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It was a crisp, autumn night. Soft, warm light radiated from an antique book shop in Soho London.
Inside the cozy shop sat an angel reading a lovely book with an old, brown cover and crackling, yellow pages. On the end table beside him sat thick, chocolaty hot cocoa that never seemed to grow cold held in a white mug with an angel wing handle. How he loved symbolism.
A soft melody emanated from a slowly turning record and a cackling fire illuminated the intimate scene.
In a large, plush chair a few meters away from the angel was a lanky, red-haired demon named Crowley. His auburn waves were pulled back into a messy half bun, and he was pretending to read a thick, black-covered novel; however, his yellow eyes were fixed on the soft, blond haired angel.
The scent of old books, cinnamon, leaves and love permeated the air.
The angel, Aziraphale, broke the calm silence between the two entities. “My dear, if you're going to simply stare at me all night, you may as well just put your book down.”
Heat rushed up Crowley’s face. ‘Ngk,’ he said, unable to form words, sinking into his chair.
Aziraphale just smiled, finally looking up from his book, pleased with his ability to turn the usually confidant, swaggering demon into an embarrassed mess.
“You can come closer to the fire if you wish.” He suggested, patting the space on the couch next to him. Crowley got cold rather easily, and refused to wear anything but skinny, torn, black jeans that provided him no comfort during the chilly winter months.
By this point Crowley had sunk so deep into the cushiony chair that he seemed to be attempting to become invisible. His face was still red with heat, but he glanced hopefully at the spot Aziraphale had motioned too. They had still refused to talk about this, or whatever this was.
“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale said the demon’s name with so much love and so softly that Crowley nearly melted, a feat that was well within his capabilities. “Come here, my dear.”
Crowley slowly rose and slinked over to the tan couch, settling himself on the opposite side of the couch as Aziraphale. He took the warm, oaky cider he was nursing with him, but abandoned his book.
Aziraphale frowned at the distance, but returned to his book.
Crowley's leg jumped up and down. He fidgeted with the edges of his shirt and messed with his ears.
Aziraphale noticed but didn't make a scene, just rested a hand on the demon’s rapidly bouncing knee. Crowley froze with the contact.
Aziraphale’s hand slowly began to rub circles, occasionally brushing against the exposed skin peaking through the tears in Crowley’s jeans.
Crowley allowed Aziraphale to lead his right leg over to the angel’s left so they were pressed against each other. Aziraphale’s hand then shifted to Crowley's waist pulling him a bit closer.
Aziraphale’s conscience made him stop there. He wanted Crowley to initiate the next move, if he wished for it.
They fell back into silence, Aziraphale’s hand rubbing Crowley’s waist as he continued his first edition copy of Jane Austen's Persuasion.
Crowley attempted to stay statue still so as to not cause any of the touching to stop and scare Aziraphale away. He didn't know what to do with this new development in their relationship. Would they just let this happen and never talk about it again? Or would they build off of this, allowing their relationship to bloom from this moment.
This was the first acknowledgement of… whatever this was. An acknowledgement that their relationship was more than just friends. In their six thousand years on the earth, neither of the two entities had learned proper communication skills.
Lost in thought, Crowley began to jiggle his leg again, prompting Aziraphale to pull his hand away. Oh dear, now I've scared him off, the angel assumed.
Urk, you scared him away. Crowley glanced back over at his angel, who appeared invested in his book. Crowley didn't like books. They were difficult to read. Too many words right next to each other, all getting jumbled up in his eyes.
Crowley wanted… He didn't know what he wanted. Ugh, screw it. He slumped against Aziraphale, praying to Satan that the angel would accept this development.
Aziraphale shifted to accommodate his wiley demon without a word, wrapping a hand around his waist and pulling him flush against his side.
Crowley sighed at the acceptance. He knew his Angel loved him, but he was fundamentally a demon, a citizen of Hell, and Aziraphale had always dragged his feet when it came to the undeniable fact that they were on their own side, no Heaven or Hell.
With this assurance of trust, Crowley was finally able to calm, and nuzzled into Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale finished his chapter in silence, reached for the bookmark resting on the end table by his hot cocoa and, marked his page, and set the book aside.
He then pulled Crowley down so he was laying on the couch, head resting in the angel’s lap.
Aziraphale busied himself with running his fingers through Crowley's red hair, gently untangling the few knots in his long, shoulder length waves of auburn. The angel separated a few, small sections of Crowley's hair and braided them, miracle an elastic to tie it off.
He began another as Crowley began to drift off, content in his angel’s arms.
Once Aziraphale was satisfied with the amount of braids, he tapped Crowley's shoulder.
“Hm?” Crowley questioned, sleepily.
“It’s getting late. Perhaps… bed?” Aziraphale tentatively suggested.
Crowley, feeling slightly put out, got up from Aziraphale’s lap. Where had our signals crossed?
He prepared to go back to his cold, lonely apartment; a stark contrast to Aziraphale’s warm, comforting shop, and impossible for him to sleep in without memories of… before invading his brain.
Crowley grabbed his glasses from Aziraphale’s desk. “Well… I guess I'll see you, Angel.”
Aziraphale frowned. Perhaps I should have been clearer. “Well, I was wondering, I was wondering if you would maybe, maybe want to stay here tonight?”
“Here?” Crowley questioned, not wanting this glimmer of hope blooming in his mind to be crushed by Aziraphale’s denial.
“Here.” Aziraphale confirmed.
“With you?” Crowley asked, still stunned by his angel’s candor.
“With me.”
“I do have a spare room if you want.” Aziraphale added, not wanting to scare Crowley off.
“No. With you.”
Aziraphale smiled. “Well in that case, dear boy, I shall have to find you a pair of pajamas to borrow.”
Crowley smiled at his Angel's perfectness.
He slowly closed the distance between them, giving Aziraphale every opportunity to pull away.
A breath away from his angel’s soft lips he asked, “May I kiss you?”
“Of course, my de-.” Aziraphale was cut off by the soft brush of Crowley’s lips who immediately pulled back after the sudden contact.
“I'm sorry, I don't really know how to do this.” The demon ran a hand over his face and stared at the ground. “I don't want it to be bad for you,” He admitted softly.
Aziraphale took Crowley's hand in his own. The demon stared at their joined hands. “My dear, you could never hurt me.”
Aziraphale caressed Crowley’s cheek with his free hand, tracing over the demon’s sharp cheekbones until Crowley’s stunning, yellow eyes found his own.
The angel slowly pulled his demon in until their lips met in a soft, sure kiss and they walked off to bed, together, for the first time in centuries.
There was no distinguishable reason as to why anything had changed. Perhaps it was the perfect autumn day, the changing of the leaves, the crackling of the fireplace. Or perhaps it was the nightingale, singing a cheery tune outside the window in which an angel and a demon could be seen, drifting off to sleep in matching pajamas, the demon snuggled up in his angel’s arms, sleeping contentedly for the first time in centuries.