In which Crowley teaches Aziraphale the fine art of sleeping.
It starts as a mere curiosity, really. A whim. It starts with Crowley waking from a nap one bright, warm afternoon to find Aziraphale watching him, haloed in a slant of sunlight as it pours through the window of the back room. It starts with Crowley yawning, stretching, luxuriating in the pull and tense of muscle and sinew.
You really enjoy it, Aziraphale muses. Don’t you.
Crowley hums. Hnnnyeah. S’nice. You should try it, sometime.
Aziraphale, considering him, the spark of curiosity he has borne since the world was new flickering in his gaze. The same spark that drove him to offer a demon shelter under his wing.
Will you teach me how?
And so, because Crowley is a heartsick fool bent on self-sabatoge, he begins teaching the angel how to sleep.
They start with the basics. Aziraphale acquires a bed (an ancient four-poster affair that Scrooge himself would have envied) and Crowley instructs him how to lie on it, how to get comfortable. No, don’t lie on your stomach like that, you’ll hurt your neck. Yes, now close your eyes and let your thoughts sort of… drift off.
I can’t simply turn off my brain, Aziraphale protests.
It’s a struggle, at first, but Aziraphale eventually learns the trick of it. He sleeps for a handful of minutes, Crowley watching over him, making sure he doesn’t accidentally slip into a coma (which may or may not have happened to Crowley once or twice or five times). When Aziraphale wakes, his eyes are alight with understanding. I can see why you like it so much.
They move onto other types of sleeping. Catnaps in the sun, with Aziraphale lying down like an entombed mummy on the sofa in the back room. Crowley despairs of him, then watches, entranced, as Aziraphale slips into slumber. He unfurls in sleep like a sapling yearning toward sunlight, arms coming to rest above his head. Lips parted, the faintest rasp of his breath past his teeth. Crowley, catching himself, looks away.
The training continues. At Aziraphale’s request (purely out of generosity, a terrible look on a demon, really), Crowley spends the night so they might sleep in. Upon waking, in the weak-tea light of morning, he is spellbound by the image of Aziraphale softly snoring a mere handspan away. Inches lie between them, suddenly vast. When Aziraphale wakes, it is to find himself alone in the bed with Crowley making tea in the little kitchenette.
Dreams begin. With Crowley sleeping beside him, the veneer of tutelage a rickety bridge for them to skirt over their mutual reluctance, it is as inevitable as it is ineffable. Crowley wakes in the dark hours of morning to find Aziraphale smiling in his sleep, mumbling faintly. Oh, Crowley… my dear… And Crowley feels his heart soar. When Aziraphale wakes that morning, it is to find tea and buttered toast on the nightstand.
And then: nightmares. Aziraphale wakes in the middle of the night choking on bathwater, flailing for his sword, where is my sword? Shaking and shaking and shaking apart as Crowley sets hands on his shoulders, voice low. It’s alright, angel. It was only a nightmare.
How can they bear it? Aziraphale asks, tears streaming down his cheeks. It’s horrible.
I know.
You were gone. They’d taken you, they were going to–
Sshh, angel. Everything is okay. You and I are here. Together.
Aziraphale looks at him. On our own side.
Yes.
When Aziraphale kisses him, his mouth tastes of salt.
Things change, but the sleeping continues. Aziraphale is, as it turns out, a terrible blanket hog. Crowley will wake shivering in the night, cold-blooded creature that he is, to find the blanket gone and a warm burrito of an angel slumbering peacefully beside him. It’s almost so adorable Crowley can’t be annoyed. Almost.
One day, as rain drenches London, Crowley nudges Aziraphale and says, Let’s close up shop. Take an early night. And Aziraphale flips the sign to ‘closed’ and they climb up to the little flat. Curled together with the sound of rainfall pattering the windows, they are in their own little haven, a world apart from the world. Under the drum of rainfall, as Aziraphale lists into sleep, Crowley murmurs the words. Aziraphale sleepily mumbles them back.
It’s not just about the sleep, though. It’s also about the waking. Crowley wakes the next morning to find Aziraphale snug behind him, spooning him, hands absentmindedly tracing patterns across his chest, his stomach, and his body comes awake in a way he’s never known. Oh, it’s you. I’m awake for you.
Aziraphale mumbles a sleep-soft question in Crowley’s ear and Crowley nods, frantic, and really, no effort needs be made at all. They are moving together, hands gripping, stroking, opening. Mouths sliding, gasping, murmuring. Spines arching, hips rolling. It is the slow, hazy exploration of a dream, and after they reach their peak, they lie together a while longer, sated and sleepy and deliriously happy.
Goodness, Aziraphale murmurs, I should have taken up sleeping thousands of years ago.
Crowley wriggles closer, kissing his sleep-stale mouth. Stay with me a little while longer.
Of course, dearest.
Crowley drifts off to sleep.
SOFT and GOOD
