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The first thing Aziraphale hears when he wakes and opens his eyes is the patter of raindrops on the roof. The first thing he sees is Crowley, lying with his back to him.
At any angle and in any weather, the demon is a breathtaking sight. Lean lengths of muscle and sinew packed taut into pale, freckled skin, stretched out elegantly on Aziraphale’s bed. Sharp edges in his silhouette, the jut of his hips and his shoulder-bones, the cut of his jaw. When those eyes open, Aziraphale knows he will see the sun itself, enough of it to chase the rainy day away,
There isn’t an inch of that skin Aziraphale knows by now, from Crowley’s slender ankles to the lines that frame his face and crease the most when he makes him laugh.
A demon in an angel’s bed. If that isn’t blasphemy, he doesn’t know what is.
Maybe a long time ago Aziraphale would have felt guilty about who he loved. Maybe a long time ago he’d have deigned to be regretful, ashamed of this, of them, of feeling good in Crowley’s arms. If this had happened before Armageddon, he might have prayed: Lord, forgive me for giving in to this. Give me the strength to resist temptation, no matter how good it looks in those tight trousers. Now he only feels the love and the pleasure, and none of the shame. And he prays, yes— but not for forgiveness.
“God,” Aziraphale says, soft enough so as not to wake Crowley, who he knows would flip if he knew he was being prayed over. “I know all things are made beautiful by Your hands- or whatever it is that You have- but none of Your creatures great or small are quite so lovely as this one.”
There is no response, of course, but Aziraphale is certain he’s being heard. Isn’t that what faith is?
“Though he may have fallen from Your grace, never have I met a being with such- such light, such gentleness and kindness. And though he may vehemently deny it, there is still You in him, and I know, because I see it in the love he bears for me.” Aziraphale is certain his heart is growing to twice its size, just looking at the demon he adores. “And for not striking me down- or telling the others- or taking him away from me- I suppose I should let you know that I truly am grateful.”
He reaches up, traces the line of Crowley’s spine. The ridges of vertebrae that stand out, ever so subtly. “Thank You for giving him to me, and me to him, to have and to hold- to love and to cherish- so long as we both shall live.” Aziraphale sighs, “And, all right, I know he was cast out for asking his questions. But thank You anyway. If You won’t keep him, then You shan’t mind if I do. And if You won’t love him- although how could You not- then You won’t mind if I will.”
Aziraphale moves closer, to press a kiss to the back of Crowley’s neck. Just to prove a point. And also because, oh, Crowley’s neck, so kissable.
“I’ll love him, as I always have,” he vows, continuing his prayer. “As I did in the Beginning, as I do now and forever. World without end- “ Aziraphale chuckles, “not if we have anything to say about it.”
The raindrops cease their patter, as if She is actually listening.
Aziraphale smiles as Crowley begins to stir.
“Amen.”