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Something soft and vanilla-scented nudges Crowley out of sleep. He’s vaguely aware of lying in bed, sprawled out on his back, and of a very affectionate angel nuzzling into him. Not that Crowley is complaining; he’s been woken up by worse things than the feeling of Aziraphale brushing his button nose against his lower jaw and wrapping his arm around him, hand pressed against his slender waist to hold him as close as possible.
Still, Crowley is a little perplexed. When Aziraphale chooses to indulge in this particular pleasure over some late-night reading, he’s more or less dead - well, discorporated - to the world, making Crowley the designated snuggly sleeper in their relationship. Until now, apparently.
“Aziraph—” A yawn interrupts Crowley’s pronunciation of his beloved’s name. “—angel?”
“Crowley …” Aziraphale coos, his breath warm on Crowley’s skin. With a low sigh, the angel moves his hand along the mattress and under Crowley’s pyjama shirt to caress one of the dimples on his lower back. This gesture evokes a pleasant, tingling feeling in response, causing the demon to arch his back slightly.
“Can’t keep your hands off me even when you’re half-asleep, eh?” Crowley smirks as he traces his fingers over tartan pyjama fabric, along Aziraphale’s inner shoulder blade, hoping to get a similar reaction. The angel has many sensitive spots like that, and Crowley prides himself on knowing all of them by heart, but to his disappointment, the angel doesn’t move at all.
”Mmm … I just had the loveliest dream,” he says. “It was about us.”
The demon’s eyes slide open unevenly. There’s no light pollution out here in the countryside, so the bedroom is cloaked in darkness, but he can just about make out the rectangle of the canopy above their bed, as well as Aziraphale lying half on top of him. “Pray tell,” he breathes, curiosity piqued, though suppressing another yawn.
“Well, it went something like this …” Aziraphale loosens his grip on Crowley and moves up to unsteadily hover a few inches from his face. He aims for Crowley’s mouth but shoots past his ear and lands in the crook of his shoulder again. “My dear … dreamy … demon …” he mumbles into luxurious pyjama silk, and a few moments later, Crowley hears the distinctly regular breathing of someone who’s just dozed off.
Crowley bites his lower lip to prevent himself from laughing, but his whole chest flutters with tenderness. Aziraphale is practically drunk with sleep, and he wonders if the effect of it is so much greater on him because he rarely sleeps at all. Hands searching in the dark, Crowley cups Aziraphale’s face and gently guides the angel’s sweet lips to his own in a quiet, lingering kiss.
“Yes … just like that,” Aziraphale hums, his words vibrating through Crowley. “I suppose it wasn’t a dream after all …”
He wiggles and happily nestles against the demon as he falls asleep once more. Crowley lies there for a few minutes, just listening to the wind whooshing through the trees outside and the angel’s hushed breathing. He savours his weight, his warmth, his soft but strong limbs enveloping him completely. This is where he was always meant to be, and despite his lively imagination, he could never have envisioned what he’s feeling right now; loved and in love and utterly at peace. What a strange but welcome new world.
“Not a dream,” Crowley whispers, smiling into Aziraphale’s puff of curly hair, his eyes closing again. “Not anymore …”