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The beauty of the thing lies in the fact that they both know that there’s no reason it needs to happen. Because Crowley could sober up with a snap of his fingers. Because Aziraphale prefers to be alone in the bookstore, no matter how much he insists that he doesn’t mind having Crowley sprawled out on a stray armchair, having arrived a tad too early for their dinner reservations. And yet - the offer is made.
“Why don’t you just stay the night?” Aziraphale says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
“Nahhhhhhgh,” Crowley replies - noncommittally, of course, because isn’t this what they do? Dance around each other until he finally puts a hand out, only to have it smacked away by an entirely too-flustered angel? There is no other routine. He knows the steps, has learned to suspect everything because what the Lord giveth the Lord doth taketh etc etc.
Aziraphale, complicating their routine, doesn’t seem to like his answer. “Well, why not?’ There’s a little furrow between his eyebrows. Crowley’s fingers twitch.
He must’ve taken a tad too long to reply, because Aziraphale stiffens. He’s missed a step, trodden on his toes. And for this, he’ll never be forgiven, surely he’ll be ushered to the doorway in a minute, cast out with a hurried goodbye--
“You look tired,” Aziraphale elaborates. Crowley is startled to find himself still sitting on the couch, his spine basically melded into the soft plush of the pillows Aziraphale has a tendency to hoard. “And I was thinking. Well, it’d be an awful lot of energy to sober up and. Drive home.” The last few words come out mangled and unsure, very unlike Aziraphale’s generally self-assured tone which came with the territory of being one of Heaven’s Ethereal Beings. He isn’t sure what the official title is, it’s been so long.
“‘M not tired,” Crowley mumbles, and even as he says it he knows it’s a lie. Trying to unstick the words from his mouth is like talking around a spoonful of peanut butter, and it’s almost too much energy to even think of doing that, though he does like the stuff.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and his tone has softened. Crowley opens an eye - he didn’t realise he’d had them closed - to look at the angel before him. This isn’t the routine they’ve practiced. Where are all the slammed doors, the goodbyes said to cold, empty air? The warmth of a bookshop safely behind a door that he hasn’t been invited into, the engine of the Bentley still running? He should be outside right now.
“‘M fine,” Crowley insists, and cracks the other eye open. He has to blink a few times, unused to the soft yellow light that emanates from somewhere behind Aziraphale’s head. It lit the ends of his already light blonde hair, turning them a kinder yellow than the sickly grotesque shade his own eyes tend to incline towards. “‘S your space. And your night. I won’t bother you just -” he cuts himself off, trying to muster the energy to stand up. “Gimme a second,” he mutters. His legs don’t obey.
“Really, now,” Aziraphale’s watching him, unamused. “I didn’t think you’d be so difficult about this.”
“I’m not-” Crowley rasps, grasping the arms of the sofa and heaving himself up to standing, “being difficult. This is just,” waving his arms around and promptly forgetting that said arm was responsible for his balance, therefore falling back onto the sofa, “how we do things.” The finish is miserable and small. He places his traitorous arm over his eyes.
“How we do things,” Aziraphale repeats meaningfully.
“Don’t read into it,” Crowley warns.
“You know,” Aziraphale begins, and Crowley knows that the angel’s read into it. “Just because it’s how we’ve always done things, doesn’t mean we always have to.”
Crowley huffs a dry laugh, but it’s shaky and unconvincing. He doesn’t know the steps. He didn’t prepare for this. “Try explaining that to the traditionalists,” he attempts to joke, but the words come up against unyielding air.
“Why don’t we just make a new one?” Aziraphale asks. “You’re tired, so you stay here.” He’s saying it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. For some reason, it’s this - the banality of the offer, the way he says it like it’s something they’ve always done - tugs on something underfed and ugly behind his heart. Underneath his arm, his eyes are itching. The worst part of it is that he doesn’t want to resist - and for this he will never forgive himself.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale says again. “It’s not a big deal, really.” When Crowley’s arm still doesn’t budge, he continues, something helpless and open in his voice, “I’m inviting you.”
Through the blood rushing in his ears, Crowley hears several things. There’s a few books Aziraphale left open on his desk - no doubt tracing some ridiculous obscure literary motif through time - and the pages have begun to flutter with the cool night breeze making its way through the windows. The floorboards creak where Aziraphale is now standing, close to him. The whole bookstore immersed in its own quiet - Aziraphale’s quiet - that he’s been invited into. There has been no kinder gesture than this.
“Okay,” he answers. Tentatively, he lowers his hand. His ears feel hot, and he has a sneaking suspicion that the tips of them have turned a mortifying shade of pink. Abruptly, he feels a hand cupping his cheek, and the force of the realisation nearly knocks him clean out of his body.
During his panic, Aziraphale had approached him, and was now kneeling before the sofa as if approaching a wild animal. His hand is on Crowley’s cheek. There is far too much happening for Crowley to process at once, so he zooms in on one thing, the only thing he can handle at this point. Aziraphale’s hand is soft, and warm. He can feel the skin of his palm against his face, and it is a gesture so foreign to him that all he can do is lean into the touch. Just for a second, he allows himself, pressing his face into the gentle touch of the only person in the world who will refuse to hurt him. Refuse to hurt him, and ask him to stay. The incision between the two once seemed infinite, and somehow he’s found himself on the other side, unharmed.
“I’ll get you a blanket,” Aziraphale promises, and the touch is gone. Before Crowley can mourn it, before he’s even gotten a chance to catalogue what it felt like to tide him over for the next 6000 years, the angel reappears, a burgundy quilt in hand. “This is the closest thing I had in your colours,” and he sounds so apologetic that Crowley has to lift his head to stare at him in unabashed amazement. There’s a lump in his throat.
“It’s fine,” he finally says. “More than fine,” he moves to take it from Aziraphale, who instead steps backward, infinitesimally. For one horrible second, Crowley’s outstretched hands meet empty air.
“I thought it’d be easier to tuck you in,” the words wrench themselves from Aziraphale’s mouth so quickly, Crowley’s hardly sure he heard him right. He’s not even sure he even managed to put together some mangled reply, but the next thing he knows he’s surrounded by a sea of deep red, and Aziraphale somehow still smells like hot cocoa despite the countless glasses of wine they’ve had.
And then there are his hands; hands that would never hurt Crowley, hands that wanted him to stay the night because they knew he was tired and cold, and even more tired of always expecting punishment. Hands that had given him this small mercy, even though sometimes even that seemed unbearable. The malnourished thing in his chest cries out at this - who in their right mind could be wounded by goodness? - but it’s quickly stifled as Aziraphale pulls the blanket up to his chin, and his knuckles brush the skin just below Crowley’s jaw.
“There,” Aziraphale murmurs, satisfied with his work. “Goodnight, Crowley,”
“Night, angel.”
Just before he’s lost to the yawning abyss of dreams, there’s a voice - “May you dream of whatever you like best.”
Then a hand, outstretched.