Nightingales
*The more distant past* The Golden Fleece Inn, York, Earth 1745
"If you think I'm sharing a bed with you, you are sorely mistaken." Crowley groaned, the room was growing colder by the second as the open window blew in a biting wind. The candles were dimming and the room had a faintly immortal smell that Crowley despised immensely.
"Oh come on Crowley, it's only for one night. And it's far too cold to sleep on the floor." Crowley realised that Aziraphale might have had a point. He really didn't want to be cat-napping on the floorboards. And it would be him. There was no way the angel was capable of spending a night on the floor. So he relented.
"Which side do you want then?" He asked awkwardly, rubbing the back of his head, adjusting his sunglasses and pointing towards the bed. Aziraphale pondered on this point for a while, not quite deciding, but instead choosing to look between Crowley and the bed until the demon made the decision for him. "Alright fine, I'll go here, you go the other side." Aziraphale let out a sigh of relief and sat neatly down on the end of the bed.
That night began many things. It constantly annoyed Crowley how warm Aziraphale was. The angel was like a radiator. It amazed Aziraphale that Crowley could sleep almost nude in a freezing cold, probably haunted room. He didn't hate it though, at least not as much as he thought he would. Their legs bumped in the night, a few times they came close to spooning. Not to either of their knowledge, but at one point their knees were knocking together, legs entwining to the slightest degree. As if their bodies were completely conscious and drawn together.
*The near future* The flat above Aziraphale's bookshop, London, Earth 2024
Aziraphale turned over in his sleep. He felt a chill go up his spine as the covers moved over him. A wing flapped over him, settling across his shoulders, feathers tickling his skin. The warmth from Crowley's black wing pushing him into a deeper sleep.
Crowley huffed on his side of the bed. His wings stretching out and finding their own places to nestle. Her stretched his arms out and yawned, feeling the ache across his shoulders. His yellow eyes opened, scanning the room, it was still dark out, darker than night. The curtains were drawn, the angel's idea of good interior design he supposed. They weren't quite gingham, and almost tartan - some sort of beige in-between. They looked hideous. He was about to slide himself out of bed for an overdue smoke, but he was pulled back. Something or someone was holding his wing.
He turned over and looked at the angel - still asleep and gripping his wing like a teddy bear. Crowley sighed and rolled his eyes, he tugged the edge of his wing out of Aziraphale's grip and rolled over behind him. His hand went to the angel's shoulder, lips to his neck. He kissed him softly, before pulling the blankets up and over his bare skin.
When Aziraphale woke up the sun was bleeding through his favourite beige curtains. He smiled to himself as he stretched and pulled himself up into a seating position. He looked down at Crowley who was blissfully sleeping with one arm above his head. A small acre of hair sprouting from his underarm. The angel peeled himself out of the covers and opened the curtains, and the sun came beaming down upon the room. "Lovely," he said to himself, walking back to the bed and settling in beside his husband once more. The birdsong sprinkling through the room like warm rain.
He picked up his reading glasses from the bedside table and spent a few moments stroking Crowley's thick red quiff. Letting his fingers trail over the demon's face. Oh how peaceful he seemed when he was asleep. He was sitting up in bed, wearing only long-johns. His chest hair was poking out from the top of the covers, little white angel curls. He picked up the book beside him and began to read. This was one of his favourites, for Crowley's sake he refrained from reading aloud and instead waited for him to wake.
"You're thinking too loudly, angel." Crowley slurred a little as he woke. His eyes were still closed, his lips were still morning-soft, and his breath was foul. Like a dead mouse had died in there.
"Huh? Oh Crowley, you're awake." Aziraphale said, dropping his book and perching his glasses on the end of his nose.
"Yeah, so what?" The demon replied.
"So what?! So there's a whole world out there to explore. What do you want for breakfast?" Aziraphale said and Crowley let out a huff. He wasn't a morning person. He was a bowels of hell, middle of the night person. He wasn't a night owl as such, he was more of a night hound, in the morning he was out for blood. "Why don't I boil us some eggs?" Aziraphale continued chirpily, taking off his glasses at long last and reaching down to kiss Crowley's cheek before moving from the bed. There was a growling response from the other man as his warm body left the vicinity.
"'Spose I better get up then. If he's making breakfast." Crowley said, his throat scratchy from just waking. But secretly he loved it. He loved Aziraphale's joy in the mornings. He loved the idea of him down there right now, marking up eggs with an old marker, popping them in a pot of boiling water and waiting the exact five and a half minutes to produce a perfect result. It was a miracle in and of itself. He slouched out of bed, pulling on a pair of his usual black jeans, buckling his belt, buttoning up a shirt from his chest of drawers in the corner of the room. He walked himself down the spiral staircase that led from their bedroom, and found Aziraphale in the kitchen, fully dressed and holding the matching egg cups.
