Chapter Text
The large windows facing the coast carried a salty tang of the sea breeze into the room. Sunlight danced upon the azure waves outside, while on the other end, the golden rays of the afternoon sun poured through the westward archway, illuminating the courtyard beyond—a vision of white colonnades, marble columns, and a pool paved with vivid mosaics. Though disparate in style, both views were equally serene and breathtaking.
Yet, the two figures tangled together inside had little interest in admiring the scenery—or the feast left half-finished on the Roman-style couch before them. Judging by the array of empty amphorae strewn across the floor, it was rather clear they had long abandoned the notion of dining in favour of drinking. Or perhaps, simply drunk themselves past the point of appetite.
Crowley’s dark toga, in stark contrast to the pale garments typical of Roman citizens, hung loosely from one shoulder, revealing a lean, well-toned torso. His large hands traced a striking contrast against the ivory skin beneath him. The neatly curled red hair, once slicked back with care, now tumbled into disarray, much like his breath—heavy and uneven from the heat of their kisses.
Suddenly, Crowley pulled away, sitting up with a sharp breath, breaking the feverish rhythm between them.
“If we go any further, you’ll regret it, angel.”
Even as he said "this must stop", the slitted golden eyes—wide and wild with excitement—resembled those of a predator mid-pounce, glowing with dangerous intent.
And the angel beneath him was hardly in better shape. Her once neatly arranged hair had long since fallen loose; platinum strands flowed like silk, nearly blending into the flushed skin of her arms. The pale palla that had once modestly draped her limbs now lay crumpled beneath her, reduced to nothing more than a cushion, while the delicate stola, soft, flowing silk, clung haphazardly to her figure, doing nothing to hide the curves it was meant to conceal. Her exposed skin flushed with a mixture of intoxication and arousal, her sapphire-blue eyes brimming with a breathless, glazed confusion.
Between the fervent kisses and Crowley’s sudden withdrawal, she was left both frustrated and tipsy, her usually graceful voice now breathy and rough.
"‘Regret’?" she murmured, her tone husky, breaking into a mock pout. "That’s not what you promised me earlier."
Perhaps she hadn’t meant it that way, but in this state, under these circumstances, her protest came out more like a tease—a soft complaint, tinged with petulance.
For a demon, being challenged—both in word and in pride—was more than enough reason to pounce.
Aziraphale gasped and bolted upright in bed, breath ragged and chest heaving. Though the room was shrouded in darkness, the faint glow through the glass panes revealed familiar surroundings: the second-floor bedroom of A.Z. Fell & Co.
And her own face, pale and visibly unsettled.
“What… was that!?”
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Do angels dream?
To answer that, one must first ask—do angels sleep? After all, dreaming is something that occurs only during sleep, and strictly speaking, sleep is entirely unnecessary for celestial beings. They can do it, certainly, but it is not required. Of course, there’s always that angel, the one who treats human behaviours like “eating” as a delightful pastime.
Unlike eating, which remains a somewhat niche interest, sleep actually enjoyed a brief period of popularity in Heaven. Why? Because of the fringe benefit it provided—dreams.
Yes, angels can dream. But unlike humans, whose dreams blend fantasy and reality, angelic dreams are nothing but pure, unfiltered memory. Like watching a recording of an ancient event, some angels used dreams as a way to "access" their memory archives. That method, however, quickly fell out of favour. After all, dreams were random, unreliable, and could pull from any point in a memory bank older than the Earth itself—not exactly practical.
Aziraphale only began the habit of sleeping after being stationed on Earth as Heaven’s ambassador. Someone who never sleeps would, inevitably, raise eyebrows. And she had no interest in filing constant requests for new vessels just because humans thought she was some sort of “unnatural oddity.” Michael, after all, was notoriously fastidious about paperwork.
An angel sentenced to death by burning makes a poor punchline—even the demons don't find that sort of joke funny.
Aziraphale sat there, frozen amidst the tangled sheets, until the light outside her window shifted—from the street lamps’ orange glow to the soft blush of dawn.
That dream—no, that memory she couldn’t recall at all—what was it?
She recognised the place. That was her villa in Rome, the one overlooking the coast. She also remembered why she’d been there with Crowley—she’d run into him, cloaked in black and looking thoroughly miserable, at a local tavern. On impulse, she had invited him to join her for lunch.
We had oysters… and then? Ah, right. Wine.
Back then, she hadn’t been much of a drinker. Despite living in a vineyard villa since taking it over from its previous owner, she hadn’t meddled much with the winemaking or distribution.
Crowley, of course, had been appalled. Possessing a top-grade vineyard and not drinking from it? Utter sacrilege. Amused and intrigued, he had insisted on sampling the house’s best, and by the time their lunch was underway, the oysters had been joined by an endless stream of vintage wine straight from the cellar.
A grand feast indeed.
That much, Aziraphale remembered clearly. But what came after—what she’d just witnessed in vivid, burning detail—was not the sort of memory one simply forgets.
A brief note, lest one misunderstand: when angels dream, they do not merely "recall" their memories—they relive them.
The dream lingered, burned into her senses with startling clarity. She could still feel the scent of the sea breeze on her skin, the oppressive heat, the press of Crowley’s strong frame atop hers, the sting of his teeth against her breast, and—Aziraphale flushed scarlet, placing a hand over her stomach—that strange, overwhelming fullness that had her gasping in the dream.
She hadn't even known she could make sounds like that.