Rarely did Aziraphale sleep. More rarely did he wake up in bed with an arm that was not his own draped around his midsection.

"Oh," he said quietly, looking over to find the arm attached to a body which happened to belong to Crowley.

Crowley was fast asleep, lying halfway on top of Aziraphale with his head on Aziraphale's chest. Silk sheets that Aziraphale was certain did not belong to him covered both angel and demon to the waist, leaving two pale torsos, one thin and one pudgy, to be drenched in the morning sunlight that streamed through the window of the bedroom that Aziraphale was sure he had never seen before. He lifted his head a fraction of an inch to peer through the open door and saw that the room seemed to be attached to his bookshop.

"Oh," he said again.

He shifted and Crowley clutched him tighter. Aziraphale tried to remember what had happened the previous night, but couldn't recall much of anything beside copious amounts of wine and a discussion of making an effort. He was, however, certain that whatever events had transpired to get the two of them into this position, it was, without a doubt, entirely Crowley's fault.

Without thinking, Aziraphale ran his fingers through Crowley's dark hair and yellow eyes flickered open to look up at him.

"Morning, angel," Crowley said, his voice heavy and tired. His eyes closed again and he snuggled closer to the angel.

Aziraphale considered forcing Crowley to wake up properly. After all, this was clearly a breach of… well, it was a breach of something, and Heaven and Hell would not be happy. Aziraphale opened his mouth to begin his lecture on wickedness and how something like this must never happen between them again, when he felt Crowley's mouth on his neck.

"Worry about it later, angel," Crowley breathed.

"Worry about, about what, exactly?" Aziraphale stammered, his eyes closing as he leaned back onto the pillows.

Crowley smiled against Aziraphale's skin and ran his hand across Aziraphale's stomach.

"My point exactly," he purred.