Angel of the Morning: Entanglement

"We should do this forever."

Beneath the sheets, Aziraphale ran his toes lightly along the length of Crowley's leg. The demon's heart was still racing beneath his ear, his torso heaving, taking Aziraphale with it. That had been some of his finer work, he mused, placing a few self-satisfied kisses on Crowley's chest.

"I do believe—the lockdown—makes that decision—on our behalf, darling."

"Screw the lockdown," Crowley rasped. He lifted his head from the pillow, which, in his current state, must have taken a good deal of effort. "I mean it."

Aziraphale halted his trail of kisses.

He chuckled.

Don't be ridiculous!

Drunk on their love-making, that's all Crowley was—beaming in the afterglow of his performance. Yes, too high, too silly to know what he was saying, that was it . . .

"Aziraphale?" Crowley's voice was porcelain—firm, but cracked. A breath from shattering. "Look at me?"

The angel obeyed.

Crowley's serpent eyes were wide.

"I love you."

Aziraphale blinked.

It was nothing.

It was everything.

He'd known, he knew.

And yet . . .

"You don't have to say it back," Crowley barreled on, before the angel had a chance to break his heart. "You never have to say it, if you don't want. You don't even have to feel it. But I've waited too long. I needed to say it, to tell you. No matter what happens afterward."

Pain zinged through Aziraphale's already aching heart. Shifting awkwardly upon the mattress, he brought his face level to Crowley's.

"You're afraid of me. Of what I'll say."

Crowley forced a smile. "You can't blame me, angel," he mumbled, voice laden with six-thousand-years worth of hope and despair.

"No." Aziraphale lowered his gaze, mouth set in a tight line. "No, I suppose I can't. . . . But you're wrong."

He watched Crowley's eyes as he leaned in to press his lips against the demon's mouth. Soft, so soft . . . tender, deep . . . a moist flicker of passion, just enough, for emphasis, for sincerity . . .

Tension, adrenaline coiled in Crowley's sinew, trembling beneath Aziraphale's body . . .

"I love you, Crowley dear."

He gripped Crowley's wrist, felt the thrum of his pulse, pinning him in place as he bent ever closer.

"I have for years, for decades. But I was a coward. A Principality of Heaven. A fool."

An unsteady grin split Crowley's face—he crumpled into the pillows, racked with sharp, staccato laughter. Aziraphale kissed the tears from his cheek.

"When did you know?"

"1941." Aziraphale beamed. "After a "Mr. Anthony J. Crowley" saved my life, and my collection of first edition prophetic books."

"That's what did it, eh? I knew it!" Crowley cackled, punching the air. "There are two ways to your heart, angel, and I can't cook for shite!"

Laughing, Aziraphale allowed his fingertips to explore the deep trenches of Crowley's clavicles, the valley of his sternum . . .

"Alright then," he murmured. "How long have you harbored feelings for me?"

"Oh . . ." Crowley shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. "Somewhere around the start of the seventeenth century. I considered you a friend long before then, of course, but that was when things . . . began to shift, should we say?"

"The seventeenth century?" Aziraphale gasped. "My dear boy, that was ages ago!"

"Literally, yes." Crowley grinned. "What's your point, angel?"

"Well, I . . . I-I-I only mean to say . . . that . . ." Aziraphale sighed, bowing his head. "I'm just coming to realize how dreadfully slow I was on the uptake, that's all."

"Of course you were." Crowley maneuvered the angel in his arms, cradling him against his chest. "You were the good one, the nice one. It's not in your nature to have romantic feelings toward anything, let alone a demon." He buried his lips in Aziraphale's hair, inhaling the sweet musk of his cologne. "Plus, you were far too professional for all that nonsense. Talk about a conflict of interest—I saw the way The Arrangement ate at you. Entertain any feelings for me, and who knows? You might have burst into flame." Crowley chuckled. "Couldn't have that, now, could we?"

"'Angel . . . demon . . . would probably explode,'" Aziraphale snickered, quoting himself. He nibbled his lower lip, resisting the urge to nip Crowley's collarbone. To satisfy the craving, he ran a hand down the length of Crowley's belly, caressing the severe angle of his hip . . .

"I'm surprised you couldn't tell," Crowley mused. "I wasn't exactly subtle. Could have left you for dead in the Bastille, for instance."

Aziraphale lifted a shoulder. "I've always asserted, my dear, that at the core, you are ultimately . . ."

"Nice. Just a little bit a good person, blah, blah, yes, alright, fine. But c'mon, angel, do you honestly think I would have turned Hamlet into a success if I hadn't loved you? I did that for you, and your adorable enthusiasm."

"Oh, hush now!" Heat colored the angel's face. "If it's any consolation, I thought, for sure, that gifting you with Holy Water was as good as declaring my love for you! I fretted over the entire affair for weeks! Well . . . more than I fret about most things, at any rate."

With a devilish smile, Crowley tightened his hold. "I liked the idea of you worrying over me," he crooned. "More than I should have."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "You can be so infuriating! It's a good thing that I love you, otherwise . . ."

Crowley ducked his chin, taking the angel's lower lip between his teeth.

"Say it again," he growled.

Heart pounding, Aziraphale breathed the words into Crowley's mouth.

"I love you."

The world dissolved, save for the hungry press of Crowley's lips, the warmth of his breath . . .

"I love you, too, angel."

So very, very much, his kisses added.

With a sigh, Aziraphale collapsed within Crowley's embrace, surrendering to his body, his touch . . . his love . . .

I can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sad things.

We can do the tango just for two . . .

Freddie Mercury's velvety pipes filled the bedroom, accompanied by a low, constant buzz. Startled, Aziraphale and Crowley craned their necks toward the illuminated screen on the nightstand.

I can serenade and gently play on your heart strings.

Be a Valentino, just for you . . .

Ooooo, love, ooooo, Lov-er Booooooy—

Crowley snatched up the phone, and Aziraphale watched his thumb tap the alarm.

"Well, would you look at that. June, already."

"Should be waking up . . ." Crowley muttered. "Huh. Forgot to turn it off."

"So sorry to derail your plans, my love." Beaming, Aziraphale snuggled into Crowley's neck. "I'll understand if you want to make another attempt—you did mention July, if I rightly recall?"

Crowley tossed his phone onto the duvet and hunkered below the sheets, winding his limbs around Aziraphale.

"That I did. Have you ever spent a month in bed, angel?"

"I . . . can't say that I have, no. I didn't start sleeping on a nightly basis until you came along, you know."

Crowley moaned in a way that Aziraphale had heard coming from his own throat during an especially scrumptious meal.

"Ohh, it's glorious! What do you say, angel? Want to give it a go?"

Aziraphale smiled, charmed by Crowley's keen expression.

"I suppose I could be persuaded." He pulled his beloved against him, hands wandering. "Under one condition."

A quiver traveled up Crowley's spine. He smirked.

"Oh? And what would that be?"

Aziraphale came in for a kiss.

"Promise me there will be very little sleeping involved."