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Crowley was lying on Aziraphale’s sofa in the bookshop. A Sunday with no customers. It wasn't really any different from usual; even on weekdays, the shop had been closed almost all the time since the apocalypse. The soft morning light passed through the windows, landing directly on the wooden floor and the old rugs.
The demon (not really a demon anymore for some time now) was sprawled across the entire length of the couch, with one leg over the backrest, his head resting on the armrest, and his arms contorted in ways that even Aziraphale couldn't quite follow or understand.
After Aziraphale finished tidying up in the back room at the far end of the shop, he came into the room where Crowley was, wanting to sit down and read one of his books—probably a Dickens. He asked Crowley if he could sit next to him.
Crowley grunted a little, but shifted to sit up and make room for him. However, sitting upright, he could no longer fully relax or be comfortable. He moved around, but couldn't find a proper position—the sofa being too small to lounge properly (at least, "properly" in Crowley's sense, which meant completely haphazardly). After a few attempts, he gave up and sat up straight—something he had rarely experienced in his long life.
Seeing this, Aziraphale placed his book in his right hand—the one resting on the sofa's left armrest—and patted his own right thigh.
"Make yourself comfortable, Dear."
Crowley raised his eyebrows in a silent question, furrowing his brow, but Aziraphale didn't look at him. He was far too focused on reading, or perhaps far too internally shaken by his own courage in inviting him to get comfortable.
"Put your head here. The sofa is too small, you saw it yourself."
"You wish, Angel." Crowley wasn't smiling; he didn't understand. Was it just a joke, or was he really asking him?
Aziraphale pursed his lips and patted his thigh once more, gently sliding his hand toward Crowley's forearm to press his point. Still without looking at him, he had been staring at the exact same page for five minutes now. Yes, he was definitively no longer reading, completely distracted by Crowley.
"Come on, you'll be much better off."
"How... do you want me to lay?" he asked, his voice barely audible, breathing softly to calm his heart (was it really beating faster, even though he was just a demon?). He made a small head movement to act normal, but the gesture looked anything but natural.
Aziraphale licked his lips and closed his eyes for just a few seconds. He then removed his hand from Crowley's forearm and moved it toward the shoulder furthest from him, turning him around. He then pressed gently on Crowley's chest once his back was turned, easing him softly down onto his thighs.
"Get comfortable."
At those words, Crowley stopped breathing. In fact, he hadn't been breathing for several seconds already.
Still, the position wasn't quite perfect yet. Crowley wriggled so his back wouldn't be completely twisted, but just enough so his head rested on Aziraphale's right thigh while his legs draped over the sofa's armrest. He finally let out a sigh after finding the right angle for his body, feeling a sense of peace settle in.
"Are you comfortable, Crowley?"
He thought fiercely: Are you serious? Damn it, yes, your thigh is ridiculously comfortable. But he caught himself and muttered, "Yeah, very comfortable, thanks." The "thanks" was more of a mumbled syllable than a real word, but Aziraphale took the gratitude as the sweetest thing he had ever heard.
Crowley softly closed his eyes and sighed, drifting lightly into a nap, when he was startled by a hand sinking into his hair, gently massaging it. He flinched slightly.
"Sorry, Dear. I should have warned you. Is this alright?"
Crowley let out a grunt of satisfaction. Of course, he couldn't let himself seem overly sweet or gentle, so it sounded more like a mere grunt, but Aziraphale knew how to decipher every single one of Crowley's emotions and sounds after thousands of years spent together.
Suddenly, Aziraphale stopped. With his eyes closed, Crowley couldn't see anything, so he waited. Then he felt a gentle tug on his dark sunglasses. Crowley relaxed and let Aziraphale remove them. He knew he could have taken them off upon entering the bookshop, knowing it was just Aziraphale, but he had simply thrown himself onto the couch while waiting for him.
The angel untied his bow tie, set it on the edge, and tucked the sunglasses into the collar of his shirt to keep them close. Crowley couldn't see this moment, but he understood that Aziraphale was keeping the glasses near. A few seconds later, Aziraphale gently rested his right hand back into Crowley's red hair.
"Red suits you..."
They both smiled softly. That single sentence conveyed so many things Aziraphale had never explicitly said.
Aziraphale then resumed his reading. At least, Crowley assumed so, far too relaxed thanks to the hand in his hair. Listening to the turning of the pages, and comparing it to other times he had watched Aziraphale read (a fact he would never admit), he knew the angel was distracted given the number of minutes spent on just two pages. He wasn't actively reading at all.
Then Crowley stretched a little in his sleep, turning slightly onto his side. He placed one of his hands on Aziraphale's thigh, gently caressing it without even realizing it.
"Are you alright, my... darling?"
"Couldn't be better...My Angel."