Notes: Contains implied oral at the very end.
"Urgh! Angel! Noooo!" Crowley steps over the back of the sofa, drops onto a cushion beside Aziraphale, and continues his childish groaning, which seems to come from the pit of his stomach and lasts a good minute-and-a-half. Behind the red canvas cover of his book, Aziraphale snickers, marveling at how this demon, at over six thousand years old, can manage to sound like a grumpy toddler every time he's the slightest bit inconvenienced. "Are you still reading?"
"Yes, I am." Aziraphale puts a finger to the last word he read, since Crowley's whining has the power to make him lose his place.
"Well, would you be willing to stop reading? It's four in the morning. I'd really like to go to bed."
"You can go to bed. No one's stopping you."
"Yes …" Crowley slides up to Aziraphale's side. He wraps his left arm around his stomach and his right behind his shoulders, filling up as much of his personal space as possible "… but I need to go to bed with my husband."
"And why would that make a difference?"
"And why would that make a difference?" Crowley mimics. "Because it's rather difficult to make love to one's spouse when they're fully dressed and in another room."
"Hmm. I can see where that might be a problem," Aziraphale agrees, reaching the end of his page and turning it. "All right then. One more chapter and I'll join you."
Crowley groans again, but has the courtesy to lean away and not throw a deafening fit right in his angel's ear. "That's what you said five hours ago!"
"I'm sorry! I haven't read this book in ages and I got sucked into it."
Crowley grins, nuzzling the soft skin of his angel's earlobe, breathing hot against his pulse. "I have something you can get sucked into."
"Very funny." Aziraphale sniffs, trying to sound unaffected by Crowley's closeness. "And if you're referring to what I think you're referring to, vulgar and immature."
"Fine," Crowley grumbles. "But I'm going to sit right here and keep an eye on you. One more chapter you said. That's all."
"That's all," Aziraphale confirms, and with a nod goes back to reading while Crowley sits silently, head resting on Aziraphale's shoulder, bored out of his gourd after only seventy-three seconds. He sighs dramatically. When Aziraphale doesn't get the hint, doesn't simply give in, he sighs again. When that doesn't affect a change, he says, "While I'm here, would you be willing to tell me what your book's about?"
Aziraphale snorts. "You want me to tell you what my book is about?"
"Yes."
"The Red Badge of Courage?"
"Sure." Crowley shrugs. "I haven't read it in a while. Refresh my memory."
"Very well. Why don't I read to you from this next passage?"
"Sounds fantastic."
Aziraphale clears his throat, wiggles himself straight, and begins where he left off. "The youth went slowly toward the fire indicated by his departed friend. As he reeled, he bethought him of the welcome his comrades would give him. He had a conviction that he would soon feel in his sore heart the barbed missiles of ridicule. He had no strength to invent a tale; he would be a soft target …"
"Mmm … soft …" Crowley murmurs as he tightens around Aziraphale, snuggling deep into the crook of his neck, whispy strands of his red hair tickling Aziraphale's chin.
"He made vague plans to go off into the deeper darkness and hide, but they were all destroyed by the voices of exhaustion and pain from his body. His ailments, clamoring, forced him to seek the place of food and rest, at whatever cost …"
Aziraphale feels Crowley readjust, move his right arm till he can massage Aziraphale's shoulder. He tips his head up, and a third sigh lands against the angel's neck.
"He swung unsteadily toward the fire. He could see the forms of men throwing black shadows in the red light, and as he went nearer it became known to him in some way that the ground was strewn with sleeping men ..."
"Sleeping men," Crowley repeats, lips brushing Aziraphale's skin, placing kisses ever so gently around his jawline. Aziraphale opens his mouth to begin again, but his head swims from the deliberate press of those lips in spots Crowley knows will make Aziraphale fold like a house of cards pitted against a stiff breeze.
"I-is this a thing we do now?" he asks, his voice buzzing against Crowley's lips.
"Yes," Crowley whispers. "This is a thing we do now."
"A-and how long are you going to be doing that?"
"Does it bother you?"
"I-I didn't say it bothered me," Aziraphale answers, frustratingly unable to keep his voice from shaking. "I'm simply looking for a timeline."
"Until I tire of kissing you, or you surrender and come to bed with me. However, I think it's only fair to warn you that I will never tire of kissing you."
"Since when have you been fair?"
"Since now."
"I know what you're trying to accomplish," Aziraphale says haughtily, "but this may not inspire me to leave the sofa."
"We don't have to leave the sofa." Crowley unwinds from his husband's body. He moves Aziraphale slowly, lying him out on the cushions beneath him, resting his head on the overstuffed arm. "In fact, you can keep reading if you'd like."
"I can?" Aziraphale peers at his husband, perplexed when Crowley starts unbuttoning his shirt.
"A-ha … while I make love to you right here."
"Oh … well …" Aziraphale squeaks, lifting his book above his husband's head as Crowley's body fights for space with Aziraphale's arms, "that's very polite of you, I suppose."
"Go on," Crowley teases, his mouth making its way over the subtle swells of Aziraphale's chest, working down towards his waist. "Keep reading. I wanna hear you."
"Oh. O-okay." Aziraphale scoots as Crowley shifts, his left knee pressing into the sofa back and his right leg sliding over the side to accommodate his demon lover. He looks back at his book when they've both settled, the words blurring then snapping back into focus after every touch of his husband's lips – an impact tremor caused by Crowley's mouth against his skin. "Of a sudden he confronted a black and monstrous figure. A rifle barrel caught some glinting beams. "Halt! halt!" He was dismayed for a moment, but he presently thought that he recognized the nervous voice. As he stood tottering before the rifle barrel, he called out: "Why, hello, Wilson, you-you here?"
Aziraphale gasps, shoving those last two words to the back of his throat when Crowley's teeth tug open the button to his slacks, then pull the zip down.
"The r-rifle was lowered to a position of caution … a-and the loud soldier came slowly forward. He peered into the youth's face."
Aziraphale re-doubles his efforts, determined to get to the end of this chapter without his husband slipping him up. It's only a few hundred words after all. What's a few hundred words? Not a whole page. Barely a swallow.
Swallow, he discovers, is an all too apt description for what Crowley has chosen to do.
"That you, Henry?"
"Yes, it's-it's me."
"Well, well, ol' boy," said the other, "by ginger, I'm glad t' see … I'm glad t' see …"
Softer and softer Aziraphale's voice becomes, the words drifting from his lips, withering when they come in contact with the air at the caress of his husband's tongue, the movement of his husband's throat.
The last Crowley hears of The Red Badge of Courage is the thunk the book makes when it hits the floor.