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Some mornings need reminders. Days when Crowley wakes and doesn’t believe, yet. He has a routine in place for it now. He knows how to turn the leap of faith into a steady thing, step by step, comforting in its simplicity.
The sun is rising, spreading its glow across the room. Look at the dust motes glitter. The light is warm and the pillow is soft. Stretch your arms. Turn your head.
He is still here.
You are still here.
It’s a thrill every time, to realize it, to remember. Crowley basks in that moment, that perfect Yes, still. He thinks, Yes, always, and it’s frightening in its vastness, so he doesn’t want to think it alone. “Morning,” he murmurs against Aziraphale’s skin, soft and pliant and his to touch.
“Oh good, you’re awake,” says Aziraphale, as if Crowley hasn’t been the one to wake him, but Crowley lets him have his fun. His cozy drowsiness, his dream-soft smile. “Hello there.”
“Hello yourself.” Crowley smiles back, of course, because he can and because he wants to. He can do anything he wants. The freedom is exhilarating, dizzying even, like the world is spinning too fast. He draws in a deep, slow breath and lets it out as the Earth settles back into a safer pace. Everything is alright. No cause for concern, no need for alarm.
“Sleep well?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley loves the way he says it, voice steady and comfortable in the rhythm of small talk, in the sweet torpidity of the moment. There isn’t any rush.
“Can’t complain,” Crowley says, and means it. Aziraphale’s hand wriggles in the blankets, seeking his, so Crowley gives it to him. He is so used to giving himself to Aziraphale; he is not entirely used to being accepted. Gentle fingers close around his, threading between them, wrapping him in a warm pressure. “You?”
Aziraphale pretends to frown, but his eyes are sparkling as he comes awake the rest of the way, shining in the early-morning light. He’s beautiful. Crowley takes a second to marvel at him the way one is meant to stare at something holy, before ruining the effect by pulling Aziraphale towards him to press a kiss to his cheek. Aziraphale closes his eyes with it, leaning in, and says, “You know I don’t sleep, my dear.”
“Course not. You were just waiting for me with your eyes closed.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale says, dimpling just slightly, giving himself away, “that's precisely it.”
Crowley laughs. Glories in the openness of it. Laughter, he often thinks, is one of the best things humans ever came up with. Too much joy to hold in. He knows humans did that one on their own because if what he knows of Heaven holds true, no one there could have done it. He can only picture one angel laughing, and that one is lying beside him now, already holding back a laugh. They’re so happy it makes Crowley’s chest ache. “If you say so.”
“I do.” Oh, it’s nice to hear those words, to have that little reminder in a vastly different context. Aziraphale pokes at Crowley with his free hand. “Well, Mr Serpent? Have any nice dreams?”
“Don’t need ’em,” Crowley tells him. He considers for a moment whether to continue with the thought; it’s so sugary it makes his teeth hurt even to think it, but he likes making a gift of the truth, in this breathtaking new world, so he says, “Mine’ve all come true already.”
Aziraphale lets out a tiny Oh, like the opposite of a gasp, not a realization but a confirmation. He’s beaming at Crowley, and it feels like it should hurt to look at him directly. He’s so bright, so perfect. Aziraphale is not the sun, though, because he's better, he's close. The heat of him is not emitted long-distance, not anymore: his body fills Crowley with warmth at every point of contact, via conduction. His conduct at this moment is certainly conducive to getting Crowley flustered.
“Darling,” he mumbles into Crowley's mouth, “Crowley, dear sweet Crowley, I’m so pleased to be a part of those dreams.”
Crowley wants to correct him on the “part” part, but Aziraphale’s pushing himself up to roll over and straddle Crowley, in order to more effectively kiss him into the pillows. “Mmmf,” he says, because that’s all he can manage, “hrfmbhfn,” until Aziraphale sits back to let him speak.
The sun is higher in the sky now, filtering through the window, spilling brightness across the room to be absorbed into the atmosphere, a pale orange glow to light Aziraphale from behind. The faintest whisper of wind ruffles the curtains as it slips beneath the glass; it dances across the room to stir Aziraphale’s curls, and Crowley’s heart stutters at the sight. It shouldn’t be possible for Aziraphale to only get prettier, but he is nothing if not miraculous.
“I…” says Crowley, but he can’t continue right away. He has to let the words build in him first. Has to be certain he can say them. That they will be heard.
“Yes?” Aziraphale runs a finger over Crowley's lower lip, and already Crowley wants to be kissing him again.
There is no reason to hold back. “Kiss me,” he demands, and Aziraphale laughs and indulges him until they’re both breathless and smiling too hard to continue. Crowley’s used to thinking his touch would profane anything glorious, but this, these moments… they are beyond ruination. Perfect on a scale he never dared to dream anything could be. Their glow fills his chest to heal the holes that history’s left in his heart.
Aziraphale pulls away to beam at him, gorgeous, and then his forehead pinches. “Crowley?” he says, concerned, and Crowley has no idea why until Aziraphale continues, “Are you crying?”
“No?” says Crowley, and then wipes at his eyes. “Oh.” Yes.
“Is everything alright?” And the worry in Aziraphale’s voice prompts another tear to slide down into Crowley’s hair, because it’s so obvious Aziraphale cares, and it wasn’t always, and it’s so good to hear.
“Everything’s great, angel. Happy tears, promise.” He smiles. “You’ll forgive me for not crossing my heart.”
Aziraphale traces the wetness of his cheekbones with one thumb before leaning down again to brush the salt off with a kiss to each cheek. “Hmm,” he says. “Why, then?”
Crowley closes his eyes. He knows why; the trouble is putting it into words. Aziraphale’s hands are in his hair and cupping the back of his neck, though; Aziraphale is holding him like he’s wanted to hold Crowley for as long as Crowley has wanted to be held. He can say anything. Aziraphale is listening.
“I’ve wanted you so long,” Crowley says, whispers, like he’s afraid to speak the words too loudly lest they break something precious. “I never thought I could have you.”
“You do,” Aziraphale assures him, “you can, you do, oh, my love. I’m here.”
“I know. I do. Yeah.” Crowley watches Aziraphale in the sweetness of the sunshine, already mellowing to a yellow-white daylight. Crowley plants his hands against the mattress to push himself into a sitting position. Aziraphale slides down his chest to land in his lap, knees on either side of him, nose nearly touching his.
Aziraphale looks down and uses the hand that’s still tangled in Crowley’s hair to tip Crowley’s head forward too, so their foreheads are pressed together. “Do you know?” Aziraphale murmurs, and Crowley doesn’t think a word has been invented to cover the way he’s gazing into Crowley’s eyes. “It’s very important to me that you know for certain.”
In answer Crowley breaks the contact only so he can drag Aziraphale even closer, to bury his face in Aziraphale’s neck, to breathe in the scent of his nightclothes still warm from sleep. “I know,” he says again, into the fabric, into Aziraphale’s shoulder. “How could I not know when you’re so good at showing me, angel? Aziraphale. I know.”
“What do you know?” Aziraphale persists; Crowley can hear the smile in his voice without having to look, but he straightens out to see him anyway. He wants to watch the way Aziraphale’s face will move when he says his part of this routine; he wants to catalogue the effect he can have on him.
“You love me,” and the words come so easily. His arms are around Aziraphale’s waist and he twists them in the blankets so that Aziraphale is the one, now, to lie on his back and be kissed; Crowley presses a kiss to his forehead and worships at his temples, says it over into soft curls, “You love me, you love me, Aziraphale, you love me so much.”
“So much,” says Aziraphale, and it is so much, too big to fit in a demon’s heart and Crowley’s overflowing with it. He’s filled to the brim with Aziraphale’s love, certain and steady, round and golden-glowing at his center. “You know, there was a time you wouldn’t let me say things like that.”
“I wouldn’t let you? No, that doesn’t sound right.”
Aziraphale shakes his head and says, “You would have told me not to be so… sentimental.”
Oh. Well, that’s true enough. When they’d just begun to find ways of saying it, when this was all new to Crowley and he was unused to hearing it— he certainly would have tried to push back against this onslaught of genuine emotion. Of heartfeltness. He would have hissed something about not being ridiculous. He doesn’t have to now. He doesn’t think Aziraphale is being ridiculous to love him; he doesn’t think it’s ridiculous of him to accept it. To believe in what they have.
“What can I say, I’ve matured,” Crowley tells him, because saying things like that is still a lot to consider but also because he understands that Aziraphale will understand anyway.
Aziraphale laughs and tightens his hold on Crowley’s back. “You,” he says, slowly, savoring it, letting the word shape itself into a fond grin. “You’ve matured, have you? Would you call sticking your frigid fingers down the back of my neck ‘mature,’ then?”
“That was weeks ago,” Crowley protests, “and you’re so warm I can’t be blamed for it. ’Sides, you did it to me too.”
“After you did! And you said it was cruel of me.”
“Was. Horrible angel.” Crowley kisses him, because he’s smirking, and that is unfairly adorable. “Going about putting cold hands on innocent demons.”
“Mature and innocent… Quite the development.” Aziraphale’s making fun of him; Crowley can tell by the way his cheek is twitching to hold back the smile. But it wouldn’t be funny if it weren’t a little bit true.
Crowley presses a kiss to the traitorous dimple. “I’m a married demon,” he explains. “It’s mellowed me.”
Aziraphale hums and wraps a leg around one of Crowley’s. If marriage is a sacred thing, it’s a holiness Crowley can tolerate. If it feels like this; if it puts that tenderness in Aziraphale’s eyes to hear it. If it’s fresh linen and laughter, tea waiting to be brewed and the smell of yesterday’s baking still floating through the cottage, and endless, endless days together. An infinity of mornings to hold one another and nights to spend with each other, and all the time in between.
“Are we getting out of bed today?” Crowley asks, and Aziraphale closes his eyes. “Could have breakfast in if you fancy.”
Aziraphale’s face lights up and fondness tugs at Crowley’s insides. “Ooh. With—?”
“Yes, yes, I know what you like,” Crowley says, and goes to stand. He’s forgotten that Aziraphale’s ankle is hooked around his, and so the next minute is spent as a tangle of limbs and giggles before he succeeds.
“No, hold on,” says Aziraphale, catching hold of Crowley’s wrist before he can walk off. “Why must you be the one to do it? You get more pleasure from being in bed than I, you know.”
Crowley bends to deliver a kiss to Aziraphale’s forehead. “But you haven’t slept,” he says, smiling with the smugness of one who knows he will not be contradicted in his untruthfulness, “so you’ve got more reason to stay in and rest, haven’t you?”
Aziraphale makes a face at him but permits this absurd logic. Crowley makes his way to the kitchen, flicks on the light, and pulls an apron over his pyjamas. He leans over to start the oven preheating and set the kettle to boil, to spare himself the miracles later, then fetches the mixing bowl and begins gathering ingredients. Flour, baking powder, butter, sugar; beat the eggs with milk. Knead. Crowley lays the dough out to flatten it, flour-dusted knuckles familiar with the motions of this process from dozens of times before, some more successful than others. There is nothing wrong with this dough, though, and so he cuts it to size and puts the scones in to bake. The timer is set now: he has precisely thirteen and a half minutes to prepare the rest.
Yesterday’s sourdough loaf is retrieved from the fridge. Crowley takes a moment to hold it close and breathe it in. Aziraphale certainly knows how to make bread well, but then that makes sense, having been there to watch long-ago humans invent it. Crowley cuts a few slices and arranges them on a plate; he reaches for the top shelf of the pantry to bring down the strawberry jam and spoons just the right amount into a tiny dish; he dips one finger into the jam, guiltily, to sneak a taste, and the sweet fruitiness reminds him: he’s forgotten the blueberries for his scones.
Crowley spins on the spot, but there’s seven minutes left on the timer and there is no earthly way to retroactively insert berries into half-baked scones. He could, of course, do it anyway, but the unspoken deal he’s made with himself is that the supernatural does not mix with kitchen matters. And one does not break a deal with a demon, even if one is the demon in question. He spills the neglected blueberries into a bowl to bring up along with the butter for the scones. Crowley arranges the bread, jam, berries, and butter on a tray and checks the timer. Five minutes.
He abandons the kitchen for a moment to climb a few stairs until the landing. “Tea or cocoa?” he calls.
“Mm. Tea today, I think,” says Aziraphale, happy-voiced, and Crowley returns to the kitchen. The kettle’s boiling by now, so he warms the teapot and adds the leaves. English breakfast, fittingly enough, although he supposes technically this is more of a continental breakfast. Quickly, he pours the boiling water into the pot. It’ll have to stand before it can be served; the scones have just over a minute left, so he keeps busy by fetching the teacups and adding milk to one of them. Aziraphale will tell him he should have waited to add the milk after the tea, as etiquette dictates, but Crowley knows he will secretly be glad the milk won’t be scalded.
The oven beeps. Crowley rescues the scones, arranges them on a plate, and adds them to the tray. The tray is now as ready as it is unwieldy. There might be a tiny miracle involved in getting all that up the stairs and into the bedroom without spilling or burning anything. As Crowley approaches, Aziraphale opens his eyes, the aroma of fresh scones and hot tea alerting him to his husband’s return. He smiles, delighted, and sits up in the bed.
“Welcome back, darling. You remembered the berries?”
“Not quite,” Crowley admits, and sets the tray down on the bedside table to show off its contents. With his hands now free, Crowley takes hold of Aziraphale’s face to press a kiss to the top of his curls. “Mmm. Careful, most of it’s hot.”
“It’ll stay hot if I want it to,” says Aziraphale, reaching up to take hold of Crowley’s shirt and then tugging, insistently, until Crowley relents and sits beside him. “Won’t it?”
“Eat your breakfast,” Crowley tells him, but he’s smiling and he knows Aziraphale knows: he’ll do anything asked of him. Aziraphale apparently intends to take full advantage.
He kisses Crowley and receives a squeak of protest. “Aziraphale,” Crowley says, muffled, and is kissed again for his trouble. “Aziraphale.” Another kiss. “Your scones will go cold,” Crowley warns through his smile, and gets a pout.
Aziraphale obviously knows too well the effectiveness of those eyes. “But I don’t want them to be cold.”
“Then you’d better eat them quickly,” says Crowley, as though insensible to the miracle Aziraphale wants from him. He has some dignity, doesn’t he? Never mind that he just spent half an hour baking breakfast in bed for his spoiled angel. “Come now, you wouldn’t want me to have wasted all that effort making them fresh for you.”
“No, I suppose not,” Aziraphale says with a sigh. Oh how he suffers, the sigh suggests, though the lie is given to that particular idea by the way he brightens as he selects a scone. He bites into it and Crowley could live off that look, the sound he makes, the sheer delight of this moment. “Oh, this tastes divine, Crowley. You must have some yourself.”
Crowley has a better idea. He climbs into Aziraphale’s lap and kisses him thoroughly. “Mm,” he says, “you were right,” and Aziraphale laughs giddily.
“Ridiculous serpent.”
“Indulgent angel,” he retorts. Indulgent is certainly the word for him.
“You’re one to talk,” says Aziraphale, waggling his scone at Crowley. Which is a fair point. Crowley shrugs.
“You like it when I do things for you,” he explains, as though he doesn’t like that scenario just as much. He reaches for the tray. “Blueberry?”
Aziraphale accepts the offering and kisses Crowley’s fingertips. “Thank you, my dear,” he says, so Crowley does it again and again, feeding Aziraphale berries between kisses until both of them have juice-stained lips and fingers, a sticky-sweet purpleness marking something shared. Aziraphale makes a noise of distress. “Mind the sheets…”
Crowley doesn’t mind the thought of doing the laundry, even non-miraculously: stripping the bed, carrying the linen to the washing machine, waiting for it to be ready to transfer into the dryer and in the meantime washing the dishes from breakfast, folding it when it’s dry and then enlisting Aziraphale’s help in wrestling with a clean set of sheets to replace the newly-laundered ones. There’s a comfort to it, the routine, the familiarity. There is a sanctity in having a linen closet and a dish rack, and in sharing them.
“The sheets’ll be fine, angel,” Crowley says soothingly. “Don’t forget your tea. Shall I pour?”
“Oh, yes, please.” Aziraphale lifts his cup from the tray and holds it steady for Crowley as he tips the pot, careful, slow and precise, just enough to fill the cup and not to spill.
Crowley moves off of Aziraphale to sit beside him, wriggling until he gets beneath the warm covers again. “Pass the bread?”