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Crowley has just emerged from the shower, still running his fingers through damp hair, still wrapped in a robe, into the living room.
He stops short, however, when he sees the TV is already on, and the back of Aziraphale’s head sitting primly on the couch — really, does he need to have such formality at home? — sipping occasionally from his 8:00 cocoa.
“Oh, Angel?” he asks, thinking, at first, that Aziraphale’s intent is to watch Golden Girls with him, as is Crowley’s habit every Monday night. “What- ah, what are you doin’?”
Aziraphale looks around and smiles at him. “Oh! Crowley.” His eyes flick up and down, taking in the fact that he has not, in fact, dressed. It makes Crowley feel rather like a piece of tiramisu, though he can't say that's a bad thing.
“There’s a Jane Austen marathon on tonight. Care to join me?”
He crosses the room and sits on the couch beside his angel, but turns to him with an eyebrow raised. “You do realize what day it is?”
Aziraphale’s eyes roll upward, calculating. “Mmm, no I don’t think I remember.”
“‘S’Monday.”
“Oh! Well, happy Monday, my dear.” He leans over and graces Crowley’s cheek with a kiss. “Is there anything specifically special about Mondays?” The tone of his voice suggests he believes Crowley is trying to flirt with him.
He almost regrets not putting pajamas on. “Since when did you like TV?” he asks, rather than outright admitting Aziraphale’s mistake.
“Since they made Jane Austen movies that are at all watchable,” he replies.
“Well, I watch my show on Mondays, Angel.”
“Oh, dear, can’t you watch it on your internet flicks or whatever that website is?”
“Uh, no, I can’t,” he said.
Aziraphale hums and sticks his nose up. “Well surely you can wait one week, and watch something with me?” He smiles in an entirely disarming, cherubic way.
“Oh no you don’t,” Crowley replies, smiling as well. He reaches over Aziraphale and snatches the remote from the arm of the couch.
Mid-lean, however, Aziraphale snatches him around the waist and kisses him. Crowley abandons his quest and instead goes limp in Aziraphale’s lap, arms looping around his neck.
Then, he pulls away, far too quickly. “Now you can just lay in my lap and watch this movie with me.”
“Hm,” he replies, eyes narrowed.
Aziraphale smiles at him again, and whatever resolution Crowley had felt not a moment ago dissolves.
“Fine,” he assents finally — after another moment of kissing — “but you owe me.”
“Oh yes dear,” he says, cupping his face and kissing the tip of his nose, his cheeks, his forehead, “whatever you like.”