt like some kind of mad fever-dream, or he imagined it would have if he had ever had a fever.
He idly twisted the familiar gold heraldic ring on his finger as he listened; it had only been a week, and he still wasn’t used to the feeling of it there. He kept glancing down at his hand to make sure he hadn’t imagined the whole damn thing. But of course he hadn’t, and now he carried a piece of Aziraphale with him wherever he went. It matched the intangible piece of him he had carried in his heart for all these years.
He looked at Aziraphale's hand holding the book. It wasn't visible from this angle, but he knew the silver serpent ring was there, too, just out of sight.
He did worry about his angel, on occasion, when he allowed himself to think about it. Aziraphale had already given up so much by aligning himself with him; he had angered people far more powerful than anyone Crowley used to report to. He was painfully, embarrassingly aware that he was helpless against the powers of either faction, while Aziraphale at least had no trouble dealing with the demonic side of things. That much had been made glaringly clear by Hastur’s ill-fated visit. He had no clue how things would ultimately pan out, but it would ride squarely on the tartan-clad shoulders of his marvelous, somewhat naive angel, and that worried him. There was so little he could do to help.
He, at least, was well accustomed to being an ill-used pawn in the bureaucracy, and knew what to expect. It was a familiar, if unpleasant feeling.
The room was quiet, and he suddenly realised that Aziraphale had asked him a question and was waiting for an answer. He cursed inwardly and yanked his attention back to the present. “Sorry, what?”
“I said- Oh, for heavens sake. Are you even paying attention?” he said, sounding fondly exasperated. “I can just read silently if you’d prefer-"
“No! I was, I promise,” he reassured him quickly. “I’m always paying attention to you, angel.” He kissed his neck again, letting his lips linger as his hands slowly roamed lower down his front. “Always, always, always.” Aziraphale made a slight squeaking sound of surprise as he reached just a little lower. He grinned wickedly and moved his arms back up to encircle his waist again. “Please, keep reading. I was enjoying it.”
Aziraphale’s ears had gone rather pink, and he cleared his throat. “Very well. Maybe just one more chapter.”
He turned the page and continued with the story, and Crowley made sure to listen carefully this time.
There would be a reckoning, eventually. As surely as the sun rose each day, he knew that. It would take a miracle to avoid it. He had far too much experience in that area to fool himself into thinking otherwise. Together they had pissed off the two most powerful, elemental forces of creation, and that couldn’t possibly stand unanswered forever.
But then, he thought with a wry smile, miracles were Aziraphale’s domain. And rewriting the impossible wasn't exactly out of style lately.
Crowley tightened his arms around his own miracle and turned his attention back to the world of buried treasure and midnight treason, of pirate curses and dramatic sea adventures. The worries of the real world could keep for another day.
He knew better than most that all anyone can do is hold fast to the moments of light, knowing that the dark is coming for you.