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Aziraphale manifested right in Crowley's apartment, inside his bedroom. Muriel had told him his friend was planning on sleeping until the Second Coming, so it was no surprise to find him lying in bed, completely senseless. It was not new for Crowley to spend an inordinate amount of time sleeping, even though as an demon, he didn't need it. He had slept through most of the nineteenth century. There had been a little spat there too.
Was this a spat? Was this little?
Would Crowley ever forgive him for becoming a Supreme Archangel?
Aziraphale looked at Crowley. He had gone to bed fully dressed, with his too-tight jeans and a black turtleneck. He looked peaceful and beautiful. With his eyes closed, you couldn't tell if he was a demon or an angel.
To be fair, Aziraphale thought he wasn't truly either.
At first, he decided to sit on his bed, looking at his friend and trying to reassure himself. He'd done the right thing. He'd gone to Heaven to protect him, after all. But was it worth it? To know that they would never speak again?
Aziraphale was so tired. Heaven's bidding was an endless, thankless job and he felt so alone. He only had Muriel, and he couldn't trust her like he had trusted Crowley.
With his life, with his shortcomings, with his feelings.
He lied down next to Crowley, for just a moment. He would allowed himself just this minute of weakness, just this taste of what could have been. Crowley didn't react, still in the depths of sleep. Perhaps he had taken a pill or two. It wouldn't be unlike him.
Aziraphale had feared Crowley would go looking for Holy Water, but surprisingly he hadn't. It gave him the tinsiest bit of hope.
Crowley shuffled and whispered, anxious inside his dreams. Without even thinking, Aziraphale hugged him tight, the nooks and crannies of their bodies fitting together. How he had long to be this close to him. To touch him, to smell him. They'd only been this close once before, and Aziraphale thought about it constantly. The kiss, the infamous kiss, it made him so angry. He wanted to kiss Crowley in a way that wasn't angry or desperate. He wanted to kiss him in a way that mattered, in a way that told him I'm here. I've always been here. I'll always be here. I belong to you.
He wanted the purity of the unconditional, undying love they both had for each other.
How wrong that kiss had been.
And yet Aziraphale couldn't help but remember the feeling of Crowley's lips on his own. The warmth of his chosen human body. The softness of his blazer.
In Aziraphale's embrace, Crowley had become quiet. He must have found safety within his dreams. Maybe he was dreaming of Heaven. Most likely he was dreaming of Earth or Alpha Centauri. He didn't mean to, but Aziraphale fell asleep as well. Something about Crowley's rythmic breathing had made him feel relaxed, luring him to sleep. When he woke up, Crowley's arm had moved, and it was now partially on top of his, their hands locked together. He couldn't help but squish his hand and delight at the feeling of Crowley's exquisitely long fingers.
If he noticed, he didn't move.
Aziraphale allowed himself just a few more minutes of bliss.
Wherever he was going after, it was Hell.
Because being here, as close to Crowley as he could be, this was his Heaven.
The Angel though he hadn't noticed. As if a few pills would do much for a demon with a high tolerance. He'd noticed him the very first second.
He was still too angry, too devastated to talk to him, so he feigned sleep. He only needed to keep his breathing steady, his body as unmovable as Aziraphale's will.
He had expected the Angel to leave then. After all, there was nothing here for him.
Nothing lasts forever.
So, when he got in the bed, Crowley couldn't help but startle a bit. He managed to only fuss a little, trying to pass it off as a drug-induced nightmare. And then...
The Angel had hugged him, tight, every part of his body pressed against him.
How he had dreamed of being held like this.
For an Eternity, he hadn't dared speak this into existence. He was too much of a coward, too devoured by his fears. He hadn't had the courage to ask for what he wanted, for what he needed. He had been content to settle for what they could actually have. He had hoped, of course. He had hoped the Angel would finally truly see him for who he was. For how he felt.
But it hadn't gone like that, had it?
For the first time in centuries, they weren't even speaking. He knew the Angel wouldn't try to wake him, or visit him when he was fully awake. None of them was ready for a conversation. None of them was ready to forgive yet.
So, for the second time in several millennia, Crowley decided to be selfish. He did a little demonic miracle of his own.
The Angel fell asleep.
Crowley grabbed his arm, interlocking his fingers on Aziraphale's hand. He took in the scent, the warmth. He reveled in feeling the Angel's embrace. He felt safe, even though, deep down, he knew he wasn't.
Just like their kiss, this embrace was made to be broken.
The only reason he hadn't had a Holy bath yet was because he was convinced Aziraphale would need him. Even if he didn't call for him, he would need him.
And he intended to be there, like he always was.
The Angel might have shattered his heart, but his love for him... Love that survives for millennia cannot be crushed that easily.
He miracled his own sleep, his own little piece of Heaven, knowing that, when he woke up, the Angel would be gone, and he would be back in Hell.