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goodduckingomens · 4 years

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Pillowtalk

A new fic!

Summary:

Aziraphale and Crowley move into a cottage in the South Downs and learn to live together.

A fic about starting a new life, love, learning how to deal with domesticity and 32 throwpillows.

In the meantime, their cottage gets more and more furnished, and it affects them. They both start to call it their home. Home as a place is a concept that confuses them both, seeing as they hadn’t been able to truly settle down for millenia. Never a place to truly rest. Never a place that felt safe enough to be themselves. When Crowley thinks about it that way, he thinks they were each other’s homes for the longest time. Upon hearing this only slightly wine induced musing, Aziraphale’s eyes get that glossy sheen they always get when he is truly happy and sappy, and he utters a fond “My dear.”

Wordcount: 6726

Rating: G

Read it here on AO3! Optimized Form with linked footnotes and cute cutom page dividers!

The apocalypse came and passed.

In the aftermath of it all, an angel and a demon finally confessed they liked to be in each other’s company constantly quite a lot. Quite a lot too much to be living separately in this new section of their lives, which one might call retirement, and thus, a cottage was bought.

It should be just a live filled with tea and cake, a beautiful garden, a well-loved private book collection, lively conversations. Contentment. Bliss. A happy ever after, a beautiful epilogue of the story.

Instead, it’s the start of another.

The begin of it is just an innocent remark of the angel, peppered in while talking about how they want to furnish their cottage, almost casually, as if he hadn’t been thinking about it for at least a week now.

“And for the bathroom I’m thinking a big clawfoot tub and a concealed shower for me. Or maybe a waterfall one, not decided yet but it’s not like we can’t change it. Opinions?”

Crowley looks at Aziraphale, noticing his pensive expression. Steeling himself for something.

“Crowley.”

“Yes, angel?”

The angel sighs. Dithers. Bites his lip a bit.

“I really don’t think we ought to miracle it.”

“You what?” Crowley gawks.

“I don’t think we should just miracle up our shared space willy-nilly! Adam, the dear boy, has after all asked us to stay out of human affairs, and I think we would greatly benefit from behaving a bit more human with all this. Else we will end up just changing everything every other week and it will never be truly finished. I want a place for us that’s home. I don’t want it to be filled with temporary solutions.”

Crowley stares at him for a while, mouth forming silent, not-quite words. Then he gives in.

“Ah, I don’t like the smell of miracle stuff anyways.”

(Footnote: The esteemed reader might think Crowley to be a hypocrite, as it is well-known he miracles his clothing into existence. That statement is not quite correct. Crowley actually fabricates his clothes from firmament, the fabric of the universe. Spinning the void into thread is, while not easy, very fashionable. The same goes, of course, for stardust accessories. And any lingering smell of miracles is overpowered by the smell of space, which, incidentally, is very similar to earthly rum.)

And with that it’s decided, the planning and renovating starting.

Lucky for them, neither angel nor demon have any idea about cottages or housing in general and thusly, their cottage finds itself threatened/charmed into not needing much work on its base structure. The cottage itself, if it could form an opinion, would be quite happy with this improvement. Moist walls are quite unpleasant after all. Not to mention a leaky roof. But as both of the ineffably earthbound beings are of the firm opinion that a house is only to be wet in the bathroom, reality is quick to adjust to their standards.

However, renovations and furnishing are still issues to be dealt with. The human way.

“Angel we need to get to the paint counter if we want that colour mixed for us. Come on.”

“Oh, but look at these darling little pots for your plants. They deserve a new home too, don’t you think? Ohhhh and over there! Knitted throw pillows! Don’t they just look so cozy!”

They leave the store with their custom mixed paint, new plant pots, some plant hangers (partly because Aziraphale thinks they should experience the joy of flying, partly because Crowley thinks they might as well experience the fear of falling), a very cute vintage enamel watering can and five knitted throw pillows that look very cozy indeed. Crowley mutters under his breath that he will use the watering can to overwater the ones that aren’t up to his expectations and Aziraphale just smiles.

They get the paint on one wall of one room themselves and then decide hiring someone counts as doing it the human way too.

The same principle is applied to getting food, may it be takeout, restaurants or private cooks, but after a month of this, Aziraphale is, ironically, quite fed up. He is standing in his own house, in his own, nicely stocked kitchen, hungry, and finds himself unable to do anything about it. Crowley swooping in for the rescue gallantly and dashing only ends in a ruined pan, a smokey smell that will very persistently keep in their curtains, a visit from some very nice firemen and, worst of all, absolutely inedible food.

One of the firemen helpfully mentions a cooking course for beginners and it’s on the way there that Aziraphale finds a shop with very unique furniture. While he inquires about some of the items that caught his eye, Crowley wanders around, gathering some inspiration himself.

At the register, he finds himself with many items, including three throw pillows, printed with expletives all over them in beautiful cursive, matching the angel’s three that are adorned with compliments. Aziraphale raises an eyebrow that expresses in great length the suffering he has to go through to the cashier, but Crowley doesn’t miss the suppressed smile. Their purchases get stored in the Bentley and they move on to cooking class, where the instructor takes one look at their techniques before spending the entire first lesson on basic safety rules. It is a tad insulting but their next dishes end up considerably less charred.

The oven they find, however, is unsalvageable. Unless they both develop a strong fondness for a smokey taste very quickly, they have to get a new one for applying their newly learned skills. Not to mention the new curtains they need. Aziraphale had fashioned the old one into a hammock, and Crowley finds it, as unfashionable as it is (Flower patterns in a garden. Really that’s just overkill), undeniably comfortable. And the lingering smell is great at keeping the mosquitoes at bay.

And thus, they end up going to yet another furniture store. This time Crowley is talking to the employee, reveling in the mild dissent he spreads by hogging their time and asking way too many questions. Hey, what else is a demon supposed to do if he is looking for the best kitchen appliances for his angel? They had offered after all, ignoring the other customers as he stood before the most expensive piece. Not like they won’t get anything out of this either, that’s how demonic deals work after all.

However, the The Kitchen Appliances Store employee (That is the actual name of the store. Their motto is “Apply yourself in the kitchen!” and once again Crowley notices that humanity never needed his influence after all) is not the only one getting more than they bargained for. Or more to chew than they bit off? Crowley isn’t quite sure what would be the best expression to express his mild amusement when Aziraphale arrives after looking around the store by himself, cart full of just the kind of ridiculous kitchen appliances Crowley always kept in his old kitchen. Well, these one might actually get some use. Not like he could say anything when Aziraphale wore an expression this delighted anyways. But honestly, where did the angel manage to find yet another set of throwpillows in a kitchen store? (They have “salt” and “pepper” on them. It’s ridiculous to get them for two reasons. 1 -There is no actual salt and pepper in the pillows. At least that’s what Crowley hopes for his sanity. 2- He knows there is absolutely no room in the kitchen or the dining room for pillows. And their sofa and other seating arrangements are also already decked out. Which means Crowley will end up with some salt and pepper pillows in his bedroom.)

It is only at home that they notice none of the eleven (“ELEVEN, Aziraphale really, not even you need to protect your clothes that much. I’ll clean them for you in necessary, promise.” – “But they were so delightful, I had to! Look, this one says “Now watch me whip”, isn’t that hilarious?” – “Since when do you know memes angel?” – “Memes? No, see, the funny part is that its written next to a whisk!”) aprons Aziraphale got fit him.

“We’ll find a way to repurpose them, dear. They are too entertaining to return them,” Aziraphale beams and Crowley doesn’t have it in him to argue the point.

The repurposing doesn’t happen for several weeks, as is typical for a craft of the repurposing category.

They don’t do anything except cuddle on the sofa that evening, which is very nice and good up until Crowley tries to disentangle himself to go get them some more wine and falls flat on the floor because he forgot to miracle circulation back into his legs.

Consequently, Aziraphale concludes that they need a footrest. Crowley can’t even complain, because his angel is being so thoughtful and also because his mind is running with the new possibilities of mildly infuriating seating arrangements a footrest would open for him.

This time they go into a store that specializes in upholstery. They get a nice footrest, and a very soft knitted blanket, and another smaller footrest, a pouf and a beanbag, for when the children come and visit. Aziraphale heard they are popular amongst the young people nowadays and Crowley has to admit that this is a trend he knows nothing about, as it is about comfortable and horrifically unstylish furniture. And of course, they end up with five more throwpillows.

Soon after, their first actual fight in their new home occurs. It is about the lovingly crafted built in shelves that Crowley had paid to be made for his angel in the reading room as a nice surprise, only to discover that Aziraphale did not intend to place a single book on them.

“Now really my dear there is no reason to get so huffy about it.”

“You said you wanted this to be the reading room angel! How does it make sense to not have your books in the reading room?”

“Really dear boy, it is much too bright in this room most of the day, look at those big windows! The sunlight would make the booksleeves fade and I shan’t have it! Don’t you know me at all?”

This is what really sets Crowley off. He knew the angel better than anyone else, didn’t he? Had paid attention to anything the angel had so much as gazed at for a millisecond with that longing look of his for millenia. He knew anything that was important to the angel, but how was he supposed to know that light was bad for books? There were big windows in the shop too after all!

With a withering look he storms off, mindless to the Bentley, driving until he feels less of it all. Less of the anger, less of the underlying hurt.

To his surprise he ends up at St. James. The park is closed but rules and locks aren’t a part of reality Crowley is willing to even consider right now, and thus he walks up to their bench like this is just another outing with Aziraphale.

He sits.

He feels as empty as the park.

He doesn’t even feel like annoying the ducks, not when they are so peacefully sleeping, heads tucked under wings.

In this quiet his thoughts are freed from the silence his anger had imposed on them.

He thinks of the last time he felt like this in this very park, misunderstood and rejected.

He thinks of the many times he has proven that he knows how to care for Aziraphale’s books. For Aziraphale himself.

He thinks of the time he was tucked under a wing, protected from cold and rain without question.

Footsteps, crunching on the gravel put an end to his sulk. A soft silhouette sits down next to him.

“I came to apologize, my dear. You were only trying to do something – to be considerate to me and I failed to show my appreciation.”

Crowley wants to say that it’s fine, no ruffled feathers or whatever but he stays silent, not even a single vowel making it out. There’s a lump in his throat he just can’t seem to dislodge. Aziraphale had found the point right away, like he always does with Crowley. He understands what Crowley can’t say. Sees what Crowley can’t express. Crowley was of the opinion he did that as well and just as well, but apparently not. The angel deserves better.

When the silence continues on, Aziraphale speaks up again.

“I really do appreciate it. Not just the shelves, it’s. You do so much for me. I always notice. I notice you going to dinner, to cooking courses even with me when you don’t even like eating as much. I notice there’s much more of my preferred wines in our cellar than yours. I notice you lingering on the sofa when you are tired, not wanting to move to the bed. I notice how you still make good on your offer to drive me anywhere I want to go. It’s just, after all this time pretending I didn’t notice anything, now when I want to make it known, I can’t. My every instinct screaming at me that I shouldn’t, that I cannot say anything out loud, that we need to be able to deny it still. I promise you that I am working on being more open. And until then, I just want you to know that –“

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, steadying himself. When he opens his eyes again there is a calm in them, a sureness.

“- that I love you, and that I love everything you do for me.”

Crowley’s head whips around, to stare at Aziraphale. He desperately wants the words out, but his throat is useless. Emotions are whirling around inside him like a fully blown tornado, the heady warmth those words, this confirmation gives him being dragged down by the same ice cold fear that Aziraphale mentioned, a fear that there is no longer a reason for but also a fear learned and cultivated during all of their time together (and really, what other time does even matter anymore).

He isn’t sure how it happened, but he finds himself wrapped around Aziraphale like the serpent he is, and he knows in another plane of existence he is tucked under the angel’s wings once again. Protected. Loved. That’s what it was, all this time, now he’s sure.

The angel is whispering into his ear, sweet nothings, secrets held in for too long, reassurances. The whispering makes it feel safer. Crowley wishes he could reciprocate in kind.

“I know, you don’t have to say it, my dear. You’ve said it without words so many times. I know, I’ll always know,” Aziraphale whispers and Crowley relaxes finally.

They disentangle after a while, to watch the sunrise in comfortable, companionable silence.

That’s when Crowley’s throat finally relaxes enough to let more than noises through again.

“I didn’t know about the sunlight. There were always so many windows in the bookshop, so I just assumed it was fine. I’m sorry, angel.”

“Oh, Crowley. That was why I always kept them dusty, to filter the light. But you couldn’t have known that, so you really have nothing to be sorry for.”

Crowley scrunches his face up in a way that he doesn’t know Aziraphale finds ever so endearing.

“No, no, I noticed that, I just thought it was another thing to keep the customers out.”

Aziraphale bristles at that, then relaxes again. A mischievous smile steals its way onto his face.

“Well, I couldn’t help if they judged a bookshop by its cover, now could I?”

They stare at each other and start to laugh. And what a wonderful way this is to start a new day.

When the ducks begin to wake up and the park starts to fill with people, they get up and go back home.

There they discuss the matter of the shelves again. Aziraphale expresses that they truly are beautiful and decides on some books to put there, after Crowley finds out about UV protective sleeves. They decide to put a few of the best-behaved plants there to get good use out of the light. The internet search for plants and books on shelves that follows because Aziraphale is concerned about moisture leads them to a rabbit hole of pictures of beautifully styled bookshelves on pinterest (Crowley had gotten a commendation for the envy generating capacity of that one), and thus to an extensive shopping spree on Etsy looking for knickknacks.

Their shopping cart at the end of the day consists of several whimsical vases, a more modern snuffbox, a fake plant to keep Crowley’s on their toes? Roots?, some nice picture frames, some dried and polished roots (also to keep the plants intimidated), a custom made miniature of the eagle lectern and some more throw pillows, even though Crowley argues their sofa is already laden with them.

“Well, if there isn’t any more room we can always just put them on the bed,” Aziraphale reasons.

Crowley doesn’t mention that Aziraphale hasn’t used the bed even once. The master bedroom, so far, has been only Crowley’s space and as such it feels unfinished compared to the rest of the house. There’s no touches of Aziraphale, no tartan, no snuffboxes, no books. It even smells only like Crowley. There is a good reason Crowley prefers to fall asleep next to Aziraphale reading. Being carried up and tucked in is only part of it. Maybe some Aziraphale approved pillows will improve it, but deep inside him Crowley knows they will just land on the pile like the rest of them.

They style the shelves together and, as Crowley predicted, their sofa doesn’t fit more pillows. They end up exchanging some of them and putting the surplus of pillows into a pile that Crowley transfers on the bed. And then, subsequently, puts them away into the closet.

He doesn’t like waking up wrapped around them. What a ridiculous thing for a demon to do, hugging pillows in his sleep. There was a reason he’d preferred his old bed, hard as granite. It’s hard to wake up in this new bed, with its soft mattress and soft blankets and so many soft pillows. It even has decent back support for heavens’ sake.

He hates how groggy it makes him feel in the mornings, how much he wants to just stay a bit longer.

He hates that it invokes this wish of his angel bringing him coffee and staying with him as he wakes up.

He hates how it makes him wish Aziraphale would spend the night there with him.

He is supposed to give the angel what he wants, and what Aziraphale wants is a nice book and a place to read. Obviously, Crowley’s company is only a secondary concern if the angel keeps carrying him up.

The days keep passing in some kind of domestic haze, too perfect to truly feel real. Though, sometimes, when they do something mundane, like sitting on their porch watching the stars, or cooking together, or taking a walk in the devil’s dyke Aziraphale smiles at him and for a bit Crowley can believe that this is what they get to have. He can believe he gets to be happy when Aziraphale’s happiness is tied to his. After all, how could his angel not deserve this?

The final lesson of their basic cooking course passes and while Aziraphale immediately gets them into the advanced class he also wants to celebrate it.

They hadn’t done a proper housewarming yet, and while Crowley is of the opinion that their house feels plenty warm already, he doesn’t stop Aziraphale from inviting their, well, friends he guesses. The apocapals. Surviving something horrible together does forge some kind of bond. Inevitable, ineffable, whatever.

This line of thought leads him to invite that ex-nun too. She had seemed like she could use the company of some acquaintances that were, well acquainted with everything. Maybe she could remind everyone that he still very much was a demon. (Though he honestly doubted it himself, recalling the phrase “lovely little toesie-woesies.”) Anathema has been getting too good at pinpointing the perfect sensitive spots to heckle him and he can’t do anything about it when Aziraphale just sits there and asks him to be polite. He’s been sending her terrible memes instead but apparently she liked those.

So they have a big, adult get together (Aziraphale did want to invite the Them but Crowley gently reminded him that their parents don’t know them and would probably be concerned and also children are not allowed to have alcohol in this century and location and thus they wouldn’t be able to appreciate the wine pairing) and Crowley manages to not roll his eyes too hard at the traditional gift of bread and salt from Shadwell (Who, in the course of his relationship with Majorie had surprisingly become a much more tolerable man) and the subsequent demon – salt jokes. Not that he tells any of them how much of it is true. (None actually, and he knows because he’s been the original source of that myth, but he really doesn’t feel like telling that story. It involved a horse, a salt cart and stilts and it hadn’t been half as funny as Aziraphale’s laughter at the scene had suggested. Or him joking about it for the next few centuries.)

The nun brought a bottle of unholy mass wine, which is accepted graciously by Aziraphale and put away for later enjoyment. (Unholy mass wine is just very expensive wine, as the nuns reasoned that the greed, envy and gluttony should be enough to make wine evil. Crowley can’t quite agree but it’s a good wine and he will gladly argue about this moral reasoning with the angel later.) While Aziraphale is puttering off to the cellar, (which Crowley has lovingly dubbed Amontillado. Aziraphale is still torn on his opinion about that because on the one hand it is a reference to a story he greatly enjoyed but on the other hand it is not one he would enjoy acting out in his own wine cellar. Like with most arguments he has with Crowley, his opinion and point of view change mostly however it benefits him though.) Anathema hands him a big bag.

“We don’t really have any wine knowledge, and since bath products and candles aren’t really options either we thought of this. Can never have too many pillows, right?”

Crowley could tell her that yes, you can, and yes, they in fact did. But she was considerate enough to not get them shitty wine, or candles, so he just accepts the gift bag. One of the pillows has little blonde angels on it and the other is covered in tiny cartoon snakes. It’s silly but seeing the two next to each other, with the same background colors, obviously made to match makes his heart do a funny little skip. He places them on the stairs leading to the bedroom and hoards their friends into the kitchen, where they all proceed to have a lovely evening. Aziraphale does tell the salt story. Anathema, seeing the grimace on his face during, jokes that he still seems to be salty about it and, encouraged by Crowley’s groaning and Aziraphale’s enthusiasm (Which is itself strongly encouraged by Crowley’s groaning. Bastard.) keeps up the puns for the entire evening with everyone (Even Shadwell, once.) joining in. It is terrible, and it’s domestic and Crowley almost feels like calling it a nice evening.

When everyone is gone Crowley is too tired to go to the sofa, instead going to bed immediately, taking the pillows with him. This night he feels a warmth that lessens the cold of the space where Aziraphale could should be. He wakes up wrapped entirely around the angel print pillow, feeling unusually well rested.

Their home is becoming more and more finished now, the books gathering dust in the library, the clutter finding an equilibrium between the angel leaving it and Crowley cleaning up. All the furniture is there, all the walls are painted, all repairs made, the pictures hung, the décor placed appropriately (The Statue of the triumph over evil was repurposed into a coat hanger. Crowley thinks it gives the place that certain je ne sais quoi. Aziraphale retains the point that it’s more of a je sais quoi.)

However, Crowley found there’s something missing, an empty spot of wall where none should be. And since he had been looking for something to work on while the angel is reading anyways, he makes a beautiful embroidered miniature tapestry (and if, when you look close enough, you can make out several curse words then well.)

Aziraphale beams, and flatters him, and retaliates with a pillow he embroidered for Crowley and that’s where the trouble really starts. Because Crowley just can’t deny liking a present the angel made specifically for him. And it’s beautiful too, black with dark red words. “Love of my life”. The satin fabric is impossibly smooth to touch, the stiches perfectly small and even and loopy cursive that just is so very Aziraphale.

He can’t stop touching it. He traces over the words over and over and over again, mindless and tired before he falls asleep, barely conscious when he wakes up again, restlessly when he wakes up from one of the bad dreams. (Crowley refuses to call them nightmares for two simple reasons. 1 – Nightmares are just not something that happens to demons like him. He refuses to acknowledge that this is mainly because demons in general dream about as much as angels dance. 2- He just dislikes horses THAT much.) He comes to with the pillow under his head, between his knees, pressed to his chest. It still smells faintly of Aziraphale and this almost tears at the gaping hole inside of Crowley that’s always there when he is in this room, alone.

And he starts to wonder why.

Why is this room different when they came here to share a living space? To share their lives? Why does the angel always carry him up here instead of letting him stay on the sofa with him?

The rational side of him tells him everything is alright, that the angel just wants him to be more comfortable. Probably wanting to give him some space. Whatever.

The other side of him is screaming ugly things. That the angel doesn’t want him there. That he hates sharing the library, the reading space, the space of HIS books. That Crowley isn’t entertaining when asleep and thus not worth having around. That all of this was a big mistake, Aziraphale needing his solitude and hating their together. After all the angel had gladly spent centuries alone with his books.

But, without fail, this side of him falls silent whenever he staggers into the kitchen in the morning to search for coffee and is greeted by the angel openly smiling at him from the breakfast bar, nibbling on something. Without fail he is reading and without fail he offers Crowley the seat next to him. Invites him into his space again and again.

Today however the kitchen is empty and cold and there is no trace of the angel. For a moment Crowley panics, his blessed imagination going through all of the worst-case scenarios from A like “Aziraphale finally had enough of this” to Z like “Zsajkjd HEAVEN/HELL GOT TO HIM”. Luckily a second panic fueled sweep of the kitchen does reveal a trace – a post it stuck to the counter, reading “I am taking breakfast outside today – Aziraphale”.

Pacified but far from at peace Crowley moves to their patio where, sure enough, Aziraphale is sitting. When he hears the door opening, he turns, and his smile far outshines the mild morning sun. Would outshine the sun anytime really. Crowley nods and turns to go back, get his coffee and his bearings, but Aziraphale calls out to him.

“Oh, no need, dear, I brewed it for you. I do hope it is to your liking, but I did everything just as you do usually.”

And, sure enough, the angel really is setting down a mug for Crowley to take next to him. Always right next to him.

Crowley is seized by a sudden need to understand, to ask, the same urge that got him locked out of heaven so long ago. Just like then he can’t hold it back.

“Aziraphale,” He starts.

“Yes, dear?”

“Just now, the kitchen. Cold. Ngh, no I mean. The bedroom is cold, and your pillow is so nice and. Nh. Gosh, I just, it would be nice if it was. If there was. More.”

Well. That wasn’t the most elaborate speech he’d ever delivered but also not the worst. Probably the best he could do for now, heart still beating fast, faster than any humans would even though it didn’t need to at all.

The angel was beaming at him anyways.

“Oh Crowley, you should have mentioned sooner. I know just the thing, leave it to me!”

And with that it’s sorted, and Crowley finally sits down and uncoils a bit while sipping his coffee. It’s just how he likes it, strong, just a splash of milk and an ungodly amount of sugar.

Well, ok, not exactly how he usually takes it.

This one seems to be his usual with the one extra spoonful of sugar he always considers but then waves off as excessive. It’s exactly as decadent as he’d imagined, and he enjoys the sweet and bitter and warm drink as he sits next to his angel. Who will soon be next to him all the time. Who knew asking for things could turn out like this?

When his drink is empty Crowley is feeling elated and energized, so he decides to take the Bentley for a drive. He tells the angel not to expect him back too soon and the angel tells him to mind how he goes. Crowley isn’t sure how he will go, but he knows where - all the way up to London, where the staff at the Ritz just decided they do takeout. Including the right dishware. He is even feeling exhilarated enough to pick up a little something he knows Aziraphale will be all over from a book auction. After all, the angel loves his books and if that doesn’t compete with him Crowley is happy to make the angel happy. (Crowley knows he would do it anyways. Had done so for a big part of their history, had worked days and weeks and years and decades on perfect little gifts, given with a “got this from someone, I don’t need it” or a more risky “Saw this and thought of you” just for a sliver of that smile he is now given so readily. He knows he would do it again, even if it would feel like tearing himself apart after having it so openly.)

He comes back to Aziraphale still seated outside, the only indication he had moved at all the new, precarious pile of books next to him. He straightens them in passing and instead takes their place as precariously seated pile next to Aziraphale. The angel only looks up when Crowley places the small wrapped parcel on the table, opening it with an “Oh, you shouldn’t have” and a delighted wiggle. The indulgent look he gives Crowley upon discovering what’s inside is the cherry on top of Crowley’s good day and he can’t help but smile back.

The day continues with Aziraphale reading and Crowley fidgeting with some crocheting (He’d had an idea for a new necklace.). Crowley serves them the dinner and the expression on Aziraphale’s face is downright sappy now. Crowley doesn’t even care that his own probably matches.

They eat and they drink, and they talk, and they laugh, and Crowley is sure that if an angel was watching they’d feel the love surrounding them, binding them together. But that doesn’t stop either of them anymore. And then when Crowley feels the day catching up to him, tiredness seeping into his bones and making his eyelids heavy, Aziraphale just shoots him an adoring look.

“Let’s go upstairs, dear,” He says and smiles, and Crowley would follow that smile anywhere. He is glad that the destination is called bed, however.

They move up and the angel opens the bedroom door for him, gesturing inside.

Inside there are eleven new throw pillows, immaculately arranged on the comforter and Crowley feels like crying. The angel is talking beside him, but he can barely understand it.

“There you have them, dear boy, I made more! Mind, since I didn’t have much time these aren’t embroidered. I didn’t want to miracle them, but I also wanted them done today, so I actually took those aprons and repurposed them finally! They are not as aesthetically pleasing but I do hope this is enough more soft for now. Do you like it?”

Aziraphale’s smile falls as he takes in the expression on Crowley’s face. Crowley is quick to fix it into something neutral.

“Course I like it. S’ great. Thanks, angel.”

The look on the angel’s face reminds Crowley of a kicked puppy and had about the same effect, except that he cares about Aziraphale infinitely more than about any puppy. Or any animal. Horses very much included. Even ducks included.

“You don’t like it,” Aziraphale stated sadly.

“Yeah, I do, angel. See?”

He flops down demonstratively, right in the middle of the pillows.

“Ah, so soft. Perfect. Comfortable. Just what I wanted.”

He hides his traitorous face in the pillows. They are soft. And practical as a face hiding spot. He could deal with having emotional support pillows instead of having Aziraphale. He would.

The bed dips next to him and he feels Aziraphale placing a hand between his shoulder blades, on the spot that always makes him melt, gently petting him.

“My dear, we agreed to communicate openly and honest about any issues we came upon, remember? I know it isn’t easy, neither for you nor for me but I am getting the distinct impression that you are not happy with this. I just want to understand why so I can do better, please.”

When there is no audible response from Crowley, Aziraphale continues.

“Right now, I am feeling confused and a bit hurt. I made an effort to do something nice for you-“ he ignores the small protesting noise and soldiers on like the warrior he had once been “-and it obviously did not work as intended. I would like to understand why that is. I was so sure you would like this after what you said at breakfast. What did I get wrong?”

Crowley can feel the angels look on the back of his head. He has to answer. He can’t leave Aziraphale feeling like he did something wrong here, not Crowley asking for too much, so much the angel doesn’t even know what he asked for.

“Ahh, forget it, angel,” he groans into the pillows. “Was just me expecting something else. Nothing you did wrong, I like the pillows, it’s fine if you don’t want to stay here. Pillows are enough.”

He can feel Aziraphale’s hand tensing on his back.

“You want me to stay here?”

He tenses at that. He can’t make out Aziraphale’s emotions from his tone, so he risks a quick glance from his feathery fortress. His expression is no help either. But there’s no sense in trying to take it back now anyways.

“Yeah, course I do. But it’s fine if you don’t want to, I get that you need your solitude and your books and just time without me. It’s fine and dandy. All tickety-boo.”

He can feel the bed shake slightly and gets concerned for a moment, until Aziraphale speaks up again and he realizes the angel is suppressing laughter.

“And, pray tell dear boy, what exactly gave you that impression?”

He turns to face the angel, confused.

“Well, you never wanted to join me. And you always carry me up here when I fall asleep, so I just thought…” he trails off.

“And I,” Aziraphale responds “I thought since you didn’t invite me to join you, you wanted a bit of solitude.”

“Of course I didn’t invite you up here, you don’t sleep! Being in bed together when not sleeping has implications, angel!”

Aziraphale lets out an honest to god snort at that.

“And, pray tell, what are your demonic plans of having me, here, in your bed, love?”

“We could cuddle,” Crowley mumbles, his face hot.

“Well, as an adult, I don’t see any issue with consenting to that. I might even agree to such scandalous things as petting your hair if you ask nicely.”

Crowley doesn’t have any wit left in him, so instead he just buries his burning face in Aziraphale’s side. He can still feel the angel chuckling.

“Oh, shut up and read a book.”

“Well, if you suggest it,” Aziraphale responds and Crowley feels a miracle being used, probably to call up a book.

Aziraphale shifts him a bit into the position they are usually in when cuddling on the couch. The gentle crinkling of turning pages and the occasional petting of his hair soon sends him to sleep, and his dreams for once are only pleasant.

He wakes up with his faces feeling hot and kind of smushed.

“Guh?” he articulates.

“Good morning, dear,” is the response he gets from the soft thing underneath him. His soft thing. He smiles. “How was your night?”

“Slept well. How was yours?”

“Very companionable. Though this bed does lack proper back support. I had to fashion something out of the pillows, but it wasn’t quite enough.”

Crowley turns his face up to properly grin at the angel.

“I might have just the solution for that.”

He gets up, ignoring the small protesting noise his bones and the angel make and opens the closet.

“Will these be enough?” he asks, turning back to Aziraphale with a grin and a flourish.

The angel, startled at first, soon begins to laugh.

“You know what, my dear, I think these will do.”

After that morning they finally have an important talk, about the space they will sometimes need, about how to communicate their needs better, and about the space they want to share. It ends in them finally renovating the bedroom, which means it ends up a lot lighter and with a lot more tartan and books and soft things than Crowley would usually claim he is comfortable with.

But, waking up with Aziraphale next to him every day, Crowley can’t deny liking soft things anymore, the 32 throw pillows on their bed certainly making a point in case. And maybe Crowley can accept that he himself is a bit soft too.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #romantic relationship #my fic #fanfiction #nendrab #my stuff #guys read this i promise its so soft #guys read this on AO3 i promise its so much better #have fun anyways #and comment please i am about to get a really stressful week and then a really stressful month XD

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