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“We should probably get up,” Aziraphale murmured, with deep reluctance, into Crowley’s hair.
“Why?” Crowley turned his head so he could nuzzle Aziraphale’s cheek. Which really wasn’t helping matters.
“Because.” Thoughts still oozing along with the leftover calm slowness of sleep, Aziraphale tried to think of a faintly convincing answer to Crowley’s question. Or at least one that would convince himself. There didn’t seem to be one, other than a vague itch in the back corner of his conscience. “Because it’s late?” he came up with eventually.
“So?”
“So, we should get up and… and do things.” It occurred a moment belatedly to Aziraphale that cuddling with Crowley was, technically, a thing. A very nice thing, in fact. Which was not a useful thing to be reminding himself. “Other things, I mean.”
“No ‘should’ about it.’” Crowley wound a leg around Aziraphale’s, the movement including just a few more twists than a normal limb should have been capable of. “We’re retired. No reason to get up unless we want.”
“But…” Aziraphale could already feel his resolve waning. To be fair, there hadn’t been much of it to begin with. And he didn’t think he was particularly sorry to see it go, especially if its loss meant that he would be able to stay in bed with Crowley a while longer.
“Do you want to?” Crowley asked in a low voice, leg tangle loosening a little — just enough to make a point, albeit not enough to actually break contact.
“Er.” Aziraphale had made a pact with himself, after the apocalypse, that he was never going to lie to Crowley about anything again. In general, these days, he kept to the pact with no difficulty whatsoever. But it did mean, unfortunately (or, arguably, fortunately), that he was now stuck with no honest way of saying yes. “Well,” he tried.
Even in the utter darkness of the room — imposed by their blackout shades, despite it being approximately midday, as well as by the highly influential fact that both Aziraphale and Crowley assumed that the sun would not dare disturb them unless or until they wished to be disturbed — Aziraphale could practically see Crowley’s knowing, sleepily satisfied grin at his side. A fiend, spying a fatal weakness in the enemy, preparing to go in for the final, decisive strike.
Aziraphale smiled, slightly, into the darkness.
“If you want to get up,” Crowley whispered into his ear, the lightest touch of air, “that’s fine. Go. But I’m not leaving.”
Ah.
The final strike, indeed. Getting up hadn’t been all that appealing as it was, but getting up by himself, leaving Crowley alone in the comfort of their shared bed …
“Well, then,” said Aziraphale, and the last dregs of protesting conscience drained away, leaving only relieved contentment in their wake. The proper course of action was now clear. “I suppose I will have to stay a bit longer. So as to keep you company.”
“And keep an eye on me,” Crowley added — voice still low, with an edge of chuckle to it. “See that I don’t go fomenting too much mayhem while your back’s turned.”
“That, too. Of course.” Aziraphale wondered for a brief moment when his default excuses for spending time with Crowley had shifted from thwarting and staying vigilant against the adversary’s wiles to simply spending time with Crowley to spend time with Crowley. But after all, he supposed, it didn’t really matter.
What did matter was that he could nestle back beside Crowley, legs still linked and arms wrapping around each other, and stay that way for as long as they both wanted.