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The hour is grown late in the bookshop back room, their lively discussion of earlier in the evening given way now to quieter company-keeping. It doesn’t take long for Crowley to become aware that this quiet is not simply that born of a long conversation petered out to its natural end. On the other end of the sofa, Aziraphale’s eyes are bleary, the angel’s usually ramrod-straight posture drooping. The silence is punctuated at regular intervals by yawns that have Crowley all but rubbing his eyes in sympathy.
The signs are clear. And relatively rare though they are, it is far from the first time in six millennia Crowley has seen Aziraphale grow drowsy.
He knows better than to say anything, when this happens. Pointing out Aziraphale’s readily apparent and visibly increasing sleepiness, he’s learned from much experience, will get them nowhere. All that will earn Crowley is a look of multi-layered reproach, a stubborn, weary insistence that I’m an angel, angels don’t need sleep, and then an effective exorcism — obviously mutually reluctant, yet impossible to ignore for all that — in the loudly hinting form of Oh my goodness, look at the time, I daresay we both have work to be getting on with…
So, no, Crowley has learned that in this situation the best option for them both is to say nothing of the obvious.
What he does do is move a minute, undemanding distance towards Aziraphale on the seat of the sofa, and extend one arm along the backrest. And then, simply, wait.
It’s only a minute or two before Aziraphale mirrors the movement, scooting subtly in Crowley’s direction on the cushions.
Another pause — just long enough to, hopefully, satisfy the angel’s odd standards of plausible deniability — and then Crowley once again slides closer in his turn.
It takes only a few more conscientiously spaced-out repetitions of these alternating, incremental shifts in seating position before the gap between them is erased entirely, both of them carefully avoiding drawing attention to this fact. And soon enough, an angel’s sagging shoulder is resting against Crowley’s.
A few minutes more, and the head affiliated with that shoulder finds its way onto Crowley’s knees.
They won’t speak of this, of course. In the morning, Crowley will slip away as soon as Aziraphale begins to stir to the point that neither of them can pretend not to notice. And the next time they see each other, whenever or wherever that may be, they will discuss the weather, the Arrangement, the latest human inventions, the best flavor of tea… almost anything, really, rather than a tired angel falling asleep in his adversary’s lap.
They won’t speak of it, as they do not speak about so many other things. But like many things, not speaking of it makes no difference to the fact of its happening.
For now, on the sofa, heavy eyes drift shut with a low sigh, and Crowley runs his hand over a soft mass of curls as Aziraphale’s breathing settles into slumber.