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Crowley's flat was an astoundingly depressing place to wake up in.
In fact, it was depressing, ultimately, in a general sense; it was so suffocatingly minimalistic that it didn't feel unlike a doctor's office, if the doctor in question didn't care much for practicing medicine and was, in actuality, a swanky denizen of the underworld who had both a bottomless bank account and a shockingly substantial understanding of what modern human culture considered "stylish". The place looked almost sterile, untouched by human hands (which was, in a sense, true), and while the style of it all was very sleek, very pleasing to look at upon first glance, looking at it day after day after day turned living there into more of a prison sentence than anything. Despite the blinds remaining perpetually open, what natural light trickled in felt more exposing than welcoming the second it spilled across the floor. The rooms were absolutely cavernous, which was great if you properly invested the time and money into personalizing them, but Crowley never properly had, and so they remained hauntingly empty save for a few trinkets he had picked up on his immortal travels. When he spoke, his voice bounded off the walls and back to someone who was devastatingly tired of listening to the same self-indulgent bullshit he had been spouting since he ascended to Earth 6,000 years ago, but said bullshit was the only indicator that anything alive had ever been in the place aside from the luscious houseplants cowering in the corners.
Though it remained the most lived-in room, the bedroom was still remarkably barren. Anytime he imbibed in some good-old-fashioned sloth (which was often), he would open his eyes to the same cloudy gray walls; the same empty, dusty bedside tables; the same half-shaded windows; and the same resounding thought of, What's even the point of being awake?
It was cold. And lonely. And absolutely no wonder why he spent as little time there as possible.
So, imagine Crowley's surprise when one morning, he wakes up warm. And cozy. And surrounded by what he, despite being demonic in nature, has never been more certain is love. It felt like someone had draped a massive blanket, fresh from the dryer, over him with careful adoration. It was a sensation that was so unbearably heavenly.
He stirred, bleary and barely aware if he really was awake or if he was simply dreaming that he was. Keeping his eyes open was a fight in and of itself and after nearly no consideration, he made the executive decision to let the inclination to sleep take him back over. It was only a few minutes of lying there, sunglasses still on his face and comedically askew, that his physical body realized that he was, in fact, not falling back asleep and that maybe it was time to move and behave like a functional being.
He begrudgingly pried his eyes back open. There was a feeble attempt to sit up until his joints sang out in a rickety chorus of crackling pops and the crick in his neck served as a groan-inducing reminder that he had spent the night on a couch instead of what was, at least, a decent bed. To boot, he was completely sprawled out; his neck was half-propped up on the armrest on the left side, his right leg was draped over the sofa's back at an awkward angle, and his left reached toward the floor, as did his left arm. His right had been draped across his middle. Hissing through his teeth, Crowley reached to take his glasses off and stretched.
As stiff as it was, he was grateful to be working out the kinks in a body all his own. Aziraphale's had been nice and all, but he maintained this form for a reason; it simply felt right. Besides, the very thought of Aziraphale reclining so unbecomingly was as jarring as it had been for Crowley to watch himself sitting with only the utmost poise on the bench in St. James Park.
As Crowley's other senses began to return to life, he was sharply smacked with a scent reminiscent of ancient. It was of well-worn leatherbound first editions; cinders from a dwindling but once toasty and welcoming flame; and even the old dress coats someone's grandfather might have kept, unworn, in his closet for decades because nowadays, the man had nowhere nice to go and was perfectly pleased with doing little more than staying at home with a good book. Above him, he caught glimpses of classical volumes protruding from an overhead shelf, threatening to teeter off at any moment as always; through eyes that were still slightly fuzzy, he could just barely make out an antique desk across from the couch, covered in long forgone bills and a winged mug that had been left abandoned days before.
Right, Crowley realized. He never did go home last night, did he?
He had naturally planned to, for the simple matter that it was where he always went at the end of the day. But then Aziraphale had prodded him to invite himself back to the shop for some celebratory wine. "Well," he had mournfully sighed, subtle as a flaming Bentley rolling through an allegedly unassuming English town, "I suppose I should be off. It might do some good to take inventory at the shop given the, erm... recent developments."
He expectantly eyed Crowley, who, in turn, flashed him a mischievous smirk. The angel's salient hope was almost charming and besides, it meant he could put off cleaning up the steaming pile of goo that was Ligur for another day (Crowley could infer that there was only so much Adam could have done for occult casualties, after all).
"I'll come with," he nonchalantly offered.
Aziraphale had beamed, and through a smile that he fought oh-so desperately to keep from evolving into a full-blown, all-revealing grin, uttered a passive, "If you insist."
If he had been more awake, Crowley might have indulged in a reticent snicker at the thought, though he instead grunted in acknowledgment, halfheartedly flopped his legs over the edge of the couch, and rolled into a reluctant sitting position. Something fell off of his lap: a blanket- a real one- patterned in a certain trademark tartan because of course, it was. The mere look of it made Crowley's skin tingle with a desperate itch to be coddled in its gentle embrace; an offhand glance from miles away would still manage to betray how plush to the touch it would be, and its unfortunate tumble left Crowley feeling slightly emptier, slightly more vulnerable, and much more alert. He half-wondered if Aziraphale had put a touch of extra miraculous power into it with the express purpose of keeping him out cold, lot of good it did.
He glanced down at his watch. 6:13 a.m. Much too early for his liking, but he resigned himself to his fate of an early start to the day.
Crowley tucked his sunglasses delicately away into his breast pocket. He then pushed himself to his feet with a slightly exaggerated grunt of effort and rubbed at his eyes with the palms of his hands. "'Ziraphale?" he finally called, voice crackling from a few hours' disuse.
There was no answer.
He tried it slightly louder. "Aziraphale?"
Quiet. But not the unsettling kind, with a layer of unease claiming the space sound failed to occupy. It was contented. Safe. Crowley's keen instincts and acute ability to sense certain angelic presences kept him assured that no peril lurked beyond the seemingly infinite shelves. It was preferable to the booming sounds of archangels' warning voices or, Hell forbid, the crackling of all-consuming flame.
Time out. Crowley jerked his head dismissively and huffed.
He began to saunter through the maze of tables, chairs, and stacks upon stacks of senselessly organized tomes.
From a human standpoint, Aziraphale's aura was remarkably, well, unremarkable. To a particularly keen eye, it may have appeared just slightly brighter than that of most others, just enough to prompt a second glance before moving on it was so unworthy of note. It was honestly impressive that Aziraphale had managed to remain incognito for so long. Angels, just like demons, had ways of keeping themselves dimmed to refrain from arousing suspicion, but just like with demons, this didn't mean all of them were good at it; Aziraphale (currently also known as A.Z. Fell, Purveyor of Antiquarian and Unusual Books; formerly known as the Amazing Mr. Fell, accompanied on occasion by Remarkable Feats of Prestidigitation; formerly known as the Principality Aziraphale, Angel of the East Gate) was such a bewildering character that his managing not to expose his own supernatural nature was a feat in and of itself.
From a demonic perspective, however, his otherworldly roots cast a blinding white spotlight on him from the very Heavens he originated from. The only issue was the spotlight was great at pinpointing his general whereabouts but was so intolerably lucent that once you were vaguely in the area, you were left fumbling around trying to figure out where the Heaven the bastard actually was. Thankfully, Aziraphale usually got himself into such a degree of trouble that Crowley could track him from a mile away, be it thanks to mutters of a new Knight of the Round Table who preferred talking to the enemy or the excitable chatter of revolutionaries who simply couldn't wait to lob off the poor head of a misguided English aristocrat who kept haplessly moaning that there'll be paperwork!
His penchant for getting into such inconvenient situations wasn't as helpful in the safety of his own bookshop. Mostly.
Pacing down expansive aisles, Crowley brushed careful fingertips over the spines of treasured books. He admired Aziraphale's organizational handiwork. To the untrained eye, the shelves were in complete disarray; the names of authors bounced from "Y" to "C" to "K"; some genres were grouped together to give the illusion of order, only to pull the rug out from under the customer and switch entirely to a row of jumbled categories halfway through; and it was a gamble of whether the book you pulled from the shelf was even going to be in a living language. He pictured Aziraphale pulling new shipments of books from boxes with only the most delicate of hands, then darting down aisles with careful calculation to determine the best place to store them so he could file them away for himself for later but make it nigh impossible for a surprise customer to find what they were looking for. It was clear to Crowley just how deliberate his storage system actually was, and he wished he could take some credit for such an irksome work of art. But alas, it was all Aziraphale, and it gave Crowley an odd sense of pride to watch Aziraphale fumble to feign cluelessness whenever the demon would give him an offhand almost-compliment on the impeccable arrangement.
I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about, he'd mumble, fiddling suspiciously with the buttons on his waistcoat.
He could be a real varlet when he wanted to be.
The thought of it drew a toothy grin out of Crowley.
His mind flashed to Aziraphale sitting on that park bench as he, for once in his long lifetime, uncharacteristically bragged with overwhelming giddiness about his Hellish exploits. The mental image of his broad smile and eyes glittering with unadulterated joy in the sunlight spawned pictures of Aziraphale- actual Aziraphale, not an Aziraphale that looked suspiciously like a Crowley- resting in the tub so prim and proper and unperturbed as all of Hell watched him in abject horror. As he looked dead at that wanker Michael, brow almost pleadingly furrowed. Terribly sorry, the version of him in Crowley's mind started, but could I trouble you for a towel? I would normally take care of it myself, but I appear to have found myself in a spot of real bother...
After what he had witnessed in Heaven, Crowley hoped the real Aziraphale had taken the opportunity to be much, much meaner.
He peeked around a corner. A path had been carved out of a pile of books and they were now separated into two neater stacks on either side of the walkway. Aziraphale had been here.
He called the angel's name out again.
At first, there was nothing.
Then, a timid, "Hello?" It came from above, which caught Crowley off-guard.
He waltzed back out into the open. He shaded his eyes from the sunset's glow through the windows above and saw a shadowy shape leaning over the railing of the second floor. "That you, angel?"
"Ah! Crowley!" Aziraphale chirped. He suddenly dashed off and Crowley could hear the resounding thump of something heavy being moved. Distantly, he continued to speak, muffled by the length of dead space between them.
"Can't hear you!"
More thumps and the far-off voice of a bustling angel.
"Yeah, it doesn't help when you keep walking further away."
Aziraphale reappeared above, gripping the railing like a vice as he leaned over and called down almost passive-aggressively at a volume so loud it made Crowley wince, "I said I didn't expect you awake this early!" before darting away once again.
Crowley stumbled searching for a retort with an unsteady groan of uuuuuhhhhh before curtly settling on, "I'm sorry?"
"Oh! Oh, dear me, no, that's not- What I meant to say is- Confound it all, hold that thought!"
"'Cause I could just bugger off right now, you know." The edge in Crowley's voice was rounded out by an air of amusement just barely concealed using oozing sarcasm. "Armageddon's done, I could leave you all alone to your precious books and-"
"Sssh!"
"Did you just shush me, you twat?"
Aziraphale didn't deign to dignify him with a response. Crowley scoffed, his offense only half-feigned.
He stepped farther back and arched his neck so he could make out Aziraphale's shadowy figure speeding from shelf to shelf. He rarely saw the angel in such a state of intense focus, which convinced him to keep his mouth shut; it occurred to him that if he broke Aziraphale's concentration now, the shards wouldn't be able to be pieced back together for the rest of the day and Aziraphale would have either a) made it Crowley's problem or b) really tried to finish whatever his little project was as a distracted mess, ultimately not achieving what he set out to accomplish and honestly, still making it Crowley's problem in the end.
In one arm, Aziraphale cradled a massive binder crammed with enough pages to make it a novel of its own. With his free hand, he counted off books on the shelves, lightly tapping their spines as he made mental notes of what kind of progress he was making and literal notes on the paperwork in his binder. He would occasionally stop on a title, pluck it from the shelf, and consider it for a moment before bounding away and giving it a new home, either on another shelf or in a stack to the side. There were several moments when he would find something it seemed he forgot he had and set his binder aside to flip voraciously through the pages before remembering he had a job to do. Those books would go in a stack of their own, so tall it took a miracle to keep it standing. He hummed absently to himself as he worked.
Crowley soon caught himself less observing and more staring. It wasn't typical demonic staring, either, unblinking and brow so menacingly furrowed that it gave you a headache; his expression felt soft. His eyes may have been slightly crinkled, and his lips curled into the smallest of dreamy smiles, but otherwise, no other demon on Earth or in Hell looked as peaceful as Anthony J. Crowley did at that moment.
He didn't bother to stop himself.
This time yesterday, and the day before, and, Heaven, the week before, neither of them had been entirely certain they were going to see a day like this ever again. They had made it by insane luck but had made it, nonetheless, and maybe, just maybe, there was a new part of him that told him it was okay to take joy in a quiet, strangely domestic moment after what they had been through. The same part of him that was, at heart, just a little bit a good person.
It took several more minutes, but finally, Aziraphale stepped away from the shelves with a triumphant raise of his hand, sighed, set the binder to the side, and stood at just the right angle for Crowley to see him grinning to himself, proud of a job well done. "Right!" he announced. "Be right down!"
Crowley oh-so nonchalantly cleared his throat. He wandered back over to the couch and flopped down, sinking into the sagging cushions and leaning over the couch's arm. As he lackadaisically settled in, there came the sound of fast-approaching hard-soled shoes clacking on a wooden floor, then carpet, then back on the wooden floor. Aziraphale appeared in the corner of Crowley's eye as he busied himself with the blanket by picking it up, folding it, and carefully draping it over his desk chair. Instead of settling down at his desk, as Crowley expected, however, he stepped over the demon's outstretched legs, made a "scooch" motion with his hands, and made himself at home right next to him on the couch. For a second, he froze in surprise as the cushions made a half-effort to pull him in before settling into his best attempt at his typical prim manner of sitting.
Crowley was acutely aware of how close Aziraphale was.
Rather than pointing it out, he began, "What the Heaven were you doing?"
Aziraphale looked over at him, perplexed, but not without a smile. "Inventory. I told you."
"Ah. 'Course. Everything, eh... present and accounted for?"
Aziraphale nodded. He breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness. Of course, I knew wreaking havoc on my collection would be the least of Adam's concerns."
Crowley huffed, bemused.
Aziraphale's eyes darted over to the Richmal Crompton books on display in a neat row on top of his desk. "At least we know he's got a sense of humor," he offered.
There was a long pause.
Crowley and Aziraphale looked over at each other simultaneously, but Crowley was the one who spoke first. "I thought we covered the whole 'uncomfortable silences after surviving the apocalypse' bit already."
"I suppose it's a little different talking about tomorrow and actually living to see it."
A beat. The silence was warping into something awkwardly lingering, words unsaid drifting between them. Crowley began to make an effort to break it, but Aziraphale beat him to the punch.
"I haven't had a morning like this in eleven years."
"Like what?"
"Peaceful. Just... peaceful." He let the word linger for a moment in that wistful way Aziraphale always did when he was trying to make a truly profound point. Crowley allowed it to hover.
"Yeah?" he finally prompted.
"I don't think there's been one single moment I've been at peace since that night you called me about the Antichrist. It's always been one thing or another. Armageddon, mostly." He sighed and forgetting himself for a moment, let himself sink back languidly. "It feels like the weight of the world is finally off my shoulders."
"Don't have to tell me," Crowley pointed out. "I forgot how nice it is to wake up not ticking off another day until the end of life as you know it."
"Or worrying about a surprise visit from Gabriel."
"Or the Dukes of Hell demanding an itemized list of the not-Antichrist's misdeeds."
"Did they really?"
"Might as well have."
They lapsed, for several minutes, into a less edgy silence.
"You know," started Crowley, "the world is completely ours until Heaven and Hell decide to do something about it. And we've got some time until that happens."
"Oh, I know. It's..."
"Wait, hold on, let me guess. A great responsibility? Not something to be taken lightly? Something we're going to screw up so bloody badly?" He shot Aziraphale a playful grin; he was enjoying this greatly.
Aziraphale peered at Crowley with the most mystified gaze, brilliant eyes bright and watery and full of hope. He leaned in, and Crowley felt their shoulders collide. Their knees were touching. "Wonderful."
Based on the funny feeling welling up in his chest, Crowley knew that if his heart had probable cause to beat, it would have been furiously pounding. In the growing sunlight, Aziraphale looked so bright and thrilled and, well, wonderful. It reminded him of the Principality guarding the eastern gate of Eden, gleaming in the sun, powered by a belief in something greater than himself, even if that belief was far from infallible. He was positively brimming with love and hope, and Crowley was possessed by a guard dog instinct to protect it with his very life.
Crowley's dumbfounded expression must have been visible because Aziraphale quickly remembered himself and gently settled back. The angel cleared his throat and quietly (and, in classic Aziraphale fashion, prissily) braved, "I'm glad you're here."
His heart absolutely would have stopped right then and there. And then Aziraphale would have had to phone the emergency line and he would have had to have been resuscitated and dear Lord, would that have been embarrassing to deal with the fallout of, so he was very, very thankful he was immortal.
The much-panicked demon tried to play it off. "That's awfully forward."
"Oh, let me be sentimental, you old serpent!"
"I never said you couldn't be sentimental, I was just saying you're being direct and that's very off-putting after knowing you for 6,000 years."
"I understand. Shame on me for appreciating that my best friend didn't run off to Alpha Centauri like a complete-"
"I'm your best friend?"
"Obviously!"
"Obviously."
Aziraphale didn't bite back. His face was getting red. He actually looked rather flustered.
With a roll of his eyes, Crowley sighed. "I guess," he relented, "I'm glad I stayed, too. Oh, don't look at me like that."
There had been a moment of processing before Aziraphale's frown gave way to a sheepish grin and Crowley thought he would combust. When the angel loved, he loved, and it radiated off of him with the strength of a thousand suns. He was a walking, talking beam of affection. An average demon could never so much as dream of being met with a scant portion of the warmth Crowley was being met with, but thankfully Crowley was far from an average demon, and he was relishing every second behind a nonplussed (or what he hoped was nonplussed and not giddy with an obvious air of Look at how cool I'm being, I'm being so cool, do you see how cool and completely calm and rational I'm acting) facade.
Aziraphale's brow furrowed, although his smile remained intact. "Like what?" Crowley had seen Aziraphale attempt to play dumb dozens of times before, and this was not playing dumb; this was an angel who was genuinely very oblivious to just how much of a lovesick fool he was making himself out to be.
"Nothing."
"No, Crowley, I don't understand. Don't look at you like what?"
Slowly, Crowley turned to face Aziraphale fully and contemplated slamming his foot down on the metaphorical gas pedal.
But it was early. And he was beginning to feel the draw of sleep beginning to come back over him. And Hell's bells, everything about Aziraphale screamed "soft" and he felt dreamy just looking at him.
And maybe, just maybe, a wily part of him wanted Aziraphale to piece the puzzle together for himself. He had waited 6,000 years for the angel to so much as admit they were friends and besides, with himself in Hell's bad books, there wasn't much left to do except wait and see what came with every passing day.
"Forget it," grunted Crowley without contempt, and he unceremoniously let his head fall on Aziraphale's shoulder despite the alarm bells going off in the back of his mind. The angel didn't tense. He simply tutted.
"Oh, you're impossible." Endearment dripped from the words like honey.
"Ssshh."
"And a hypocrite! If you're going to behave like that, then you can let me up."
Crowley grunted once again, already slipping away in a haze of uncharacteristic peace. He had unintentionally leaned further into Aziraphale and made no effort to fix himself.
"Crowley," Aziraphale hissed.
He wasn't dignified with a response. When he shifted to gaze down at Crowley, the demon had gone completely still against his side.
"Oh, good Lord."
Aziraphale knew well and good that pushing Crowley off and keeping him peacefully asleep was a rather simple feat. He was, at best, a heavy sleeper; Aziraphale could have shoved him off onto the floor and unless he really wanted to get back at the angel for such a heinous transgression, Crowley would possibly mumble some discontent yet overall remain out. Besides, he looked the most tranquil Aziraphale had ever seen him, and disrupting the domesticity of the moment felt wrong.
Instead, he sighed and by force of habit, thanked the Almighty for an excuse to keep the shop closed for the day.
As he sat there and basked in the strange aura of love radiating throughout the bookshop, he hoped for a similar excuse tomorrow.