Chapter Text
Crowley hummed as he turned the corner of the backroad, snow crunching underneath the tyres of the Mercedes he had rented. Snow drifted down from the heavens in thick, slow-moving flakes, white covering the branches and ground as if someone had laid a blanket over the world. His headlights illuminated the swirls and flurries, and the road in front of him. As he turned the corner, he saw it. His eyes widened as he took in the cabin he had rented for his week of vacation. He grinned. It was perfect.
Crowley parked smoothly in the driveway, switching off the car and jumping out, giddy. He opened the boot of the car, grabbed his luggage (a singular suitcase and backpack, he was a light packer) and hurried towards the door. His coat was in his pack, and he was both excited to get out of the cold and to discover the cabin. He crouched to enter the combination for the lockbox that housed the key to the cabin, plucking the simple key out of the box where its counterpart lay. He only needed the one key, so he let the other lie and opened the door. The interior of the cabin was warm, lights casting a warm amber glow over the living room. A cozy, fawn colored couch faced an unlit fireplace, and bookshelves lined the wall. Kicking off his shoes and abandoning his luggage, he wandered through the kitchen. Gas stove, modest cupboards with pots and pans stacked within, a rustic sink. He pulled out his phone, which told him it was just past eight in the evening. He had been driving for the better part of two hours, after his flight to the Rovaniemi airport had landed. He had eaten on the way, and could feel the hours of travel weighing him down. Transporting his luggage up the stairs was short work, and he dropped his backpack at the entrance of his bedroom, removing his toiletries from it. The bathroom was surprisingly spacious, a glass-walled shower dominating the room. Crowley unpacked his toiletries quickly, stacking his products with neat efficiency in the shower. He brushed his teeth as he dumped out his toothpaste and various creams he had packed, no rhyme or reason. Unpacking fully could wait until tomorrow, and once he was finished with his teeth, he stripped off his clothes and flopped onto the bed, facedown in the pillows. He wriggled under the duvet and sighed. It was going to be a good week.
Hours later, a rattling creaking noise awoke Crowley from his slumber. He blinked muzzily into the dark, trying to decipher what he was hearing. What sounded like a car creaking down the driveway, as well as rustling and muffled voices. In his half-conscious state, he deduced that someone was trying to break into the cabin. He stumbled out of bed, chill hitting his skin like needles. Dressed only in his boxers, he held up his water bottle as a makeshift weapon and stumbled down the stairs, reaching the bottom just as the door swung open.
⥢⥤
Aziraphale Fell was frustrated. His layover flight had been delayed, leading to an almost three hour wait in a foreign country, on top of an already traveled four hours. The drive from the airport took close to three hours, the snow falling thick and heavy. This led to him arriving at his destination almost a half day later than expected, and it was six in the morning when he arrived at the log cabin he had booked for the week. He was utterly exhausted, sore, and at his wit’s end. He thanked the Uber driver, paid his fare and was left standing at the front step of the cabin, snow up to his knees and suitcases in hand. He trudged through the snow, cursing the books he had seen fit to pack into his suitcases as he struggled towards the door. He hauled his trunk up onto the doorstep and fumbled with the combination box. After a couple of attempts and a fair amount of profanity, the key was freed from its prison, and Aziraphale was more than ready to slide it into the door. He paused, key in the lock, cocking his head as he heard thumping from inside of the cabin. Surely it was nothing? He unlocked the door, pushed it open and stepped inside. Flicking on the light, he let out a shout. There was a lanky, redheaded man in naught but his boxers standing in the hallway, a black water bottle in hand and a wild look in his eye. Aziraphale opened his mouth, closed it. This is far too much skin to be seeing this early in the morning he thought nonsensically, and cleared his throat.
“Hello,” he said. “Who are you?”
The redhead gawked a little, mouth a wide oval and eyebrows drawn tight. He mumbled something that appeared to be mostly made of consonants and sounded vaguely like ‘mrly’. At Aziraphale’s confounded expression, he cleared his throat and tried again.
“’M Crowley, who are you?”
“My name is Aziraphale. Aziraphale Fell. I booked this place for my vacation a couple of weeks ago. Which begs the question, what are you doing here?”
“I also booked this place, got here yesterday evening. Looks like we’ve been double booked.” The other man looks down at himself and appears to realize his state. “Want to come in? I’ll help you with your luggage, we can have a cuppa, figure out our plan. Get you out from the cold.”
“I’d worry more about your temperature than mine,” Aziraphale couldn’t hold back the tease, pairing it with a small smile. “But yes, that sounds like an excellent idea.”
The resulting flush was devastating, as Aziraphale could see it spread from the tips of the redhead’s ears all the way to his sternum, a pretty pink. Crowley grimaced and gestured back up the stairs. “Yeah, I’m just gonna…”
⥢⥤
Crowley bounded up the stairs two at a time, face flushed and heart pounding. Of all the ways he expected this morning to go, this was not one of them. Having a strange man appear at his door in the wee hours of the morning was bad enough, but almost attacking said man with his water bottle while wearing nothing but his pants was the cherry on top. He opened his suitcase and pulled out a jumper and a pair of long trousers, yanked them on and jogged back down the stairs, where Aziraphale was just bringing in the first of his two trunks. They were smooth, light brown leather, and looked vintage and sturdy. The luggage tags looked alien attached to them. Crowley reached out to grab the bag from him, and their fingers brushed. Crowley let out a small oof as he gained full control over the bag. Aziraphale had made lifting it look easy, but in reality it was very densely packed and heavy.
“Apologies, dear boy, I do tend to overpack. I can take them, it’s truly no problem.” Aziraphale said, hands reaching out as if to grab the bag back, but halting halfway through the air. Oh, please touch me Crowley thought, before shaking his head and holding the bag closer to his body, adjusting his grip.
“Don’t worry about it, it’s fine. Just wasn’t expecting it.” Crowley replied, turning and moving down the hallway to put the bag on the ground near the couch. “What did you pack anyway, bricks?”
“Mostly books, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale’s voice came from far closer than he had expected, and Crowley turned to find those dazzling blue eyes but a foot away from his. “I was worried I would get bored.”
Crowley smiled. This man became more interesting by the minute. “Tea?”
⥢⥤
Aziraphale sat at the sturdy oak table and watched as Crowley puttered around in the kitchen, sprinkling cheese and bell peppers into the egg that was soon to become an omelette. Aziraphale became lost in studying him. The warm amber light from overhead caught the fire-bright strands of hair, rippling down into crimson and gold. Long, thin legs attached to a lithe torso, an elegant neck. The profile of his hooked nose, sharp cheekbones. Aziraphale itched for his paints. He could capture the exact shade of golden brown that resided in his eyes, the milky skin contrasted by deep blue and bright red. The kettle whistled, startling Aziraphale out of his reverie, and Crowley flicked off the burner and opened a drawer.
“All of these teas are in a different language, but I’m sure we’ll manage. This looks like peppermint, that’s chamomile, there’s raspberry and rooibos.” Crowley put each box down as he rattled off the names, and Aziraphale peered at them. Nothing to him indicated anything as to what flavor the teas were, as each box simply had a picture of leaves on it and words in what he presumed was Finnish.
“How do you know which is which?” he asked.
“The leaves! ’M a botanist.” Crowley said, turning to fuss with the egg again. “Knowing random plants kind of comes with the territory. I have my own plant shop back home.”
“Botany, how wonderful! Where is it that you live, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I don’t mind. I’m in Mayfair. It’s busy, but it’s home.”
“What a coincidence! I’m in SoHo, we’re practically neighbours. I run a bookshop, and teach art on the side with a friend of mine.”
Crowley turned with a plate in one hand and a mug with steam rising from it in the other. He set the plate with omelette down in front of Aziraphale, along with the mug of water. “Which tea did you say you wanted, angel?”
“Angel?” Aziraphale tried not to sound incredulous. Mid-turn, Crowley froze, his ears reddening.
“Ngk, well, you look kind of like one. Your hair’s all fluffy and white, and your mug…” He trailed off, shoulders creeping up towards his ears. “Sorry.”
“It’s perfectly alright, dear boy,” Aziraphale said soothingly, wanting to smooth out the lines of tension in the other man’s body with a soft hand. “I’ve certainly been called worse. I don’t mind, it’s rather nice.”
Crowley reddened further, turning with his own mug and plate. “Well, that’s alright then. I’m not nice, though. Tea? Which?”
“Oh, the peppermint, please. And I beg to differ, you’re lovely. You’ve made us this lovely breakfast, despite such a rude awakening, and you didn’t even hit me with your bottle. I would say that qualifies as nice at the very least.” Aziraphale primly stuck a piece of omelette into his mouth, wiggling and humming as the bright flavor spread over his tongue. “This is scrumptious, thank you my dear. Just what I needed.”
And if Crowley flushed deeper and took a hasty sip of the scalding coffee, well, Aziraphale could have been too immersed in his meal to notice.
⥢⥤
This was the strangest morning Crowley had had in a long while. Here he was, newly forty-five years old, in a log cabin in the woods, sitting across from what was most likely the most angelic-looking man he had ever seen. As he sipped his coffee and watched the other man from behind the safety of his mug, he noticed small things he hadn’t been awake or aware enough to see before. How this man’s white hair curled as if caressing his ears, the nape of his neck. How his light blue shirt hugged his biceps as he moved, how the width of his shoulders was held safe in the embrace of his - vintage, surely - waistcoat. How he dressed primly, comfortably. Warm in the weather outdoors, where it had surely been well below freezing. The whole man seemed to be like a walking hug. Warm, inviting, encompassing. Crowley wondered what it would be like to be held within that sphere, to bask in the light. As he watched, the other man cut a piece of egg, neatly portioning it with some extra cheese and the onions, piling it into a wobbly mountain on his fork. Neatly tucking the fork into his mouth and chewing carefully, Aziraphale moaned around his mouthful, eyes rolling back and fluttering closed.
“Crowley, this is simply divine,” he said, as if Crowley’s brain was not actively leaking out of his ears. That kind of noise was, in Crowley’s experience, only uttered in one extremely specific scenario, and to his knowledge neither himself or the angel across from him were currently naked or having sex. I wonder if he makes the same noise while having his cock sucked. Crowley dispelled that thought with a grunt he hoped came across as ‘glad you like it’ and not ‘I’m vividly imagining sucking your dick’, but he couldn’t be sure. He took another sip of coffee. God help him.
“So, what do you plan on doing here?” Crowley asked, aiming for nonchalant and probably landing in solid ‘help me’ territory. Fuck it.
“I was going to mostly catch up on my reading, perhaps take a couple walks and some photographs, I brought my paints and was going to work off of the photos.” The other man said, popping another morsel into his mouth. Thankfully, the sound he made was less pornographic this time, as Crowley wasn’t sure he wouldn’t simply lunge across the table. “What about yourself?”
“Ah, much the same, I think.” Crowley blathered, “I brought my camera equipment, actually, was hoping to catch some nice shots with the northern lights. I also —” he cut himself off, the idea seeming suddenly small and immature. Aziraphale looked up, blue eyes so soft and gentle that Crowley almost looked away.
“Also what, dear?” The blond asked, taking a sip of his tea. He seemed genuinely interested, and Crowley let out a slow breath.
“Well, I was thinking of maybe doing some sledding. The listing said there was a great sledding hill, and they have sleds in the shed. I just haven’t done it much since I was a kid, and I was really excited to get to experience it again.”
“Well, that sounds like a grand time!” Aziraphale said, his enthusiasm sounding genuine. Crowley peered up at him, trying to discern if he was actually this positive all of the time or simply very good at faking it. Aziraphale’s smile lit up his whole face, and he was happily wiggling in his chair while spearing yet another piece of omelette. Wholehearted joy seemed to seep out of his every pore, and Crowley almost squinted with it.
“Yeah, I hoped so.” Crowley said, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
⥢⥤
A little while later, their meal polished off (another “It truly was scrumptious, my dear boy,” testing the limits of Crowley’s already-tenuous restraint), Aziraphale retreated to the couch to allow the other man to take a shower. Crowley scrubbed his body viciously, refusing to entertain the fantasy of Aziraphale joining him under the steaming water. Would his arms be as mouthwateringly solid as they appeared? Would his stomach truly be plush and speckled with the same white-blond hair that adorned the crown of his head? Stop it, stop it, stop it, Crowley chanted, resisting the urge to trail his hands downwards. You agreed to be friends. It’s just for the week.
Meanwhile, Aziraphale sat on the couch, his copy of Frankenstein in his hands. The book was well-loved, spine repaired on multiple occasions and faintly yellow with age, but still in pristine condition. The words swam on the page in front of him, and he realized he hadn’t turned the page since Crowley had sauntered up the stairs. He let out a frustrated sigh and put the book aside. What was supposed to be a relaxing retreat had turned into a test of patience and restraint. How was he supposed to coexist with this infuriatingly gorgeous, funny, alluring man for a whole five days without losing his mind or, perhaps synonymously, kissing him. He was restless, hands dancing across his knees before settling in front of his stomach to perform a well-practiced wringing motion that he had been trying to kick since childhood. He shook out his hands and stood, deciding he may as well get a little more comfortable. He walked over to where his trunk lay, opening the clasps with well practiced ease. He had restored each piece by hand, leather softened and a warm brown from his efforts, and the whisper of the belt through the buckle was a calming countermelody to the riot inside of his head. He lifted the lid, revealing stacks of neatly folded clothes with books and bundles of paintbrushes secured by elastic nestled between them. He drew out the brushes, pushing aside a pair of pyjama pants for access to the canvas roll that unfolded to show rows of neatly organized tubes of paint. He had brought his sketchbook as well as some thick rolls of paper, forgoing his usual canvases. He had, however, brought his solid oak easel, and hefted it out from under his robe with a smile.
Choosing a spot near one the windows, where weak sunlight light filtered in from outside, he lay the brushes, paper, and paints on a nearby table, unfolding the easel with neat movements. He settled the paper into the clamps, ensuring it was stretched with no creases. Stepping back to admire his work, he spread out the canvas bag, picking a blue and a white. He may as well work with the view outside of his window. A light blue layer went down easily, darkened with blues and the occasional hint of green for the pine needles poking through the blanket of snow. The occasional warm amber drifted to reflect onto the snow, sun peeking through the grey-blue clouds. He distantly heard the water shut off, but the realization was quickly consumed by the need to capture the exact depth of the blues in the foreground.
⥢⥤
Crowley stepped out of the bathroom, fluffing the towel in his hair to rid it of the excess moisture. He was wearing low-slung joggers and one of his many fuzzy sweaters. He threw his towel onto the bed and headed down the steps, only making it two steps before stopping dead in his tracks. There, illuminated by the light drifting in through the window, stood Aziraphale. He had set up some kind of art station (an easel, Crowley recalled blurrily) and was holding a paintbrush as he stood, head slightly cocked and regarding his work. Crowley’s eyes trailed from his heels, dressed in cream woolen socks, up past the light brown slacks, lingering on the way the fabric stretched on his thick, luscious thighs and strained against his are (oh, God, that arse). He had shed a layer, revealing suspenders stretched over broad shoulders, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, fuzzy forearms. Crowley was lucky he didn’t keel over where he stood. This man could, without a doubt, throw him around and bend him over and Crowley would be powerless to stop him. Crowley shivered, goosebumps spreading from his wrists up to settle in his chest, arousal pooling low in his belly.
Stop ogling him! Stop! He berated himself, debating whether he should return upstairs to calm down (or maybe solve the problem in a different way…) before shaking his head and stalking down the stairs. You can be normal. You can not fuck this man. You must not fuck this man. He has agreed to be friendly and friends don’t have sex with each other.
“What are you working on?” He asked as he reached the bottom of the stairs. Aziraphale startled, whirling around to face Crowley.
“Oh! I decided to unpack and I suppose I got a little carried away.” he said sheepishly, shuffling his feet side to side. “The light was just touching the snow just so and I just…had to.”
“Mind if I look?” Crowley said, aching for the answer to be yes. To witness something the other man had created, had painstakingly brought to life with those strong, broad hands, stroke by stroke. Aziraphale nodded, stepping back, and Crowley eagerly filled the space he left behind, phantom warmth still lingering. He peered at the painting, depicting a serene landscape of snow-capped trees and falling flakes. It was a very good painting, and he reached out, stopping just before he touched the paper. “You did this just now?”
Aziraphale nodded again, hands wringing in front of his belly. “Do you like it?”
“Like it?” Crowley scoffed, turning to look incredulously at Aziraphale. “Angel, I love it. I would pay so much money for this to live in my house.”
The blond’s face lit up, the smile stretching across his face producing the most adorable dimples Crowley had ever seen. “Oh, I’d hoped you would say that. I haven’t been in the studio as much recently, it’s good to know I haven’t lost my touch.”
“Wait,” Crowley said, brain catching up to his ears. “‘In the studio’? You do this for a living?”
Aziraphale arched a brow. “Is that so surprising?”
“No, no, not at all. It’s very good. I just - I don’t know, I guess I wasn’t expecting that to be your profession.” Crowley sputtered, flailing for a foothold. He didn’t want to offend the other man, scare him away. Aziraphale giggled, placing a warm hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, my dear, I was only teasing.”
Crowley, struck dumb with the contact, could only nod. The warm, solid hand on his shoulder a grounding pressure, one he would rather not give up. Unfortunately, the universe was not on his side, and the hand slipped away as the blond ran his fingers through his hair, reaching out to adjust some paints.
“Well, this needs to dry before I can take it off the easel. Any major plans I’m disrupting today?” Aziraphale asked, teasing lilt to his voice. Crowley shook his head, shrugging his shoulders. “I was mostly going to hang around, maybe go for a walk later. Today was just for settling in, really.”
“A walk sounds delightful, if you give me an hour or so to freshen up?” Aziraphale inquired, and Crowley nodded again, beginning to feel like a bobblehead. “Sounds like a deal.”
⥢⥤
Aziraphale stood on the porch, watching as Crowley turned the key in the lock. The other man was clad in jeans so tight they looked painted on, and a chic-looking jacket that likely did nothing to help the cold. A beanie was sat jauntily on his red locks, tips of his ears already gone pink. Aziraphale himself was dressed far more reasonably, long woolen jacket protecting him from wind, and a sensible hat and scarf to keep the worst of the bite at bay. His fingers toyed with the camera in his pocket, resisting the urge to snap a photo of the redhead’s smile as he turned to discover him waiting. Together, they ambled along the wooded path. At the very least, Crowley wore sturdy boots that looked to be made well, and the snow thick on the ground didn’t seem to bother him. They reached a clearing in the trees, a plane of ice stretching far to the opposite shore. It seemed the lake had completely frozen over, and Aziraphale snapped a couple of pictures before leaning down to sweep a gloved hand across it.
“Have you ever been out on natural ice?” he inquired conversationally, as he took a knife out of his pocket and slid it neatly into the ice, checking the thickness.
“Nope,” Crowley replied. “Not much of this back home.”
“Would you like to?” Aziraphale retorted, slipping the knife back into his pocket. Crowley met his gaze, jaw slightly open.
“Is it safe?” Crowley asked, tone incredulous and perhaps a bit fearful. Aziraphale smiled. “I just checked the thickness, it should be fine. Come on, I’ll be with you the whole time.”
He took a step out onto the ice, making sure he had secure footing before turning and offering the redhead a hand. The other man grimaced, but took a step out and slipped his hand into Aziraphale’s. Crowley took one step, then two, but overshot the third and his leg whipped out from under him, sending his back hurtling towards the ice. Aziraphale stuck out his arm and tugged on his hand to pull him closer and catching him by the waist as he fell. This, unfortunately, led to a position not unlike a dip in dancing, Aziraphale standing over Crowley with the redhead bent backwards at the waist, hips pressed together. Aziraphale swallowed, throat suddenly dry.
“Are you alright, my dear?” he asked, moving his hand up to a more proper place on Crowley’s back, tilting him back upwards to rest on his feet. Crowley grunted, shaking his body not unlike a wet dog.
“Only thing that’s hurt is my pride, I think,” he grimaced. “Thanks for catching me, I would have cracked my head open if you hadn’t caught me.”
Aziraphale laughed. “It’s no problem, dear, I would much rather not have to call the emergency services, my training would only get us so far if you’d broken something. Just stay close to me and you’ll be fine, my shoes have small spikes on the bottom for better grip in climates like these.”
Aziraphale extended his arm, and Crowley fit his own into the space between bicep and body. The ice groaned, and Crowley yelped, clinging closer to Aziraphale (and no, the contact was not distracting, thank you very much) and Aziraphale laughed, slinging his arm around the other man’s waist in what he hoped was a casual-adjacent action.
“I’ve heard it called ‘singing ice’,” he said, cocking his head as a cracking noise accompanied a high-pitched wave of sound that seemed to stretch on forever, humming softly beneath their feet. “Small layers of ice close to the surface of the water are moving or cracking, and it reverberates to make, well, that sound.”
Crowley smiled, relieved. “I thought we were going to go through for a second. It’s kinda nice, actually.”
Aziraphale hummed in agreement. “I love this sound. Shall we?”
⥢⥤
Crowley was freezing. They had been ambling on the ice for about ten minutes, and it was probably the nicest ten minutes of his life. A sturdy arm around his waist and pleasant conversation was, apparently, enough to make him fall head over heels (it was just a crush, a silly infatuation, nothing more). But now his teeth were chattering, although he tried to hide it, and he couldn’t feel his thighs anymore. Your skinny jeans won’t be enough for the cold, Anathema’s voice echoed in his head, from where she sat on his bed watching him pack his suitcase. He had waved her off, but now he was cursing himself. That witch was always right, when would that get through his skull? He kept walking, numb, until he felt a tug on his arm.
“Crowley?” came Aziraphale’s voice from behind him. “Are you alright, my dear?”
Crowley half-turned to find the blond’s worried eyes searching his face. He nodded, and opened his mouth to speak, but almost bit his tongue off in the process.
“Good Lord, Crowley, you’re freezing! Why didn’t you say anything?” the other man fussed, releasing his hold on Crowley to pull off his scarf and drape it over Crowley’s shoulders.
“I d-d-didn’t want to ruin o-o-our walk,” Crowley forced out, muffled as the warm scarf came up to cover his mouth as Aziraphale wound it round. “Y-y-you don’t have to do that, it’s my own stupid f-fault.”
“Nonsense,” Aziraphale said firmly, replacing his hand at Crowley’s waist and steering him back the way they’d come. “I won’t have you catching your death on my account.”
They walked briskly until they reached the cabin, where Aziraphale opened the door and sat him firmly onto the couch, a blanket appearing in his hands and covering Crowley’s legs. Crowley started to protest, but the look Aziraphale shot him from his way to the kitchen dried the words in his throat. Tea was pressed into his hands, and Aziraphale knelt down in front of him, fingers working swiftly at the laces on his shoes.
“Angel, what-” Crowley started, but snapped his mouth shut as Aziraphale took his shoe off and cradled his feet in his hands. It felt heavenly, warm hands cradling and massaging his foot to help the blood flow back into them, and Crowley sipped his tea to prevent himself from saying something stupid. The other foot was given similar treatment, and for a while, Crowley sat and shivered and sipped his tea, body slowly returning to a normal temperature. When Aziraphale was satisfied, he looked up at Crowley and spoke.
“I will make one thing very clear: you are not to do something like this ever again. Hypothermia is serious, and this climate is not kind. If you are getting cold, you will tell me, and in future you will borrow some of my equipment if we want to go on another walk such as this one. Understood?”
Crowley nodded meekly, the stern tone of the blond’s voice startling him. Aziraphale smiled and Crowley relaxed, smiling back. At least he hadn’t completely lost the companionship they’d built over the last hours. Aziraphale patted his knee affectionately, then stood to pour himself his own cup of tea.
⥢⥤
“Angel?”
Crowley’s voice echoed into the bathroom, where Aziraphale had been unpacking his toiletries, a neat little line of his small bottle of cologne, hand cream, face cream, toothpaste and toothbrush. It made him smile to see Crowley's haphazard sprawl of products next to his own orderly line. He gave a hum in response and ambled to the door, where he found Crowley standing at the foot of the bed. He was staring at the dark sheets, a stricken expression on his face, and Aziraphale cocked his head.
“What’s the matter, my dear?”
“Well, uh,” Crowley responded, sliding a hand over his mouth and down his neck, resting it on his shoulder. “It appears I – well, we – forgot that this is a one-bedroom cottage.”
Oh. Oh. Aziraphale tensed slightly, almost imperceptibly, but enough.The idea of sharing a bed, a night with this strange, wonderful, attractive man was enough to put his head in a spin. There would be warmth, the feeling of another’s body against his own, something he wasn’t used to. He wasn’t opposed to the idea, far from it, but Crowley appeared to be facing the gallows. Right, then.
“Well, we’re both adults,” Aziraphale said, tone light. “I’m sure we can make it work. Which side do you want?”
Crowley shot him a look, which Aziraphale pretended not to see. “Yeah, I guess. You’re sure you don’t mind? I could sleep on the sofa.”
“I’m quite certain, as long as you don’t have any qualms. If anyone were to be sleeping on the sofa, it would be me. You got here first, after all.” Aziraphale replied smoothly, willing himself not to glance to his right. The less eye contact made, the better. It would not do to entertain fanciful thoughts. Crowley shot him another glance, took what appeared to be a deep, grounding breath, and smiled. “I’ll take the left, then. Be warned, I sleeptalk.”
“Do you really?” Aziraphale couldn’t stop himself from asking, head and neck working together to betray him and look gleefully at Crowley, who simply winked. “Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”
With that, Crowley sauntered off into the washroom, presumably to brush his teeth. Aziraphale was left, standing and staring at the bed. Well. The only way out was through.
⥢⥤
Crowley had both hands curled around the edge of the counter, regarding himself intently in the mirror.
“You will not make this weird,” he whispered. “You will not put your fantastical ideas about this angel onto him, that would not be fair. You can do this.”
He splashed his face with cold water, rinsing the toothpaste off of the corner of his mouth, fussing with his hair before just running a hand through it. He’s going to see your bedhead anyway.
The thought came unwelcome, the casual intimacy of the situation making his stomach clench. Someone to see your ugly side, your unpolished edges, your morning breath and late-night tears and messy, human imperfections. He shook his head, one more scathing glance in the mirror for good measure, before opening the door to the bedroom and immediately standing stock still. There stood Aziraphale, trunk open at his feet. Bare feet leading up to light blue-and-white striped pyjama bottoms, framing a luscious arse below two adorable, symmetrical dimples. His back bare, the staircase of his spine framed by defined muscles, wrapped in a layer of soft skin. Crowley marveled at the work of art before him, recalling anatomy classes. There, the obliques, above ample hips, below latissimus dorsi, defined and strong and soft. Steel wrapped in velvet. Vertebrae, the backbone of the angel before him, built unyielding. Aziraphale bent over to rummage in his trunk and Crowley choked, averting his gaze. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Aziraphale drew the shirt up and over his head, the glory of pale skin turning to soft flannel. Aziraphale spun to face Crowley, hands working on the buttons at the front of his shirt with ease. Crowley, pretending to fuss with his phone charger, felt his ears burn. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He straightened from plugging his phone in, turning to find Aziraphale smoothing his hands over the front of his pyjamas. There was another problem.
“I, uh, I didn’t bring any nightclothes,” Crowley blurted. Aziraphale’s head jolted up to meet his gaze, and Crowley shuffled his feet sheepishly.
“That’s perfectly alright, dear boy,” Aziraphale responded after a moment of silence. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”
And, fuck, that was true, Crowley realized. Well. Nothing for it.
He moved his hands to his sweater, tugging it off in one smooth motion before dropping it onto the floor. He moved to the drawstrings of his joggers, swiftly untying the knot and pushing the waistband past his hips, over his thighs, taking his socks off as he went. He clambered into the bed, hissing under his breath as the cool sheets touched his skin. He braved a glance up at Aziraphale, who was looking resolutely away. He was flushed, and Crowley ached to know how far that flush would go. To unbutton those buttons with the same care taken to do them up, to follow the path of blood with his lips and tongue - stop it.
Aziraphale himself had a book in hand, laying it down on the nightstand and flicking on the small bedside light, before flicking the switch on the wall. He was somehow even more gorgeous in soft amber lamplight, Crowley realised with dismay, muted colors blurring the blond at the edges, hair almost a halo.
“I typically read before going to bed, is that alright?” Aziraphale said, moving to seat himself neatly on the bed and swinging his legs up so he was sitting up against the headboard.
“Uh, yeah, sure, deep sleeper, me,” Crowley managed, watching as Aziraphale produced small, round little reading glasses from God-knows-where and settled them neatly onto the bridge of his nose. He picked up his book, thumbing it open.
“That’s good, then. Goodnight, dear boy.”
“G’night.” Crowley managed, turning his back to the other man and settling in, trying to keep his limbs from sprawling as they usually did when he slept. This was going to be a glorious, terrible week.
⥢⥤
Diary of A. Fell
28.12.2025
Dear Diary,
Today I arrived at my lodgings in Rovaniemi. It had been an exhausting couple hours of travel, with a fair number of delays, misunderstandings and mishaps. All this to say that I was quite exhausted when I arrived, perfectly ready to drag myself into bed for a couple of hours, when the door opened right as I was about to by the most gorgeous creature I have had the pleasure of laying my eyes on in quite a while. He stood there, in naught but his pants, water bottle in hand (to defend himself, I gather, it was quite the sight). It turns out we have been double booked! Technology is so fickle these days. I knew I was correct to be wary of these ‘online booking’ things, but I digress.
Waterbottle-related threats aside, we settled in quite nicely together. He really is a lovely man, quite kind and down-to-earth. After the initial surprise, he helped me with my luggage (although, really, I was worried I would need to rescue him! He is whip-thin, I envisioned my trunk pulling him through the floor) and made me breakfast afterwards. We had quite a lovely time today, we took a stroll through the woods and I showed him the lake. He was quite startled, I think, with the sound the ice makes being quite similar to that of cracking ice, as he clung to me quite tightly. Not that I minded, not at all. He ended up quite chilly, so we bundled on home. We have to share a bed, obviously, considering the cottage is a single bedroom, but we’ve managed. He is asleep, his breaths whistling out of his nose. I almost wish I had my sketchbook here, to trace the curve of his shoulder, the shape of his hair as it curls near his nape.
I’m getting off track. I need to clear my head. Maybe plan out tomorrow. I would love to make another painting, Crowley seemed to like it last time. Maybe I could make one of him
The hours of travel must be getting to my head. Goodnight, dear diary. Tomorrow I will awaken with a clearer head.