Fantasy

Don’t wake up, Crowley told himself.

In any other situation, it wouldn’t have seemed important. He sat on the couch. Golden Girls played on the screen in front of him. He had his feet up on the table in front of him, next to the wine and the fruit platter.

None of that mattered. The angel sitting on the couch next to him was what mattered. And not just sitting there next to him. Sitting right next to him. Leaning into him, Crowley’s arm around him.

Not his usual dream. Crowley dreamt a lot*, as often with Aziraphale in it, but not as casual as this. It was usually them going out, doing their normal. Or staying in, doing more usual. Or doing things that they had never done. Dreams were like that, Crowley sometimes let his mind go on without deliberate input.

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