goodtobebad | open post;

[ It is, in fact, all of those things. The only thing that defies the rest of the aesthetic, at least at first glance, is his plant room, which is lush and green. And terrified of him. ]

Ah, sure, if you want. You want a drink, or a bite to eat?

Oh, yes, that would be lovely.

[ He does a little snap and he's suddenly in a very Victorian-era dressing gown, complete with the little nightcap. ]

Are those your pajamas, Crowley?

Wha - no.

[ He blinks, and suddenly he's no longer wearing his tight black leather trousers, black vest, black shirt - he's in black silk pajamas, and his feet are bare (if still looking a bit like snakeskin, what with the black scales). ]

Uh. Right. Wine.

[ He can do wine. Why couldn't the angel choose pajamas from at least the twentieth century? And why does he have to look so adorable in that little night cap? These are the mysteries of the universe.

He hands Aziraphale a glass of wine. ]

C'mon, the bed is through here -

[ And he leads the way! The bedroom is about as austere and cold as the rest of the flat, except for the bed, which is very large and incredibly comfortable. It's probably one of those absurdly expensive memory foam things, and the sheets are equally expensive Egyptian cotton with an absurdly high thread count. ]

[ Aziraphale, who surely knows that Crowley's feet are snakeskin regardless, still thinks maybe he ought to get some house slippers. Aziraphale has some so that he doesn't have to walk around on the concrete.

Still, it's his decision. And it's his bed. Which is lovely and large and very sumptuous-looking. ]

How nice.

Do you dream, often? I wonder if I will. I've always thought it'd be nice to dream.

[ He takes a sip of the wine, relaxing, placing the glass on a nightstand. ]

Perhaps if I like this, I'll get one for the shop.

[ Crowley downs his entire glass in one go. Then surreptitiously miracles it full again, so that he can down it again. ]

Dreams? Ah, sometimes, yeah. They're weird, mostly.

[ He practically slithers under the covers, snapping the lights dim and lying flat on his back to stare at the ceiling. ]

Not much to it, really. Just. Get comfy, and close your eyes.

Oh, all right.

[ Aziraphale finishes his wine and then slips under the covers, also looking up at the ceiling, closing his eyes. ]

How do I know if I'm doing it correctly?

Uh. Ngh.

[ Crowley is not comfortable. This is not how he usually sleeps, flat on his back. He usually twists himself into all kinds of weird shapes, rolling around in the sheets, sometimes partially (or entirely) transforming into a snake.

He can't do any of that with Aziraphale here. What if he touches the angel? What if he does something to embarrass himself? ]

Uh, well, are you comfortable? Er, humans sleep in lots of different positions I think. You might need to try a few. On your side, or on your stomach, or - I dunno. Whatever.

Hmm? Oh.

[ He flips onto his side, and then onto his stomach, and finds that none of it is as comfortable as when he's on his back. ]

I do recall there's supposed to be some sort of lullaby portion, or a storytelling part.

You used to sing to Warlock.

That's only for kids, I think.

[ His ears go red. ]

You don't want me to sing to you.

Oh. All right.

Yes, of course, that's too childish.

[ He shifts in bed, and closes his eyes, and then seems frustrated that he hasn't fallen asleep yet. ]

What if I sing?

[ Crowley breathes out a sigh, and turns to face the angel. ]

"That certain night, the night we met,
there was magic abroad in the air.
There were angels dining at the Ritz,
and a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square."

[ Well. He's not a terrible singer. ]

[ Oh, that's so sweet. It does relax him, and he puts a smile on his face as he listens to Crowley sing.

But.

Even after a few minutes, he's not asleep. ]

Crowley, are you awake?

[ He whispers this loudly. ]

[ Crowley sighs. ]

It can take more than a few minutes, angel. Just lie back, relax, and try to clear your head.

Okay.

[ He tries again, breathing in and out. ]

The more I try to clear my head, the more I'm thinking about! Is that normal?

[ Crowley groans. This might be worse torture than anything he experienced in Hell. ]

Try, I dunno. Reciting a story to yourself in your head. Or - count sheep! Humans are always going on about counting sheep to fall asleep.

Well, all right.

[ He counts up all the sheep that he can remember, but then gets stuck on one instance. ]

Do you remember how many there were that Job had, or were those only goats?

[ Yes, he misunderstood the directive and is recounting all the individual sheep they have ever known for six thousand years. ]

What? I don't -

[ Crowley groans. ]

I don't think you're supposed to be counting actual sheep, angel. It -

[ He scrubs a hand over his face. ]

Why don't you just miracle yourself a book from your shop, and sit and read it for a while?

Then I wouldn't fall asleep, Crowley, I'd just be up all night reading.

I'm dreadfully sorry. I'll be quiet. Then you can sleep, at least.

[ He dramatically crosses his arms over his chest, and tries to get some shut-eye. ]

Fine.

[ This was Aziraphale's idea, but now almost out of spite, Crowley is determined to show him how it's done, or something.

He falls asleep pretty easily, once Aziraphale stays quiet for more than a few minutes - he knows how to do it, and it's simple enough for him by now. Of course, once asleep, his body relaxes, no longer conscious enough to be concerned about what position he's in, or how much space he's taking up. Never having shared a bed with another being, he's used to spreading out, and perhaps some serpentine bit of his nature is drawn towards Aziraphale's warmth, because it doesn't take long for Crowley's face to wind up pressed into the angel's side as he snoozes. ]

[ Honestly, the warmth of Crowley snaking up to Aziraphale helps, and it puts him in a relaxing mood, letting him rest as he breathes in Crowley's scent, sweetly smiling as he drifts off into dream.

And he dreams of such a lovely thing, of him and Crowley, having a picnic, Crowley tucked up against his form, as Aziraphale eats a sandwich and they sit back to listen to the birds and buzz of bees fly past.

Overall, it's a lovely first sleep. ]

[ As Crowley sleeps, he progressively winds himself around Aziraphale more closely. The bed is comfortable, but somehow, Aziraphale is more comfortable still, and when he eventually wakes, probably several hours later, it takes him a moment to even realize what's happened. Their legs are tangled. He has an arm slung around the angel's middle. His face is pressed to Aziraphale's shoulder.

Well, that's - awkward. Aziraphale didn't ask to be wrapped up in a demon while he slept. A demon who is relaxed enough to be a bit scaly, even.

Carefully, Crowley attempts to extricate himself from the angel, trying not to disturb or wake him. ]

[ Aziraphale stirs, and then wakes up, wrapping his arms around Crowley gently as he whispers: ]

Don't fuss. I was having the loveliest dream.

[ And then, half-asleep, nuzzles into the demon's neck. ]

How do I go back?

[ Crowley freezes, shocked into some kind of paralysis when the angel's arms go around him. Now they're both thoroughly wrapped up in each other, and he - he doesn't know what to do with this. It's all he's ever wanted, but does Aziraphale even realize - ? ]

S - sssorry. Don't, uh. Don't think you can go back to the ssssame dream.

[ He hisses that quietly into Aziraphale's hair. ]

Mm, shame.

[ But he's snoozing away anyway, holding onto Crowley tightly, nuzzling into his hair which is so soft and smells both lovely and infernal. Like a smoldering ember.

It's very comfortable, and he finds himself easily breathing slowly again, drifting in and out of silly short bouts of sleep as he tries and fails to wake up. ]

Are we still in bed? I think I dreamed away the day...

[ After a certain point, Crowley finds himself fully awake, while Aziraphale dozes. He can't help it; being like this, holding him like this, seeing him so relaxed, so willing to be vulnerable with him, it feels... precious. Something that could easily be taken away from him. Crowley feels the need to commit it to memory - the sight, sound, smell and feel of Aziraphale in his arms. Because it'll probably never happen again.

So he hasn't been sleeping for a while by the time Aziraphale asks that question. ]

Mm. Maybe. Does it matter? If the - if the dreams were nice.

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