Angel of the Morning: Lockdown
Aziraphale nuzzled Crowley's shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of cheap aerosol spray, amber cognac, and a hint of brimstone. It was remarkable, the dichotomy of their bodies here on Earth, unequivocally human as well as preternatural. A sliver of sunlight landed across Crowley's hair, a slash of auburn against the pale pillowcase.
Luckily, the demon's back was turned—he was vehemently against the concept of mornings altogether, which Aziraphale found perplexing and endearing, in equal measure.
His hand meandered across the severe dips and angles of Crowley's body—memorizing, savoring . . .
A violent snore startled his partner awake, and Crowley shifted beneath the bedclothes without rolling over. He swallowed, cleared his throat.
"Morning, angel," he purred. Aziraphale beamed. The chiding label had softened, over time, into a pet-name that never failed to set his heart aflutter.
"Good morning, darling. Slept well, did we?"
Crowley grunted and thrust the duvet over his head. "Sleep, good, yes. Mornings . . ." A retching sound made his opinion on the time of day vividly clear. Aziraphale shook his head, smile broadening.
"So, your plan is to stay here all day, is it?"
A loud yawn from Crowley.
"Nothing better to do . . ."
"Nonsense—you can't see the possibilities for your own laziness," Aziraphale teased, and when his partner did not deign to answer, "Well, I could do with a spot of breakfast, myself." He gave the lump that was Crowley a pat. "You're welcome to join me, if you like."
The invitation was met with the a growl and a rustle of sheets. Chuckling. Aziraphale hauled himself upright and set to work readying himself for yet another day on Earth.
The kitchen was bright, its walls bathed in muted gold. So strange, that the sun continued to shine, that birds filled the early hours with their cheerful refrains. It seemed . . . wrong, somehow, for there to be any form of joy in the world right now, and yet, it also tethered those inside to the life that continued beyond their sealed doors.
It was necessary.
Humming a tune of his own, Aziraphale went about brewing himself a cup of tea. The tinkling swirl and tap of his spoon against the china accompanied his melody. He heaved a content sigh.
Another glorious day.
Not so surprisingly, lockdown suited him. To an angel stationed on this planet since its inception, solitude was a familiar companion. Or, at least it would have been, were it not for a particularly persuasive phone call in early May. He and Crowley had bent so many rules already—what was one teensy, tiny violation of the nation's lockdown?
True, the more difficult adjustment came with the closures of restaurants and cafés in which to while away the hours. But now, with nothing else to do but read through the copious piles of books littering his shop, why even entertain the notion of Heaven? It was right here, at his fingertips! He'd already consumed twenty tomes—for an angel, that number wasn't at all impressive, but Aziraphale savored his literature as any human might, and that was a record count for this time of year.
Something stirred in the doorway. Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder and choked on his gulp of tea. Crowley had shuffled into the kitchen, wearing nothing but a black silk robe, knotted loosely around his slender frame, an old eye-mask Aziraphale had picked up on a whim perched on his tousled hair like a pair of sunglasses.
"W-w-would you like me to make you something?" Aziraphale squeaked over this thundering heart.
Crowley waved a dismissive hand, already buried in the ice box.
"I've got it," he snapped.
Aziraphale, eyes glued to Crowley's sightly lower half, supposed that it was really the demon's ubiquitous presence that had turned his little slice of the world into a paradise. Why, keeping him entertained easily qualified as a full time job. A particular favorite of Aziraphale's involved teaching his beloved how to dance the gavotte.
"I'd rather be devoured slowly, by a tower of festering maggots, from the inside out," Crowley had snarled.
Aziraphale had brushed the unappetizing imagery aside with a hearty chuckle. "Don't write it off so soon, Crowley! You'll be a natural."
In the end, after much grumbling and cajoling, Crowley agreed, under the condition that he, in turn, would force Aziraphale to memorize and perform every idiotic line dance that had gone viral since the dawn of the internet.
It had been entirely worth it.
Lately, though, the levity had begun to waver. Not for any particular reason that Aziraphale could see, other than the state of the world trickling into the bookshop, amidst cozy mornings in bed, lazy afternoons, scrumptious tea times, and romantic dinners. After all, their comfort was in no short supply. Centuries of wise investments and scrupulous saving ensured that he and Crowley would be financially secure for decades to come, but he knew countless humans were not so fortunate.
"It's really just so unfair," he sighed.
"What's that?"
Crowley had reemerged, arms laden with food stuffs, and had since moved on to the counter opposite, making his way through the motions of their routine.
"Oh, nothing, really. Thinking aloud. That most of the people out there aren't having the lark that we are, Crowley. Unable to work, or get a proper education, unable to see the ones they love, face to face—it's dreadful."
"Yeah, well . . ." Crowley drawled. "Humans are resilient buggers. I mean, they've come this far already, haven't they? And no worse for wear." He sauntered to the table and slumped into the chair opposite, though not before setting a plate of sourdough loaves and a fresh cup of tea down in front of Aziraphale. "They'll weather through."
Aziraphale offered a weak smile around a bite of bread.
It helped.
"It's just that this sort of thing hasn't happened in over a hundred years. I feel so sorry for them—no one's really around anymore to tell them how they might go about it, and what with the advancements in society, none of those remedies would likely work, anyhow. I tell you, Crowley, I've come this close to reassuring people that I've seen the likes of this before, it's only a matter of time before it's all sorted out. But then again, I just don't know. . . ."
He glanced up, hoping to find the cocky assurance that regularly took up residence in Crowley's molten eyes, but was unsettled to see that the fire within them had dimmed ever so slightly. He was hiding it well, but Aziraphale could see that the demon was also apprehensive and uncertain.
"Makes you wonder what forces are at work, now that we're out of the loop on standard operations. Does seem like the kind of thing my lot would do, doesn't it?" Crowley mused through a slurp of espresso, because of course, his partner possessed such a frivolous coffee-making machine.
Aziraphale glanced in his direction. "Sadly, based on all that's happened in the last year or so, I wouldn't put this pandemic past the will of The Almighty. No, the murder hornets are more your company's style, I dare say."
Crowley's lip curled. "You're not wrong. Beelzebub must be giddy."
"Do you think," Aziraphale breathed. "That this is some sort of revenge? For the lack of Armageddon?"
"I don't think it's revenge so much as Armageddon 2.0."
"Oh, surely not!" Aziraphale blustered. "It's only been a year, barely that! They couldn't possibly . . ."
"C'mon, Aziraphale." Crowley swiped the back of his hand across his lips. "You know how much they're gunning for a fight. Both sides are desperate to have their War, and nobody is resting 'til they get it."
"Pestilence, War, Famine, Death," Aziraphale ticked off the Horsemen on unsteady fingers. "A conspiratorial mind could make an argument this pandemic has already encompassed all four. All we're missing is a second Anti-Christ."
"Pretty sure he's over in the States, leading the country," Crowley snorted.
Aziraphale groaned, going paler. "Oh, don't say that!" he whimpered. "Saying so aloud makes it all the more real, and I can't bear to think on it, Crowley, not again! Not . . . not so soon . . ."
He heard the scrape of wood, the clatter of porcelain.
"Aziraphale . . ." Crowley's breath caressed his ear. "You're trembling."
So he was.
Pinpricks of heat gathered behind his eyes. Two wiry arms slithered around his chest and shoulders, in a gentle embrace. Aziraphale sniffed, melting into the firm heat at his back.
"C'mon, angel—buck up! Like your old mate, Hamlet." Tenderness flooded his tone. "You've literally been to hell and back! It's all gonna work out in the end, innit? Always does. We prevented the Apocalypse once—we'll just . . . do it again."
Fear burst from Aziraphale in an undignified guffaw. "You make it sound like a stroll through the garden!"
"Wasn't it?"
Aziraphale's laughter came more easily as Crowley tightened his hold. "No matter what happens, angel," he whispered, so softly, Aziraphale ceased breathing in order to properly hear. "Like it or not, I'm never leaving your side. Bloody lockdown couldn't keep me from you, and you can bet your sainted arse that whatever comes of this won't rid you of me, either."
Aziraphale swallowed.
"Oh, Crowley . . ."
All other words failed him as the love of his life drew him closer, one of his arms falling away to grasp the edge of the plate laden with homemade bread.
"Here. Start nibbling," Crowley instructed. "You'll feel better."
With reluctance, the angel lowered his gaze to the tabletop.
"I really shouldn't," he muttered, recalling Gabriel's chastisements. "We both know where all those carbohydrates will end up."
Heat colored his face as Crowley patted his ample stomach.
"I risked life and limb to come and watch you eat your copious amount of baked goods, and if you ask me, you're doing a piss-poor job of repaying me for my efforts," the demon's silvery voice crooned.
Aziraphale's blush deepened.
"You really d— . . ."
An amused grin twisted Crowley's mouth.
"Hm?"
Aziraphale shifted under his gaze. Bother. He was going to make him say it aloud, wasn't he? Of course . . . ruddy demon, and all that . . .
"You really do . . . like me as I am, don't you?"
"Oh, angel."
The words squirmed inside him, further flushing his cheeks. Adoration, laced with exasperation and humor—you've no idea, have you, you brilliant idiot?
Aziraphale thought he'd had some idea . . . an idea he'd spent centuries denying, repressing. But the moment Crowley hunched forward and pressed his lips to his mouth, all ambiguity evaporated.
"Right," Crowley mumbled between kisses. "After that—conversation—I am—utterly—bored. What do you—say, angel?" He grinned. "Play with me?"
"Chess?" Aziraphale suggested, hopeful, before reading the hunger in Crowley's features. "Oh!" The pair shared a throaty chuckle. "Right."