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Crowley wakes up alone in his bed. This isn't unusual; he's kept this flat for decades and he can't actually recall any time he's ever opened his eyes to anyone (or anything) else in bed with him. But this morning is different, because he definitely didn't fall asleep alone last night: he had been tucked up into Aziraphale's side, when both of them were in a state that could only be described as post-coital bliss. There's an Aziraphale-shaped indentation next to him, and the pillow he's wrapped around smells like vanilla and cedar, but Aziraphale himself is nowhere to be found. Should've seen this coming, he thinks as his heart skips a beat or two.
He sits up, suddenly feeling very awake, and swings his feet over the side of the bed, stepping directly into a pile of clothes. His own rough black things are there, but--oh. His foot touches something soft, and worn, and threadbare: an ancient waistcoat. Next to it, there's a shirt that still looks and feels as crisp as the day it was made. These are clothes that would never be left behind. Relief washes over him like a wave, and he pulls on a pair of trousers.
The hallway smells like chocolate and warm milk, a scent that only gets stronger as he approaches the kitchen. He is mostly indifferent to the whole concept of cocoa, but he is very partial to someone who actively likes it--someone who is currently stirring a pot of it on his stove while wearing a tartan robe and fuzzy slippers.
Crowley yawns, loudly and dramatically, and ruffles his own hair in the most casual way he can muster.
Aziraphale turns, sees him, and smiles in a way that seems brighter than the slowly rising sun. All semblances of casualness--put-on or otherwise--suddenly fly out the window. Crowley comes up behind Aziraphale, and slips his hands in the spaces under his arms.
Aziraphale half-hums, half-sighs. "I didn't wake you, did I?"
"No," Crowley says, linking his hands across Aziraphale's chest. "Didn't know I had cocoa." He presses his cheek against the back of Aziraphale's shoulder. "Didn't even know the stove worked." The robe Aziraphale is wearing, which was clearly conjured this morning (since it certainly wasn't in the flat last night), is extremely fluffy. Crowley is sure that if he stays here long enough, he'll slip right back into sleep.
Aziraphale makes that same humming-sighing noise again and relaxes into Crowley a little bit. Then, after a few moments of near-silence (save for the gentle scraping of the spoon), he asks, "Did you need something, my dear?"
"You." Crowley squeezes Aziraphale's middle between his arms a bit, to reinforce the word.
The soft rumble of an affectionate chuckle vibrates through Aziraphale's chest. "For anything in particular?"
"Thissss," Crowley hisses. The way Aziraphale is teasing answers out of him feels familiar and comfortable, like a well-worn pair of leather shoes. They've been calling this little verbal dance The Arrangement for a millennium, but now that the illusion of rivalry is gone, Crowley supposes they'll have to come up with a new name.
Aziraphale hums again. "Well, that's very specific, indeed." He turns off the flame and attempts to reach for a mug he had placed on the counter next to him.
Crowley, however, doesn't let him.
Aziraphale tries to wriggle his way out.
"Nope," Crowley says into Aziraphale's back.
"I just need to--"
"It can wait."
Aziraphale sighs, trying to sound exasperated but his fondness betrays him. "Dear boy, I would prefer to not let my cocoa congeal in your pot." He pauses. "Once I pour it out, you can have me all to yourself."
Without moving, Crowley says, "Is that a promise?"
Aziraphale leans his head back slightly, his hair brushing against Crowley's bare shoulder. "Yes."
Crowley, a demon of his word, loosens his grip.
As soon as Aziraphale has finished transferring the cocoa to the mug, he turns around within the loop of Crowley's arms. He takes a sip while gazing at Crowley (...did they ever gaze before? is that part of this now?), and then, still clutching the mug to his chest, licks a little bit of milk foam off his upper lip.
Crowley cautiously leans in for a kiss, and when Aziraphale responds by kissing him first, he makes a very undignified sound through his nose. Aziraphale's lips, which taste sweet and earthy, tighten slightly in an attempted smile.
Aziraphale pulls away and starts looking around the flat, trying (and failing) to be inconspicuous. He sighs again, a little dramatically, and says, "Sweetheart, we're going to have to see about getting you a sofa."
Crowley's ears go very warm all of a sudden. First the gazing, and now sweetheart? It's almost more than he can bear. Almost.
"Back to bed it is, then," Aziraphale, who is clearly having a very, very different internal monologue, concludes. He ducks underneath Crowley's arms (despite Crowley's efforts otherwise), then straightens up and places his mug in one hand and holds out the other. Crowley takes it.
The bedroom still smells like wood and old books, and now chocolate too. Aziraphale takes off his slippers, and climbs up into the bed, careful not to spill any precious cocoa onto the sheets. Crowley settles in next to him, one arm draped across his belly, head resting on his robe-covered, and therefore impossibly soft, shoulder.
"Are they all going to be like this?" Aziraphale wonders aloud, and takes a sip of cocoa. "The mornings, I mean."
Crowley raises his eyebrows. "Could be."
"Is that a promise?" Aziraphale licks his lips.
Crowley feels a grin spread across his face. "Could be."
"Hmm, I suppose I'll just have to get used to it, then."
Crowley nods, feigning seriousness. "Suppose you will."
"Such a hardship," Aziraphale says into his mug.
"I'm sure you'll manage," Crowley says, pulling himself in a little closer. "Somehow."
After a few minutes, his eyelids feel heavy and he lets them close, only to open them again just moments later when he feels Aziraphale's fingers gently carding through his hair. Aziraphale is looking back at him with that bright smile plastered on his face. It's disgustingly adorable, and it lights up the whole room.
"Good morning, Crowley," Aziraphale says.
"Morning, angel," Crowley says back. This, he thinks, is definitely more like it.