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Crowley was soaked to the bone by the time he slouched against the doors of the bookshop. It was well into the evening, and a steady downpour was crashing down onto the Earth as if god was planning on flooding the planet a second time. "Wouldn't put that past the almighty at this point," he thought scornfully. She certainly hadn't showed humankind mercy in recent years.
The locked doors swung open, simply because Crowley expected them to. (He lived more in the bookshop than he did his flat at this point, and he expected the doors to accommodate.) His clothes clung to him as if they were a second layer of skin. But wet. And cold. And far worse than any shed Crowley had ever had the displeasure of experiencing when he was in his snake form. Wretched thing, shedding.
Of course, he hadn't intended on waltzing into Aziraphales bookshop looking strikingly similar to a drowned rat. He had went to his flat to check on his plants that afternoon, and in his careful scrutiny of each and every leaf, he had lost track of time. He stepped out into the bustling street an indiscernible amount of time later to find that the temperature had dropped noticeably and that the sky was steadily growing dark. The surrounding buildings and crowded streets were barely visible through thick blankets of fog, barely an environment Crowley would risk bringing the Bentley into. He eventually had opted walk the few blocks between his flat and the bookshop as he watched angry people narrowly avoid crashing into or running over one another. The journey wasn't a long one, and he was thoroughly enjoying the chaos of the streets until sheets of frigid rain started pelting down onto the city without warning, leaving Crowley completely soaked within seconds.
In an act of pure stubbornness and unreasonable determination, he dragged himself through the remaining blocks and to the bookshop. By the time he got there, his hair was plastered to his forehead and his sunglasses were long forgotten. He could feel water soaking through his clothes with every step. Any person who was unfortunate to have seen him may have said that he looked like death. Crowley had met death. He didn't see the resemblance.
Crowley eventually stepped (not really stepped. It was closer to slipping.) into the bookshop, earning an irritatingly cheerful TING! From the bell above the door announcing his arrival. He halfheartedly sent a glare in its general direction before swinging the door shut. He blinked blearily, letting his eyes adjust to the soft glow in the sweeping main room of the shop. Sinking into the ever-so-familiar sent of Aziraphale, he let comfort wash over him, delighting in the stark contrast of temperature before coming to his senses.
"Angel?" He called into the vast depths of the bookshop. He heard a slight shuffling from the back, followed by a faint "Coming, dear!"
Aziraphale emerged from the back of the shop, making his way over to Crowley excitedly as if he were the most important thing in the world in that moment. It was something he never realized he did, and it took everything in Crowley to not melt into him right then and there. Aziraphale paused, taking in the sight before him: the soaking wet clothes, the dripping hair, the shivering, and, Aziraphale noticed with a twinge of annoyance, the growing puddle of water on his floor.
"Hi angel." Crowley said dumbly, suddenly becoming aware of how pitiful he must look in that moment.
"Good lord Crowley, what were you thinking?" Aziraphale hissed, more out of worry then anger. He set to helping Crowley out of the coat that was plastered onto his frame.
"Jus' wanted to see you." Crowley murmured, "Didn't mean to get caught in the rain..Y'know.....didn't wanna risk putting the Bentley through the streets, with the angry humans and their bad eyesight at night 'n all...." he trailed off, fidgeting under Aziraphales gaze. He shuddered as the jacket was peeled off of his arms, suddenly reminded of just how frigid he was.
Aziraphale looked him over again and huffed. Then, without warning, he swept up Crowley in his arms, earning a surprised yelp from him. He strangled out some garbled string of nonsense that may have been about him being a demon and how he was evil and very much did not need to be picked up before letting himself relax against Aziraphales chest.
"Let's see if we can get you warmed up, hm?" Aziraphale huffed, carefully shifting the weight of the demon in his arms. Crowley didn't notice. He was too busy listening to each steady beat of Aziraphales heart---in vast contrast to his own rapidly beating heart, which he worried would slam out of his chest like in a children's cartoon if he didn't gather himself soon. He pressed his face into the crook of Aziraphales neck, enjoying the warmth that always seemed to radiate off of his angel. Aziraphale didn't seem to mind the fact that he was still soaked as he carried him up the stairs and into the flat above the bookshop.
It was an area that Crowley had recently been visiting more and more often as he and Aziraphale slowly broke down the walls that they had so meticulously forged around their emotions over the centuries. Day by day, they were learning how to love and be loved. It as a painfully methodical process, but each brush of fingers, every small smile, every single second of stolen eye contact sent Crowleys heart soaring. He didn't care if it took six thousand more years for Aziraphale to be ready. As soon as he was, Crowley would be there with open arms, ready to drown him in all of the love he was starved of in heaven. All of the affection that the pair had been derived of from the very beginning.
Crowley was set down on their shared bed before Aziraphale miracled away his drenched clothes, replacing them with one of his own sweaters. Fondness washed over his face as he looked at Crowley. His enemy. His best friend. His beloved. The cranky and snide demon that chased him through time, who stumbled over consecrated ground for him. The angel smiled at him before placing a kiss against his forehead and whisking out of the bedroom. Crowley was left there with a dumbfounded, dopey smile creeping over his features. His usually thin, sharp pupils expanding as he felt his face flush.
A few minutes later, much to Crowleys surprise, Aziraphale came into the bedroom wearing one of his few pairs of pajama sets. While Crowley could---and did, when things got particularly boring---sleep for months, it was rare for Aziraphale to do so much as close his eyes. Even years after the averted apocalypse, he was always on high alert, keeping his eyes out for any one thing slightly amiss.
Despite Crowleys constant pleading, he could count on one hand the amount of times he seen the angel asleep. On the rare occasion, Crowley took the time to admire just how peaceful he looked. All of the tension and worry that nearly constantly plagued his features wiped clean, leaving the angel looking, well, ethereal. Seeing his angel truly is at peace was something that he would never tire of. The moments felt stolen, almost. Fragile. As if one minute noise or shift would break the illusion like a shattered pane of glass.
Usually, Aziraphales nights were spent on his favorite chair in the bookshop with a cup of tea and one of his many, many books that had been read and re-read so many times that the fabric hardcovers were slowly being worn away from centuries of use. Sometimes, Aziraphale would read aloud as Crowley dozed off. Some nights it was the sweeping stories of Oscar Wilde, others he would recite the tender stanzas of Sappho until Crowley finally stopped fighting his heavy eyelids and let Aziraphales gentle voice lull him into sleep. The angel stayed awake throughout the night, guarding. Just as he was created to do.
Tonight, though, Aziraphale decided, was dedicated to Crowley. He had just stupidly trudged his cold-blooded self through frigid rain just to see the angel.
He climbed into bed next to Crowley, who immediately situated himself next to him. Sharp, pointed angles met soft, full curves, the two bodies fitting together as if they were made to. Perhaps they were. God liked to play her ineffable game in mysterious ways, after all.
Aziraphale lay on his back with the demons head on his chest and his body pressed closely against his side. He found Crowleys hand and joined it with his own, loosely linking their fingers together, his other hand slowly carding through the short copper hair at the back of his head.
Crowley brought the blankets up around them, trapping them in their own cocoon away from the rest of the world
"This comforter really is hideous Angel," Crowley mumbled, pulling it up over his shoulders.
"It is Not! It's-"
"Tartan is the farthest thing from stylish."
"I wasn't going to say stylish. Not in context of decor. It's-"
"No."
"You don't even know what I was going to say!"
"Whatever It was, it was wrong."
Aziraphale scoffed, earning him a satisfied smirk from Crowley, followed by a poorly covered up yawn.
"Go to sleep, my dear," Aziraphale said softly. "You must be exhausted."
"'M alright," Crowley mumbled, delighting in the feeling of soft fingers working through his hair.
They both go silent, basking in the feeling of being truly loved. After a few minutes, Aziraphale started to think that Crowley had dozed off before he broke their comfortable silence.
"Angel?"
"Yes, my dear?"
"Will you stay?"
"Oh Crowley," Aziraphale uttered, trailing his hand down to cradle his face. Crowley leaned into it, golden eyes meeting blue. "I will stay with you until the day the universe comes crashing down around us."
Crowley gazed into the angels eyes, an overwhelming surge of pure happiness sparking in his chest. Turning his head, he placed a gentle kiss into Aziraphales palm before laying his head back down, letting the warmth of Aziraphales presence lull him into sleep.
"Goodnight, angel."
"Goodnight, my love."