The first time it rains, they are standing just this side of Eden. Side by side, looking out at the desert. Looking out at Adam and Eve and their newfound freedom. Looking at the lion, at the gleaming, flaming sword. Bearing witness to humanity’s first kill.
The first time it rains, there is a bright white wing stretched over Crowley’s head, and there is Aziraphale, getting more soaked by the second, the rivulets dancing patterns down his skin.
In the morning, it rains.
It’s the kind of rain that seems like it’s always been there, like it’s never going to end. The kind that you wake up to, a delicate shimmer against your window. It’s raining, and Crowley is drifting in and out of sleep. Everything is so warm. He could stay here forever, he thinks. Let Armageddon try again and maybe even succeed, and he’d stay right here. Sleep through it all.
Every so often, a rustling comes through the rain. Like the brush of wings, like pages turning.
Crowley can sleep for a long time, but perhaps not forever, he amends. Not when there’s an angel in his bed.
“Mm…” Crowley opens his eyes, drinks up the sight before him. Aziraphale, soft and shirtless and golden-warm, nose buried in a book. In the cool grey morning light, he seems to glow.
Aziraphale looks at Crowley. Probably looking away from his book for the first time since Crowley fell asleep eight or ten hours ago. He’s got his little reading glasses on, and the softest smile. “Good morning, love.”
Crowley stretches. Wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s waist. “It is.” He shifts and wriggles until he’s got his head in Aziraphale’s lap, and oh, he’s still bare there, too. “No pants,” he says. “Not very angelic.”
“Flannel pyjamas aren’t very demonic,” Aziraphale replies.
“Stole them from you,” Crowley says. “That’s greed, right there. Plenty demonic.” (He neglects to mention that he borrowed the pyjama shirt because he was cold and it smelled like Aziraphale.)
“Mhm,” Aziraphale says, and goes back to his book. “Of course.”
(But, he’s pretty sure Aziraphale already knows.)
Outside, the rain’s pouring down. Aziraphale is half-reading and Crowley is half-asleep and after a while one of Aziraphale’s hands comes down and starts playing with Crowley’s hair. Combing through it, ever gentle. Wrapping the strands around his little finger. They match the rest of Crowley, that way.
“Was gonna go feed the ducks today,” Crowley says offhandedly after a while.
“We still could.” Aziraphale looks at him over the top of his book. His hand is still tangled up in Crowley’s hair.
“Yeah, but it’s raining.” Crowley rolls over. Crawls between Aziraphale’s legs, rests his chin on Aziraphale’s belly. Presses a kiss to the peach-fuzzy skin just above Aziraphale’s navel. “We’d get all wet.” Another kiss, soft and open-mouthed. Just a bit of tongue.
Aziraphale hums, pretending to consider.
“Guess we’ll just have to stay in bed all day.”
“I suppose so, yes.” Aziraphale smiles, and his eyes are warm as anything. “Seeing as we’ve no alternative.” He closes his book, sets it on the nightstand. “I do hope the ducks will forgive us.”
“The ducks will be fine.” Crowley slithers down Aziraphale’s body, leaving a trail of kisses in his wake. He stops when he gets halfway down Aziraphale’s thigh. “Angel…”
“Can I have you?”
They’d made love the night before, all earthly and bendy and absolutely saturated with love. Crowley’s bones are still singing with it. And yet, he’s still hungry. Still wants more. Still doesn’t think he could ever get enough of this.
Aziraphale licks his lips, almost imperceptibly. Nods. His fingers stay twisted in Crowley’s hair.
And Crowley — Crowley goes to him like a monarch to nectar.
Outside, it pours.