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The night is cold and dark, an early December snowstorm sending flurries up the lonely streets of Soho. In the back room, though, it’s positively cozy. Golden light spills soft and gentle from the scattered lamps. It’s warm, almost too much so, the kind of delicious heat that might be felt ten feet back from a well-fed fire, although there’s no fire here. Just the glow, and the warm, and the occasional tick of snow against a windowpane.
There is a sofa, which is occupied.
A man-shaped being half-sits, half-lies on one side of the sofa; a mountain of cushions beneath his back and head props him up, the armrest buried somewhere beneath. His left hand drapes over an open book. The bottom of the book rests on the shelf of his belly, just where it begins to curve outward from his broad chest.
Each time he turns a page, he does so by rebalancing the book against himself and flipping ahead with his left hand. The right hand does not help with this task. It’s otherwise engaged, stroking through the hair of the second occupant of the sofa.
The other man-shaped being is sprawled over the first being’s body, over his legs. He’s much thinner, but seems to take up twice as much room with three of his limbs thrown in unlikely directions. His other arm is wrapped around the first being’s wide body.
His head is pillowed on the other’s belly, just past the book. Nestled into it, one bony cheek pressed to the worn velvet waistcoat which covers the yielding spread of softness. His eyes are closed, but he’s conscious enough of the hand weaving through his hair to make little noises whenever it does something particularly pleasant.
The two beings remain like this for some time.
At some point, Aziraphale looks up from his reading. There’s little different now from the last hour or three, nothing changed to speak of, other than that he’s much further along in his book and Crowley is, if possible, even more thoroughly melted against him. But for some reason he’s remembering something he hasn’t thought of for... oh, years, now. That summer. The time they very nearly lost everything, until it was saved by a small and very human boy.
He’s remembering words said to him in a park, comments on his person. A judging smirk in cold violet eyes. And his own reaction, borne out of all the fear and worry he’d been living with then, so that when he spoke the truth aloud, it’d been with a sense of shame. Of defeat.
He laughs, now, and though he’s trying to keep it quiet so as not to disturb Crowley, he can’t do much about the other effects. His body shakes with it. Crowley slithers into a somewhat more upright position with an annoyed groan.
The glare Aziraphale gets from those golden eyes just sets him off again.
“Was comfy, angel.” Crowley is absolutely pouting now, handsome jaw jutting petulantly. “Don’t see why you had to ruin that just because you’ve got the giggles.”
“Oh, dearest.” Aziraphale closes his book after carefully noting the page number. “I’m sorry, really I am. I was just thinking.”
Crowley gazes off into the distance. “Funny joke, then. Hilarious. Worth knocking a poor demon right off his pillow, surely.”
“It was actually something from the apocalypse. Something Gabriel pointed out to me.”
Crowley looks back at him, eyes narrowed. “What could that arsehole possibly have to say that’d be worth remembering now?”
Aziraphale smiles as he says it again. The same two words he’d said all those years ago, and just as true now, as he lies content in a warm room with a very good book and an exceedingly lovely demon. “I’m soft.”
“Gloriously so,” Crowley grins, leaning down to smack a kiss against Aziraphale’s waistcoat-clad belly. “Ugh. Plfft. I always forget how much that thing tastes like dust.”
“It does not,” Aziraphale protests.
“Have you ever licked your own waistcoat? No? Trust me, then. Tastes like dust and, and sofa covers.” Crowley makes a face like he’s sobering up. “Seems like we’re probably going to be spending the night here at this rate. Seems like you could maybe miracle into something more comfortable.”
Crowley settles his chin onto Aziraphale, looking up at him with those golden eyes, and Aziraphale has perhaps half a second to enjoy the sight before the incipient bruising sets in. “Good Lord, I swear you sharpen that chin when I’m not looking. Do get off, would you, darling?”
“Can’t be that bad. You’ve got plenty of padding.”
“May I remind you,” and here Aziraphale raises one eyebrow and tries to look very severe, “that my ‘padding’ contains pain nerves as well?”
Crowley grins hugely, which only digs his chin deeper into Aziraphale’s poor abused belly. “Was referring to the eighty-seven layers of clothing, my pretty little angel. But I’m not forgetting your other padding. Very appreciative of it.” He lets his head flop over so that the next words are muffled by waistcoat. “When I’m actually allowed to appreciate it without getting bounced around everywhere.”
Aziraphale rolls his eyes and sighs loudly. “You really are going to pout all night, aren’t you.”
“Could be.”
It’s easy to give in, really. Doesn’t even count as being tempted. Aziraphale snaps his fingers, and both of their clothing is replaced. For Crowley, it’s the usual black pyjamas, fine-woven and soft, every bit as luxurious as he deserves.
For Aziraphale it’s one of his recent experiments in actual sleepwear, even if he still doesn’t really sleep — a much larger set of pyjamas, in good sturdy cotton, the light blue color not much off from his usual shirt. Long-sleeved, and with the collar buttoned up properly, of course. Crowley sometimes ends up with his top halfway off, or even shed entirely and buried somewhere random in his bedding, because he gets itchy or warm or just unusually squirmy. But that is Crowley. Aziraphale does have standards.
Still, he supposes his standards can be relaxed just a little, now and then. That’s why, when the pyjama top materializes on him, the bottom two buttons are undone. Just enough to let a small triangle of gently risen belly peek through.
Crowley lifts his head again when the surface under him changes. His eyes soften, mouth curving into a little smile, when he sees that pale window of flesh. “Very appreciative,” he says again.
He presses his lips to Aziraphale’s bare skin.
“Now — oi,” he says, because Aziraphale is unable to suppress a little wiggle of pleasure at the contact. “You going to hold still so I can get back to my nap, or do I have to find some other lovely big pillow to rest on?”
Aziraphale allows himself one small chuckle. “I will think very serious thoughts, beloved. Please come back.” He pats the broad curve of himself, an enticing gesture which experience tells him Crowley has no interest in resisting.
“Right. But you’re on thin ice here.” Crowley cuddles up to him once more, head sinking into the fullness of his belly, arms and legs sprawled but still clinging. “Next time I might have to just kiss you. So, y’know. Fair warning.” He sighs so deeply that it’s almost a groan. “Oh, you’re soft, angel.”
Aziraphale reopens his book with his left hand. Resumes stroking Crowley’s hair with his right. “I do believe I said that already,” he murmurs, although he doesn’t expect an answer. He doesn’t get one, either. The room is silent but for Crowley’s slow breath.
Outside, the night is dark, the snow flying in shivering gusts; if anyone walks through the streets of Soho, they do so alone. But the back room is soft-lit and cozy, and the two beings who dwell there, snuggled safe against each other, are very warm indeed.