The cruelty of the thing is that this was almost everything that Aziraphale had ever imagined for the two of them in these short years since he had told Crowley he wasn't planning to leave, the years he has been allowed to dream. Dream he does, of reading in the bookshop and a swishy-hipped demon sllithering around him to announce his presence and ask him profound questions like what are you reading and how was your day. And sometimes he dares, in a bus or a museum, to dream of taking Crowley's hand somewhere where others are present; one time, he had popped into the house for a moment and when he and nanny had both reached for one of Warlock's toys, their hands had touched briefly. That had stayed with him until nightfall, when she had stolen away to him and stoked all the flame in his chest.

Here he is now, flowers placed on the side table and gentle hand reaching to smooth down sleep-roughed hair. "Dear," he says, purposely sprinkling a little teasing of Francis in his voice. "Are you still sleepy?" He does, in fact, lift the rest of the blankets with the purpose of getting back into bed and having a lie-in, but then his face flushes a color that could rival some of the other shades of roses outside. No matter how many times he's seen Crowley's body and no matter how intimately acquainted he gets with it, this is always a pleasant surprise.

Aziraphale climbs, clamorous and inelegantly, back into bed where the first order of business is to take Crowley's cheeks in his hands and claim him with a kiss.