God, these two adorable idiots have ruined my life.

I've loved this book for years and the

series has destroyed me in ways I didn't know was possible so of course I had to take a shot
at writing them together. Hope you all like it! :D

A/N: I own nothing

Aziraphale tries to murder him on a Wednesday.

To be fair, it wasn't that the angel was actually trying to hurt him (Crowley doubts Aziraphale
would ever intentionally harm anyone or anything you know, aside from the whole proposed
murder of the antichrist a few weeks ago), it's just that, well, sometimes the angel will say or
do certain things that are so far outside the norm for him that Crowlet is left with exactly two
options in terms of reaction: option a) roll with it or option b) potentially have an aneurysm.

Wednesday nearly became an aneurysm day.

It all started outside a lovely little cafe on the west end of Soho. The great thing about Soho
was that there were always lovely little cafes like this, scattered throughout the city and
popping up along sidewalks to warmly welcome anyone who happened to be passing by.
Another great thing about the cafes in Soho was that there was always a conveniently empty
table no matter the time of day or how crowded the streets were. And honestly, something so
small can't be counted as a miracle; if anything it's just a coincidence (that's what Aziraphale
tells himself at least).

So it's no surprise when a table just so happens to become available at the exact moment a
glossy black Bentley pulls into a parking space across the street. Crowley saunters across
the street, the meter next to the Bentley instantly registering a full payment even though no
credit card information was provided. Hell had its perks sometimes, Crowley was loathe to
admit, and he never had need of an actual credit card because he was technically the one
who came up with the concept. Sure, the development fell into the hands of a few scuttling
demons on the fourth level, but the idea, the concept had been Crowley's. He took a small
measure of pride from that and counted it as one of his greater accomplishments (aside from
the M25, of course).

Aziraphale was already there waiting for him, offering his usual warm, inviting smile as
Crowley strolled through the spaces between the tables to get to theirs. The cafe isn't too
crowded this time of day, a few office workers out for their lunch breaks along with the usual
cluster of tourists here and there. Normally Crowley isn't a fan of crowds and the constant
flocks of tourists usually prove particularly annoying but he must admit he doesn't mind it as
much anymore. It's a reminder that the end of the world had been avoided and that things
were at least somewhat back to normal.

It had been a little over three weeks since The Little Apocalypse That Couldn't and about a
week since he and Aziraphale had been "kidnapped" by their respective sides. Both Heaven
and Hell's attempts to destroy them had proved useless (although neither side really knew
why) and as such they had both been more or less abandoned and left to their own devices.
Which was fine because after seeing the insufferable hell (no pun intended) that was
Heaven, Crowley was just as happy to never let Aziraphale go back there if he had anything
to say about it.

The angel, for his part, seemed to feel the same and may have had a few choice words to
say about Crowley's bosses once the whole charade was finished. He's only ever heard the
angel say a cross word about someone once before (Pope Urban VI, 1386) but he had
several things to say about his brief time in Hell that made it clear he was not the least bit
happy with those in charge.

For the time being though, it seemed as though both Heaven and Hell were all too happy to
leave them alone and there had been no further incidents. Sure, the other shoe might drop
eventually but for now they were both just happy to enjoy each other's company and the
world that was very much not destroyed.

At least that's what Crowley thought.

In spite of their freer circumstances and the light atmosphere of the cafe they were sitting in,
it becomes clear pretty quickly that the angel is troubled by something. His expression is
unusually guarded and his words have a stiff, mechanical quality like he's putting more effort
than usual into thinking about what he says before it actually comes out. He's never like this
around Crowley (hell, they've known each other since practically the dawn of time) and the
demon feels a crackle of apprehension grow more pronounced the longer their conversation
continues.

He begins to wonder, horribly, if this is some kind of hellish trick, if Hastur or Beelzebub
figured out the switch and employed one of their own. Maybe this isn't Aziraphale, maybe his
angel has been taken prisoner and is currently being tortured while this imposter sits here
and makes small talk about the antique store that opened up across from the book shop.
Maybe Gabriel swooped in for a chat and ordered/threatened Aziraphale to cut ties with
Crowley or face The Fall himself. Both options are horrible and honestly Crowley can't think
of which is worse.

He tells himself he's being foolish, that nothing has changed and that this is still the same
Aziraphale he's come to know and love over the vast span of centuries. He tries to tell
himself he's being paranoid but Hell has a way of instilling a deep, pervasive sense of
paranoia that he's never quite been able to shake so that branch of the mental debate
doesn't hold that much weight. Still, there's something wrong, something Aziraphale is
hiding, and Crowley doesn't know what it is but he hates being kept out of the loop.

"Right," Crowley says with only a faint slur to his words. "Get on with it, then," he tells
Aziraphale after a lull in their conversation lasts just a little too long. It's another sign there's
something wrong; usually the gaps in their conversations are filled with comfortable silence
but today that silence feels like a weighted presence taking up space at their table.

The angle blinks in mild confusion and opens his mouth to say something but Crowley

cuts him off more than a little bluntly. "There's clearly something on your mind and I'd rather
you just come out and say it rather than stewing in it like you are right now."
The words come out in a jumbled mess toward the end because Crowley has been working
diligently at getting drunk for the past hour and a half and the wine is finally working its way
to his head. Whatever Aziraphale is about to say or do, whatever mental or emotional blow
that's about to take place, well, Crowley doesn't really think he wants to be completely sober
for that.

Aziraphale has the decency to look quietly embarrassed and can't quite smother the
self-conscious little chuckle that escapes him. "Ah, apparently I'm more obvious than I
thought."

"You are."

The angel nods once and lets out a small breath as he prepares to deliver whatever news
that's been weighing on him. "Right, well...uh, well see the thing is, I've been thinking about
something for a while now. It's something...how do I put this? It's something that involves you
and er, well me as well. Both of us, I suppose you could say."

Crowley levels Azirpahle with a half-drunk gaze from behind the dark lenses of his
sunglasses. The angel is stuttering, which in itself is not all that unusual as it often takes him
a few moments to eloquently convey the sentences forming in his mind when he's nervous
or flustered. But now he's fidgeting in his seat, a clear sign he's uncomfortable talking about
whatever this is in public, and Crowley nearly suggests they go somewhere else but in all
honesty he'd rather hear whatever it is here in the comfort of this cafe instead of trying to find
a better place to talk elsewhere.

Not only that, he's most assuredly drunk now and walking might prove challenging. So he
lounges deeper in the chair, watches his flustered angel continue to stutter and stammer his
way through whatever this is, and miracles another full glass of wine into his hand.

"The thing is, Crowley, well, we've known each other for centuries now and I just think, well, I
think it might be time for us-"

"Out with it," Crowley snarls because no matter how endearing he usually finds Aziraphale's
ramblings, this conversation is making him antsy. He doesn't know if the angel is about to
sever all ties with him, tell him he's decided to go back to Heaven, tell him their involvement
with the Almostpocaylpse was a mistake, the list of terrible outcomes seems to rattle on
endlessly.

"Right," Aziraphale says with a small amount of finality as he watches his companion take
another long draw from his wine glass. "I think we should try sleeping together."

Of all the things Crowley had been preparing himself for, that was decidedly not one of them.
As such he spends the next two minutes and thirty-six seconds vigorously choking and
sputtering because a lungful of Cabernet Sauvignon is not actually a good thing.
He tries to wave away Aziraphale, who is immediately hovering next to him and thumping
him on the back while apologizing profusely, and the startled waitress who rushed over with
armful of napkins once the wine glass in Crowley's hand shattered on the floor.

Eventually the coughing and choking subsides, Aziraphale returns to his seat (although he
hasn't stopped apologizing yet) and the waitress stands, perplexed at finding the ground
beneath the table not only dry but also not covered in glass, and slowly, hesitantly, walks
back to the kitchen.

Aziraphale waits to speak until his companion has regained at least the semblance of
composure and has returned the sunglasses, which had clattered to the ground during the
coughing fit, back to their rightful place over his eyes.

"I'm so terribly sorry, my dear," he says for probably the seventeenth time in three minutes.
"Had I known your reaction was going to be so adverse I never would have-"

"'S'not adverse," Crowley corrects him with a croaked cough he smothers with his hand.
"Just wasn't ready for such a blunt proposition, is all."

Aziraphale flushes a pleasant shade of crimson and smoothes the lapels of his jacket
self-consciously. "I suppose I could have worded it a bit more tactfully, yes."

Crowley coughs a few more times and he's still a little red in the face but it doesn't look like
he's in any immediate danger of choking to death which is progress. He clears his throat,
shakes his head, and miracles a new bottle of wine to the table; this is a conversation that is
definitely going to warrant more alcohol.

"So," he says, filling Aziraphale's glass all the way to the top before doing the same with his
own. "Care to tell me what brought on the sudden desire to share a bed of sin with a
demon?"

"Well," Aziraphale begins diplomatically in a way that indicates he's put a lot of thought into
this particular conversation and has weighed the pros and cons of both sides thoroughly. If
Crowley didn't know any better he might even think the angel put together a powerpoint
presentation specifically for the conversation at hand but then he realizes the ancient
computer in the bookshop hasn't run on anything higher than Windows 98 since...well, since
1998. Still, it's obvious that Aziraphale has devoted a significant amount of time and energy
into this and Crowley figures he owes him the decency of a willing, if slightly intoxicated,
audience.

"We've been on earth for quite a while now-"

"Six thousand-ish years but who's counting?"

"And we've spent a good majority of that time attempting to blend in with humanity and aid in
the good and evil they so often find themselves involved in-"

"More evil than not in this day and age, it seems."

"Yes, well, I've come to realize within the past few weeks that my attempts at blending in, as
it were, are lacking because I've never quite gotten the hang of being a human in the modern
century-"

"You have an antiquated bookshop in Soho that has served as the backdrop for so many
hipster selfies it was trending on Twitter for a few days; that's about peak human if you ask
me."

"Please, my dear."

"Right, sorry. Shutting up."

"Wait, what is Twitter?"

"God above…"

"Right, well," Aziraphale says, actively ignoring the anguish on Crowley's face at his
ignorance of tweeting or whatever it is and bringing himself back to the original point he was
trying to make.

"What I'm trying to say is that I feel I should immerse myself into modern human culture a bit
more than I have in the past, especially since the world seems to be relatively safe for the
time being. Young Adam made me realize the importance of humanity as a whole and I feel
quite foolish that it took the literal apocalypse for me understand this. If we're going to be
here for a while longer, which I do hope we are, it might help to act a bit more human in the
grand scheme of things."

"And you thought the first step in this whole "pretending to be human" plan involved sleeping
with a demon?" Crowley's eyebrows raise just slightly behind the rims of his glasses and he
shrugs loosely. "Not too strange now that I think about it, I hear there are entire subsections
of this species that hopes to do exactly that."

"Dearest…"

"Right," Crowley says, downing his wine in two large gulps and setting the glass back on the
table. He considers refilling it but pushes that thought away for the time being; he figures he
needs to be at least somewhat coherent for whatever comes next.

He leans forward, his head spins, and he leans back again. He tries to focus on Aziraphale,
on the angel's big, beautiful blue eyes that are currently boring a hole into him from across
the table. He clears his throat, suddenly more flustered and self-conscious than he's been in,
well, ever, and forces the alcohol to thin out in his bloodstream. He needs to be marginally
more sober for this conversation and employs a certain level of supernatural assistance to
shorten the length of time from several hours to several seconds.

"Now when you say 'sleeping together'," he says, mentally berating himself for the way his
voice cracks the slightest bit when he speaks. "What is your definition?"
He wants Aziraphale's description to be as explicitly clear as possible because although
Crowley would be all too happy to climb the angel like a forbidden apple tree, he's not going
to do anything without consent and if Aziraphale isn't suggesting what it inadvertently sounds
like he's suggesting (which Crowley strongly believes is the case) he's not going to do
anything that will inevitably make the angel uncomfortable. He's a demon, not a monster for
Hell's sake.

"Well," Aziraphale says but then immediately becomes stumped because he thought the
suggestion was quite obvious. "I suppose I mean we sleep together, we share a bed. That
sort of thing." He's desperately trying to remain calm and collected but it's difficult to ignore
the flush of heat that centers around his shirt collar as he speaks.

"Right," Crowley says again and actively tamps down the very slight flash of disappointment
that rippled through him at Aziraphale's explanation. He respects the angel more than he's
ever respected anyone and would never in a million years do anything that would make him
uncomfortable but he can't deny the lightning fast adrenaline rush that shot through him at
the idea of Aziraphale saying 'bugger it' (metaphorically of course; Aziraphale has taken to
cursing over the years the same way a mallard takes to an oil spill) and jumping into the
whole situation head first.

"Crowley, listen," Aziraphale starts, a little hesitantly and not quite meeting his companion's
eyes. "If this suggestion makes you uncomfortable I will be happy to-"

"No!" the demon snaps a little quicker and a little louder than he meant to. The waitress from
before looks back over her soldier and a small cluster of tourists seated at the table a few
feet away glance over briefly.

Crowley clears his throat and tries again. "No, no I mean it doesn't make me uncomfortable
at all. I guess I'm just...well, are you sure this is something you want? I know I tend to go
quite a lot faster than what you're accustomed to so I just wanted to be sure that you-"

"Crowley," Aziraphale says and there's a level of certainty and genuinity in his voice that
Crowley hasn't heard in a long time. "I've never been more certain of anything in my life."

And that's all it takes for the demon to be completely, 100% onboard with anything
Aziraphale decided to do ever. He's nothing but big eyes and sincerity right now and Crowley
would be damned (again and again and again) if he could ever deny him anything when he
was like this. The angel could have asked for an entire galaxy and Crowley would have
handpicked one that matched his eyes and presented it to him a velvet box with a bow on
top.

So no, he's not uncomfortable at all. He does feel himself sink low and slow down into his
chair because the serpentine part of his brain feels the urge to slither and coil and bask in
the unbelievable warmth flooding off the angel across from him but that's normal when he's
around Aziraphale. It's probably normal.
"So when would you want to practice this whole bed-sharing business?" Crowley asks,
pushing his sunglasses up a little higher on his nose. He's trying to maintain the appearance
of being aloof, calm, and collected and failing miserably.

"Well, would tonight be alright?"

Crowley feels like he's about to pass out.

Yes, tonight would be fine, tonight would be perfect. It's not like he hasn't been infatuated
with Aziraphale since the Sword Debacle and it's not like he hasn't devised multiple different
ways of asking him to run away with him so they could spend the rest of eternity together
away from the prying eyes of Heaven, Hell, and everyone in between. Hell, he's been
constructing the perfect date since 1994 and has subsequently thrown together and trashed
every romantic idea he's had for the past quarter century all because it never felt good
enough.

And now Aziraphale is pole vaulting over steps 1-14 in Crowley's master plan of How to Woo
an Adorable But Remarkably Dense Angel, Vol. 6, Issue 9 and like so many other weird
things in his life, he just has to deal with it. So instead of unloading all of that in an
uncontrollable explosion of word vomit, he simply says, "yeah, tonight is good."

"Oh good," Aziraphale says with a relieved little sigh and he beams and Crowley feels like
he's going to die. He can't take much more of this; he's never been concerned about his
blood pressure before (his heart was there for design, not necessity) but he's beginning to
wonder if it's possible suffer a stroke because the love of his life smiled at him in just the
right way.

The waitress returns a few minutes later with their check and blinks in confusion at the
presence of a wine bottle on the table which she is almost certain she didn't bring. She looks
like she wants to ask about it but eventually decides against it because while the two men
didn't strike her as dangerous or otherworldly, there was definitely something odd about
them that she felt was best not to meddle with. So instead she offers a small smile, takes the
cash the man in black passes her and walks back to the register to make their change.

Crowley stands before she returns, happy enough to let her keep the change (significant
though it may be) and nods his companion in the direction of the exit. The cafe was
beginning to get more crowded and with such a personal, intimate topic still hovering
between them, he feels it's best to vacate the premises in favor of somewhere more quiet.

"Right then," he says once they return to the sidewalk and open sprawl of Soho makes him
feel less claustrophobic. "What time would you want to want to meet up?"

"Let's say 10 pm," Aziraphale says with a small nod like the suggestion is entirely agreeable
as soon as he says it out loud. "I could meet you at your flat."

Crowley nods and feels just slightly relieved at the offer. He hadn't considered the whole
'your place or mine?' aspect of this conversation and found he really had no idea how to
breach the subject. If Aziraphale wanted to meet him at his flat he was fine with that because
at least then he was in somewhat familiar territory. Hell, he at least knew where the
lightswitch was.

"Sounds great, yeah, good plan," the demon says with a small nod of his own and a strained
air of coolness that comes across as just a little forced. He clears his throat again, a nervous
habit at this point, and nods one more time for finality's sake. "Right, so...see you tonight
then?"

"See you tonight," Aziraphale says with a smile before turning in the direction of his
bookshop and making his way down the sidewalk.

Crowley watches him walk away until he can't see anything more than the very top of his
white-blond head. The second the angel disappears into the crowd, Crowley makes a mad
dash to the Bentley and sequesters himself inside so he can say "fuck!" four times in a row
without getting disapproving looks from the school teachers leading a group of small children
along the sidewalk like a bunch of little ducklings.

Aziraphale is coming over tonight, Aziraphale wants to sleep with him tonight and it's all fine,
it's totally fine. Crowley bites back the half-hysterical little laugh that almost escapes him
because Hell Below, he's imagined this moment in every single way he thought he could but
nothing he ever dreamed up could compare to the real thing. He suddenly has the urge to
deep clean his apartment like it's crime scene but quickly realizes that's unnecessary
because a) it's not like he was ever there long enough to make a mess of anything and b)
the housekeeper came on Monday.

Still, he has no idea what to do with himself for the next nine-ish hours and the more he
thinks about Aziraphale coming over, Aziraphale spending the night (?!) the more flustered
he becomes. So he does what he does best when situations arise that have the audacity to
stress him out beyond the point of no return: he thinks about something, literally anything,
else.

Maybe he'll wander down to the park and watch the ducks. Maybe he'll go shopping for a
new plant to terrorize. Maybe he'll find a bar and drink himself to the point of
unconsciousness so he can get the stupid grin off his face. Whatever he decides to do has
to be better than sitting in his car, glaring at people walking by.

So he sighs, says "fuck" one more time, cranks up Don't Stop Me Now by Coldplay, and
starts the car.

OOOOO

The truth is, Aziraphale has been interested in the process of sleep for a long time now. As
an angel, he's never needed to sleep; he knows humans need several hours each night in
order to function properly and he thinks he understands the mechanics of it but he's never
quite figured out how to make it work for himself.

He had tried once, way back in 1969, and had been thoroughly disappointed. 1969 had been
an exhausting year all around, between the lunar landings, everything about the Vietnam
war, and the general unrest in Ireland, and by September of that year Aziraphale had found
himself more fatigued and run down than he ever remembered feeling. It took him awhile to
realize that he was tired, pure and simple, and he figured it was nothing some rest wouldn't
cure.

So he dusted off the sheets on the tiny, single bed he kept up in the open space above his
shop and laid down. He wasn't sure what was supposed to happen after that, only that
humans usually drop off pretty quickly and wake up several hours later, supposedly
refreshed and revitalized. So he closed his eyes and he waited. And then waited. And then
he waited some more. After three full days of waiting, he sat up, stiff from lying in one
position for so long, and, grumbling, made his way back down to the bookshop.

He didn't try again after that. Not because he didn't want to (he still had a scientific interest in
it, much the same way an entomologist has a scientific interest in a new species of insect)
but because he didn't really need to after that. After 1969 the world seemed to level itself out
for a while (if you didn't count the Cold War and the fall of the Berlin Wall) and he just never
found himself tired and worn down the way he had all those years ago.

That is, until recently.

The birth of the antichrist and the threat of the apocalypse had most definitely put a strain on
him and his relationship (or lack thereof) with his superiors and by the time the interminable
eleven years was up and the end of the world did not, in fact, occur he found himself getting
run down again. He began to wonder about attempting the whole sleeping thing again but
couldn't ever find the time to do it.

And then he became Crowley.

Well, not became him so much as took on his appearance and mannerisms and lived in his
flat for a week or so because they both knew the fallout from Heaven and Hell was coming
but they didn't know when. So he pretended to be Crowley for several days and, as such,
spent several days wandering around the cavernous flat the demon inhabited.

He couldn't figure out the television (not that he had any interest in watching it, everything on
now was some kind of reality show featuring superficially attractive people with no real depth
of their own) but he liked the plants and spent a good majority of his time caressing their
verdant leaves and speaking sweetly to them. If he didn't know any better he'd say the plants
were almost excited to see him when he came back each day.

Another place he spent a good portion of time was in Crowley's bedroom. Like the rest of the
apartment the room was spartan in its layout, consisting of an enormous bed, a single lamp,
and a window blocked with heavy, black drapes.

In spite of the sleek, modernism of the room, however, Aziraphale felt strangely flustered
being there. He's been around humans long enough to know that there's a peculiar kind of
vulnerability and intimacy that comes with being invited into someone's bedroom. There's
openness there, a different kind of hope and longing and fragility he doesn't quite have a
word for. Being in Crowley's bedroom well, he felt all of those things tenfold and so
powerfully it nearly took him to his knees.

He has no idea how long he's loved the demon, longer than he can truly think about to be
completely honest. He didn't call it love for several centuries; no, he called it friendship,
camaraderie, an unshakeable bond and understanding he could never share with anyone
else. Deep down he knew it was different, it was so, so much more than that, but he refused
to allow himself to even consider it because accepting the things he kept deep down and
hidden, the things he himself was afraid to admit, it would have put them both in danger.

He could live with a lot of things and there was also plenty he could live without and
somehow Crowley had found himself smack dab in the middle of both of those categories.
Aziraphale would be happy to live out the rest of his days in complete and total isolation from
Heaven if it kept Crowley by his side but he'd also be all too happy to toss all of that out the
window to keep him as well. It had taken the (almost) end of the world for him to realize this
and he regrets every single second he kept everything tucked away under lock and key for
fear of the repercussions.

For Crowley, the repercussions would have been worth it.

When he had told him at the air base that he would never speak to him again, it was the
worst threat he could come up with. Sure, coercion or even a half-hearted attempt at
appearing more menacing with the return of his flaming sword might have been equally
effective but the worst thing Aziraphale could think of, the worst thing Crowley could think of,
was that they would never see each other again.

If Armageddon came to pass and Heaven and Hell went to war then they would never be
able to meet up for lunch again, feed the ducks again, debate through the night about whose
fault it was that the Home Shopping Network existed. None of that, ever again, because their
sides wanted to go to war. When Aziraphale told Crowley he would never speak to him
again, it was a threat and a promise and it was the absolute worst thing either of them could
think of.

The angel pondered all of this over and over again in the week he took Crowley's place at
his flat. They had come so close to all of this ending, to it all going up in literal and
metaphorical flames, that it seemed silly to waste time thinking about it now. He found
himself spending more time in the bedroom because he could think better in there and in an
odd but not unpleasant way, it made him feel closer to Crowley.

He found himself focusing on the bed more than anything, contemplating the sturdy, black
metal frame and the dark sheets that had a higher thread count than all the words combined
in some of the books in his shop. It was nothing like the bed he had back at the shop, with
it's rough, dusty sheets and mattress thin enough to read through. The bed in Crowley's
room was absurdly comfortable, the mattress sinking and contouring to every touch and
pressure point.

The angel briefly considered laying down on it one night, just to see what it was like, but he
shook the thought away pretty quickly. It felt intrusive and awkward and, in a strange way,
the idea immediately made him self-conscious. It was silly, he told himself, to get so flustered
about something so simple yet the argument was not convincing enough for him to try again.

Rather, he found his thoughts returning to the concept of sleep and how he thinks it might be
time to try it again. He needs some advice though, some tutoring if you will, in the actual act
of trying to sleep. Because he feels like he might be doing something wrong and speaking
with an expert might help him get the hang of it.

Again, his mind turned to Crowley. The demon excelled at sleeping, he was practically a pro
at it, and if anyone could teach Aziraphale about the complicated process of sleep it would
be him. He'd once bragged that he'd laid down for a nap one afternoon in 1879 and woke up
thirty-six years later to find the entire world was at war. He'd received a commendation for
something he nearly slept through (that may or may not have been Aziraphale's doing as he
took it upon himself to regularly submit reports on the demon's behalf to make sure he didn't
get in trouble) and that takes a level of skill and commitment Aziraphale didn't know was
possible. So yes, if anyone would know anything about sleep, it would definitely be Crowley.

He began entertaining the idea that maybe the demon could show him how it's done, that
there might be some practical instruction involved, and then quickly came to the realization
that that might mean sharing a bed in order to properly learn the ins and outs of appropriate
techniques. The idea of sharing a bed with Crowley, of being that close to him, well...it's not
necessarily an unpleasant thought. He doesn't have a heart the way humans do (he did have
one, technically, but it was more for fashion rather than function) but he feels an odd flutter in
his chest and a shuddering kind of skip when he thinks about sharing a bed with the demon.
It's a strange feeling, one he's definitely not used to, but he must admit he rather likes it.

All thoughts of sleeping and beds and the funny little feeling he got in his chest when he
thought about sharing a bed with Crowley get sidelined when the fallout from Heaven and
Hell does occur. They both knew it was coming and had been prepared for it for some time
now but neither were expecting it to happen in the middle of the park, in the middle of the
day. He wants to give credit for their brazenness but he's also trying to keep up appearances
as Crowley so he adopts a calm and collected demeanor and keeps his comments to himself
for the most part.

He always knew Hell was bad (you didn't need to be an angel to figure that out) but it was
worse than he could have imagined. Crowded, dark, cramped, and no one bathed, ever. Still,
he needed to keep up appearances so he ignored all of that while silently promising he
would take on the entirety of Hell itself if it meant keeping Crowley out of here.

And he laid it on thick. He wanted Hell to leave Crowley alone but more than that, he wanted
them to be afraid of him. A demon who can't be hurt by Holy Water is one who can't be hurt
by much of anything and that's exactly the kind of image he hoped to convey. If Hell was
afraid of him, if they thought they couldn't touch him anymore, maybe they would leave him
alone.

It worked, at least as far as he could tell, and they eventually dumped him unceremoniously
back onto a footpath in the middle of the park. Roughly three minutes later Crowley, posing
as him, appeared back in the park as well. They were both remarkably unscathed and knew
better than the question the effectiveness of their plan (er, Agnes' plan, as it were).

After that things fell back into a pattern of normalcy. They switched places again, Crowley
returning to his flat and Aziraphale returning to his miraculously not-incinerated bookshop
and everything was as it should be.

Except...except Aziraphale could not stop thinking about the bed in Crowley flat and how he
wanted more than anything to lay down on it with the demon by his side. It becomes a
constant, nagging presence in his mind, one he can't shake for love or money, and he
resigns himself to the unbearable agony of having to actually admit this to Crowley and ask if
he would help him.

He has no idea how the demon will react, if he'll be surprised or offended or he'll just ignore
the request all together. Aziraphale knows his own feelings for Crowley but he doubts the
demon would ever reciprocate; they're friends, yes, but to Aziraphale there's no way
someone as suave and confident as Crowley would ever requite his feelings. He likes to
think Crowley may have loved him briefly once, back in the 1970s when Aziraphale had
given him the Holy Water, but that was so long ago and he doubts his feelings have
remained the same. Still, he doesn't know who else to turn to for something like this and he
makes up his mind to talk to him about it when they meet up for lunch later that week.

To his great surprise, Crowley not only agrees to the proposition, he seems willing and
eager. Aziraphale hides how pleased he is with the reaction and hopes to all that is Holy that
his expression doesn't belie his true feelings. He can feel himself blushing as he speaks
though and if anyone were to ask him about it he'd blame it on the wine.

Crowley dutifully asks him questions about the when, where, and why and Aziraphale
answers as clearly as he can without revealing how excited he is with the plan. Being around
Crowley, being with Crowley, he realizes that's all he's really wanted for a very long time and
he's nearly giddy by the time their conversation draws to a close.

They've made plans to meet up later that night and that's all fine and good but now
Aziraphale has to figure out what to do with himself for the next nine or so hours and his
head is already so up in the clouds he can barely think straight. He knows there are a few
things he could busy himself with at the bookshop for the next few hours so he leaves the
cafe with a smile and that strange little flutter in his chest and makes his way back to the
shop.

OOOOO

Crowley spends the next eight hours and forty-six minutes alternately cleaning his apartment
(which was already clean), threatening his plants (which were already terrified), and
attempting to watch a TV show (which he'd already watched). He couldn't stay still because
if he stopped moving for too long he'd start thinking about Aziraphale again and that led to all
kinds of problems both mentally and physically.
Mentally...well, mentally he's just a disaster, his thoughts rattling around in his brain like a
maraca that's been kicked down a flight of stairs. Physically, aside from the obvious and
rather mortifying problems he faced in the belt region, he couldn't really get his hands to stop
shaking. He's not nervous, not really, but there's more pent up energy and excitement than
he knows what to do with and he has no idea how to translate that into anything other than
an annoying hand tremor. He compensates by channeling that energy into washing the
baseboards of his flat and handwashing the ceiling. He's never done either of those things
before but it feels necessary now.

To be honest, he's not entirely sure why he's so concerned with making the apartment
spotless. Aziraphale has been here before, hell, he spent an entire week here recently so it's
nothing he hasn't seen but still. This is different. He's not sure how or why it's different but it
is, dammit. So he cleans and scrubs and washes and it takes the entire day to get the
already immaculate apartment up to his standards but when he finally stops it's past 9pm
and he knows Aziraphale will be arriving soon.

He snaps his clothes clean, removes the three specks of dust that managed to get in his
hair, and forces himself to sit down on the couch and watch TV like a normal, not at all
bothered, person.

Aziraphale arrives at exactly 10pm and Crowley feels his heart (traitorous bastard that it is)
lurch when he hears the soft knock on the door. He rolls his eyes briefly because the angel
could have just as easily poofed into his apartment but the bonds of propriety are strong with
this one so he gets up and pulls open the door to find his angel standing on the other side of
the threshold, smiling warmly.

Crowley ushers him in and stops to give Aziraphale a once over. "Your going to bed in a
three piece suit?" he asks, indicating the angel's usual cream-colored coat and vest
ensemble.

Aziraphale looks down at himself and runs his hands over the jacket briefly. "Well, I didn't
think it would be appropriate to show up in little more than my housecoat."

The demon smirks faintly and shakes his head. "Housecoat? Please call it a robe like a
normal human."

"Fine, a robe. And what about you? This hardly counts as bedclothes," he accuses,
sweeping one hand up and down in indication of Crowley's choice of clothing. He's dressed
in a set of black silk pajamas with deep red piping along the hems and seams (all for show,
really; when Crowley does sleep he tends to do so in the nude but he figures that would be a
little much for Aziraphale's delicate sensibilities so he settles on the silk set instead).

"It most certainly does," Crowley argues because he's suddenly self-conscious of his
clothing choice and feels the need to defend it. "And unless you plan on sleeping in slacks
and a vest I suggest you change as well."

"Very well," Aziraphale says with a small huff. He snaps his fingers and the vest and jacket
transforms into something else.
"No."

"What? What's wrong with it?"

"Everything. No, absolutely not, I refuse to share a bed with you if you're dressed like that."

The angel looks down at the pinstriped dressing gown complete with matching slippers and
frowns. "I honestly don't understand the problem."

The demon rolls his eyes behind the dark lenses of his glasses (which he still has on, you
know, for the aesthetic) and shakes his head. "The problem is you look like you're about to
march down to Parliament and demand an audience to discuss property taxes."

"I do not," Aziraphale contests, looking down at himself one more time. "Although the bit
about the property taxes isn't a bad-"

Crowley doesn't let him finish before he snaps his fingers and the gown is replaced with a
plain white t-shirt and a pair of light blue linen pants. "There you go, fashion and function all
in one place."

Aziraphale looks down again, his fingers brushing across the soft texture of the pants, and
looks mildly less irritated. "Well, I suppose they are rather comfortable."

"Excellent," Crowley says before spinning on his heel and walking in the direction of the
bedroom. The angel said he wanted to sleep and sleep is what they will do (even if might kill
Crowley in the process).

"This way, angel," he calls over his shoulder even though there's no need at this point, they
both know where the bedroom is.

Aziraphale follows him dutifully, bare feet padding softly across the spotless hardwood floors.
He rounds the corner into the bedroom behind Crowley and his heart does that funny little
skipping thing again. He should probably get that looked at eventually.

The bedroom looks exactly the way he remembers it, the long mattress, the dark sheets, all
of it, but he's suddenly keenly aware that he's not alone in the room this time, that Crowley is
standing just a few feet away but so very, very close at the same time. He swallows quickly
and flips a smile onto his face.

"Right," he says, his voice coming out just a little shakier than what he had hoped for. "So
how does this work?"

Crowley frowns at him, looks at the bed, back at him, and then back at the bed. "What do
you-? You just get in bed and fall asleep, that's how it works."

Aziraphale fidgets with the hem of his shirt. "Right, well, see, the thing is...I've never actually
slept before and I'm afraid I'm just not clear on how it...you know, happens."
The demon blinks at him, his yellow-gold eyes clouded with confusion. The glasses have
come off and are perched carefully on the bedside table, easily within reach of their owner at
all times. "You...you're serious?"

There's a single nod from across the room.

Crowley lets out a long, slow sigh because Hell Below, this might be more complicated than
he thought. "Alright, well, I suppose the first thing you should do is get in bed and lay down."
It feels like such an odd thing to give instructions on but he can see the pure, unadulterated
cluelessness on the angel's face and it seems cruel to let him flounder like that for longer
than was necessary.

Aziraphale nods and slowly, hesitantly walks across the room the other side of the bed. He
places one hand on the mattress, fingers brushing almost reverently over the sheets, before
he pulls them back a little bit and sits on the edge of the bed. He watches Crowley closely,
mimicking the demon's movements as he slides in between the sheets and settles himself
on his back. Once they're both in the bed, there's a soft click and the room fades into
darkness as the lamp goes off.

"Alright, now what?"

"Well now…" Crowley stops and thinks because he doesn't really know how to explain that
now you just selectively go unconscious for a few hours. "Now you just...lay here until you
drift off, I suppose. Close your eyes, try to clear your mind, that sort of thing."

"Ah, clear your mind," Aziraphale parrots back. "That's all the rage in this new age yoga
craze. You know, I read somewhere that-"

"You also have to stop talking."

"Oh, right. Sorry."

A palpable silence falls between them in the inky darkness of the bedroom. The blackout
curtains perform their role admirably and if it wasn't for the very faint sound of traffic outside
the bedroom might be mistaken for a previously undiscovered cave.

Aziraphale tries to clear his mind the way Crowley suggested, to let his thoughts drift like the
ebb and flow of the tide, but it's harder than it sounds. He becomes all too aware of the
rumble and growl of traffic on the streets down below, of the soft whoosh of the fan
overhead. In complete darkness he feels the rest of his senses take over and amplify
everything around him. Rather than relaxing, it becomes distracting.

Crowley, for his part, is trying desperately to remain calm. Aziraphale is next to him, he's so
close he could reach out and touch him, but he doesn't because he doesn't know if he'll be
able to stop himself once he does.
He wants to tell Aziraphale everything, that he's loved him since time immemorial, that he
would move every star in the universe if that's what he wanted, but he can't because he
doesn't want to rush him. You go too fast for me...he knew that and because he knew that he
was willing to take a week, a month, one hundred years for the angel to catch up because
there was no point in anything without him.

So he lays there in complete darkness, still as a corpse next to the love of his life and tries to
control his breathing (which he doesn't need to do but it's become a nervous reaction in the
quiet darkness of the room).

Aziraphale starts fidgeting.

It's small at first, the twitch of a foot and the repositioning of an arm. Then he sighs and shifts
a little more and then he stirs and readjusts and fumbles with the blanket. This goes on for
close to an hour before he eventually slumps in defeat. He feels like he's doing something
wrong; in spite of the ridiculously comfortable bed and the soothing darkness, he can't keep
his mind quiet and he can't relax. Maybe it's the fact that he's in a room that's not his own or
the fact that Crowley is laying beside him but he can't get himself to calm down enough to
drift off the way Crowley described.

He sighs and sits up, figuring maybe he'd wander into the living room or maybe even head
back to the bookshop, but a hand captures his wrist in the darkness and tugs him back into
the bed.

"Crowley, what-?

"Shh," the demon mumbles through the darkness, giving one last sharp tug on the angel's
wrist to get him back down on the mattress. "Your working too hard at this. It's sleep, angel,
not a bloody chore."

"Yes, I realize that, my dear, but I just don't think-"

"Good, don't think," Crowley says as he flips the blanket back over Aziraphale. "The worst
thing you can do when you're trying to go to sleep is think. Thinking is counterproductive
when it comes to sleep."

"But what do I-"

"Shh," the demon says again but his voice is softer somehow in the darkened bedroom. And
then he does something neither of them are expecting: he reaches out and pulls the angel
into his arms.

It's a smooth, seamless movement, just a small tug and a minimal amount of effort and
suddenly the wide expanse of the bed has disappeared and it's now just the two of them in
the middle of the bed. Neither of them move for several seconds, neither of them speaks,
neither of them breathes.
Eventually Aziraphale relaxes and, rather than being distracted by the traffic outside or the
hum of the fan overhead, he focuses on the feeling of Crowley's arms wrapped around him.
It feels safe and warm and familiar even though they've never embraced each other like this
before. Being in his arms, feeling the warm solidity of his body pressed against him, it feels
like home.

The demon has a good foot over him and the pointed tip of his chin digs into the top of
Aziraphale's head slightly but he finds he doesn't mind. His fingers slip very gently over the
smooth silk stretched across Crowley's back, the palm of his hand finding a resting place
against the curve of his ribs. He can pick up the faintest scent of spearmint toothpaste and
the evergreen freshness of aftershave (neither of which Crowley needed to use unless he
felt like it) and the combination is strangely comforting.

"Too fast?" the demon's voice asks above him tentatively.

Aziraphale smiles and shakes his head against his chest. "No."

"Good," Crowley replies with noticeable relief. Long fingers trace small patterns across the
space between the angel's shoulder blades, the space between his wings. They're simple at
first, curls and swirls more than anything, but it slowly shifts into long, sweeping drags that
take up nearly the full length of Aziraphale's spine. The angel shivers slightly and Crowley
pulls him closer.

He closes his eyes, takes a breath, and says the one thing he swore he'd never say out loud.
"It's you, you know," he whispers quietly into the yawning void of darkness around them.
Maybe the universe itself is listening but he finds he doesn't care anymore. "It's always been
you. From the start of everything till the end of it, it always has been and always will be you."

Aziraphale's breath hitches in his throat and his heart does another funny little flip. His
fingers tangle for purchase in a handful of absurdly expensive silk and he feels like he has
never truly breathed until this moment.

"Oh Crowley," he whispers and the words come out as prayer, a promise, a love song, and
everything in between. He's not sure if he wants to laugh or cry but he is sure of what
happens next.

He tilts his head up just slightly, just enough to force the demon to readjust his position, and
then suddenly they're nose-to-nose. The kiss is brief, barely more than a brush of lips and a
breath shared between them, but that's all it needs to be. In that moment it's too much, it's
not enough, it's limitless and even that is insufficient. In that moment, that tiny fraction of
time, it's everything.

"I've loved you forever," Crowley confesses with a soft, shuddering breath when they pull
away. "And I'll love you for much longer than that if you'll let me."

"My darling," Aziraphale replies with a smile that could light up the entire room if it wasn't
12:30 in the morning and the blackout curtains were gone. "I never could and never will love
anyone the way I love you. I'm yours until the stars fade from the night sky and for every
second thereafter. Forever is just the start, darling, we have all the time in the world."

The noise that escapes Crowley is somewhere between a laugh and a sob and he tightens
his arms around Aziraphale. "I've always wanted to hear you say that."

"I'll put it in writing if that helps."

There's another soft chuckle and the demon presses his lips to his forehead, the kiss light
and feather soft. "Maybe later," he says, for the moment content to do nothing more than
hold the angel in his arms and let the rest of the world fade away. "For now let's just sleep."

Aziraphale huffs quietly in frustration. "I'm afraid I'm still not very good at that part."

"You'll do fine," Crowley assures him, his thumb running a long, smooth line down the
angel's back. "Just close your eyes."

Aziraphale wants to argue that he tried that already and it didn't work but he doesn't have the
heart to protest at the moment. So instead he closes his eyes, tucks his head beneath
Crowley's chin, and waits.

For a while nothing happens, just silence and darkness all around. He starts thinking about
everything that led to this moment, from time of creation all the way until this very second.
He thinks about the original Adam and the new Adam, the birth of original sin in the Garden
and the birth of a new era at an air force base. He thinks about himself and he thinks about
Crowley and all the vast centuries they've seen and experienced together. He thinks he'd like
to spend several more centuries like this, together with Crowley and without the hesitation
and denial he'd enforced on himself since the literal dawn of time. He thinks about how nice
it is to be here, in this moment, warm and safe and wrapped in the arms of someone he
loves more than anything in existence. He thinks about…

He thinks about….

Nothing.

OOOOO

The sun is trying valiantly and failing miserably to peek through the blackout curtains when
Aziraphale opens his eyes. There's only a small patch of sunlight over the top of the curtain
rod and near the floor where the curtains brush about a half inch above the hardwood. Aside
from these two tiny blotches of light the bedroom remains dark and quiet.

It takes Aziraphale a few seconds to remember where he is and how he got here. He
remembers his conversation with Crowley the night before and can't shake the smile that
tugs at the corner of his lips as the words and the genuine love and affection in them take up
residence as a warm glow in the center of his chest.
One hand glides out across the bed and finds the other side empty and cold. He frowns
briefly, already missing the demon's presence beside him, and sits up. The rumble of traffic
is louder outside now, a dull cacophony of car horns and engines filling the earlier silence.
It's a familiar sound, one that has become oddly comforting throughout the years; it filters in
and out of his consciousness like white noise.

He makes his way to the door, pushing it open carefully and immediately squinting at the
brightness of the rest of the flat. The windows are not blocked by curtains outside of the
bedroom and the sudden shift in lighting makes his eyes throb sharply for a few seconds. He
blinks it away and steps out into the hallway, making his way to the main living area.

The TV is on and there's the soft drone of a talk show filtering across the room through the
speakers. Crowley is sitting at the small dinette table in the corner, absently skimming
through a newspaper with all the interest of someone learning about the proper method of
cataloguing tax files. He glances up when he sees Aziraphale enter the room and offers a
quick smile.

"Morning angel," he says, standing and pulling out a chair for his sleep-mussed companion.
"Sleep well, I take it?"

"I...did," Aziraphale says, sitting down with the sudden realization that not only did he fall
asleep but he actually did sleep well. He feels well-rested and relaxed in a way he hasn't felt
in...well, ever. "I suppose all the talk about a 'good night's sleep' is true after all."

"Nights," Crowley corrects gently.

"Pardon?"

"Nights," the demon repeats, stepping into the kitchen and rummaging around in one of the
cabinets for a mug. "Plural, more than one."

Aziraphale frowns in confusion. "Plural? What do you-? How long have I been asleep?"

Crowley glances at his watch (useless because it hasn't worked since 2014 but he likes the
aesthetic of it) and rounds out the days. "Well, it's August 3rd so-"

"August?!" Aziraphale sputters, immediately shooting to his feet in a flurry of panic and
confusion. "I've been asleep for over a month?!"

"Well, yes," the demon says slowly, watching the angel from across the kitchen as he
carefully fills the mug. "Considering you haven't slept in 6000 years it seemed like you were
due."

"But...but what about my shop and the deliveries I had scheduled and-"

"I took care of your bookshop, angel," Crowley assures him, coming around behind him and
placing a light kiss on the angels's forehead before gently pushing him back into the chair.
He hands him the mug and returns to his seat across the table. "I put up a sign saying you
were on holiday and would reopen when you returned. I'm sure your clientele will
understand."

He nods to a small pile of letters and envelopes along with a few paper-wrapped parcels
sitting on the window sill. "I also took the liberty of picking up your mail and any sundry other
packages that were dropped off at the shop. Also there's a new curry place that's been
leaving an abundance of take-out menus on your doorstep; we should try them some time."

Aziraphale blinks, opens his mouth to say something, closes it, opens it again and gives up.
He stares at the mug of tea Crowley had passed to him and drums his fingers worriedly
against the ceramic. "I appreciate your assistance, my dear," he tells Crowley earnestly. "I
feel terrible for having slept so long."

The demon shakes his head. "It was no trouble," he assures him with an airy wave of his
hand. "I wasn't about to wake you up for something as trivial as going to check your mail."

The angel offers a relieved and grateful smile and takes a small sip of his tea. It's his favorite
blend, orange and clove, and he vaguely wonders how long Crowley has been keeping it in
his pantry for just such an occasion. The thought makes him feel warm in a way that has
nothing to do with the tea in his mug.

"And what other sorts of mischief did you get up to while I was asleep?" he teases mildly,
smiling when the demon rolls his eyes at the comment.

"What makes you think I was up to anything?" Crowley asks, feigning offense and placing a
hand over his heart dramatically like the accusation was physically painful. "If you must know
I endured a rather boring couple of weeks without you around to pester and there's hardly
any reason for me to go about corrupting humanity any longer with Hell not breathing down
my neck anymore."

The answer comes across as breezy and flippant but the reality is that aside from the quick
trips he made to the bookshop, Crowley didn't leave his flat for over a month. He woke up
roughly thirty-two hours after Aziraphale settled in his arms to find the angel still sound
asleep and dead to the world. For a long time he laid there, memorizing every curve and
detail of the angel's face in the murky darkness of the bedroom. He reveled in the warmth of
his body, the feeling of his skin, the brush of his curls against his cheek. He felt like he could
have laid there for the rest of his life, content to do nothing more than hold the angel in his
arms, but he also realized that bookshop wasn't going to run itself and that some outward
intervention would be necessary to keep it operational.

So he slowly and exceedingly carefully slid out of bed, mindful not to disturb the sleeping
angel still nestled in his bed. From there he ventured over to the bookshop, picked up the
mail, left a note on the door, and returned to the flat. Aziraphale kept such odd hours with his
shop that Crowley figured the few regular customers he had (four the last time Crowley
checked) would understand if the bookseller was enjoying a well-deserved holiday.

The rest of the time was spent watching over the sleeping angel in his flat. He wouldn't call it
guarding so much as just keeping an eye on Aziraphale while he slept, making sure no one
bothered him, no one woke him up, no one interfered with the sleep Aziraphale took six
thousand years to get. For four and a half weeks his primary goal was simply to watch over
the angel, keep him safe, and he let him sleep.

Sometimes he slipped back into bed with him, gathering Aziraphale in his arms and holding
him close like he was the most precious thing in the world. Other times he would just watch
him, making mental maps of the sleep-softened features of his face, the smooth planes of
his back, the gentle curves of his body. Mostly he found himself just lounging in the flat,
half-heartedly watching TV or picking through a few of the old, tattered books Aziraphale
kept laying around his shop (although many of them were written in languages that hadn't
seen the light of day in several millennia). To be perfectly honest, he was happy to let
Aziraphale sleep as long and deeply as he liked, content to keep watch and be there when
he woke up.

And now, after several long, quiet weeks, the angel was awake and smiling warmly at him
over the rim of his mug. It's everything Crowley ever wanted.

"So angel," the demon says with a small, serpentine smirk. "Care to stay the night again?"

Aziraphale smiles, blushes a lovely shade of pink, and reaches across the table to take
Crowley's hand. He gives it a light squeeze and nods. "I think that can be arranged."