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Crowley tossed his phone carelessly onto the bed and collapsed limply onto the king-sized mattress. He was bored out of his mind. Disgustingly, excruciatingly bored. It felt just like those six months he’d spent curled up in a gap in the Eden wall, trying to dodge the guardians to get to Adam and Eve. Even the texture of the sheets brushing against his bare legs felt horribly, suffocatingly tedious, making him want to scream. Normally, he would have killed time by terrorizing his plants or messing with the traffic lights outside his flat, but despite the lockdown, the plants outside were already thriving impeccably, and right now, he couldn’t bring himself to lift a single finger. Even the act of breathing felt like a chore.
In other words, there was absolutely nothing to distract him. He was drowning in a profound pool of boredom and melancholy. And it was undeniable that his phone—wretchedly, stubbornly silent—was doing its part to drag the demon’s mood straight down to hell. This was a rare occurrence indeed; demons, by design, were meant to be fueled by rage, despair, or spite, not melancholy.
The lack of contact was only natural, of course. It wasn’t as though Crowley had expected anything else. Even in the 21st century, Aziraphale remained the sort of angel who used a rotary phone instead of an iPhone. A celestial being who had spent centuries fretting over the possibility of Heaven discovering his personal intimacy with a demon—creating dozens of secret rendezvous points in the process—was hardly going to be the first to call. Even if angels understood how phones worked, or grasped the concepts of transmitting and receiving, Aziraphale never initiated contact unless something on the scale of Armageddon was brewing. (In fact, even when the order to kickstart the apocalypse came down, it was Crowley who had called first.) This was their unwritten rule. To maintain an angel-demon friendship under the noses of Heaven and Hell, strict secrecy and regular distancing were mandatory.
Which meant, in essence, that their friendship required an immense amount of patience and waiting from one side. And that role usually fell to Crowley.
Crowley buried his face into a plush pillow, letting out a muffled groan. Whenever he thought of Aziraphale, that distinct, ticklish sensation would flutter through his mind, unraveling his thoughts. “You go too fast for me, Crowley,” the angel’s face seemed to float before him like a miraculous aura, brows knitted and lips turned down in that familiar, helpless pout. Crowley slashed his hand through the air to dispel the ethereal illusion.
And then, in the very next second, a shrill ring pierced the silence.
“…What?”
Crowley’s torso and eyebrows bolted upright at the same time. There was only one being in existence who would call his private number. Was there some sort of telepathy functioning between two entities who didn’t belong to this Earth? (If so, it was undoubtedly Aziraphale reading his mind, because Crowley could never, not even a fraction, absolutely never tell what was going on behind that serene, angelic face. Good Lord, just the thought of it made his neck go stiff.) He pressed a hand over his fluttering heart, took ten deep breaths, and finally scooped up the phone.
AZIRAPHALE.
It felt like a miracle. No, scratch that—this was the first time in the 21st century that the angel had reached out first, so it was a genuine miracle. Satan's sake. Staring at the name illuminating the screen, Crowley managed to force his voice into its usual, disgruntled tone before answering.
“What?”
- Uh… hello, it’s me!
A bright, slightly staccato, bouncing voice chimed through the receiver. Crowley curled himself tightly into the blanket, squeezing it as if clutching a lifeline, but kept his voice perfectly nonchalant, pretending he hadn't been waiting at all.
“I know it’s you, Aziraphale.”
- Yes, well, I was just calling to see how you were doing in lockdown.
At the sound of Aziraphale’s voice, the heavy dread that had been wrapping around Crowley’s body like a serpent vanished instantly. Damn that infuriating angel. A childish whine, even to his own ears, began slipping past his lips.
“ I’m bored. I’m so very very bored. Transcendentally bored. There’s nothing to do here. I’ve decided, that if I can’t think of anything to do in the next two days, I’m going to have a nap and I’ll set the alarm clock for June. It’s got to be all over by June, isn’t it?”
Taking a long, centuries-esque nap had indeed been an option on Crowley’s list when the world first started locking its doors. However, he had chosen instead to keep his phone glued to his person, staying cooped up inside his flat, scaring his plants, and doing absolutely nothing. It had been entirely for this exact moment. If Hastur could see him now, the demon’s face was softening into an expression so disgustingly relaxed that Hastur would have splashed holy water on him without hesitation.
- Look if this isn’t a silly question, oughtn’t you to be out and about, doing things?
“Out and about? When we’re all meant to be staying home?”
- Well, yes. You’re a demon, you’ve got a job to do. Obviously, you’re not actually going to get ill, or even spread a disease, but you could set a bad example. Get ominously close to people. Tell everyone there’s a party going on or… something.
Aziraphale’s voice carried a hint of disbelief that he was even suggesting such things, mixed with an angelic consideration for a demon trapped at home with nothing to do. So, Crowley opened his mouth to fire back a characteristically demonic, sarcastic retort to the angel’s naive concern.
“I—”
…Damn it. The next words completely failed him. He wanted to concoct a plausible excuse, but his reason melted away at the mere sound of the angel’s voice on the other end. Ultimately, he ran a hand through his hair and mumbled in defeat.
“I could do that. I mean I could. But if I did… well… people might follow my bad example and get ill. Or even die. And I know I ought to be making people’s lives even worse but everyone’s so miserable cooped up anyway I just… don’t have the heart for it.”
Historically, humans had always managed to pull off atrocities far beyond the wildest imaginations of Heaven and Hell. Crowley swallowed the truth—that he had actually been quite enjoying the spectacle of a clearly artificial disease (since the Four Horsemen had been quiet) paralyzing human life—and instead offered a sentimental excuse that made his own spine tingle. Predictably, Aziraphale’s voice instantly brightened.
- I’m not miserable!
Crowley’s slit pupils widened. Then, his eyebrows twitched. Wait, this was…
“Really? Oh, I suppose you’re off nipping around London doing miracles for people, from a socially approved distance.”
Aziraphale brushed off the sarcasm with practiced ease.
- Oh no, I can’t do that. We’re all meant to stay at home. I put up the closed sign on the window and I’ve been catching up on my reading. Do you know, I’ve never had so few customers, not in 200 years. Although, there were a few young lads a couple of nights ago, broke in through the back, and tried to steal the cash box. But they soon saw the error of their ways.
…… Crowley’s eyebrows shot up again. The bookshop had been broken into in the meantime? His limp body bolted upright on the bed. The sheer audacity of those idiots breaking into a shop where the only things worth stealing were dust-covered books was infuriating. He felt an itch in his bones, a sudden urge to miracle himself over to Soho immediately.
“Did you smite them with your wroth?”
- Well I certainly gave them a good talking to. And I sent each of them home with cake.
“A cake.”
- Quite a lot of cake, actually.
Unbelievable. Bloody brilliant. Crowley rubbed his temples, sitting fully upright now.
“I… I’m going to regret asking but… uh…”
Before Crowley could even finish, Aziraphale’s defensive, rambling explanation came rushing through the line.
- Well, all the restaurants and cafes are closed, but it turns out I have a whole cookbook section here in the bookshop. And I got peckish. I’ve now made bundt cake, sponge cake, angel’s food cake, four different kinds of sourdough loaf, Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte, although I had to miracle in the cherries. And then, once I’ve baked them, I have to eat them all myself. Which was why I was so delighted…
A baffled, breathless laugh slipped through Crowley’s teeth. Someone breaks into his isolated bookshop, and instead of being frightened, he bakes a mountain of pastries and hands them over? At this rate, the next time someone ran off with the entire cash register, he’d probably just chuckle and let them go. Granted, the angel didn't run the shop for human currency, but still…
“To send your burglars home laden with baked goods. Yes.”
Crowley let out a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. Trying his best to keep his tone light and casual, he tossed out an offer.
“Yeah, yeah, I thought… You know, I could hunker down at your place. Slither over and watch you eat cake. I could bring a bottle, a case, of something drinkable.”
A sudden silence fell over the line. Crowley's corporate human vessel began to throb unnecessarily fast, pumping blood through his veins. Had the angel caught onto something strange in his voice?
Then, Aziraphale’s voice returned, pitched a fraction too high.
- No, I… I… I… I’m afraid that would be breaking all the rules. Out of the question! I’ll see you… when… this is over?
…… Ah. Right. Of course. No matter how much he had gone native in the human world, the angel was still a stuffy, rule-abiding, terribly proper celestial being who wouldn't dream of breaking a regulation. Crowley’s tense shoulders slumped, and he fell backward onto the mattress. A faint ripple of irritation flared up like mist, then evaporated.
“Right. Um.. I’m setting the alarm clock for July.”
There was no answer from the other side. Crowley inhaled quietly, deeply, making sure his breathing didn't give him away. Biting his lower lip, he murmured softly.
“Goodnight, angel.”
Aziraphale set the receiver down. His hand, which had been gripping the lower half of the phone, was slightly damp, forcing him to wipe his palm against his lapel. The cocoa he had brewed to enjoy during a leisurely chat had lost its form; the marshmallows had dissolved into a sticky, gooey layer on the surface, ruining the drink entirely. He couldn't even remember if his voice had trembled, or if it had been too high.
He gently placed his hand on a piece of paper lying disorganized on his desk. It was a portrait of Crowley he had sketched a while ago—sometime in the 20th century, he thought—using what little drawing skills he possessed. Back then, the streets were filled with long-haired youths shouting about anti-war movements and peace, and Crowley, always sensitive to trends, had grown his hair out to his shoulders (declining to grow it to his waist purely because it was too much hassle to maintain), pairing it with bell-bottoms and loudly patterned checkered shirts. The sunglasses he wore to hide his eyes made him the perfect epitome of a splendid hippie, and for some reason, Aziraphale had felt compelled to capture that version of Crowley on paper.
But in the end, he could never bring himself to give the drawing to him. Not after he learned what gifting a hand-drawn portrait of someone meant to humans.
In truth, Aziraphale was always a few steps behind Crowley. It wasn't merely a matter of speed. Crowley—with his eyes perpetually hidden behind dark lenses, his limbs moving with a serpentine languor, his eyebrows snapping up while his arms crossed defensively—was far too complex a being for Aziraphale’s intellect to keep up with. It wasn't an angel-and-demon issue. Crowley’s existence was a massive riddle, one whose outer contours Aziraphale could barely grasp. From the moment he was a demon crawling under an angel’s wing for shelter in Eden during the first rain, to the six thousand years they had shared on Earth, culminating in thwarting Armageddon together. Everything was said to exist according to Her Ineffable Plan, yet Crowley always seemed to stand just one step outside of it.
Tickty-boo. Aziraphale took a deep breath, adjusted the lighting in the bookshop, and sat up straight at his desk. He cut a slice of the remaining Black Forest cake, placed it on a plate, and after a moment of hesitation, used a minor miracle to fill a glass with a light champagne instead of brewing fresh cocoa. Lifting his fork, he took a bite; the heavy sweetness of the chocolate and the tartness of the miracled cherries enveloped his palate. The champagne was a bit too sweet to accompany an already painfully sweet cake, making the pairing rather mismatched, but…
“That champagne is going to be far too sweet for that cake.”
Aziraphale froze, his fork hovering in mid-air. The voice brushing past his ear was much closer, clearer, and unbelievably more vivid than it had been through the receiver just moments ago.
He slowly raised his head. Slid out from the dark shadows of the bookshop was a terribly familiar silhouette. A perfectly tailored black jacket and vest, those pitch-black sunglasses he wore even inside an empty shop, and a thin grey scarf draped down to his chest. Crowley strode across the center of the shop with his trademark swagger, hands shoved deep into his pockets. In one hand, he held a case of wine. Aziraphale bolted upright from his chair, his plump fingers fluttering helplessly in the air.
“…Crowley? But surely… I didn't even hear the Bentley. How on Earth did you get here?”
“Shh, details. Calm down. I didn't break any lockdown rules.”
Ignoring the protest, Crowley stepped forward, slumping his hip against the edge of the desk, and casually tossed his sunglasses onto a nearby bust. In the dim light, his amber, serpentine eyes gleamed with mischief.
“Have you forgotten I’m the serpent who infiltrated the Garden of Eden? I told you. I can crawl in without the humans noticing. Roaming the streets at this hour might be a violation, but performing a miracle to teleport certainly isn't.”
“…But Crowley!”
“And look at this.”
Crowley tapped the wine box.
“You don't pair a sweet cake with an overly sweet champagne; you need a dry red wine. We’ve been eating and drinking for six thousand years, and you still don't know proper mariage?”
“…I was going to! I simply had some champagne left over in the shop and wanted to finish it first. But,”
Aziraphale pointed a hand toward the armchair, where a blanket, a pillow, and a pair of black silk pajamas were casually draped over the backrest. Such items had absolutely no business being inside the shop of a celestial being who kept watch over an eternal, sleepless evil.
“What on Earth is that?”
“I thought I’d move into your shop. No matter how much I thought about it, if I just sleep alone until July, who knows what might happen in the meantime.”
Aziraphale stared at Crowley, who had now shamelessly claimed a spot on the sofa. A wave of relief, tangled with bewilderment, crept up his chest. Only then did he realize just how much he had missed Crowley. In the past, when real-time communication didn't exist, it was perfectly normal not to see each other for a century. But ever since he’d opened a front for a bookshop in Soho and phones were invented, he hadn't had to endure such an indefinite absence. Recalling how his past self used to imagine Crowley casually bursting into the shop as if nothing were wrong, Aziraphale felt a prickle of embarrassment. He turned back toward the cake.
“Where exactly do you plan on sleeping? There isn't exactly a proper spot for you in this shop.”
“I could sleep in the alleyway outside if I had to.”
“Oh, please don't say such things, even as a joke. That alley is filled with nothing but dustbins and unpleasant humans. And rats, swarms of them.”
Aziraphale knitted his brows, taking another bite of cake. Shaved chocolate fluttered down onto the plate. Crowley shook his head, hiding a smirk behind his wine glass.
“As long as you don't throw me out, that won't happen. Don't fret, angel.”
“I’m serious, Crowley. Sleeping on the sofa… well, it won't suit your height…”
The option of throwing Crowley out after he had broken the rules to sneak in didn't even exist. Aziraphale took another bite of cake, genuinely pondering a space where Crowley could sleep comfortably. Certainly, the wine Crowley had miracled into his glass was a much better match than the champagne.
The harmony between the sweet cake and the dry wine with its lingering tannins was spectacular. Aziraphale wore an expression of pure bliss, chewing through a large bite of cake. The tips of his fingers holding the fork bounced slightly, a smile playing on his lips, his cheeks busy working through the cream. Watching this peaceful tableau from his crooked posture in the opposite chair, Crowley’s gaze darkened like a heavy fog. The urge to strike at a vulnerable neck was a primal instinct. No matter how native he had gone, and no matter how slightly less demonic he had become after millennia spent with an angel, a demon was, at the end of the day, a demon. Lean forward instinctively, Crowley reached his hand across the table.
A moment later, a heavy grip wrapped around the back of Aziraphale’s neck.
“……!”
Startled by the sudden contact, Aziraphale froze instantly. He stopped chewing, his eyes widening into perfect circles as he stared at Crowley. But Crowley said nothing. His long index finger traced a slow, deliberate path against the shell of Aziraphale’s ear. The sensation brought a peculiar, blooming heat, forcing Aziraphale’s mouth shut as his shoulders trembled slightly. Then, Crowley’s large thumb pressed firmly against the underside of Aziraphale’s chin. Under the gentle pressure, the angel’s lips parted naturally.
As if possessed, Crowley stared blankly at the soft lips and the flash of pink tongue visible through the gap. The inside of his mouth gleamed, slick with cream and saliva. Suddenly, Crowley recalled a vibrant blue sea he had witnessed somewhere, lifetimes ago. The sunlight dancing across the water’s surface had shone exclusively for Aziraphale…
In the heavy silence, Aziraphale’s tongue moved hesitantly. Finally, a small, tentative voice slipped past his parted lips.
“……Crowley?”
At the quiet murmur of his name, Crowley snapped out of his trance. He yanked his hand back, his thumb flying away from the angel’s cheek like lightning. Desperate to mask his panic, he muttered gruffly.
“There was, uh, something on your face.”
In truth, his lips were perfectly clean. But it was the only excuse Crowley’s brain could conjure in that split second. Completely oblivious to the demon’s inner turmoil, Aziraphale simply offered a radiant smile, his cheeks flushing slightly from the residual warmth against his neck. (Foolish angel! the demon screamed internally.) He delicately picked up a napkin and dabbed at his mouth.
“Oh, thank you.”
Ultimately, the space they agreed upon was Aziraphale’s spare bedroom tucked away in a corner of the second floor. Climbing the stairs, Crowley made no effort to hide his exhaustion, dragging his feet with an exaggerated, lazy slouch. Aziraphale turned to extinguish all the lights on the second floor, but Crowley stayed his hand, murmuring that he preferred a bit of light to sleep better.
“Well, then…”
As Aziraphale reached into a corner shelf to fetch a wind-up alarm clock, Crowley gently stopped him. Propping the back of his head against the pillow, his limbs tangled in a black duvet (which had been light brown tartan before a minor miracle), Crowley spoke through half-lidded eyes.
“Angel, humans use smartphones to set alarms these days.”
After tapping his phone screen a few times to set the alarm, Crowley closed his eyes and drifted into a terrifyingly deep sleep almost instantly. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, his breathing deep and relaxed, and the muscles that usually held a tense, defensive edge melted into the mattress. The scowl that normally turned his lips down and the sharp arch of his brows flattened into a peaceful line. Soft, rhythmic breaths puffed past his teeth.
Aziraphale stood quietly by the bedside, gazing down at him. It was always a marvel to witness a demon, cloaked in a human vessel, surrendering so thoroughly to the mortal pleasure of sleep, appearing entirely vulnerable and harmless. Remembering the very first time he’d seen Crowley sleep—when he had panicked, thinking the demon was afflicted with some fatal illness, and tried to miracle him awake—Aziraphale stifled a sudden chuckle, pressing a hand to his lips.
The demon wasn't even a conventional sleeper. At first, his long limbs sprawled outward like bare, skeletal branches extending past the edge of the bed. But soon, in a subconscious motion, he curled his body inward, burying himself deeper beneath the heavy duvet. The sight was strangely mesmerizing, and Aziraphale, forgetting his intention to leave the room, stood rooted to the spot, watching the sleeping demon for a long while. He completely forgot the weight of the first-edition Oscar Wilde book resting in his hands.
Just as Aziraphale finally broke his trance and prepared to step out, he caught a sudden flash of something familiar.
“Angel.”
A pair of slitted pupils, half-lidded but sharp, were fixed directly on him. Aziraphale gasped, taking a startled step back. Crowley merely smirked, his voice laced with playful mischief.
“Get in.”
The sudden, blunt command left Aziraphale entirely paralyzed. The demon’s arm extended, shamelessly patting the glaringly empty space beside him on the bed. The angel’s throat bobbed.
“W-what did you say?”
“I’ve been watching you watch me. This sleep business, it’s not half bad. So, get in.”
Crowley murmured, leaning his head back against the headboard. His exposed throat gleamed pale in the darkness through the gap in his thin silk pajamas. Aziraphale swallowed hard. For an angel, sleeping—especially sharing a bed with a demon—was not only unnecessary, but bordered on the sacrilegious, and yet…
As if yielding to an irresistible force, Aziraphale set the first-edition Oscar Wilde down on the nightstand. Taking a deep breath, he gingerly slid onto the edge of the bed and slipped beneath the covers. The soft silk embraced him, followed by the comforting, radiating warmth of a bed already heated by another’s body. Crowley shifted slightly toward the edge, his back pressing against Aziraphale’s arm. The demon’s frame was remarkably slender; rather than soft human flesh, the sharp, solid contour of his skeleton felt distinct against him. A profound sense of comfort washed over Aziraphale, easing his muscles.
“See? What did I tell you. Beats standing around, doesn't it?”
Crowley chuckled darkly, shifting a fraction closer to Aziraphale. His voice, heavy with sleep, was raspy and deeper than usual. His breath brushed against Aziraphale’s shoulder.
“…It is remarkably plush, I suppose.”
Aziraphale flushed, pulling the duvet up to his nose. A faint scent drifted from the demon—the hot, alcoholic trace of the wine they had just shared, mingled with an indescribable, smoky, slightly bitter aroma reminiscent of tobacco. Sandalphon and Gabriel had always described the scent of a demon as inherently foul and wicked. But Aziraphale thought that if this was the scent of wickedness, it blended rather splendidly with the smell of old parchment and the faint hint of cocoa that perpetually hung in the bookshop air. It wasn't bad at all.