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Crowley makes an affectionately sleepy noise - something along the lines of mmmgk - as he slots his head into the bend of Aziraphale’s neck. His leg hooks under a plush thigh, his palm smooths over a broad chest. Even though his mind has just bobbed to the surface of an oneiric ocean, he still instinctively wants to touch and be touched by Aziraphale.
This tactile request is fulfilled by an arm around his shoulder and a light squeeze. Then, a soft hand glides into Crowley’s hair and begins to stroke it.
Crowley’s eyes flit open, and he looks up at Aziraphale glowing in the creamy light of the bedside lamp and sporting those nonsensical reading glasses. He’s absorbed in a book, his brow knitted in deep focus. However, since he’s reading a thin murder mystery paperback, he’s able to turn the pages with one hand and caress Crowley’s hair with the other.
Last week, Aziraphale had purchased a whole box of these lightweight detective novels at a car boot sale, and they make for ideal late-night reading in case the demon wakes up for a cuddle, which, truth be told, is basically every night. Aziraphale doesn’t sleep nearly as much as Crowley, and the nightly hours Crowley spend sleeping, Aziraphale usually spend catching up on his reading - also in bed, so he can be close to his demon.
Aziraphale’s fingers move from Crowley’s forehead to his nape, drifting through tousled fiery strands and causing the demon to shudder in quiet pleasure. They lie in comfortable silence, simply enjoying each other’s presence and the serenity of their cottage bedroom, the only sounds being the rustle of yellowed pages and hushed breathing as their chests slowly rise and fall against one another.
“Figure out whodunit yet?” Crowley finally asks, bits of gravel in his voice.
Aziraphale consults his notebook wherein he’s written down every Clue, motive and alibi presented in the novel. “Well, so far it all adds up to the narrator being the murderer. Curiously, he’s also the butler, and the long lost half-brother of the murdered baronet. Or something …”
There’s a long pause followed by Crowley saying: “… Wot?”
“I’ll tell you about it in the morning,” Aziraphale sighs. “Sleep now, and dream of whatever you like best.”
Crowley snuggles into Aziraphale, inhaling his ever-present warmth and the memories of another peaceful, precious day in their new life together: crêpes and coffee for breakfast. A brisk walk along the coastline in the afternoon. A shared bubble bath in the evening.
“No need for dreams, angel. Not when I have you right here,” he mumbles.
There’s no response, but Crowley can almost hear how Aziraphale’s lips curve into that heart-stoppingly beautiful smile of his. The angel kisses Crowley’s brow and his hand resumes its amble through the demon’s hair. Crowley utters another happy string of consonants before plunging into restful oblivion once again.
Enclosed in the cosy light of the bedside lamp and entwined in a gentle embrace, Aziraphale reads and Crowley sleeps, softness and sharpness fitting immaculately together, like they were never meant to end up like this, but defied all the powers that be - fate, the universe, God herself - and chose each other anyway.