Favourite Demon (The Entire Bloody Boring Fourteenth Century Part I)

1311 CE, Kentish Countryside

Summary:

Demon. Angel. Wings. Bridal carry.

Notes:

For plot reasons, we're going with book!wings, i.e. there's no visual difference between angel and demon wings. Crowley's are as white as Aziraphale's.

By the time he was sleepy, Crowley was fairly satisfied with the way the evening was going. Aziraphale was flushed with alcohol and beaming like a small sun, and there was the level of fondness Crowley considered himself entitled to returning to his expression. Gabriel hadn't been mentioned for at least two hours, and neither had restraint, virtue or anything else inconvenient.

Crowley snuggled up on the mattress, considering whether to change form, as it wasn't particularly comfortable for a human. The optimistic part of his brain that wanted to remain in temptation mode decided a bipedal body would be more alluring than a great big snake.

"Night, angel."

"Goodnight, my dear," Aziraphale said peacefully, pulling a gigantic tome out of nowhere. He certainly hadn't been carrying it.

Crowley carefully failed to pull his skins up over himself, in the hope that Aziraphale would notice and be overcome with the tender urge to come over and cover him up properly. It was a technique that had often served him well with humans. Something about his skinny hips seemed to provoke protectiveness that was readily turned to baser instincts. Perhaps he'd even get his hair caressed out of it.

When enough time had passed, Crowley realised how cold he was, and reluctantly pulled the skins up himself, pretending to do so while turning over in his sleep. He was almost sure he heard Aziraphale chuckle. Heartless bastard of an angel.

He sulked himself off to sleep.

When he woke, he could sense a source of warmth near him, and puzzled it out for a moment. The warmth of a human form, blood and flesh, and with it the indefinable warmth of Aziraphale's grace, nothing like the cold burning of other angels he had run across in his time on Earth. He cracked his eyes open, carefully.

Aziraphale was sitting on the carpet next to Crowley's bed instead of on his own mattress, leaning against the bed as he read, head leaning on one arm laid along the mattress. His other hand held the book propped up on his bent knees.

Crowley watched the edges of the angel's hair lit up by the candlelight. Like a halo, humans might say, but it was nothing like a halo. Nothing blazing about it, nothing to hurt or injure. Just faint silvery golden light.

He rolled gently, muttering as if in his sleep, and hooked a hand over the arm on the bed. The wool of the sleeve was too rough. What was his pleasure-loving Aziraphale doing with such coarse fabric against his delicate skin? It made Crowley ache with a kind of protective anger, although he wasn't sure who he was angry with. Gabriel, probably. Anger against Gabriel was never wasted. Under the wool, though, was soft yielding flesh and more warmth. Crowley snuggled his face against it, ignoring the unpleasant fabric.

Azirphale exhaled a long slow breath, but made no move to escape his grip. Crowley went contentedly back to sleep.

When he woke again, after dawn, Aziraphale was on his own mattress, and talking cheerfully about breakfast and, unfortunately, horses. Crowley resolved to ignore the ache in his thighs and buttocks. It was worth it, he supposed, to share a horse for a week or so. Actually, it might be for a month or more, considering how slow Aziraphale's horse was. All the better.

By mid-afternoon, he had changed his mind.

"Annnnnngel, it's cold."

"Magic up a thicker cloak, then."