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Crowley was brushing his teeth before bed when Aziraphale casually walked into the bathroom.
He was lucky he didn’t choke on his toothpaste.
Since the end of the world had failed to proceed Crowley had been spending rather a lot of nights with Aziraphale either at the bookshop or here in his flat but, as they hadn’t exactly been doing a serious amount of sleeping in that time, he had not actually ever seen the angel’s pajamas before.
He supposed he wouldn’t have expected anything stylish as Aziraphale rarely slept (and was Aziraphale), but somehow he had imagined some sort of well-worn tartan flannel set with a high collar and too many buttons that matched the endearingly shabby bathrobe he had seen the angel slip on to fetch his morning tea. His saucier pre-apocalypse thoughts might even have led him to believe the angel didn’t own any pajamas and merely slept in a pair of boxers when he chose to indulge in a normal night’s rest. If asked he might have guessed any number of odd, worn-out, and unsexy things Aziraphale might have called nightclothes but never would he have guessed what he was looking at now… or maybe he just might not have wanted to.
“Crowley Dear, are you alright?” Aziraphale asked, snapping Crowley from his shocked silence. He realized he hadn’t heard a word the angel had said up to this point.
“Wot?” he asked dazedly.
“I asked if you were coming to bed,” Aziraphale said. “Is something the matter?”
“No. Just— What are those?” Crowley asked, unable to avoid the elephant in the room.
“What?”
“What you’re wearing,” Crowley said, gesturing up and down Aziraphale’s body at the overly baggy, calf-length nightgown with the little gold tassel tying it shut at the neck. It only seemed to get more absurd the longer he looked at it. All it was missing for an effective Ebeneezer Scrooge costume was a nightcap and frankly, at this point, he was almost surprised Aziraphale wasn’t wearing one to go with it.
Aziraphale glanced down at himself. “They’re my pajamas.”
“Since when?”
Aziraphale seemed to give it some thought. “‘65,” he hazarded.
“You’ve been wearing the same pajamas for 150 years?!” Crowley boggled, knowing without even asking that Aziraphale did not mean 1965, as he often forgot the need for that particular century delineation.
“Well, it’s not like I sleep regularly,” Aziraphale said defensively. “It’s practically like new. And very comfortable.”
“Y-yeah, sure,” Crowley stammered. “But–”
“Frankly I’m rather surprised by your reaction to it,” Aziraphale added nonchalantly. “Since this hardly requires underclothes I would have thought you’d be all for the ease of access it offers.”
Crowley went silent, his mouth flapping uselessly as his brain processed Aziraphale’s words. It was funny, he realized, how being propositioned by someone wearing the least sexually appealing garment ever designed could still manage to become incredibly arousing when the person doing the propositioning was the love of your life.
“Ngk!” he finally squawked. “You bring up an interesting point. Guessssss there’s only one way to find out…”
—--
Some time later, Crowley snuggled up against Aziraphale’s still very-much-night-shirted chest, appreciating the feel of the soft cotton against his skin and the angel grinned smugly.
“So are my pajamas acceptable then?” he asked.
“They’ll do,” Crowley sighed. “Just let me get you some modern ones if we’re ever staying somewhere anyone else might see,” he asked.
“I suppose that can be arranged,” Aziraphale chuckled. “Or I could just borrow some of yours…”
Crowley’s brain short circuited again at the image.
“Bastard,” he grumbled and Aziraphale chuckled as he pulled him into a heated kiss.