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Crowley and Aziraphale are nestled together in bed—the narrow one upstairs in the bookshop. It's housed in a room that might generously be called a bedroom, as it does, technically, contain said titular furniture. For more than two centuries, the “bedroom” has mainly served to accommodate overstock from the shop downstairs, with the bed seeing little use as a sleeping surface until quite recently.
Over the last several weeks, there has been a marked… uptick in bed-related activities—sometimes involving sleep, most often decidedly more vigorous in nature (as the dents in the wall behind the wooden headboard can attest). Though the bed's slim footprint is not ideal for two people to share, it’s just enough room to fit a pair of people-shaped supernatural entities who no longer have an interest in maintaining a carefully calculated distance between their bodies.
It is, bar none, the absolute best bed in which Crowley has ever found himself—the California king mattress and sleek, 500-thread-count sheets in his old flat be damned. Their bed, now. What a thought.
The main (read: the entire) reason for Crowley's attachment to the furnishings is currently wrapped in his arms, Aziraphale’s back tucked against his chest. Crowley’s body feels pleasantly heavy with the remnants of sleep, his eyes bleary. Over Aziraphale’s shoulder, he can just make out the flurry of snow sticking to the window pane, the morning sunlight streaming through the glass making the snowflakes sparkle.
How magical, Aziraphale would probably say. Yes, I for one love freezing my bollocks off, Crowley would likely reply. He’d then kiss Aziraphale tenderly on the forehead (they do that now) and saunter off to put the kettle on.
The winter chill can't touch them here in their cocoon of blankets and warm, entangled limbs. Crowley tightens his embrace around his angel and—
Something’s off. Aziraphale feels different in Crowley's arms. Smaller, for one thing. Significantly smaller.
Crowley’s eyes are still stubbornly tacky and reluctant to open completely—he and Aziraphale had an awful lot to drink the previous evening and hadn't bothered to sober up before stumbling off to bed. He noses experimentally at the white-blond hair where it curls at the nape of Aziraphale's neck. The texture of the hair is off, too. So is the feel of Aziraphale's skin.
Crowley's sluggish brain finally processes: it's a doll. The angel must have risen early—Aziraphale is probably puttering around the bookshop's small kitchen, brewing his morning tea or buttering a slice of toast. Perhaps he's still wearing his woollen nightshirt, the hem flapping about his bare calves as he bends… and that mental image most definitely fully rouses all eight of Crowley’s senses from their lingering slumber. (Fine, maybe arouses is the better word choice).
His careening train of thought (Does Aziraphale own a nightcap? If he doesn't, surely he wouldn't be opposed to acquiring one…) temporarily distracts Crowley from the fact that, for some unfathomable reason, Aziraphale opted to tuck a doll or a stuffed toy of some kind into Crowley's sleeping arms before starting his day. A sweet gesture, though a bit bizarre and infantilizing…
Then the doll rolls over.
“Good morning, darling,” says the doll… stuffed toy… thing in Aziraphale's voice.
Crowley doesn't have the mental acuity to bask in the relative novelty of the word darling aimed at him in Aziraphale's fondest tone. Instead, he directs his faculties towards the most logical course of action: gripping the thing in front of him by the collar and hurling it across the room with an undignified yelp.
The thing emits a muffled thud when it hits the far wall; it appears to be too soft to have had any kind of bone-crunching impact. The small creature slides down the wall to the floor, knocking over a stack of books on the way. It starts hoisting itself up to standing, smoothing the fabric of its nightshirt (an exact, scaled-down replica of the very nightshirt Aziraphale had worn to bed).
“Crowley, what on Earth do you think you're—”
The thing doesn't get the opportunity to finish its sentence. Crowley’s fight or flight instinct has been activated, and flight wins out. He quickly formulates and executes a daring escape plan.
Stage One: Crowley flings the blanket he'd been clutching to his chin aside and scrambles out of the bed.
Stage Two: He bounds out of the room and down the spiral staircase, taking the steps three at a time while shouting, “Angel!” accompanied by various expletives.
Stage Three: He barrels across the shop's main floor, out the door and into the street.
Unplanned Stage Four: His bare feet promptly slip on the icy pavement. Crowley's gangly legs fly out from under him; he's almost suspended in mid-air before landing heavily flat on his back, his head and shoulders rebounding off the concrete.
A vicious wind nips at Crowley's skin through the thin fabric of his black silk pyjamas (he takes a moment to be thankful that Past Crowley hadn't decided to sleep naked). As Crowley props himself up on his elbows with a pained groan, he notes that nobody else on the street is bothered by the cold. Partially, it's because everyone else was wise enough to bundle themselves in coats and hats and mitts instead of sleepwear.
But mostly it's because they don't have human skin to get frostbitten. Every single individual strolling outside on this crisp midwinter day in Soho is a bloody… fabric person.
“Person” is a term loosely applied. There are all sorts of strange beings out and about. They come in every shade of the rainbow, some more human-like, others closer to animals. A handful who pass by the shop are the same height as Crowley. At least one is even taller, with monstrous teeth and a long, shaggy purple mane. Most are the height of a child, the same as the thing inside possessed with Aziraphale's voice.
Muppets, Crowley's addled brain helpfully supplies. Like from the telly.
Crowley staggers to his feet, thinking very, very hard about whether he might be able to give himself a rejuvenating head injury if he ploughs headfirst into the bookshop's outer wall like a battering ram. There is a light touch at his elbow—a hand with four plump fingers, Aziraphale's signet ring on the pinky.
“My dear boy, I don't know what's gotten into you but I must insist you come back inside at once before you catch your death,” comes Aziraphale's voice next to Crowley’s hip. The voice embodies the anxious yet strident tone that is so quintessentially Aziraphale in a State… and yet it's coming from a wide, toothless mouth made of felt.
The thing has thrown a sized-down version of Aziraphale's tartan dressing gown over its nightshirt. The velvet slippers on its feet would suit an overly serious primary schooler, the type who addresses his parents with “Sir” and “Madame” and has a list of favourite Prime Ministers instead of dinosaurs.
Crowley feels like he's lifted his own head off his neck, dumped out all its contents, and screwed it back on upside down.
He is begrudgingly forced to admit that height and lack of teeth aside, the thing, the Muppet Aziraphale, does bear a striking resemblance to the real Aziraphale in a number of ways. The tufts of candy floss hair, the sense of style, the stance with hands fisted at the hips conveying an aura of disapproval. It—he, Crowley supposes—has even acquired a pair of tiny spectacles; they’re seemingly intended to emphasise Muppet Aziraphale’s unamused expression as he regards Crowley over the wire rims perched on the end of his nose (said nose is far more… squishy-looking than the regular one).
“Oh, alright,” Crowley grumbles, allowing himself to be led back into the shop. If he's going to figure out what's happened to the real Aziraphale—his Aziraphale—a petite fabric-covered facsimile is probably as good a place to start as any.
Crowley settles on the leather sofa in the rear of the bookshop while Muppet Aziraphale fusses over him, draping a paisley afghan across his trembling shoulders. “I made you a matcha latte for breakfast earlier. Luckily, it's still hot. I know how much you enjoy a cup despite its… powdery origins,” Muppet Aziraphale says with a haughty sniff, his brow creasing in three parallel lines.
Steam curls off the foamy green beverage shoved under Crowley’s nose—he takes the tea cup gratefully, if for nothing else than to warm his freezing hands and have something to occupy them so they don’t flail about in distress.
Muppet Aziraphale sits on the edge of the winged armchair opposite the sofa, his small feet dangling. He folds his four-fingered hands primly in his lap and tilts his head expectantly. “Now then, my dear, would you care to explain why you so unceremoniously chucked me across the bedroom first thing this morning?”
“Dunno, could be because I found it a tad… startling to have the love of my immortal life go missing and replaced with some— some Muppet creature,” says Crowley tersely. He rests his cup on his knee—a bad idea considering how much it’s bouncing. Some of his tea splashes out and lands on the rug.
The creases in Muppet Aziraphale’s forehead deepen. The star-shaped pupils of his plastic eyes look like they’re torn between dealing with the sullied rug and the more pressing matter at hand. “What is a… a Muppet?” He says it as if the word has an unpleasant texture on his tongue.
It's somewhat mollifying to know this version inherited the real Aziraphale's lack of contemporary pop culture knowledge and pedantry about tea.
“They're—you’re—like puppets, of a sort,” Crowley explains. “The ones from the telly who sing and tell jokes.”
Muppet Aziraphale squints at him (an impressive accomplishment without eyelids), his mouth twitching in a knowing little tilde. “I would say I haven't had someone else's hand anywhere near my bottom, however, we both know that's not true.”
The remainder of Crowley’s tea hits the rug, both from his cup clattering to the floor and the spray from his mouth.
With a weary, put-upon sigh, Muppet Aziraphale snaps his fingers (perhaps it would be more accurate to say he rubs them together) and dissipates the empty tea cup and the spilt tea into the ether. That is to say, Muppet Aziraphale performs a miracle.
Crowley skitters backwards and up so he's perched on the back of the sofa in a crouching position with his shoulders hunched like an overgrown vulture.
“Y-y-you're… you’re—” Crowley stammers, “You’re him, you're… angel, is it really you in there?”
This is worse. So, so much worse. He’d just about convinced himself that his Aziraphale was off somewhere else, waiting to be rescued. Crowley hadn't let himself consider the possibility…
Muppet Aziraphale (or… or it's just Aziraphale, isn't it?) hops down from the chair and approaches Crowley slowly, arms raised. “Crowley, darling, I'm not sure what's happened to you but I'm sure we can figure it out together—”
“What's happened to me?” Crowley snarls, panicky. He lifts an arm from where he's been hugging his knees tightly to his chest and waves it at Aziraphale's… everything. “You— You're the one who… You're only waist high, for starters!”
“That's never been a problem for you before,” Aziraphale replies, as blithe as anything. One of his felted eyebrows shoots up his forehead. Literally. The eyebrow appears to operate independently of the rest of Aziraphale's skin… fabric… fabric-skin… whatever. It waggles suggestively from its cosy position ensconced in Aziraphale's hair.
“Would you cut it out with the blasted— For the love of— You're a Muppet, Aziraphale. A wee cartoonish puppet man to entertain children!” (Crowley does not add “and adult-sized demons who watch The Muppet Christmas Carol every December.”)
Aziraphale frowns—it's ludicrous, the stretched arc of his mouth taking over his entire face. “I’m well aware of what I look like. I am who I have always been, Crowley.” He pinches the bridge of his nose between two of his stubby fingers—the nose comes off his face easily. Aziraphale makes some kind of adjustment to it before returning it to its place. “Besides, you're hardly in a position to criticise. You're rather—”
“Rather what?”
“What was the word you used? Cartoonish. You're quite cartoonish yourself, you know. Animated, when you speak. Or do anything, really.”
“Animated?” says Crowley, offended, his features contorting animatedly. His mouth slides to the side and his eyebrows spring in different directions.
Aziraphale’s star pupils loop a full 360 degrees as he dramatically rolls his eyes. “Precisely.”
Gritting his teeth, Crowley inhales sharply through flared nostrils. “Went to bed yesterday, everything was normal. Woke up today, and the world's gone mad. Everyone—including you—are… are pod people taken over by Muppets. Maybe I'm still drunk, still asleep…” He pinches himself on the arm. Nothing. Slaps a hand across his face. Nothing.
Aziraphale scurries over, taking Crowley's hand between his before Crowley can do something more drastic. He tugs gently until Crowley drops back down the sofa to sit beside him.
Aziraphale’s small body feels soft pressed next to Crowley’s—but not the good kind, not the distinctly Aziraphale kind of plush softness. The softness Crowley loves, the softness he’s had the good fortune, the privilege, to get more intimately acquainted with over the last little while. They'd finally made it, they are together together, and now…
Crowley can feel hot tears stinging the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill in streaks down his face.
“Oh, oh love…” Aziraphale kisses him on the cheek. He doesn't have lips to speak of, it's just a dry brush of fleece.
That does it—Crowley feels the gathered tears begin to flow in earnest. He can't help but let out a noise that is some ghastly combination of a sob, a breathless wheeze, and a hysterical snort-laugh.
Crowley's body tips to the side, guided by surprisingly steady hands given they lack opposable thumbs. His head lands in a lap that has a pillowy give but is far too slight to be his Aziraphale's thighs. A few more mortifying tears slide off the slope of Crowley’s nose, leaving wet spots on the tartan fabric of Aziraphale's dressing gown.
“Maybe s’an angry djinn, you— he’s— you’re always bringing bits and bobs into the shop, one of ‘em was probably cursed. Just got him… you… can't spend the rest of eternity with a Muppet man…” Crowley mutters into Aziraphale's lap between wet hiccups.
“There now, have a rest, dearest,” Aziraphale says in a hushed tone, like waves calmly lapping against the shore. He combs back a sweaty lock of hair off Crowley's brow. “You've gone and woken up on the wrong side of the bed this morning and you just need to recalibrate.”
The gesture is so like his angel, so oddly comforting, that Crowley lets himself be temporarily soothed by it. His eyelashes flutter against his cheeks (still stupidly, embarrassingly damp), the lids drifting closed.
Crowley's not sure how long he's slept. The sun slanting through the front windows is casting long shadows on the bookshop floor when he blinks his eyes open. There's a hand in his hair, the pad of a thumb sweeping in slow circles over the crown. Crowley’s entire body goes rigid—with anticipation, with hopefulness—and he squeezes his eyes shut again. Please, please, please, please, please…
The lap under his cheek shifts slightly. Oh, it feels… bulkier, normal, it’s—
“There you are,” a familiar lilting voice drifts out from Aziraphale's superbly wonderful human lips, a lightly bitten, rosy pink.
“There you are,” Crowley mumbles, shoving his face into Aziraphale's abdomen and clinging to his waist. “Never going to sleep liquored up ever, ever again. Horrible nightmare…”
Aziraphale strokes Crowley's head and chuckles, low and deep, his chest and belly rumbling. Crowley can feel the vibrations sinking into his skin, thrumming in his veins. He tightens his grip on Aziraphale's middle.
“It didn't sound so very horrible,” Aziraphale murmurs. Crowley peers up at him; the corners of Aziraphale's eyes are crinkling with affection, one side of his mouth sneaking into a curve. “You were talking in your sleep off and on, something about how much you adore my plush softness. I must admit, it was rather lovely to hear. Incredibly flattering.”
One of Crowley’s hands drops towards the floor, skimming the top of a slippered foot. And he remembers.
A flash of ankle as he slithers up the wall in Eden. A pair of fine legs clad in hose and breeches at the Globe. A glimpse of an elbow at a tavern in Rome, an arm tight around his waist in an Edinburgh cemetery. The back of a neck as Crowley slips onto a bus seat. A shoulder next to his on a bench with a precise sliver of space between them. Fingers, always with meticulously maintained nails, twisting with worry or gesturing excitedly. A face, that face, appearing from beneath a visor through the mists of Old Wessex or the burning embers of a bombed-out church or smiling at Crowley from the neighbouring pillow.
Crowley flips to his back so he can study Aziraphale's beloved face properly—his upturned nose, the creases etched around his eyes and mouth, the changeable blue-green-grey of his irises. Crowley never thought he’d be so exceedingly grateful to see irises. He doesn't even want to blink, holding his breath in his chest just in case this isn't real.
Aziraphale—a face like a beacon, who has stood by Crowley’s side through centuries passing, civilizations rising and falling, through millions of humans arriving screaming into the world and turning to dust. Crowley’s constant, his ever-fixed mark. There's never been anyone else, anyone better, and there never will be.
“What, were you just sitting here staring at me all night?” Crowley finally asks on a shaky exhale with feigned nonchalance. The quivering bob of his Adam's apple betrays him.
Crowley is expecting a pithy quip in return but it never comes. Instead, Aziraphale leans down and brushes the tip of that perfect nose on the dimpled centre of Crowley’s chin. He kisses along the line of Crowley’s jaw, up to the shell of his ear, and whispers, “I would be ever so lucky to stare at you all night, every night, for a thousand nights and more.”
Thankfully, there's nothing much for Crowley to do in response other than accept the gentle press of Aziraphale's lips to his.
After two or three delightful minutes of kissing (at least), Aziraphale continues, “Spending the night trapped under a lump of a demon did give me time to contemplate our future.”
Crowley shoots up to an approximation of a sitting position, the afghan falling to the floor in a heap. “Future?”
“Yes, it's getting a touch cramped in the bookshop, don't you think? I've been considering… Perhaps we could get away from London, somewhere with a garden for your plants—”
The bell above the bookshop's door chimes.
Aziraphale grouses, “Oh bother, in our inebriated state I must have forgotten to lock the doors yesterday. I'll be just a tick…”
Crowley peeks around a bookcase to watch Aziraphale stride off to greet the new arrival—he greatly enjoys watching his (his, his, his) angel shoo pesky customers away.
But Aziraphale isn’t shooing anyone away. Not yet, anyway. He is stooping to greet a gentleman in a top hat and polka-dot tie. A gentleman covered in blue fur with a bulbous, lime-green nose. He and Aziraphale are conversing using a series of beeps and squeaks as if it’s nothing out of the ordinary.
Crowley flops back on the sofa and huffs out a resigned breath. “Good enough.”