Paragraph prompt: Crowley has never woken to find a sleeping angel before. Usually Aziraphale is reading next to him, or accepting the role of teddy bear with an indulgent smile, or - worst of all - downstairs, faffing about the bookshop. For the first time in their relationship, Crowley wakes to find Aziraphale fast asleep and wrapped around him.
Dear @ineffably-effable, this is not *precisely* what you asked for, but it’s where my brain took me today. I’m sure you understand ;)
*
The worst part was knowing -- knowing -- that if things had gone just a little bit differently, if world events, say, had played out just a little bit more slowly, he probably could’ve hunkered down at Aziraphale’s place no questions asked. Because things had been going well between them since they’d averted the Apocalypse. Not quickly, but well. There had been dinners and lunches and lazy afternoons in the back of the bookshop, and Aziraphale looking at him with an open affection that left Crowley feeling giddy, glorious, and slightly scorched, like he’d been too long in the sun.
After a couple of months, the casual touching had begun, fingers on the back of a hand, straightening a collar, a warm palm between the shoulder blades. Another month, and Aziraphale had reached out and taken Crowley’s hand, smiling shyly as they walked through the park on a blustery autumn day, and hadn’t withdrawn when Crowley had tentatively returned the gesture the following week.
Touches and hand-holding turned into hugs, and those turned into lying with his head in Aziraphale’s lap, drowsing through a winter rainstorm while his angel read and sipped cocoa and ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair with the lightest of touches, as though he thought he was getting away with something and (Crowley thought; hoped) delighted with it.
Crowley kissed him for the first time on the last day of winter, a quick peck on the cheek as he was leaving that left Aziraphale beaming so brightly he could’ve put Blackpool to shame. On the first day of spring, Aziraphale cupped Crowley’s face in his hand with a look so indulgently affectionate it made Crowley’s head swim and his knees feel a little unsteady, and kissed him softly on the lips.
Crowley could’ve happily stopped time right then. Often wished he had, in retrospect. Because four days later he was in lockdown in his flat, alone, knowing full well it was too soon to ask Aziraphale if they could weather this thing together, and too late not to ache for Aziraphale’s company.
(Who was he kidding? There would never have been a time when it wasn’t too late for that. But still. Still.)
And it wasn’t a surprise, after their latest phone call, that Aziraphale had turned him down. It wasn’t. Absolutely out of the question. Crowley snorted to himself. Where the angel was concerned that was practically a coy look and a flutter of his fan -- a barely-concealed invitation to persuade him otherwise -- and maybe, if they had been a few weeks earlier or a few weeks later in their leisurely promenade towards... towards... whatever they were heading towards, Crowley would’ve accepted the invitation, stepped seamlessly into the familiar dance, and eventually got his way. But he was frustrated, cranky from the solitude, and things were too... well they were delicate, is what they were. Fresh. Fragile. Too new to be tested. And actually, for once, just once, instead of convincing and cajoling, perhaps Crowley would quite like to be invited.
So not a surprise, no, but a sting nonetheless that he wished, for one brief, uncharitable moment, wasn’t so blessed familiar. Best all round that he just went to bed, really.
What was a surprise was drifting into wakefulness some time later (staring blearily at his bedside clock to see it was still May, dear g--ugh, why was it still May?) to find another warm body in his bed. A very familiar warm body. One that was lying flush against his back, curved comfortably around him, one arm heavy with sleep across his waist.
“’Ziraphale?” Crowley mumbled half into his pillow, not entirely certain he really was awake. “That you?”
The arm around his waist tightened momentarily. Crowley slipped his fingers between the knuckles, testing the lay of the land for signs of fantasy or dream, comforted by the beloved topography before slotting his fingers between those resting lax against his belly.
“Mmmph,” the angel said, barely a warm puff of breath against the back of Crowley’s neck.
“What’re you doing here?”
“Realised I couldn’t wait until July. Thought I’d--” he yawned hugely-- “I’d try it your way.”
“Mnm,” Crowley said. “’Kay.”
He glared through slitted eyes at his clock until it agreed that its alarm was set for tomorrow morning, and not in fact several weeks hence. Then he settled back into the warm cocoon of duvet and angel, and drew both closer around him.
