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The world had survived. Everyone dead, brought back. Everything lost, returned. The Bentley sat glittering with sunshine on the curb, polished to a sheen. A.Z Fell & Co was still on its familiar street corner, not a scorch mark to be found. The days were warm but not too hot, the air clean and refreshing. Couples walked hand in hand down the Soho sidewalks. Cars honked in the streets. The world was born anew again: the same as it was before, but just that little bit better.
Inside the bookshop, the smell of worn paper and decades old dust permeated the air. The sunlight dappled every surface, making the shelves appear to be aglow. Customers were few and far between, and those who did enter did so simply to marvel.
The only two permanent occupants were an angel and a demon, trying to conceptualize their new reality.
The angel, Aziraphale, had fallen back into routine. Dusting shelves, shooing out customers, and reading copious novels for days at a time with breaks only to shake the dust from his shoulders. He made dozens of cups of tea and hot chocolate, visited all of his favorite restaurants and opera houses, put every single one of his records back on the needle. The angel lived again.
And how, you may ask, was the demon spending his new found freedom?
Crowley was pretending to sleep on the bookshop sofa.
He had taken to sleeping there, (actually sleeping there), about a week after the world had failed to end. As much as he loathed to admit it, his heart had begun to pang anytime he had left the bookshop, as if as soon as he turned his back, it would simply disappear. And so, he had spent much of his time holed up inside the bookshop instead of being outside. Sometimes he would wander out with Aziraphale for lunch or dinner, for a day at the cinema or a night at the theater, but hardly ever would he venture out alone. He worried he had begun to follow Aziraphale around like a lost dog, but the angel had yet to mention it.
The sofa sat in the backroom, cloaked from the wandering eyes of customers and awash in pleasant light from the windows. The backroom had always been a place of comfort for Crowley since he and Aziraphale’s first night drinking in it. It was soaked with memories of victory celebrations, complaints of head offices, loose tongues and unburdened laughter. It was one of the only places on earth they could be themselves, together. And now, even with the whole world at their fingertips, Crowley found himself spending his time holed up in that space of comfort, constantly reassuring himself of its unburnt survival.
Crowley was aware of the new freedoms the averted apocalypse brought them. No need to tiptoe around each other. No more holding their breaths. Crowley kept waiting for the pin to drop, for Aziraphale to address all they had been through, of what this new freedom meant. But Aziraphale seemed inclined to pretend the almost apocalypse had never happened, and for the most part, that was fine by Crowley.
Except for the fact of 6000 years of romantic tension, which had yet to be addressed.
And so, Crowley wallowed in his joy and misery of things said and things unsaid by spending his days napping on the backroom sofa. If Aziraphale wanted to change the nature of their relationship, he would do so. And Crowley would be asleep until he did.
At least he would have, until three days ago.
—
After several hours of heavy day drinking, Crowley had collapsed on the sofa, which might as well have been his new bed. His wine glass had begun to droop from his lax hand, slowly tipping before falling from his fingers, disappearing into thin air before it hit the floor. He groaned, rubbing at his throbbing temples, and curled up on his side on the couch, glasses crushed into his cheek.
Aziraphale had gone quiet several minutes ago, appearing to be studying the spackle on the ceiling. His face was flushed with alcohol, and his eyes held an almost childish wonder that they only took on when he was drunk. Crowley watched him with alcohol-heavy eyes for several minutes, studying the way the light caressed his skin. The only sounds were the cars going past and their own breaths, long and lethargic, almost in tandem.
Crowley's eyes closed and he began to drift, floating on waves of hazy intoxication. When he was nearly asleep, he heard the familiar creak of Aziraphale’s favorite chair, then the click, click, click, of his shoes upon the floor. Crowley could feel the air shift as Aziraphale hovered above him, sense his warm breath on his cheek. He heard Aziraphale sigh, a content sigh, one he often uttered after seeing a furry animal.
His sunglasses were gently lifted from where they’d been crushed under his cheek, and a warm blanket was tucked neatly over his shoulders. Aziraphale returned to hover over his face. His breath stuttered once, as if in hesitation. Then a warm, calloused hand pushed back the mop of hair from his forehead, and a gentle kiss was placed on his temple.
“Goodnight, my dear,” he heard, as if from far away. “Dream of whatever you like best.”
And then there was nothing.
When he woke the next morning, he was sure it was a product of his imagination. Crowley had had similar dreams since the fourteenth century. But then, as he slumped into a sitting position, a soft tartan blanket fell across his lap. On the coffee table sat his sunglasses, neatly folded and appearing to be recently cleaned. And as he raised his hand to forehead with wavering fingertips, his temple began to tingle.
It was real. It had to have been. And yet, after all these years, part of Crowley still believed he had dreamed it up. His own sunglasses, the damning evidence, glared back at him. So it was real, then. Was it a fluke? A symptom of drunken thoughtlessness? But then why had Aziraphale’s steps sounded so steady? Why had his voice been so clear? Crowley remembered the sensation of his breath on his face, that moment of hesitation.
Aziraphale had sobered up. That was the only explanation. Aziraphale had sobered up, gently taken his glasses off, tucked him in, and kissed him on the forehead.
Crowley’s brain reeled with his revelation and with his burgeoning hangover. Why? Why now, months after the end of the world, and when Aziraphale thought he was asleep? Crowley needed to know.
To simply go up and ask the angel, well, that would be completely besides the point. Aziraphale might ignore him, might say it actually was a figment of his imagination. He might get nervous, fiddle with his bowtie and run off saying something about “stocking in the basement,” and not talk to Crowley for a week. No, this needed a careful hand, something unnoticeable, something Aziraphale wouldn’t expect.
And so, Crowley devised a plan: he would go to the back room and lie down, but he wouldn’t actually sleep . And when Aziraphale, unsuspecting of his schemes, came to lean down and press another kiss to his forehead Crowley would…do something. He hadn’t figured that part out yet. Ask him where he got the nerve to treat him like a child at bedtime? Yell at him for trying to kiss unsuspecting sleeping people? Pull him back for another one? Kiss him on the forehead?
The “after” part didn’t matter. What mattered now was catching Aziraphale in the act.
—
And so now, three days later, plan concocted and formulated to perfection, here Crowley lay, pretending to sleep on the sofa. He listened to the noise of Aziraphale shuffling around the bookshop: dusting shelves, humming to his records, the occasional hurried removal of a customer. He sunk deeper into the couch cushions, reveling in the daylight warming his body through the window. No matter how much he tried, he could never get rid of that reptilian urge to soak up the sun. Hours passed. Hours without Aziraphale calling his name, hours without Aziraphale taking a single step into the backroom, and most importantly, hours without a kiss on the forehead.
It was at this point, Crowley realized his biggest mistake. He had forgotten to factor one vital problem into his plan: how difficult it was to pretend to fall asleep without actually falling asleep.
With no small amount of panic, he realized his limbs were falling into the limp clutch of slumber, his brain muddled and foggy, his head as heavy as lead. Half of his brain struggled, flopped around angrily like a fish out of water. The other half serenely opened its arms to embrace the warm loving touch of sleep. His fish brain fought, thrashed, reared its angry head in a snarl of just a little bit longer! That’s the thing about fighting though, it only makes you more tired. Crowley’s sane mind gave one more cry of indignation before he promptly passed out.
When his eyes blinked open again, the shades were pulled across the windows, faint beams of starlight passing through the slats. The dust had settled on the shelves, the world quiet except for the whizzing of the cars outside. On the coffee table were his neatly folded glasses. On his lap lay a cozy tartan blanket. And on his forehead, he felt a tingle.
“Dammit,” Crowley muttered.
“Did you say something, Crowley?”
Crowley nearly jumped out of his skin. Across the low table sat Aziraphale in his favorite evening chair, book laid across his lap and useless spectacles perched upon his nose. A lamp illuminated half of his face, dancing across the line of his nose and jaw.
“Fucking hell, angel, you scared the shit out of me. How long have you been sitting there?”
Aziraphale licked his finger and turned a page, never once looking up. “Oh, not very long,” he said airily. “Four hours, perhaps.”
Crowley huffed. “Been watching me sleep, have you?”
Aziraphale’s head finally raised, his eyes narrowed and nose wrinkled. “I’ve been reading, obviously. It’s not my fault you’ve chosen my favorite reading spot to be your new bedroom.” He turned back to his book, using his finger to scan the page for where he’d left off. “I can’t imagine something more uninteresting than watching someone sleep. I might as well watch paint dry. Well,” he paused, a smile flickering on his face. “It is quite entertaining when you talk, I must admit.”
Crowley sputtered. “Sorry?”
“When you talk in your sleep,” Aziraphale said mildly, flipping through his book.
“I do not talk in my sleep!”
“Yes, you do. I’ve heard you say the most outrageous things. I ought to start writing them down,” he chuckled.
Crowley swung his legs off the side of the couch and leaned over his knees. “Cut the shit, angel, I don’t talk in my sleep.”
Aziraphale calmly marked his page and closed his book, eyes twinkling. Crowley knew that look; it was the look he had when he knew they were about to get into it. “I’m sorry that you’ve taken the news so badly but yes, you do.”
“Bullshit!”
“You were doing it not even half an hour ago.”
Crowley hesitated, then, “Oh yeah, then what’d I say?”
“I believe it was something about monkeys. About how they have opposable thumbs but too stupid of brains to use them,” he said, straightening his waistcoat absently. “‘They can’t even drive cars,’ you said. You seemed rather upset by it.”
Crowley blinked. He felt his face going red. “You’re serious.”
Aziraphale’s smile turned softer. “I’m afraid so. I noticed about forty years ago. You were asleep on this same sofa, in fact. Gave me quite a fright when you started screaming about sea lions scratching up your car.” Aziraphale rose with a groan, stretching his back. He walked towards the wine cellar, pausing at the sofa. He placed a gentle hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, dear. Your secret’s safe with me.”
Crowley shrugged his hand off with a grumble. “Shut up.”
Aziraphale laughed then. It was a slightly new laugh, one Crowley had only begun to hear recently, after Armageddon. It felt lighter, yet deeper. As if all the laughter he had pent up was finally able to be let go. There was no guilt in that laugh, no fear. It felt free.
Their eyes held each other's for a long moment, before Aziraphale shook himself and began to head for the cellar. “Are you awake enough for wine, then?”
“You’re gonna give me alcohol poisoning one of these days.”
Aziraphale called from below, “I’ll take that as a yes.”
—
On the second night of his experiment, Crowley threw all the pillows and blankets off of the couch. He debated throwing the cushions too, but reasoned that would be suspicious. He laid down with his head against one stiff armrest and his legs thrown awkwardly over the other. It was definitely more uncomfortable. This was the solution, thought Crowley. There was no way he could fall asleep like this.
Within two hours he was out like a light.
He woke to a plush velvet pillow tucked under his head, multiple blankets wrapped around his shoulders, and his hair tucked neatly behind his ears. Aziraphale sat across the room, drinking a cup of tea with the newspaper in hand.
On the third night of his experiment, Crowley went out on the town. He pulled the scratchiest sequined dress out of his closet, wore the tightest boots that cut the blood flow from his feet, and entered the grimiest bar in Soho where it was impossible to leave without contracting some kind of disease. When he came back to the bookshop at four in the morning, he was a different being entirely. His body was soaked in sweat and alcohol, feet throbbing in his shoes, and hair tangled with confetti, cigarette ash, and a small amount of vomit. He hadn’t felt this uncomfortable in three hundred years. He entered the backroom, no Aziraphale in sight, miracled a pillow that might as well have been a rock under his head, and readied himself to wait.
The dress scratched at his skin, boots strangling the blood from his feet. The smell emanating from his hair almost made him gag.
He lasted five hours.
He woke wearing a fresh set of black tartan pajamas, a pair of snake themed slippers, and with his hair smelling of apples.
On the fourth night of his experiment, Crowley asked Aziraphale into the backroom for some light drinking. Aziraphale politely refused, saying he had much shelving and stock taking to do, but Crowley could help himself. Using his effortless suave charm, Crowley tried to beg him without making it obviously apparent that he was begging. Aziraphale refused.
Crowley drank three bottles of scotch and passed out on the couch after an hour. In his dreams, he was back in the Garden, sitting under the apple tree with Aziraphale, wings intertwined, Aziraphale shielding him from the drizzling rain.
When he woke, a white blanket was laid over him, soft as feathers.
On the fifth night of his experiment, Crowley was losing patience. He needed to do something rash, something noticeable.
Aziraphale’s armchair winked at him from the corner of the room.
The sunlight lit the gold accents on fire, the cushion the deep maroon of aged wine. It was inviting, cozy, and the only chair Crowley was not allowed to sit in. He’d tried before, many times over the years, just to see Aziraphale pout and scold him. But what would he do if Crowley was apparently asleep? Shake him awake? Hit him with the duster? Only one way to find out.
He settled into the chair, feeling the old worn cushion compress under his weight. He curled up in a loose ball, legs thrown over one arm and head bent upside down over the other. He felt the lithe stretch of his neck, the blood pooling in his temples. Any human person wouldn’t be able to hold the pose for more than a minute. Even Crowley found it slightly uncomfortable, but then he smelt that familiar scent, of fancy tea, paper glue and crumbling pages. This close to the window, the sun beared down directly on his face. He felt warm, safe, homey. He could almost feel the warmth of Aziraphale here, bathed in sun and surrounded by the scents that followed him everywhere.
Crowley was asleep within twenty minutes.
When he woke, he found himself lying on the sofa. Not the armchair, the sofa . Had Aziraphale…no he couldn’t have. Aziraphale had definitely not picked him up and moved him.
Crowley sat up quickly, avoided Aziraphale on the way out, and took a very cold shower in his apartment.
—
It was useless. Night after night after night. Failure after failure after failure. Crowley had been trying to sleep more this past week than his entire existence and he had never felt so tired. He was ready to give up. It was a one time thing, either a figment of his imagination, or a chance encounter of drunken thoughtlessness.
He had to give it one last try. He’d sleep directly on the floor this time, miracle the air vents to churn out frosty cold air and open all the windows. He couldn’t sleep while that cold; nobody could. But just as a precaution, Crowley brought a pillow stuffed with nails to sleep on, a blanket made of warbling sheet metal, and a teddy bear infested with lice to keep him up. Nothing was stopping him now.
He slunk into the backroom, reinforcements tucked under his arm, ready to end this.
Aziraphale was sat in his armchair.
He had a book in hand and a mug of hot chocolate by his side, glasses perched on his nose and a tartan blanket laid across his lap. A faint, content smile played on his lips. Crowley stopped in his tracks. The bundle of supplies vanished from his arms. A few stray lice fell to the floor and escaped beneath the floorboards.
“Angel,” Crowley said.
Aziraphale didn’t even look up. “Crowley.”
Crowley stood there awkwardly, like a nauseous child debating whether to wake up their parents. He shuffled his feet, swayed lightly on his heels. Aziraphale turned a page.
He grasped for a new plan, mind scrambling through thousands of different outcomes on the spot. Leave? Stay? Sink through the floor? Then his brain stopped. This was where he had gone wrong before, what his plan was missing: besides that first time, Aziraphale had never been in the room when he faked his sleep. That was his problem, the fatal flaw, why it had all gone wrong. This was it now. This was his chance.
Crowley cleared his throat, crossing his arms and leaning back against a bookshelf behind him. “Was thinking of getting some sleep,” he said casually.
“Mhm,” Aziraphale said absently, taking a sip from his mug.
“Didn’t want my sleep talking to bother your precious reading time.”
Aziraphale pushed his glasses further up his nose. “No, that’s fine dear. Get some rest.”
Crowley waited, for Aziraphale to notice his sweaty skin, his trembling fingertips. Instead, the angel leaned closer to his novel, letting out a gasp at some new plot twist. Crowley grumbled, snatching the fluffy blanket from the top of the couch and throwing himself down upon the cushions. His hand reached up for his glasses, debating, before he removed them and set them down on the coffee table.
His head lay cushioned on the soft pillows, his face turned toward the light of Aziraphale’s reading lamp. When he closed his eyes, the light played tricks on the inside of his eyelids, flashes of colors against the warm yellow light. He heard the sound of Aziraphale turning pages. He listened to the sound of his own breath. Despite the circumstances, the war to stay awake in Crowley’s head, it was nice to simply…exist with Aziraphale. They had no worries over getting caught, of saying or doing something dangerous that could put them in danger. They simply existed in the same space, together in the same room simply because they could . It was almost…domestic.
Crowley shook the thought from his head. He shook everything from his head. He simply drifted, sleeping, but not.
Time went on. The grandfather clock ticked. One hour. Two hours. Three hours. Four. He watched the world dim beneath his eyelids, heard the noise of the streets turn from bustling shoppers to giggling drunks. The traffic became a hum, only interrupted by a page turn or a sip of hot chocolate. Tick, tick, tick, tick. The clock struck again. Five.
Aziraphale’s book shut with a snap. The old armchair groaned. He heard the click, click, click of his shoes. Within seconds, Crowley was wide awake.
Click, click, click, click. Closer, and closer, and closer, and closer. Until they stopped, right before the couch, hovering above Crowley’s head. He felt Aziraphale lean over, felt his hot breath rustle the fine hairs on his forehead. This was it, what all those sleepless hours were for. Aziraphale got closer, closer, closer. His warm hand pushed the hair off Crowley’s forehead. He leaned in, closer, closer, until his lips almost touched Crowley’s skin, and said,
“Crowley. Why are you pretending to sleep on the sofa?”
Crowley’s useless heart stopped beating. His superfluous lungs halted in his chest. Perhaps if he feigned sleep even harder, Aziraphale would simply never bring it up again.
Aziraphale waited, hunched over him and sending hot breath down his ear. The silence stretched to an uncomfortable length. Crowley’s adrenaline began to spike, his heart starting up again in his chest, like a train rolling across the tracks until it picked up speed and turned into a thunderous chugging.
The silence became thick and uncomfortable, choking. The clock ticked, ticked, ticked, beneath the rushing in his ears. Aziraphale leaned an inch away, enough that he could breath. “Crowley, I know that you’re awake.”
Crowley fought to open his tightening throat. “Hm?” he managed.
“You’re pretending to sleep.”
“...M’not.”
“You are.”
“M’not.”
Aziraphale heaved a sigh and sat down on the edge of the sofa. He left his hand on Crowley’s arm. “I think you’ve been pretending to sleep in here for the past week, my dear.”
Crowley sniffed, turning over slightly on his side. He pushed his face into the cushions. The musty smell of the dust helped calm him, slowed his brain enough to think, barely. His only plan was deny, deny, deny. “Don’ know why you’d think that,” he said, muffled by the pillows. “Jus’ catchin’ up on sleep. That’s all.”
“Everytime you get up from your nap, you look even more exhausted than when you went to bed.”
“Just been having trouble sleepin’,” he murmured. Deny, deny deny. “Demonic insomnia. Look it up.”
Aziraphale sighed again. “You don’t have to lie to me Crowley. I think I know what’s been going on.”
Deny, deny, deny– what? Crowley paused. He lifted his head from the cushions, blinked in the light. “You do?”
“And I want you to know it's nothing to be ashamed of.”
Crowley squinted up at him. “...right.”
“It’s quite a common occurrence, really,” Aziraphale said, patting his shoulder. “At least for humans. I've never heard of a demon experiencing the affliction, but I’m sure it's not implausible. I’ve been trying to help ever since I became aware of your trouble, but I’m not sure–”
“Hold on, hold on,” Crowley said, sitting up. “Help me with what?”
“Your nightmares, of course.” The corner of Aziraphale’s mouth twitched up, his eyes softened. Reassuring, kind. Ever the angel. “I assume they began after all the kerfuffle with armageddon. Quite dreadful. I can see how the events would weigh on your conscience. Or unconscious, I suppose–”
“ That’s what you’ve been doing?” Crowley barked. “Trying to cure my nightmares?”
Aziraphale’s smile deflated a bit. “Of course. I know you tend to sleep in…abnormal positions, but this week your sleeping arrangements have been positively nightmarish. I thought making you more comfortable would help you sleep.”
“And that’s the whole reason for…the thing?”
His brows knit together, “What thing?”
“Fucking Christ–the tuck me in and kiss me on the forehead thing!”
“Well, that’s just custom.”
Crowely groaned, falling back onto the couch with his hands over his eyes. He pushed the heels of his palms into the sockets until he saw stars. “I haven’t been having nightmares, angel.”
“Oh.” They were silent. Crowley listened to Aziraphale’s mind whirr for several seconds. “Then why haven’t you been sleeping?”
“None of your concern,” Crowley spat.
All for nothing. It wasn’t a dream, or a bit of drunken nonsense, it was simply Aziraphale being Aziraphale, always the angel, the helping hand. No ulterior motive. No longing for a touch. Just simple kindness, a gift Aziraphale spreads wherever he goes.
And that shouldn't make him angry. He should be thankful, to have such a thoughtful friend. But the disappointment only kept rising up his throat like bile.
Aziraphale took his hand from Crowley’s arm and closed it tightly around his own knee. “I’m sorry, Crowley.” His tone softened, all brightness gone. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“No, no,” Crowley said, shaking his head against the cushions. “I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just…frustrated.” All for nothing, but that wasn’t Aziraphale’s fault. Maybe the solution in all this wasn’t crafting plans and hoping for the best. Maybe the only way into Aziraphale’s thick skull was through direct, gooey confessions. The thought made Crowley want to vomit.
He looked up into Aziraphale’s clear blue eyes, watery at the corners, searching Crowley’s for an answer. Denying those eyes was like kicking a confused puppy. His quiet mantra shifted, becoming a choice he had never had the strength to face, to even consider. He closed his eyes as his mind whispered, confess, confess, confess, confess.
Crowley took a deep breath, and told him the truth. “This whole time I thought you were… I dunno,” he flung an arm over his eyes. “Kissing me goodnight.”
“I mean…I was.”
“Not like that.”
“Then like what?”
Crowley stared at him. He stared at him real hard. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows.
Why, thought Crowley, not for the first time, why him? “For fuck’s sake, in a romantic way, Aziraphale.”
“...Oh.”
“Fucking Hell,” Crowley grumbled for possibly the fifteenth time that afternoon.
“That was not…my intention.”
“Yeah, I got that already, angel.”
Aziraphale sat up straighter, fiddled with his ring. His eyes focused somewhere a few feet beyond Crowley’s head. “And… that was what was keeping you up?” His eyes flickered back down, meeting Crowley’s. “The notion that it could be… bothered you that much?” he whispered.
“No, no,” he rose to a sitting position, rubbing at his exposed eyes. His glasses winked at him invitingly from the table. He averted their dark gaze, set his eyes back on Aziraphale instead. Confess, confess, confess, confess. “No, obviously not. It was… the opposite, sort of.”
“The opposite?”
Crowley cleared his throat, stared very, very hard at a stray thread on Aziraphale’s coat. His mind flurried with warring sides, confess, deny, confess, deny, confess. He squeezed his eyes closed. “I was uh, trying to catch you in the act but I kept falling asleep.”
Aziraphale stared. Blinked. And then began to laugh harder than Crowley had ever heard him, not in 6000 years. He threw his head back, clutching his stomach, shoulders shaking.
“Oh, fuck off!” Crowley threw a pillow at him.
Aziraphale caught it against his stomach as his giggles began to subsided. “Crowley,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
Crowley scratched the back of his neck. “I dunno. Thought I might've just dreamed it up.”
Aziraphale snorted again before Crowley’s glare made him school his face into something resembling ‘this is supposed to be a serious conversation.’
“My dear,” Aziraphale said, mouth still wobbly at the corners, as he gently took up Crowley’s hand in both of his. Crowley stared down at them, judging the way their skin tones melded together, the way Aziraphale’s stubby fingers fit in against his slender ones. He’d always imagined Aziraphale’s hands would be soft, heavenly, perfect. But they were slightly rough, calloused with centuries of flipping pages. There were pen stains on his fingertips. His skin radiated warmth like the sun.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, making him look up. “I know sometimes I can be…”
“Incredibly obtuse?”
“ Socially ignorant, I would prefer,” he retorted. “It wasn’t my intention these past few nights to…” he pursed his lips, searching the ceiling beams for guidance. “To lead you to that conclusion that you arrived upon.”
“The conclusion that I arrived upon?” Crowley said incredulously.
“You know what I mean! Now shush.”
Crowley mimed zipping his lips closed.
“It wasn’t my intention ,” Aziraphale continued, “but I can say the thought of such things wasn't far from my mind.” He took a breath. “This world, it's so different now, for us at least. It's new,” he said, head turning up to the ceiling, like he could see through the bookshop to the whole new sky above them. “I’ve been struggling to figure out what I want to do with all this new freedom.” He stopped, mouth working at all the words stuck inside his throat.
“And,” Crowley began, “ such things …would be something you want now?”
“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale said gently, threading their fingers together. “I’ve always wanted.” He ran his thumb along the side of Crowley’s palm. “I suppose I’ve been trying to grapple with what I’m allowed to have.”
“Everything, anything” Crowley said, probably a bit too quickly. “I mean – within reason, of course.”
Aziraphale chuckled. His smile was glowing. All of him was glowing, really; the lamp behind his head wreathing him in a bloom of light. “What do you want, then? Are you still waiting on that goodnight kiss?”
Crowley pretended to consider it. “Hm. Don’t know if I’m even tired after all that.”
“Well,” Aziraphale said, suddenly sheepish, “I could kiss you…a different place.” He reached up, tapped his thumb on Crowley’s lips. “Here, if you like…”
Crowley tried very hard. He tried very , very hard not to laugh. Then a snort escaped his throat, and he doubled over in a fit of cackling.
Aziraphale smacked him on the shoulder. “Oh, please, that’s enough. I thought it was romantic.” Aziraphale pouted.
Crowley wheezed, gasping for air. “That was horrible! The worst pick-up line I’ve ever heard!”
“Would you shut up, for once,” Aziraphale huffed, as he pulled Crowley’s snickering mouth up to his own in a firm kiss.
Crowley hummed, mouth still stretched in a grin. Aziraphale’s hands curved along the lines of his jaw, Crowley’s own threading through the cloud of hair he’d always longed to touch. They pulled apart, foreheads leaned against each other. Aziraphale gently tilted Crowley’s head down, and pressed his mouth to his temple.
“Now no more sleeping in my chair,” he murmured.
“I’ll try,” Crowley lied, leaning his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder.
And when the warm touch of sleep began to take hold of his body, surrounded by Aziraphale’s arms, the angel’s cheek resting upon his head, for the first time in a week, Crowley did not fight it. He sank into Aziraphale’s side, warm and content, and slept. The last thing he remembered was a kiss, just a brush of a smile, pressed upon his forehead.