Not just a southern pansy, Sergeant

So, no, angels don't sleep¹. But some angels, it would appear, do share beds with demons. And those demons, for all that they're kind and thoughtful and charming and look especially handsome lately, haven't the faintest idea how to decorate a simple bedroom.

Aziraphale is standing inside the bedroom he has executively decided he shares with Crowley and squinting thoughtfully at the mahogany bookshelf he's just willed into being. It stretches to the ceiling, but is it tall enough? Or, more pertinently, wide enough? The question of whether it matches the bed is decidedly not pertinent. (It doesn't.)

Crowley is, presumably, somewhere out and about. Cavorting with his human friend(s?). Aziraphale has, in the past, gone literal decades without seeing Crowley, and been fine². There's no accounting for the eagerness he feels for a certain lanky form to come slouching through the door just now, but he feels it anyway. He frowns at the bookshelf. Should it be a different material entirely? Does it need an armchair next to it? Why can't he merely summon the exact entirety of the inside of his bookshop and meld it perfectly with this ridiculous room?

¹Unless they've temporarily had their consciousnesses transported into human bodies. Quite annoying.
²Basically true, actually. Mostly.