Where the Mountains Meet the Heavens

9. No More Reasons (London, 2019 CE)

Aziraphale set down his cup.

"You said we could cuddle," Crowley said hopefully. Aziraphale hadn't said that, but he hadn't objected, not really, and Crowley wouldn't have been much of a tempter if he didn't know how to run with that.

And because he was experienced in temptations, he could recognise the sudden fear and mental pulling away. "Forget it," he sighed. "Just — stay close when I rest?"

"I won't forget it," Aziraphale said, chin lifting with sudden determination. "I want to hold you while you sleep. Maybe, just once in the existence of this blessed planet, I can do what I want."

Crowley blinked in astonishment. Aziraphale had always done what he wanted starting with oh, I want to make myself feel better by giving these humans a celestial sword to oh, I wouldn't mind chatting with this demon, all the way down to oh, I was hoping to go out for dinner and the table is booked, I will make sure the people booking it suddenly have other plans. The thought of Aziraphale martyring himself to what he should do was a startling one. These last few days had been difficult because, just for once, Aziraphale had been trying to do what he should do and hadn't been very good at it.

But whatever he needed to let him—

—dear Satan. Aziraphale wanted to hold Crowley while he slept. Aziraphale hadn't fallen asleep in his arms since the first earthquake.

"All right," he said, his voice squeaking a bit. Terror sharp in it now. Crowley had never — he had never been cuddled to sleep. Angels didn't cuddle. Demons certainly didn't. Cuddling was too warm and tender for winning souls to Hell, too likely to bring about feelings of gentleness and good.

Aziraphale looked like he was built for cuddling, for arms wrapped around his soft middle, heads cradled against his chest or shoulders, arms designed for wrapping securely around. The memories of the few times that had happened made Crowley's throat thick and dry.

"You always looked like you were deliberately made to be perfect to hold," Aziraphale said and for a moment Crowley thought that Aziraphale was voicing his own thoughts, but Aziraphale was turning pink and marching on with a kind of heroic determination. "Those long arms and legs. Nice for wrapping around."

"Oh, Aziraphale," Crowley said, blood rushing from his head, champing down with practised ease on the words he wanted to say, of just how much he wanted to wrap his arms and legs around Aziraphale, and under which circumstances. "Are you trying to discorporate me?"

"Never," Aziraphale said sharply.

"It was a joke, angel."

"I don't always find your sense of humour easy to follow."

"I meant that given half a chance I will—" No, no, that wasn't right. Crowley wouldn't do a thing unless Aziraphale reached out to him first, would never risk hurting him or driving him away with too much love, too much wanting. And now he was risking losing what was offered, losing the chance to be innocently held and wrapped up in affection, just because he was a demon. "No, I wouldn't. Not ever."

"Crowley, it's not funny."

"I know, I'm sorry." He really was sorry. The perfect moment was slipping out of his coils.

"Don't joke about things like that." Aziraphale had his hands on his hips. It was infinitely worse than being scolded by Dagon when Crowley had been caught lying too outrageously on his reports, except at least Aziraphale was less likely to spew stinking seawater at him.

"Laughing as the merry-go-round escapes from its moorings and crashes into the assembled children, you know me."

"Crowley," Aziraphale said, throwing up his hands in exasperation. "Be serious."