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Of course, he knew that drinking nothing but espresso and whisky was a stupid idea.
But sitting in the once-empty field, with the home he had miracled into existence in front of him, he had to admit; it was some of his best work. "Just think," he mused aloud, "just think of the galaxies I could have created if heaven had allowed caffeine and alcohol."
Crowley leaned back on his elbows; his clothes were a lost cause at this point, the grass was soaking beneath him, and a light drizzle was falling. He looked skyward, his topaz eyes straining to focus. He'd lost his glasses. Roughly when he'd been trying to figure out how much space his Angels books would need. Silly that the volume of a galaxy was easier to calculate than a set of bookshelves. Patting the wet grass and finding nothing, he furrowed his brow. He remembered taking them off, but now they had disappeared.
Obviously, he could have retrieved a spare set from the Bentley, but that risked waking his Angel, and he wasn't going to do that. He could have created a new pair, but that seemed a waste of energy when he was already making a whole house. In the end, he had given up worrying about it and just got on with the project.
It had been dark when he started working; now the dawn was painting the sky a rosy pink. It wasn't perfect; the garden was nonexistent yet. He'd decided that a forever home needed a picture-perfect cottage garden, built by hand, no shortcuts.
Now the cottage windows shone with light, each of course carefully selected by the resident star maker. The living room was painted in a muted gold tone that, for some reason, Aziraphale seemed to favour. The furnishings were nothing like his flat: chairs and sofas made for relaxing in, for a lifetime of quiet nights together, for the promise of home. He found himself rubbing his eyes, "not getting sentimental in my old age," he muttered, "might be hay-fever or dust." Not that either had ever bothered him before, of course.
The sound system was, of course, top of the range and discreetly hidden away. The television, currently off, was resting on a low table, its screen flickering with reflected light from the log fire. The thought of a fire had made him pause; it brought back memories of the bookshop ablaze.
For Sata, Gds, someone's sake, he was a demon, albeit retired; he had been reborn in flames, he had no reason to fear fire.
Having given himself a talking to, he'd made a cosy log fire contained in a chic French metal log fire contraption. This way, his Angel could enjoy a real fire, without the risk of the place going up in smoke.
Where the living room and Aziraphale's library had been made very much with his mind, the kitchen was pure Crowley. He may not need to eat much, if at all, but since Aziraphale had taken so well to eating, he had made it his business to learn how to cook. The opportunity to display this talent hadn't arrived until now.
The master bedroom was a confection of pure adoration, A large brass bedstead at its centre. The bedding was softer than was humanly possible in shades of pale blue. The Angels tartan was allowed as a woollen throw at the bed's base. The walls and ceiling a chalky white, left neutral for Aziraphale to add his own touches.
The master bathroom, he had to admit, was a work of Art; he could picture soaking in the big claw-footed bathtub after a day working on their garden. With a wave of his hand, he added the most glorious shower he could imagine (which was saying a lot)
He blushed as he pictured what else they might get up to in there, apart from showering, obviously. If Aziraphale took to eating and drinking so well, it stood to reason that other pleasures of the flesh might be a possibility. Crowley groaned at the thought. He hoped that his Angel didn't expect a porn star performance from him. He understood the basic mechanics, of course; hard to be a temptation demon without understanding how things worked.
He didn't relish the idea of explaining his lack of personal knowledge on the subject. His former employers didn't seem to care if he was the one performing the act itself, so long as his whispered seduction had worked, that was all they ever wanted. On one of his very infrequent stays in Hell, he'd unfortunately been forced to listen to Hastur bragging about his personal conquests for Satan. The idea that anyone in their right mind would willingly have intercourse with a pustule like Hastur made his stomach churn.
To distract himself from the spiralling images of a maggot like Hastur engaged in the beast with two backs[ he snorted at that, Will really did have a way with words], he finished the first floor rooms.
He had even given them guest bedrooms, should JC or Muriel take him up on the offer to visit. What about that? They might have visitors, and not the unwanted sort of recent history. He'd thought about bringing some of his own things from the pocket dimension he had stored them in, but apart from the Leonardo drawing (now proudly displayed above their bed), he'd let them stay in storage for now.
He hadn't forgotten the Bentleys' requests; her garage was something made of dreams.
She had wanted to try it out, but with a glare, he'd stopped her.
"No moving until he wakes, alright?" he'd hissed. The Bentley had grumbled but obeyed.
Now, as the dawn shifted to a more golden light, he fell back onto the wet grass, totally spent.
Closing his eyes, he must have dozed off because he failed to hear the car's door opening and the silent approach of his well-rested love.
"Oh, Crowley, you'll catch a chill lying on the ground, dear boy. It's been raining. Your clothes are soaked through. Here, let me help you up."
A warm hand took hold of his, and it lifted him gently to a standing position without effort.
Aziraphale glanced between Crowley and the cottage, his expression perplexed.
"Where exactly are we? I think I dozed off before you said where we were going."
"Home Angel,” Crowley said, his head lolling sleepily against the Angel’s shoulder, “it's a home for us, if you like... I mean, no pressure, could easily go somewhere else if you wanted,"
“Why would I ever want to go anywhere else, you silly serpent?" Aziraphale smiled, warmer than any dawn light. "It's perfect."