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"Good morning," Crowley says. "You're in my bed."
This, Crowley thinks, is rather an understatement on his part. It would be intimate enough if that was it—if Aziraphale was only sharing the bed with him and keeping his no-touching bubble intact, but no. Aziraphale is snuggling him, and Crowley's about three minutes from having a good, healthy panic about it.
"Mmmm." Aziraphale's arm, draped over Crowley's waist, pulls him in a little tighter. His breath puffs warm over the back of Crowley's neck. "You invited me to stay here."
"Did I?" Crowley thinks back—yes. Bookshop burned, world saved, nowhere else for Aziraphale to go. Nowhere Crowley would want to send him away to, anyway. That was weeks ago, but the invitation still stood.
"Mmhm. Anyway, you like it," Aziraphale says, as if that settles the matter. Crowley thinks about that, closes his mouth, and decides to put off his panic attack in favor of a short nap.
He does like it. An awful lot.
*
After that first morning together, things in Crowley's flat start getting weird.
He gains a stack of books next to the bed, first off. Most of them aren't first editions; he recognizes some of them from the bookshop as a selection of Aziraphale's "reading copies," the ones he won't miss too terribly if they're damaged by handling or he's forced to sell them. The others are the sort of pulpy romance and thriller novels that Aziraphale's pretended for years he doesn't touch. But here they are, stacked up on the other nightstand, the one Crowley's never used.
Then it's knickknacks, carefully arranged just so; someone less attuned to the flat than Crowley is might not flag them as standing out, even. Silver snuffboxes on new floating shelves. A black and white Victorian-style lamp next to Crowley's sleek, modern sofa, which has also reimagined itself to become quite a lot squashier. A painting of a lush garden—not the Garden—that Aziraphale bought in the 1700s and never got around to hanging.
An imposing bookshelf, right next to Crowley's television, filled with nearly every book Crowley had in the flat, as well as others that must have come from the bookshop. History books. Astronomy books. Spy thrillers.
It makes something clench in his chest to see Aziraphale's things in his space. To see them and to understand that Aziraphale selected them with his flat's aesthetic in mind. With Crowley in mind.
In the meantime, the Bed Thing keeps happening.
They never talk about it. Aziraphale just turns up in the middle of the night, gets in bed with him, and cuddles up close. He never asks, and Crowley's not sure he wants him to—it would probably ruin it, if Crowley had to drag all his messy feelings into the light and admit how much he wants Aziraphale there. How much he's always wanted Aziraphale there.
Sometimes, Aziraphale sits up and reads those trashy novels of his. Sometimes he sleeps for a few hours, arms around Crowley like he's Aziraphale's body pillow.
Crowley tries to stay up and surreptitiously watch him, but between Aziraphale's warm presence and his own corporation's predilection for rest, it's a lost cause. Sometimes he wakes up on top of Aziraphale, with his head pillowed on Aziraphale's broad chest and soft belly, and it's just… nice. It's nearly everything he wants. He tries not to think too hard about the way it makes him feel.
Instead of bringing any of this up with Aziraphale, since Aziraphale also isn't bringing it up, he pretends it isn't happening and thinks about how to leave his own mark on Aziraphale's space.
"Crowley," Aziraphale says after an evening of drinking together, "you've forgotten your jacket."
He retrieves the jacket from the bookshop sofa and tries to hand it over. Crowley, who's halfway out the door and knows very well that he hasn't forgotten anything, just shakes his head.
"Keep it for me, will you?" He tries to affect an air of casual disdain and wonders how badly Aziraphale's seeing right through it. "I've got others. I can get it next time, if it's in your way."
"It's not," Aziraphale says with a small, quiet smile. The act's not working on him at all, then. Just as well. "Of course I'll hang on to it for you."
Aziraphale hangs the jacket on his coat rack, fussing until it falls just so. The sight of him makes Crowley's chest feel too tight for his body, but he keeps watching until Aziraphale finishes and turns that smile back on him.
"Right. Well." Crowley edges out the front door. "Gotta go, see you tomorrow."
"Mind how you go," Aziraphale says. He gives him a little wave, and Crowley bolts.
It's technically the next day when they see each other, if three o'clock in the morning counts. He wakes up long enough to catch Aziraphale sneaking into bed with him.
"Sorry to wake you, my dear." Aziraphale wiggles under the covers and drapes an arm over Crowley's middle. "Go back to sleep."
Crowley does.
*
Crowley decides, after the whole thing with the jacket, that Aziraphale can be trusted with one of his plants. He picks out a fern that's gotten a little too soft under his excellent care and leaves it in the window right behind Aziraphale's desk, where he'll be sure to notice it. Aziraphale doesn't disappoint.
"Strangest thing," Aziraphale says, yawning, when he comes to bed. "I didn't have customers or anyone else in all day, and yet, someone left a houseplant in the shop. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"
"Nnnnngh." It's just barely dawn, since Aziraphale still can't get the hang of a diurnal schedule like a sensible creature. Crowley rolls over and presses his face into the pillow in hopes of sleeping through until noon. "Don't water it too much. Gon' be spoiled enough by you."
"I thought so. You're a dear." Aziraphale slides closer and nuzzles the top of Crowley's head.
Crowley wants to protest, but it feels more like a discontented pout. Aziraphale is warm and nice-smelling, and more to the point, he's Aziraphale—Crowley's never stood a chance in the face all of that goodness. "'M not."
"You are. It brightens up the place tremendously," Aziraphale insists. "We'll have to think about what to do if your plants start looking too inviting, though."
"My—we'll—" Crowley feels the Aziraphale-shaped thing in his chest stutter.
Aziraphale scoffs. "Well, of course we're going to need more than one over there. The poor thing will be lonely otherwise."
We. Plants, plural, and thinking about loneliness, as if Crowley hasn't been—as if they could—
It's a little too much for Crowley to handle just at present, when the sun is barely cresting the horizon. "'M not running the bookshop," he says to avoid saying anything he's not ready for.
"Of course not." Aziraphale nestles in a little closer and makes his tone conspiratorial. "Neither am I, really, you know. It practically runs itself, when it wants to."
Crowley, who's spent his entire life feeling Aziraphale's influence at work, doesn't doubt that for a second.
*
They're drinking again at the bookshop. Somehow, they always end up here instead of at Crowley's, even though Crowley also has an excellent wine collection and his sitting room is a lot more inviting these days.
It gets late, and then it gets later, and then Crowley drops off in the middle of Aziraphale's joke about the papacy before the punchline. He wakes up, hours later, with a splitting wine headache and the sense that he's in an unfamiliar bed.
"Oh, good, you're up. I hope you don't mind," Aziraphale says. He brushes his fingers against Crowley's temple; Crowley winces, but the sting of holy healing is swiftly overtaken by the relief of his hangover vanishing. "I hated to make you go all the way back to Mayfair when you looked so knackered, and so I thought, well, perfectly good bed upstairs, no need to wake Crowley. Was that all right?"
He says this in such a rush that it takes Crowley's just-woke-up brain a moment to kick in gear and catch up. "Uh. Yeah. Not like we aren't used to it by now, right?"
In the weak light just making it through the windows of Aziraphale's bedroom—how long has he had a bedroom?—he can see Aziraphale's face crease with anxiety and remembers, too late, that he's not supposed to talk about it.
"Yes. Quite right." Aziraphale twists his hands in the quilt covering the bed. "Well… I suppose you'll be wanting to pop along home now."
Crowley ought to. It's against their unspoken rules for him to be here, probably. He doesn't actually know what the limits are, so he doesn't know how far he can bend them before Aziraphale pushes him away. He wants to try bending them anyway.
"I don't have anywhere to be." He watches carefully for Aziraphale's reaction; Aziraphale barely moves, and Crowley thinks he detects a very slight, hopeful smile. He makes a show of yawning and sleepy blinking. "Mmmm. Could do with another kip, to be honest with you."
Aziraphale gives him a critical once-over. "Hmmm. Probably a good idea. You still look awfully beat."
"Oh, thanks ever so." Crowley nudges him with the point of his elbow, then lays down the last bit. "I'll leave, of course, if I'll be underfoot."
"You won't," Aziraphale points out, pulling a face. "You love being underfoot."
Crowley preens a little at being so understood. "Is that a yes, then?"
He brushes his hand against Aziraphale's arm, cajoling. Only then does he realize that they're both wearing pajamas, which was definitely not the case when he passed out. "Hang on, you changed my clothes?"
Aziraphale flushes. "By miracle, not—whatever you're thinking. There was nothing untoward, I assure you." Crowley just grins at him while Aziraphale flusters himself into confusion. "Oh, just—come here, where I can keep an eye on you."
He pulls Crowley into his arms and arranges the old quilt over them. It's somehow cozier than Crowley's bed, which Crowley chalks up to the stacks of books on the floor around them. Not to the way everything in here is steeped in Aziraphale's essence, down to the dust particles floating in the air and settling on the bed.
"It looks like rain, anyway," Aziraphale says. Crowley peeks at the window; it's barely gray outside. "You just stay here and rest."
This time, Crowley cuddles him back, just a little.
*
The thing is, Aziraphale doesn't come over every night. Crowley assumes that sometimes Aziraphale loses track of time or doesn't feel up to making the trip, and he doesn't take it personally.
But the thing is…
The thing is, now that Crowley's gotten used to sharing a bed, being alone in it doesn't quite cut it anymore. When Aziraphale's not there, his sleep becomes increasingly fitful; he startles at small noises when he manages to nod off at all. He even thinks about taking up Aziraphale's habit of reading in bed, but the angel's books are a pale substitute compared to his strong arms and warm breath.
He doesn't even need sleep. Pathetic, is what he is.
Aziraphale probably doesn't even realize he's missed, and because of that, Crowley still hasn't asked about it—still hasn't even alluded since that cozy morning in the bookshop. He doesn't want to wreck it by poking too much around the soft places.
So, of course, Aziraphale's the one who goes poking.
"You look peaky again," Aziraphale comments over afternoon tea. In the middle of a very posh teahouse, he actually leans over and feels Crowley's forehead. "No fever. Perhaps you ought to eat something. I know pastry and sandwiches aren't to your taste, but try a bit of the sea salt brownies. They're delightful."
Crowley grimaces but obediently picks one up and nibbles on it. Not half bad, although he doesn't think it'll help much. "'M not sick. We don't get sick, unless you count that time you thought you ought to have the plague so you'd fit in better."
Aziraphale withdraws and sits back in his chair, looking slightly wounded. "You said you wouldn't bring that up."
"Fine," Crowley huffs. He takes another bite of his brownie. "Anyway, I'm all right. Peachy, even. No need to fret over me."
He says this with such venom that Aziraphale, a couple of their fellow diners, and a passing server look askance at him. "If you're sure," Aziraphale says doubtfully. "I think I'm about finished here if you are. Would you like to come back to mine? We could open a nice white, I think, or I could make more tea if you don't feel like day drinking."
Crowley wonders if Aziraphale would mind if he had a nap on the old sofa. Or in Aziraphale's bed. He wonders if Aziraphale would let him, if he asked, and thinks about the possibility of being told no.
"I have… things," he says, waving a vague hand through the air. "You know. Schemes. Gotta keep my hand in somehow."
Aziraphale narrows his eyes; Crowley can tell he doesn't believe him but is willing to let it pass for now. He has absolutely nothing of the sort on—hasn't since the world didn't end—and Aziraphale knows it.
"That's a shame." Aziraphale reaches across the table and pats his hand; Crowley, feeling his eyes go wide behind his sunglasses, lets him. "Come by whenever your business is finished, then. We could have dinner later, perhaps?"
Crowley feels off-kilter now, even more than he did already, and he nods in agreement. On the way out, he takes the rest of their sea salt brownies with him.
*
Back at his flat, Crowley paces. He walks up and down the hallway; he halfheartedly glares at the remaining plants; he sits on his throne and eats his way through the brownies, barely even noticing he's doing it until he casts around for another piece and is forced to notice they're gone.
He doesn't know why he didn't go home with Aziraphale. He wonders if it would be too pathetic to go over there now.
Crowley runs a hand through his forelock and decides, in a startling moment of self-actualization, that moping alone is just as pathetic, so he may as well be maudlin with company. There's a devil's ivy he's thought for a while would thrive better in the corner of the bookshop, and never mind the symbolism. He collects it, plus a bottle of a nice white as a peace offering, and slouches his way out the door—
—Only to come face to face with Aziraphale, who has his hand poised to knock.
"Angel?"
Aziraphale glances away, looking slightly embarrassed, as if Crowley wasn't on his way to turn up on his doorstep. As if Aziraphale hasn't already been showing up unannounced here for months.
"Crowley." Aziraphale squints at the plant in Crowley's arms. "You're here. What's that?"
"Uh. Devil's ivy." Crowley wrestles with himself for a second before shoving the plant in Aziraphale's arms. "It's for you. For the shop."
It feels much, much too intimate to hand it over directly instead of just showing up and dropping it off. Aziraphale looks like he feels it, too—he sets down his own parcel and accepts it, carefully wrapping his hands around the pot and pressing his face into the leaves. "It's lovely, Crowley."
"Yeah. Well." Crowley feels himself hesitating again and scowls. "I suppose you better come in."
Aziraphale smiles, that grateful one that never fails to make something twist in Crowley's gut. The one that makes him want to act on all his worst impulses, just so he can make up for somehow being deserving of it. He hands the plant back to Crowley with another pat to its leaves (Crowley swears the ivy straightens up a little more, the bastard) and recollects his things from the entryway, then follows Crowley through to the kitchen. They may as well drink the wine.
"I, er." A light flush crosses Aziraphale's cheeks. "I brought you something, too. Was just going to drop it off while you were out."
He opens the bag he's carrying to remove a silver tea kettle and set it on the counter. They both stare at it for a moment.
"I noticed you didn't have one, you see," Aziraphale explains. He tugs nervously at the bottom of his waistcoat. "I know you've got the espresso machine, but it's not quite the same, is it? Everyone needs to be able to make a nice cup of tea or cocoa in their own home, I've always thought, and—"
"Aziraphale," Crowley says. "It's great. Really." He runs two fingers along the side of the tea kettle. Such a small thing, and yet—and yet—
It spills out of his mouth before he can do anything to stop it, the truth of what he wants, the thing he's been avoiding saying even to himself. "Move in with me."
"What?" Aziraphale's mouth falls open, and his eyes go very round. "Here? Do you mean it?"
Crowley doesn't think he imagined the hopeful hitch of breath in Aziraphale's voice. Still, he wonders if he's got it wrong after all, but he presses on. "You practically have already," he points out, proud of himself when his voice doesn't shake too much. "Move in with me. Yes? That's a yes," he says disbelievingly when Aziraphale nods.
"It doesn't have to be here, you know," Crowley rambles on. "We can find a new flat—or I can come live in that cozy little garret room you've got, and come downstairs to bother you while you have customers in, and—"
Aziraphale kisses him.
Aziraphale kisses him, which has never happened before, not once in six thousand years. Crowley thinks he can be forgiven for being a little slow to respond. He catches on quickly, though, and chases Aziraphale's mouth just as the angel starts to withdraw.
"Oh," Aziraphale says, pleased, and pulls him back in.
They kiss for a bit there against the kitchen counter, just lips sliding together and the press of Aziraphale's hand on Crowley's waist. In typical fashion, though, Crowley's own corporation betrays him; just as he's thinking about opening his mouth a little, he yawns hugely, right in Aziraphale's face.
Luckily, Aziraphale seems to be the opposite of offended, although he does put a halt to the kissing. "Poor dear," Aziraphale tuts. "You need a nice lie-down, I think. Come on, to the bedroom with you."
He tugs on Crowley's hand, but Crowley stays put. "It's your bedroom now, too."
"Naturally," Aziraphale says. He tilts his head. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"So. Stay." All the emotional honesty's making Crowley feel like he's chewing on gravel, but he manages. "Don't leave. It's better when you're there."
Aziraphale looks surprised again, but happy, too. "Sleeping?" he guesses.
Crowley nods. "I've gotten—used to you. Being there. Unfortunately. Nothing for it now but to carry on, I suppose."
"I won't leave your side, then," Aziraphale declares, looping his arm around Crowley's waist, which Crowley finds a lot more tolerable than the hand pulling. He lets Aziraphale guide him to the bedroom and into bed, although he changes his own clothes this time.
Crowley wants to feel shame about how good it feels to have Aziraphale wrapped around him. Aziraphale arranges things so they're facing, so it's Aziraphale's arms around his back and his hands fiddling with Crowley's hair, and it's Crowley's face pressed into Aziraphale's neck, where everything smells like rain and vanilla.
He wants to feel shame, disgust with himself. Anything other than the sheer pleasure of being close, lighting up all the best parts of him. He can't quite manage it, though, so he just snuggles in closer and lets Aziraphale caress him.
"It's better for me, too," Aziraphale says into the quiet between them. "Never really wanted anything like this except with you. And now that we can… well. I'm just glad you feel the same way."
Aziraphale kisses the top of his head, there in the bed they now share. Crowley reciprocates with a press of his lips to Aziraphale's collarbone through his duck egg blue pajama shirt. "I do," he says. "A lot. So much, angel."
"Mmmm. Good. Sleep well, darling," Aziraphale murmurs.
And, surprising no one, Crowley does.