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A gentle fluttering of fingers on his hip woke Crowley in the dark of the morning. A sleepy little twitch of skin-on-skin followed by a soft snuffle and sigh. Maybe it shouldn’t have been enough to wake someone, but in all his years on earth he hadn’t slept once with someone else in his bed. That was a level of trust that he could only have imagined with one person: the current occupier of the other half of his blankets.
Crowley thought back to the day before: they had won, they had dined, and they had returned to his flat. Somehow, the angel had known that Crowley wasn’t ready to go back to the bookshop just yet. Not so soon after the flames and the terror of losing him. Or maybe even he, himself, hadn’t wanted the face the place where he had realized, once and for all, that no one from heaven was on his side.
Either way, they had wound up on Crowley’s uncomfortable but stylish sofa. Wine had been drunk and both of them had melted into the cushions. Inane chatter had risen and fallen over the peaks of the evening hours.
Then silence. The air thick with quiet ponderings. Crowley didn’t know what drove his boldness, but he found his hand covering Aziraphale’s between them on the sofa cushion. He wasn’t even sure he’d commanded his hand to move, but once it was there he couldn’t imagine pulling it back.
Aziraphale turned to him slowly, studying his face. Wrinkled pulled his eyebrows together and as the seconds ticked by in eternity Crowley wondered if he could smooth them away with his fingers. And then he wondered, again, if he should pull his hand back. Aziraphale’s head cocked to the side as he went on watching him, eyes dipping here and there, taking in different angles of Crowley’s face. Crowley wanted to know what the angel was looking for. He would give it if he knew.
But then Aziraphale’s lips were on his. They were sloppy from the wine, but the hand on Crowley’s cheek was startlingly steady and warm. Crowley’s happily traitorous hands hauled him closer, kissing him back with relish even as he wondered if this was them or the drink or the stress of the world nearly crashing around them.
Aziraphale threw his thigh over Crowley’s lap and now rested fully against him and Crowley couldn’t believe he was questioning this, but if it was happening- really happening- after all this time, it needed to be real. It needed to be honest. If they woke tomorrow and Aziraphale walked out, making excuses, into the morning light... It would shatter him. He would go on, of course, being functionally immortal. And he wouldn’t leave the angel unless that’s what he asked of him. But the mark would be indelible.
He pushed against the angel’s chest even as he pulled away from his kisses. The sight of Aziraphale’s closed-eye pout nearly had him diving back in. Really, it took all of his gather strength to keep any distance between them. It had been harder still, and he wasn’t sure how he found the extra willpower, when Aziraphale had blinked open his eyes and they were clearly clouded over with want. Aziraphale wanted him. He was looking at Crowley in the same way he peered at cases of baked goods. Like Crowley was laid out on a serving plate, drizzled with dark chocolate and caramel. It sent a hot jolt down his spine and into his trousers that had him gasping for air.
“Have I overstepped, darling?” Crowley had never heard the dark, gravely edge that hung on every word the angel now spoke. It vibrated through him, chasing and nipping at the wits he was desperately trying to cling to, “do you want me to stop?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I want... I want to be sure this is what you really want.”
There was a moment of incomprehension. Incredulity as Aziraphale took in where he was sitting- pressed close in Crowley’s lap. And then his eyes slid over the empty bottles on the table and he figured it out. He took a deep breath and shuddered as he sobered up, one of the bottles refilling as Crowley watched.
“Crowley,” he turned back to him and slid a hand through his hair, tugging it softly to expose his throat where he planted soft little kisses in a trail to his ear, “I want you to take me to bed.”
“B-bed?”
“Mmhmm.”
And then he’d nearly dumped the angel on the floor in his haste. Despite his minimalist decorative style, they’d managed to bump into several things on the way to his bedroom- especially since he’d forgotten for a moment where the bedroom even was. One thing had tottered over and smashed, but it wasn’t as important as the hand pressed against him, over his zip. That, too, was forgotten when he was pressed against the threshold of the bedroom.
The fingers tightened their grip on his hip, like the angel was remembering, too, in his sleep. And then they pulled Crowley backwards and the hand wandered up and over his chest possessively. Aziraphale made a happy, contented little noise that sounded like he’d been given an extra slice of something nice. Maybe, thought, Crowley, he had. And that was the last thought Crowley had before he drifted back off, Aziraphale’s warmth seeping through his skin and tugging him back to his dreams.