#wakeywakeysnakey

[asublimehimbo]

Aziraphale flipped the last page of Le Temps retrouvé and closed the book. He'd spent all of June ignoring that terrible aching in his chest because, well, no Crowley, by rereading dear Proust's In Search of Lost Time, and somehow it had just made Aziraphale miss him more.

Somehow, when he closed his eyes, all he could see were Crowley's eyes, those stunning, saturated yellow eyes. He loved them. He loved every part of Crowley, really, but he liked to pick one thing to focus on at a time so he wouldn't get overwhelmed. So he could give each beautiful part its own spotlight. He could feel, still, that Crowley's feather soft hands on his when they had switched bodies. He missed those hands, as silly as it sounded. He'd never wanted to feel someone else's touch before, not so badly, but he supposed there had always been something different with Crowley. Different about Crowley, for that matter. He just missed him so much.

Aziraphale stood, stretched, and let his corporation get used to standing again, and miracled himself into the hallway outside Crowley's flat. He knocked on the door. He could feel excitement in a way he hadn't before, this strange buzzing going from his fingertips to his toes to his nose, getting stuck up in his mind and causing his heart to race. He wrung his hands, pursed his smiling lips to trap a little squeak before it could release itself into the world. And then he knocked on the door.

It flung open under his knuckles.

"Angel!" Crowley nearly shouted at the same time Aziraphale let out a high-pitched, excited hum.

They nearly flew into each other's arms despite themselves, despite the world. For a moment in time that would be forever locked into the insides of both their brains, they were one thing. One holy, damned, divine, unholy thing. Aziraphale nuzzled into his neck and braided his fingers through Crowley's now-long hair, and inhaled him, his forest-right-after-it-rains smell. Aziraphale held the firm opinion that Crowley's smell should be turned into a candle somehow, so he could enjoy it even when the demon wasn't around, but that was another matter. He was here, and Crowley was here, and they were together. Crowley was warm, because he was always warm despite being cold-blooded and worlds skinnier than Aziraphale, and the angel let the feeling of holding him soak right down to his bones. Crowley tightened his grip around Aziraphale, hunching over to put his face into the angel's hair. Aziraphale thought that maybe if he got burned in hellfire right now, he would go happy.

And then they parted. Aziraphale almost mourned the loss of contact, before remembering that he wasn't supposed to like holding Crowley as much as he did, and shoved the feelings away. They would be resolved at another hour. Right now, he was to be with Crowley, and that was all that mattered.

"How are you, my dear?" Aziraphale asked, and Crowley just shrugged, then gestured for Aziraphale to enter his flat.

"How'er you?"

Aziraphale sighed. "Ecstatic to see you again."

Crowley let out a noncommittal sound that Aziraphale beamed at. "You sent me three letters."

"I was bored."

"You miracled me five cakes."

"I was worried you'd wake up hungry."

"Angel," Crowley said, snapping his fingers. A bottle of wine appeared in his hands. "I don't eat. You know that."

"Oh, my, I must've forgotten! I'm sorry, Crowley."

"S'alright. Kind of nice to wake up to a reminder that you've been thinking about me," he mumbled, striding into his flat's stylish (cramped) living room. Aziraphale followed him, a small smile stretched across his face. They sat down next to each other, perhaps a little closer than friends would have, and drank until they were spewing gibberish.

"I just think that it would've been a lot easier if-" Crowley was interrupted by a stubborn angel's voice.

"Crow..."

"What s’up, angel?"

"You've got some-thing on your face, dear."

Crowley scoffed. "Where?"

"Lemme," Aziraphale said, and ran his fingers gently over Crowley's nose. "Angel, I'm pre- pretty sure that's sup- suppo- oh, on purpose."

Aziraphale smiled. "I like your face."

"I like your face." Crowley said it like he was throwing back an insult, but he was grinning too.

Aziraphale hummed softly, then leaned his head on Crowley's chest and closed his eyes. Crowley tensed up in surprise. This was surely violating some unspoken rule of theirs. Something... but he wasn't sure what, exactly. It felt alright. Good. He let himself relax into the touch, and closed his eyes as well, leaning his head to rest on the back of the couch.

"This s'nice," he said, but Aziraphale was already asleep. He wonder vaguely if the angel had been waiting for a moment just like this to "forget" to Sober Up, then decided he would let it rest in mystery.

And then he felt sleepy too, despite having just slept for a month, as drinking quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol is apt to do to most beings, even angels and demons, and so he slept.

There were lots of denials to be had when they both woke up, but not even an outsider looking in would've been able to deny the quiet, intense kind of smiles on their faces.