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Three days after the end of the world Aziraphale retired to his bookshop, he was looking forward to a long solitary stint where he did absolutely nothing except sit back and indulge in his books.
Almost as if on cue someone from outside rattled his door. He ignored this. They'd give up soon enough he reasoned, the door rattled again swiftly followed by someone wrapping their knuckles against the wood.
"We're closed!" He called, annoyed at the insistence of whoever was on the other side.
From outside the sound of muffled cursing reached Aziraphale's ears, then he heard the lock click back into it's slot, the old door, built long before any idea of fire codes, groaned as it swung inward into the shop.
In the back room, surrounded by towering shelves of ancient rare books, Aziraphale furrowed his brow and lowered his book. He wasn't scared, that would be ridiculous but the idea of having to deal with a band of thieves bent of ransacking his humble abode was, at the very best, incredibly annoying.
Familiar footsteps sounded in the entry, taking care to skip over the creaking board. Ah, he thought, annoyance beginning to melt away as he realized who it was. The door knob to his back room where he currently sat turned, and Crowley poked his head in.
"I thought you were going to take a nap?" Aziraphale questioned.
Crowley shut the door behind him and stuffed his hands into his pockets, "well... Thought maybe I'd do that here..."
Aziraphale stared at him.
"Course' if that's alright with you I- I mean." He said quietly, seemingly embarrassed.
Aziraphale smiled at him, "I don't mind at all," he said truthfully, if not a little perplexed. "I'm sure the bed I keep is in frightful condition by now though," he frowned, "I truly cannot remember the last time I used it— here," he made to set down his book, "I'll go up and fix it up for you how does that sound?"
"Oh no, no, no," Crowley said hurriedly, "I'll just— lay down here, no need to get up."
"Here?" Aziraphale asked, looking around as if he might find a bed tucked away between the ancient shelves full of only slightly less ancient books.
"Mmm," said Crowley as he plopped down beside the Angel.
"I absolutely will not abide you sleeping in such an uncomfortable upright position when there's a perfectly good bed upstairs!" Aziraphale said aghast, all but dropping his book onto his side table and moving to stand up.
"Oh no," said Crowley, "it's really alright, see, I'll just..." He hesitated, glancing at the perplexed Angel, "it's s'alright," he repeated, more to himself than to Aziraphale. Then gathering all of his courage he swung his legs over the arm rest of Aziraphale's Victorian couch, sweeping his sunglasses off in one smooth motion and— a little hesitantly— laid his head in the Angel’s lap.
This was met with a surprised "Oh!" From Aziraphale.
"You don't mind do you?" He asked a little nervously.
"Do I mind?" Aziraphale said faintly, "oh, oh no I don't. You just surprise me sometimes Crowley, are you sure you'll be comfortable this way? And what if I should wake you?"
"Don't be silly Angel," Crowley said sleepily, the tension slowly bleeding out of him, and, closing his eyes, "wake me when you've finished your book, hmm?"
"Right, well, if you're comfortable..."
"Very," agreed Crowley.
Aziraphale looked to the Demon on his lap, then to his book, then back to Crowley. Well... He shrugged, then, mindful of his elbows he twisted and picked his book up from his side table. He flipped to the first page, beginning at last, his day of reading and relaxation.
For the next eleven and a half hours Aziraphale barely moved. He found himself so engrossed in his reading that he nearly forgot Crowley's presence completely until his candle went out forcing him to light the one beside it. "I'd rather forgotten you were here," he'd said very quietly to the sleeping Demon.
Finally, after a full day he'd finished. It had been a good one he thought, very enjoyable, that was not something he could say for all of his books. Setting his book gingerly onto his side table Aziraphale looked at the sleeping Demon on his lap. Crowley seemed so at peace, Aziraphale felt guilty at the thought of disturbing him. He sighed and eyed his candle, it was burning low now, he'd lit it many hours ago and it's life was nearly spent. He wondered if he'd remembered to replace the extra he kept in his side table drawer or not.
Crowley drew in a sharp breath and shifted his head slightly, the movement causing a small lock of hair to fall over his eyes. Without thinking Aziraphale brushed his fingers over Crowley's face tucking the hair gently behind one ear. He was fond of Crowley's long hair, he hadn't worn it like this is many years now. Aziraphale wondered why he'd gone back today of all days. Not that he was complaining, it made Crowley look very handsome he thought.
The sudden urge to run his fingers through Crowley's beautiful red hair suddenly seized him. Feeling that Crowley surely wouldn't mind he gently carded his fingers through the silky soft waves. He encountered a small tangle after a bit and began to gently work on it with his fingers, it came out without too much trouble.
He wondered if Crowley would mind him doing a few braids, after some deliberation, he decided it would be alright. After all, if he wasn't then Aziraphale could just take them down, no harm in that. At first he did some simple ones, just gathering small sections and doing small French braids, but then he remembered seeing a man at the park a few years ago, he'd had designs. Crowley and the man at the park had very different hair types of course but Aziraphale wondered if he could do something like that for Crowley.
Suddenly it was a challenge, he needed to know, it would be fun! He started by taking down all the braids he'd previously done, then he started sectioning. He quickly realized that he'd need something a little more effective than just his fingers, he frowned, patted his pockets, frowned again. Then a little guiltily, waved his hand and from the thin air grasped a rat tail comb.
This made things significantly easier although without gel the parting was never going to be perfect. He worked for a long time, undoing his work over and over, Crowley's hair was quite slippery for this style of braid Aziraphale was finding and so he often had to restart when his tension became too loose. He improved steadily though, each attempt visibility improved. Finally he made his final attempt, it looked good he thought, especially since it was his first time and an awkward angle. He gently traced a finger over his design. A heart, positioned just above Crowley's ear, showing off his snake tattoo and keeping stray hairs away from his face.
He'd finished just in time too, his candle— which had put up a valiant effort in the face of the ocean of wax it had found itself in— finally lost the battle and sizzled out, plunging Aziraphale and Crowley into darkness.
I really must get up now, he thought. "Erm— Crowley?" He asked, gingerly nudging his companion in hopes he would wake easily.
"Ngh," said Crowley.
"Crowley dear," Aziraphale tried, he shook him a little harder this time, "you must get up now, I've finished my book and the candle has gone, and I don't think I have a replacement handy."
In the dark Aziraphale felt Crowley shift, "what'sa time," he heard the Demon groan.
"Past nine o'clock I should imagine," said Aziraphale who was always rather good at estimating time, —it was in fact, nine-fifteen.
"It's dark," Crowley observed.
"Yes, my candle went out, could you let me up?" He asked gently.
Crowley sat up with a groan, his joints popping and cracking as he did so.
"That's a dear," Aziraphale stood up rather carefully, and crossed to the door, pulling it open to reveal the slightly lighter outer room of the bookshop. The soft glow of street lamps filtered through the dusty windows lighting him a dim path to the front of the building. He left the door open for Crowley and passed through the shop to his front desk, there were candles in the drawer. Behind him Crowley stepped on a creaking board.
"Ah, ha, here we go," there was the sound of a match being struck, a small fire leapt to life. Aziraphale turned to Crowley, holding the candle in his hand, he was smiling and the candle light danced over his features in a nostalgic way that reminded Crowley of years gone by. In fact as he looked at Aziraphale he had the brief sensation that he'd somehow fallen out of time, his hair was long and it was late, they were standing in Aziraphale's beloved bookshop which was as timeless as it was ancient.
Aziraphale seemed oblivious to the effect he was having on Crowley, he said, "let's go upstairs, shall we?"
Crowley wondered— as they climbed the rickety wooded steps, more closely related to a ladder than what any sensible modern person would consider stairs really— if he'd been up to the bookshops second floor before. He thought he had, but it had been a very long time.
Ahead of him Aziraphale stepped onto the landing and held the light out for him. The upstairs was small, an antique wooden desk sat in one corner with a chair that looked like it'd seen years without an occupant. There was a partition stretched partway across the room and behind that sat the bed Aziraphale had mentioned hours earlier.
Ahead of him, Aziraphale passed by the desk and behind the partition, the light dimming as he moved away. "As I said earlier," he was saying, "I don't do much sleeping, so if you'll just give me a moment to reset things for you,"
The candle flickered from where Aziraphale had set it on the bedside table, a shiny surface across from it caught the light, it took Crowley a moment to realize it was a mirror atop a small vanity, he smiled to himself imagining Aziraphale sitting in the chair and worrying over his tie the was he always used to before his Gavotte practice. He'd invited Crowley once, of course he'd declined, Crowley did not dance, or rather he didn't dance that dance. He could waltz reasonably well and had even at one point learned to shuffle. Of course he'd never actually told Aziraphale this, he'd felt quite badly for the Angel when The Gavotte had fallen into obscurity and then into extinction.
He stepped closer to the mirror intending on checking his reflection, he watched Aziraphale yank the top cover off in a shower of dust behind him in the mirrors surface. Aziraphale coughed.
"Goodness Angel, when did you use last use that bed? I'm expecting a whole family of mice at this point I'm afraid," Crowley teased as he made to look into the mirror. His whole body froze, someone has braided my hair, he slowly brought a hand up and traced the shape of it with a slightly shaky finger. It had obviously been Aziraphale he realized, while he was sleeping. He couldn't stop looking at it, he'd never thought to do something like that himself. It was, well, kind of nice, it shows off my tattoo.
From inside a cloud of dust Aziraphale said, "no mice, just dust, I don't allow them in you see, sweet little creatures they are, but they will certainly eat my books and I cannot have that."
"Oh, hmm," said Crowley still staring at his reflection.
"Be a dear and open that window," the cloud of dust requested.
"Hmm? Oh yes," Crowley answered absentmindedly, still thinking about his hair.
"There we go!" Aziraphale said proudly as Crowley unlatched the window pane, the second the window swung open the dust cloud surged forward and funneled itself out through the small opening into the street below. "I've got it nice and refreshed for you, no dust to speak of! Isn't that lovely?"
"Oh yes," Crowley said looking in the mirror again.
Aziraphale noticed and said "Oh," then rather hurriedly, "you don't mind do you? I'll take it out for you, here come sit."
"Oh no, erm, I don't mind, not really, just a bit unexpected s'all,"
"Oh, good," Aziraphale said a little self consciously. A slightly awkward silence hung in the air, "well! I should let you get changed," Aziraphale said after a beat.
Crowley shrugged, it wasn't like he actually needed to disrobe. Aziraphale had always been a little weird about modesty though, a hold over from Eden? He mused.
Aziraphale made it to the stairs, there was a slightly embarrassed air about him Crowley wondered if it had to do with his impromptu decision to crash there.
"You don't gotta go, you know," he said suddenly feeling guilty.
Aziraphale paused on the second step, "yes well," he cleared his throat, "well, as you know I don't sleep, so..." He trailed off.
"You don't- you don't have to sleep y'know, you could read or—" he searched for something else but came up with nothing, "or something..." He finished lamely.
"I'm afraid I'd bother you, I'd need a light you see,"
"It won't bother me." Crowley said quickly.
Aziraphale looked down the stairs then to him, then back to the stairs, finally he said, "I'll be back," and hurried down the steps.
Crowley listened to the Angel reach the bottom of the stairwell and step off the landing. He touched the braid again, then he shrugged and snapped his fingers. A black t-shirt and boxers replaced his usual black leather, he kicked off his shoes in the general direction of the vanity.
He eyed the bed, it was like most of Aziraphale's things old, a smile crept over Crowley's face as he looked at the bed. It was charming, very Aziraphale, beautiful quilts adorned the top, enhancing the handcrafted frames beauty. But that wasn't what had caught Crowley's attention, it was the plain and simple fact that this bed was a rope bed, he'd not seen one of those for ages.
He wondered if Aziraphale even knew they'd switched over. He wondered if the mattress was down, he missed down feather mattresses, he'd never quite been able to find something that could really mimic them.
Steps sounded on the stairs, Crowley sat down atop Aziraphale's numerous quilts, the mattress was indeed down.
"You know," he said to Aziraphale as he appeared at the top of the stairs, "if I'd of known you had this, I would've slept the centuries away here,"
Aziraphale furrowed his brow, "don't you have a bed?"
"Best money can buy," he said sarcastically. Aziraphale shot him a quizzical look, "they don't make em like this anymore Angel," he explained.
"Oh!" Said Aziraphale, "I really hadn't noticed, it hardly gets use from me, so you're welcome to pop in for a nap whenever you like. I brought us up some warm milk," he paused to give Crowley's shoes a stern look, they slid shamefully into place under the vanity. He held out a mug to Crowley, "here, it's good for sleep."
Crowley dutifully accepted his mug, Aziraphale beamed at him, "warm milk ey? What are you my mother?" He teased.
"I don't think She is really the type to bring you— or anyone for that matter— a drink before bed." Aziraphale said quietly.
Crowley felt a grin break out across his face, "no, no I suppose not,"
Aziraphale shook his head and took a sip out of his tea cup to hide his smile.
"You know..." Crowley said, suddenly very serious, he leaned towards Aziraphale conspiratorially, Aziraphale copied him, leaning forward so that they were only mere inches away. It was only at that moment did Crowley realize he'd forgotten to put his glasses back on. "Uh- well, I think that's why She did it,"
"What? I don't understa—"
"What I'm trying to say," Crowley went on, a devilish smile beginning to tug at the corners of his mouth, "what I'm trying to say is that's why She made Angel's," he jammed a finger into Aziraphale's chest, "like you,"
"What are you talking about?" Demanded Aziraphale.
"I think, she's made you for one specific reason,"
"And what's that then?"
"To make me warm milk,"
"Crowley!" Aziraphale exclaimed indignantly, but there was no bite to it.
"Oh? You disagree?"
"Honestly!" Huffed Aziraphale and shook his head.
They sat in comfortable silence for a time, content to simply enjoy each others company and sip their respective drinks.
Crowley set his now empty cup down, "stay here tonight,"
"Of course dear Crowley, this is my place of residence after all."
"I mean up here,"
Aziraphale opened his mouth then closed it, finally he said, "I'm not dressed for sleep,"
Crowley shrugged, "you could change,"
“Well— I suppose— I haven’t slept in so long...”
“Oh, go on then,” Crowley said gesturing to the mountain of quilts.
"Well, I suppose I am a little tired," conceded Aziraphale, "from helping to save the world and all."
“Exactly,” said Crowley, flipping the covers back and ushering Aziraphale in.
————
“More wine Sir?” The Sommelier asks his patron. The man— he thinks— is an odd fellow, rail thin, dressed entirely in black with a shock of violent orange hair, with two braids, one on each side. On one side— a heart— on the other— a squiggle, that if one squinted— might’ve been a serpent. It does not escape the Sommelier’s notice that the man has a face tattoo, and seems rather uncaring of what type of wine he brings, only that it is alcohol. In sharp contrast, he sits beside a man clothed almost entirely in beige. They make a peculiar couple, that is to be sure. So long as they tip, hmm? So long as they tip.