thebibliosphere:

Despite being a demon, Crowley is cold blooded. Quite literally. His hands are always cold, especially in winter, a time of year he detests when he can feel each and every single one of his 6000 years in his aching human bones.

“You should have brought gloves,” the angel tells him, and it’s all Crowley can do not to mimic him out of sheer annoyance as they walk through St James’s park.

“Yes well I didn’t.”

“Put them in your pockets?”

“In these jeans?”

“Oh for heaven’s sake” the angel says, removing his left glove, and handing it to Crowley, “there, put that on.”

The demon arches an eyebrow at him. “One glove, really?”

“Just put it on.”

“Well at least I’ll only lose the one hand,” he grouses, slipping the glove on and flexing his fingers, thoroughly enjoying the warmth left over by Aziraphale’s hand. “But what about you, won’t your left hand be cold now?”

“No,” Aziraphale replies, taking Crowley’s right hand in his left, and slipping them into the warmth of his jacket pocket as they begin to climb the steps and head out onto the main street, the demon falling uncharacteristically silent as they walk close together side by side as the first snow of the season begins to fall. “Not really.”

It’s also why he likes to sleep so much. There’s just something in him that’s hard wired to find a nice cozy spot and curl up and sleep for a few hours centuries. After the end times fail to happen, Aziraphale’s shop becomes one of his favorite spots. After all, he’s got some time now, he can enjoy it now.

The couch in the back isn’t just the couch anymore, it’s Crowley’s couch, and it’s not uncommon for the angel to slip back there every so often and find the demon fast asleep, his long limbs splayed out in a gloriously decadent sprawl as he naps the day away. Other times he’ll be curled in on himself, limbs taught, breathing rapid. Those are the times Aziraphale finds it hard to leave. He doesn’t sleep himself, not really, not in the way Crowley does. But he knows the value of rest, and there’s something so incredibly restful about sitting there in the cloistered back room, a good book in hand, a cup of tea on the table beside him, and Crowley’s slumbering head in his lap.