Chapter Text
Crowley had never really been a morning person.
In general, he considered rising before nine to be completely unnecessary at best and borderline sadistic at worst. Mornings were, in general, cold and damp and usually full of unpleasant tasks that no one in their right mind would want to do. There was no chore so urgent that it couldn’t wait a couple hours until a sane time of day.
It was just his luck, then, to have married the most chipper morning person alive. Aziraphale was a disgustingly cheerful early riser (provided he slept at all), because of course he was. Bursting with energy at truly unholy hours. It was unnatural, even for a being who didn’t technically need sleep. Crowley had managed to get him sleeping more or less regularly, but he still had the Herculean task ahead of teaching the angel to stay that way. As far as he was concerned sleep was one of the greatest pleasures in life, and it was barking mad to give it up too early on any day.
Nevertheless, here it was barely past seven, the light shining through the bedroom window still pale and weak, and they were already awake. Still in bed, but awake. The day had begun with a sleepy back rub good enough to make him melt, and the follow up was…enough to make him re-think his stance on mornings entirely.
Nothing in the world, not even sleep, compared to the feeling of lying here on his stomach with his angel atop him, warm lips kissing down his back, forehead pressed to the nape of his neck. Those soft, strong hands gripping tight on his hips, pulling him closer, closer, his own hips pushing against him, while Crowley clutched at the sheets and gasped his pleasure into the thick bedding. The feeling that if he did not get nearer to him he would simply break into pieces.
Mornings, he decided, were entirely different when you had something worthwhile to wake up for.
Aziraphale shifted up to slide his arms around his chest, pulling them closer together as if he had read his mind. He smelled like clean skin and that scented lotion he always used on his hands. The soft summer-warmth of his body pressed him down into the plush mattress with each perfect thrust, silky sheets rubbed against his erect groin from underneath, and in between was not soft at all. Crowley closed his eyes and moaned; God, but he could easily lie here like this forever, basking in the glow of him, of being loved and wanted. And oh, oh it was so wonderfully, rigidly clear that he was wanted. Aziraphale held him tight, hands clutched possessively, making slow tracks across his shoulder blades with his tongue as he made love to him. Kissing the places where his wings would be. Whispering things in his ear that lit him up and made him want to come, things that nearly made him sob with their sharp beauty; things involving lovely and sweet and kind, and perfect. Those words created tiny ripples in his soul, like pebbles in a pond, and in the privacy of his mind Crowley cried out to him in gratitude. Please, take me, possess me. Want me. I’m yours, body and soul. The angel gently bit the back of his neck as he moved, and at that bite all the beautiful sensations suddenly drew together into an irresistible pressure. He couldn’t take it- he buried his face in the blanket and let out a long groan of ecstasy, trembling as it all punched out of him.
“Oh darling. Mmm.” Aziraphale sounded like he was smiling as he paused and kissed his neck, right on the place where he had bitten. “You liked that, hm? That one was quick.” His hands stroked his chest as he rested his chin on his shoulder.
“Mmm hm.” Crowley was smiling too, blanket still clutched against his face, trying to catch his breath. Little shudders of pleasure were going through him like aftershocks. “Wasn’t trying not to.”
“Good.” The angel reached out to thread their fingers together, pinning both his hands palm-down to the bed. “You need to relax more, my love,” he murmured in his ear. Soft lips touched the very centre of Crowley’s back, between his shoulder blades, sending fresh shivers down his spine. Aziraphale resumed, slightly faster, and it was only a minute or two before his body clenched atop him with a series of shaking moans. Crowley held his hands tightly through it, steadying him and moaning with him as he came.
Afterwards the angel gently insisted that he not move, and Crowley was happy to obey. He shifted his cheek to a cooler part of the sheets and just lay there as those soft hands resumed massaging his shoulders, then his back, eventually working all the way down to his feet. More languorous kisses all the while, blessing every area of his body little by little as the tension was slowly rubbed out of his still-tingling skin. Fingers slowly combing through his hair from his temples to the base of his head, over and over and over again until he thought he might die from the sheer luxury of it all. Aziraphale had apparently woken up determined to love him to death, and there was no better fate in all the world.
He tried to reciprocate, once, but Aziraphale only pressed him firmly back down and lay atop him, pinning him in place, and resumed pouring out all of his considerable ability to love. Crowley was forced to just lie there sprawled out and take it, face burning, as those perfect uncalloused fingers whispered over his skin.
He didn’t know if it had been minutes or hours before he finally mustered a titanic effort of will, and sat up. “And where do you think you are going?” Aziraphale sat up behind him and wrapped restraining arms tight around his chest, trapping him in place, which was actually helpful because he might have otherwise fallen over. Warm lips brushed the side of his throat, making him shiver. “I’m not done with you just yet.”
“I’ll be right back, I promise,” Crowley reassured him with a smile. Aziraphale held him there for a bit, pressing affectionate little kisses all along his jaw and neck, but after a few more promises he managed to reluctantly extricate himself. He stood up unsteadily and slipped into the black silk dressing gown draped over the nearby desk chair, then made his woozy way downstairs to make them some tea. He had brought Aziraphale tea or breakfast in bed every morning since they moved, and he wasn’t going to stop now just because his bones felt like they had been turned to jelly. He wobbled down the steps and through the sitting room in a pleasant daze, still feeling the phantom touch of lips on his back.
As he reached the kitchen he heard a faint yowl, and with a roll of his eyes went to the front door to let in Menace. The small, skinny black cat waltzed right in and pressed against his ankles, purring, and he crouched down to scratch its silky head for a minute. The right ear was missing a ragged chunk, as if something had taken a bite out of it.
“Good morning to you, too. Though I guarantee mine is better.” He kept his voice low. If Aziraphale overheard him speaking to the cat he might actually disappear in a puff of embarrassed smoke.
Pleasantries dispensed, Menace trotted over to the small ceramic bowl on the kitchen floor and began to scarf down breakfast. Crowley shook his head as he set a polished wooden tray on the counter and pulled the teapot from the cupboard. For some reason the little stray had taken a completely unwarranted liking to him from day one, a fact that he still found bizarre but had come to accept. There was just no accounting for taste. The animal had then stealthily moved in without his permission over the course of a couple weeks. After that first moving day he kept popping up at their door in bad weather, looking steadily more bedraggled and pathetic, and really, what was he supposed to do? He kept relenting and letting him stay “just one more time.” Aziraphale had finally bought the cat a small cushion of his own to sleep on, and of course that was that. Now barely a month later he came and went as he pleased, the presumptuous little bastard. He also constantly followed Crowley around the house, like a furry little shadow, completely indifferent to both his glowering and his halfhearted attempts to shoo him away. Aziraphale found it incredibly funny and was no help at all. He only giggled helplessly whenever Crowley called to him to get over here and remove the bloody cat from his lap/ plant/ chair/ trouser leg.
It would be a lot easier if Menace wasn’t so obviously happy to see him. Despite his very best efforts Crowley found himself growing attached. This is what came of naming the damn thing. He considered the situation to be one hundred percent Aziraphale’s fault.
Said name had started as a joke when the angel suggested that Crowley decide what to call the scrawny beast, then had somehow morphed into a permanent moniker. Menace wasn’t quite so scrawny any more, Crowley noted as he arranged cups and sugar and cream on the tray. Aziraphale fed the cat constantly, and over the last month the gaunt rib cage had filled out a bit.
He selected a bag of Earl Grey and placed it in the fine china teapot for steeping. With a snap of his fingers he boiled the water; there was a quiet sizzling noise and a puff of aromatic steam floated out of the spout. After a moment’s thought he went to another cupboard and added a handful of Aziraphale’s favourite spiced ginger biscuits to the tray, then picked up the entire arrangement and carried it upstairs.
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Aziraphale was sitting up in bed against the headboard, already engrossed in a paperback book- The Odyssey, if he wasn’t mistaken. He wore nothing but those ridiculous little wire-rimmed reading glasses, and the sight was funny enough to make Crowley chuckle out loud as he walked in.
Aziraphale looked up at the sound. He turned rather pink and quickly pulled one of the blankets over himself.
“Hey, don’t do that. I wasn’t laughing at you.” Crowley set the tray on the bed and climbed in next to him under the covers, careful to not jostle the tea.
“Oh.” Aziraphale smiled and set his book aside, and reached down to take his hand. “Weren’t you?”
“No! Well, I mean, I was laughing at those glasses, not at you,” he said, and kissed his hand. That wasn’t quite enough, so he put an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders and kissed him unhurriedly on the mouth as well. “I’d never laugh at you,” he said, serious now.
“Hm.” The angel raised pale eyebrows at him skeptically. His lips quirked a little. “Now that is patently untrue, dear, and you know it.”
“Well…yeah. But not like that.” He grinned, and jerked his head towards the tray. “Tea?”
Aziraphale brightened. “Ooh, yes. Just you sit right there, I’ll do it. It’s my turn to serve you for once.” He didn’t give him a chance to argue, but shifted to sit cross-legged and firmly pulled the tray over to his side of the bed. As he bent forward to pour the tea Crowley noticed a few crescent-shaped purple marks on the angel’s back – souvenirs from the rather frantic night before. He smirked and leaned over to slowly touch his mouth to each bruise, tracing the shape of each one with his tongue and savouring the memory. The skin was soft and warm under his lips. God, so impossibly perfect.
He was assailed by the sudden urge to tackle Aziraphale down to the bed and give him a few more marks for his collection. He kept the urge firmly in his own head, but allowed himself to enjoy the extremely pleasant images it provided: The contents of the tray scattered haphazard across the bed, hands clasped tightly in the blankets. Satiny skin pressing, shifting under and around him. The taste of salt. That perfect, angelic face scrunching up, lips softly parted, moaning in pleasure as he-”
“Here you are, sweetheart.”
Right. Tea. Shit. He pulled himself together with a jerk and accepted a full, steaming cup – black, of course – with a mostly-calm nod of thanks.
Azirpahale bombarded his own tea with enough cream and sugar to turn the caramel liquid a pale beige. He stirred precisely four times with the little silver spoon, then held the cup poised just so over the saucer and inhaled the fragrant steam. He sipped delicately, gave a satisfied sigh, and let his eyes slide closed as he continued drinking. Cross-legged and straight-backed, a faint smile on his lips- the picture of quiet contentment. Crowley just watched him for a minute, fascinated. Only Aziraphale could somehow look like he was dining at the Ritz while sitting naked in bed. He always radiated happiness (and over the smallest things!) the way fire gave off heat, and it was absolutely enchanting. Just sitting near him was enough to warm him to his core.
“You’re staring again, love,” Aziraphale murmured without opening his eyes.
How the hell does he do that? “Am not.”
Aziraphale only smiled, nose still buried in his teacup.
He’d recently learned that the angel was not quite as oblivious as he’d previously thought, the sneaky bastard. It was kind of embarrassing, but he didn’t really mind anymore. Crowley selected a biscuit and shoved it into his mouth whole, and boldly kept staring as he chewed. He knew he must look like the world’s biggest lovestruck fool, but dammit, he just couldn’t help himself. It still felt like such a luxury to be able to love him openly, without fear of scaring him away.
Aziraphale was gazing out the window now. Bright streamers of June sunshine were pouring in over the painted white sill, catching sparkling motes of dust in their beams and lighting up the entire room. “It’s so early,” he commented dreamily, as if that was a good thing. He sipped again, and sighed. “We still have the whole day ahead of us. We can go do anything.”
Crowley gave a noncommittal grunt at that and took a gulp of his unsugared tea. It was quality stuff- nice and strong, but getting a bit cool for his taste. He blew on it, and a cloud of thick white steam immediately billowed up as it boiled anew. Much better.
Aziraphale hummed to himself, then scooted a bit closer and rested his head on his shoulder. The simple gesture created such a swell of happiness in Crowley’s chest that it demanded a response, so he set the tea down and slid his arms around Aziraphale’s waist. Fine curls tickled his cheek as he hugged him, and he wondered for the umpteenth time at the unlikely paradise his life had become. Surely demons were not meant to be this happy. It felt like cheating. “We could hit that new Italian place for lunch later, if you like. I know you’ve had your eye on it.”
“Oh, that sounds lovely. Too bad we can’t go right now.”
“Yuh huh.” He for his part was very content to just sit here. He had always enjoyed doing nothing, but he hadn’t anticipated how much more he would enjoy doing nothing with Aziraphale.
The bedroom was warm and cosy, his angel was safe and happy beside him, and life was theirs for the taking. At that moment absolutely all was perfect.
There was a soft thump. He looked over to see that Menace had jumped up onto the bed and was now sniffing at the tea tray. “Oi!” he exclaimed, sitting bolt upright. “No! Out, get out.” He brandished his free arm a few times, swiping at the air, but the cat just stared at him impassively with those emerald-green eyes. “Go!” He pointed firmly at the door. Menace lay down on the far corner of the bed, well out of his reach, and looked away. He also started purring, just to add insult to injury. Aziraphale choked slightly on his tea as he began to chuckle. “Quiet, you," Crowley said. “Ah, no, don't encourage him..." He groaned as the angel leaned over and reached out to rub the furry head. Menace just purred and purred as the two of them completely ignored his sputtering.
No respect. None at all. Crowley gave up and slumped back against the headboard. He was far too comfortable to muster any real irritation. "Next time I’m bringing you salt instead of sugar with your tea,” he grumbled.
“Truly demonic, my love.” Aziraphale didn’t sound overly concerned as he sat back again with a sigh.
“Yes.” He put his arms around him again, and leaned in to hiss threateningly in his ear. “I’ll get us fast food for dinner. I’ll buy you white chocolate instead of regular.”
“Now, darling, that’s just uncalled for.”
“Ha.” Though he supposed white chocolate probably was going too far; some things just couldn’t be countenanced. He pulled the sheet up just a little further over Aziraphale’s front to keep him warm, and rested his own head against the blond one. His eyelids were suddenly feeling heavy again; it was still very early by his standards, and between the back rubs and the sex he was relaxed enough to pass out. Menace’s constant rumbling purr was also annoyingly soothing. Surely a little nap couldn’t hurt. As the angel said, they still had the whole day ahead of them. Plenty of time for…whatever. He let himself sink just a bit further down into the mattress with a yawn.
Aziraphale knew the very moment that Crowley fell asleep. The demon’s body went ever so slightly more slack, and the steady thrumming of emotion he had been quietly enjoying all morning abruptly faded. He glanced over to see that Menace (Good Lord, that name) was also fast asleep at the foot of the bed. All was quiet. Aziraphale sighed and carefully moved the still mostly-full teacup from his husband’s lap back to the tray.
Truth be told, even he didn’t have much motivation to get up today. Especially when there were such delights to be had right here in bed. He nibbled at a biscuit while he re-played some of those very recent delights in his head, and the memory sent a warm shudder coursing through him. As wonderful as it was to let Crowley spoil him all the time, sometimes his demon needed the favour returned. It had been incredibly satisfying on multiple levels; seeing him so relaxed and happy was the most lovely thing in the world. It was doubly lovely to get to actually feel Crowley’s love and happiness pouring forth like a strain of beautiful music, and goodness had it been loud today. Crowley was not a subtle person- his feelings practically shouted. Aziraphale could always sense love to some degree if he was paying attention, but when he really opened himself up and listened for it, like he did during lovemaking…it was the most marvelous thing, like standing in a warm wind. The feelings his husband emitted then were nearly tangible.
Naturally, he’d never bothered to mention any of this to Crowley himself. It would only embarrass him, and he didn’t want him to try and tamp it down.
His neck was starting to develop a cramp, so he put his arms around the slender form and eased them both down to lie more comfortably flat. He wiggled a little closer and nuzzled at his throat, feeling the press of that glorious fever-warm body all along his own. Mmm. Maybe he would just curl up with him and read for a few hours in the sunshine.
He stealthily reached over the sleeping form to snag another biscuit off the tray, and just lay there eating it for a minute. Contentment was apparently the greatest soporific, for he was in serious danger of becoming as lazy as his demon.
The demon in question made a small noise and shifted in his sleep. “Love you, m’angel,” he mumbled. He followed that up with something unintelligible that sounded like “mlerg, blah,” before rolling over to press his face against his bare chest. One knee unexpectedly came up to slot between his thighs, making him flinch as it nearly smacked into the dangerous areas before hooking around his leg. Crowley looked scrunched and awkward and ungainly lying there like that, like a spider folded in half, and Aziraphale had to muffle a laugh in his hair.
Angel. It had taken him far, far too long to realize that it was a term of endearment. For all those years he had assumed Crowley used it instead of his name to distance him. As a way to remind him of what he was, and who they were supposed to be to each other.
Sometimes he felt so very, very stupid.
“I love you too, darling,” he whispered. “My beautiful love.” He smoothed back the russet hair, which had grown out a bit shaggy in recent months, and walked his fingers across the sharp planes of his shoulders. Crowley was all bony angles and lines in direct contrast to himself, and God help him, he absolutely adored it. He adored his ridiculous swagger, the way he stumbled through life like an idiot yet still managed to land on his feet every time. He admired his reckless courage, so much stronger than his own. The way he could spit in the eye of danger and all expectation with a smirk and toss of his immaculately-styled head, and look so painfully good doing it. Good Lord, did he look good doing it. It almost hurt to look at him.
He had always tried so hard not to look, not to like it, but heavens, had he ever failed. Thank heavens he had failed, for in failing he had been set free in a way he could never have imagined. It nearly made him sick, now, to think of how much energy and time he had wasted trying not to be in love. If there was ever an award for idiotic mental gymnastics, he deserved it. He had managed to convince himself that their Arrangement was purely practical, that their time spent together was strategic and had nothing whatsoever to do with actually enjoying his company. He had told himself, rather desperately, that what he was feeling flowing from Crowley could not be love, for of course demons could not love. Naturally not! It was just part of the demonic nature, a siren song designed to lure him from safety and drown him in the depths. Just another tempting trick from the wily adversary, of course. As an angel of the Lord it was his solemn, sacred duty to be stronger than temptation and to protect humanity from infernal influences- what kind of disgraceful angel was he, to be so weak?
So he had told himself, over and over and over again.
And so, he had stomped down his misgivings and thrown up walls around his heart; he had done as he was told and swallowed his own sick dismay as the feelings only grew stronger. Never mind that Crowley seemed to understand him like no one else ever had. Never mind that the demon’s behavior seemed far beyond simple friendliness. Never mind any of it. He had firmly averted his gaze and sweated through his fine clothes whenever he smiled like that at him, had ignored how painfully fast his heart beat whenever Crowley showed up (entirely by accident, of course) to save him. He had played the good soldier, and carried the secret shame of his failure like a heavy stone in his soul.
Worst of all, he had hurt Crowley, over and over again. As it turned out, the thing he had needed saving from most was himself.
So very, very stupid. And so very, very lucky.
Suddenly unable to resist, he tilted up Crowley’s face and kissed him, urgent yet tender, and even in sleep Crowley kissed him back. Their mouths fit together so effortlessly, as if custom-made for each other. Aziraphale took his time, savouring the familiar taste of him, gently sucking on his lower lip and tangling his fingers in his hair. He tasted the way he smelled, of woodsmoke and musk and everything that was exciting in the world. For a second he hoped he would wake up and look at him, but Crowley only went slack again and let out a light snore. Aziraphale sighed.
At least now they had all the time they needed to make up for his stupidity. Frankly, heaven itself didn’t hold a candle to this. Their days here were full of afternoon tea and fine dining, of day trips to the coast and evening jaunts to the cinema. Now that the weather was a bit warmer they could start going on picnics as well. Crowley was eager to expand Aziraphale’s knowledge of action movies, a genre that he found slightly baffling, and Aziraphale was doing his best to introduce his demon to the infinite joys of reading. They were both having only minimal success, but honestly most of the fun was in the trying.
There was also quite a lot of sex. That was an unexpected joy of a different kind, and that side of things only seemed to be getting better and better if he did say so himself. The delight they took in each other’s bodies was still fresh and bright as burnished copper, a sparkling font of excitement to garnish each perfect day. He had thought he knew every line of Crowley’s body already, but over the last year he had discovered exactly how incomplete that knowledge was. Now he had learned what pleasure looked like on him, knew exactly where to touch him to make him gasp (which, in fairness, seemed to be almost anywhere). And as for Crowley…well. He smiled to himself in satisfaction, remembering. Crowley had learned fast.
It had been an entirely different education for both of them, this language of hands and tongues and other things. That education had been so frequent and enthusiastic that he would almost certainly be half his current size by now if not for all that constant fine dining, not to mention the more recent breakfasts in bed. Aziraphale rolled onto his back a little more and slid his hands under the silk dressing gown, over the smooth, warm skin of Crowley’s back, and felt his breath catch as he ventured lower. Oh, but he was beautiful. Every time he touched him still felt like the first. And there had been so many, many firsts over the last year, so many new things to try as they navigated this new chapter of their lives together.
He knew the other angels would never understand any of this. No doubt they considered him utterly insane at best and corrupted at worst, but he no longer cared. The angels had always looked askance at his perceived weakness for human life, had always tugged him back and away from the things he cared for. Had tethered and made him feel small. But Crowley…Crowley gave a voice to all the half-formed doubts, all the inarticulate longings that had churned in his deepest self since The Beginning. The gangly, ridiculous demon loved him regardless of his failings and idiosyncrasies and all the times he had hurt him. Around him he never felt a need to be anything but himself. Crowley gave him his wings and let him fly.
He was free.
He liked to think (or at least desperately hoped) that the Almighty understood, seeing as She had created all of this to begin with, but Her silence on the matter left a lot open to interpretation. That hurt. He mostly just tried not to think about it.
Aziraphale tugged at the thin black fabric, loosening it and pulling it away from Crowley’s back.
“Darling,” he whispered. He said it again, until those luminous yellow eyes slitted open and fixed on his face. “Darling, let me see your wings.”
Crowley raised a sleepy eyebrow at him, then closed his eyes again. Enormous, ink-black wings unfurled from his shoulder blades and stretched out lazily, one at a time, casting long shadows across the room. Aziraphale gently pulled one wing toward him and ran his fingers through it with a motion like playing a harp, admiring how the morning light rippled across the feathers. They seemed far glossier than usual, somehow; the golden sunlight was transmuted to a silver-blue shimmer wherever it touched. He stroked the top of each wing with the palm of his hand, and smiled to see goosebumps crop up all along Crowley’s shoulders. This was one of his favourite things. The wings were a manifestation of their true forms, nearly their souls, and letting someone touch them was in some ways more intensely intimate than sex. Not sexual in and of itself, but just…intimate. Like letting someone listen to you sing for the first time, or confessing a deeply-held secret. With the wrong person it would have been a horrible feeling, but with the right one…
Crowley’s arms slowly tightened around his waist. He gave no other indication that he was awake, but that thrum of love suddenly rose once again, flowing out in a steady stream and intensifying until it filled Aziraphale’s entire awareness. His very blood sang with it. He smiled and lay there with his eyes closed, holding Crowley snug against his chest with one arm and stroking his wings with the other hand. Barriers down and senses open wide, drifting in the warm currents of emotion. Feeling that siren song eddy and flow around him and sink into his bones.
It was just past nine in the morning.
When the small pendulum clock on the wall struck the half hour, they were both still lying there in bed, fast asleep. Crowley was snoring loudly, head propped on Aziraphale’s chest, the black wings open and askew across the blankets. One of the angel’s hands was still buried to the wrist in the feathers.
As it turned out, Aziraphale didn’t mind sleeping late when there was someone worthwhile to do it with.
Illustration by Alice Rovai