Chapter 1: An Awful Nap

(3 years before the birth of the Antichrist)

They couldn't stay around each other for long before they started taking one another apart.

Or, at the very least, Crowley would rip a rare book (luckily it had not yet been one of the bibles) in a drunken stupor, and Aziraphale would leave him outside in the damp to 'think about what he had done'. Usually the Demon was too far gone to even remember to stop the rain. Aziraphale would scoop him up the next morning and pour the soggy creature into bed until he remembered to sober up. This was the kind of normal, if slightly problematic, behaviour that was expected in these kinds of Arrangements. The Angel would simply tuck Crowley into the bed and wait for the vaguely forced apology the next morning, usually accompanied by a hangover of genuinely biblical proportions. It was nice to know that Evil was occasionally punished, even on such a petty level.

However sometimes things went a little bit further. Naturally the behaviour of most men-shaped things went a little bit further. But when the behaviour of one man-shaped Demon and one man-shaped Angel put a strain on the centuries old Arrangement, things had to stop fast. Which was why Crowley was pretty sure he hadn't been in this situation since 1968.

Aziraphale had been lay on his arm for the past hour, and any feeling that had once been attributed to it was now just a pleasant myth.

According to the angel, good was ever-vigilant (even if evil liked to take the occasional nap), and Crowley wasn't sure of the last time he had actually seen Aziraphale sleep. Crowley had received a commendation for the Spanish Inquisition, had taught the American government everything they knew about torture, and had sat back and watched most of the world take itself to pieces not once but twice in a century, with no actual work from him. But this, this was the most uncomfortable thing he'd seen. Mostly because for once the angel actually looked calm. Seeing Aziraphale without that ever present concern-bordering-on-anxiety was like looking at an entirely new man. For starters, the creases on his forehead unfolded, leaving nothing but a few small lines to mark where worry had once been. Or maybe it just marked the worries Aziraphale was dreaming about. Of course he'd dream about worrying, it was the only thing that gave him any pleasure. But the strangest thing about seeing Aziraphale sleep was that it was his nose that became the centre of attention. And it was cute. With no glasses, eyes closed, and an unnerving lack of worried expression, most of his face was just nose which, like most of the Angel, was rounded and somewhat soft-looking.

For a being that spent his time trying to heal all of humanity's sorrows, Aziraphale was much too soft. Someone should really look after him. Or not, considering Crowley had barely been able to survive a week here without wanting to make an attempt on the Angel's life.

A soft mumble and the shuffle of sheets marked Aziraphale surfacing from sleep, not quite awake, but just alert enough to notice that there was a limb of a man-shaped being wedged beneath his back and it was most uncomfortable. For a moment Crowley thought he was actually going to give him some relief. He could almost feel the blood rushing back to the cold, numb lump of flesh that had long ago stopped registering the warmth of Aziraphale's body. But then, when had he ever been so lucky?

By the end of the rearrangement, Anthony J Crowley had the head of an angel digging into his shoulder, a mouthful of blonde curls, and the sharpest elbow this side of Hell digging right into the softest part of his forearm. Maybe this was why good never slept. Because it was so damned uncomfortable that surely even Aziraphale, in his gently-snoring state, felt guilty. Crowley wasn't certain even the Angel could be comfortable in that position. His back was to Crowley, head forcefully wedged into the soft spot just between the demon's shoulder and collarbone. One arm was draped elegantly over his own waist, but the other had found its spot elbow first between the two bones of Crowley's forearm. How such a soft-looking angel possessed such a sharp elbow was one of the many mysteries of the world. And now was not the time to solve it.

Now was the time to nap.

Preferably as far from this sharp-edged, snoring abomination as possible. Maybe under the reading lamp on the bedside table.

Aziraphale's sleeping body barely acknowledged the shift of the once man-shaped form that had lay beside him. It may have softened slightly, relaxing back into the mattress which should have been replaced years ago (it was much too soft to do anyone's back any good), and whose springs had long ago given up fighting the weight of its occupants. Strange how, despite the rarity of the pair actually falling asleep together, the two dents in the softest part of the mattress overlapped. Two figures suck in an embrace that should, theoretically, not have been quite as uncomfortable as the Angel made it.

Regardless, the serpentine figure crawled its way toward the bedside table. While the reading lamp would be less warm than the angel's body beside him, it would be infinitely less painful. Besides, the light might wake Aziraphale up, which served him right for the savage bruise Crowley would no doubt be wearing on his arm for the next few days. He could fix it up quite easily, but why throw away mementos of such an enjoyable event?

For a moment there was virtual silence. Just the sound of scales gliding over the baby blue cotton sheets. And then a creak of bedsprings. A thump. A hissed swear.

And the snake relinquished the prospect of maintaining feeling in the end of his tail. He supposed that if Hell was going to win in the end, he could give Heaven the tiny victory of leaving him uncomfortably trapped in bed by the weight of the world's grumpiest angel.