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The Siesta
How could he be tired? Crowley wondered. They were celestial beings, older than time itself. There was no way in hell–or heaven–to be tired of the commonalities of human life.
Yet, Aziraphale yawned, and all Crowley could think of was how soft it would be to wake up beside him.
“I've come to enjoy the ‘siesta’ as they call it in Latin America,” Aziraphale mentioned before pressing his lips into the tiniest self-indulgent smile that followed a stumble into temptation.
Crowley watched Aziraphale move towards the stairs, stop by the window to check his watch, and the dusty window frame him like a canvas hanging on a gallery. Crowley tried to look at him like always. He tried to see nothing but the uptight angel who was obnoxious enough to say things like “siesta” and hoard books like a dragon.
He tried. But as the dust specs shone in the sunlight from the west window, so did the angel. The glow around his smoothness turned him into this heart that Crowley couldn't seize to watch. Aziraphale was talking, but Crowley couldn't hear him. Yet he smiled faintly so his friend wouldn't feel lonely in the conversation. It wasn't his fault that Crowley was a mess and his attention was all over the place.
Except that… yes, it was. It was utterly and entirely Aziraphale’s fault. He, with his welcoming smile, friendly curls, and inviting eyes. How dare he be so friendly-shaped and annoying? Who gave him the right to stand there, in the sun, looking like all the warm things Crowley ever needed?
But how could a demon not be afraid of warmth when all he'd ever known were the scorching flames of hell?
“Fine!” Crowley snapped in an attempted murder of the feelings bubbling up to the surface. “Take your stupid little nap. Be a toddler for all I care. It's not like we're doing anything important at all!”
He regretted it, as he usually did, fairly quickly. Aziraphale's cheeks lost their giddy plumpness, and his smile fell. With raised eyebrows and clipped words, he excused himself and went upstairs.
Crowley felt his blood freezing in his veins and his stomach churning within. Odd sensations for a celestial being, although that was the power of his guilt.
Crowley tossed his glasses over a desk and dragged his hand over his face as if it would wipe the frustration clean. It didn't.
He had hurt Aziraphale's feelings. Again. He was a menace. He deserved nothing short of a holy water shower. No wonder he had fallen in disgrace. How could he look into the angel's starry eyes and act like a complete and absolute–
“Well?” The voice came from the landing on the stairs. Crowley looked up. His shameful eyes met Aziraphale’s determined gaze.
“Well, what?” Crowley looked down and did his best to hide his guilt within the poor performance of aloofness.
“Well, are you coming?”
The world stopped. Probably. Not even a butterfly batted its wings while Crowley attempted to make sense of those words.
“Coming to…”
“Bed, Crowley.” Silence filled the room, the street, the entire city.
“Why?” Crowley should have learned to stop asking questions when blessings fell on his lap. He's still working on that.
“Because I think you'll be far less critical of the ‘siesta’ if you tried it yourself.”
Oh, that's what it was, Crowley thought as his breathing resumed and his heart relocated in his chest. “Angel, we don't sleep,” said the demon who couldn't leave well enough alone.
“You know we can if we choose to. Just like food or drinks. You taught me that; don't play innocent with me now.” If Crowley had been a more observant demon, he would have noticed that Aziraphale was trying to tempt him into a nap. He might have responded with some witty comeback about demons, angels, and who's supposed to do the temping. But all he could think about was how to say yes to that.
So he did.
His clothes wouldn't wrinkle if Crowley didn't let them, but he still hung his jacket by the door. He kicked off his shoes and sat on the bed. Aziraphale did the same behind him. Crowley's heart jumped when the weight of the mattress changed behind him.
“Lay down, Crowley,” Aziraphale begged as he did the same. Crowley let his head touch the pillow and closed his eyes. He heard a quiet huffed-out laugh beside him.
“What's so funny, angel?”
“Oh, nothing.” His voice was quieter than usual, velvety. “I just never took you for a stiff log sleeper.”
Crowley opened his eyes at that. He turned to find his angel looking at him so fondly that his chest hurt. “What–” he cleared his throat. “What did you take me for?”
“Honestly? A little spoon.”
“A little spoon?!” Crowley was affronted. It was annoying to be read so clearly. Aziraphale was right; he would have loved to be held within his arms, but he was not about to admit it. “Are you mad? I'm a demon, a scary, evil creature. I'm not a little spoon. I'm not a little anything. If anything, I'm a big spoon!”
That was not what he meant. At all. But when Aziraphale smiled like a ray of sunshine through the fog, he was not about to correct himself.
“Marvelous.” Aziraphale turned his back on Crowley.
There was barely a hint of sun leaking through the shades, still, Crowley saw every detail of the room. He committed all to memory. His most precious possession was not his car anymore now that he owned that moment in time.
Crowley hugged him. He let his arm enclose Aziraphel's chest and rested his face on the blond curls. Aziraphel smelled like soap bubbles and lemonade. He felt like the perfect song for the most beautiful story ever written. He fitted into Crowley's arms like a granted wish on a dying man's heart.
Eternity wasn't long enough to satiate the need to stay still in that moment. If it were up to him Crowley would have remained there, holding the most precious being ever created for ages and evermore.
For the first time since the beginning of time, a demon smiled while an angel snored. And everything fell into place, as it always should have.