Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Three days after the apocalypse didn't happen, Crowley gasped as the hot water hit his back. Like everything else in the bookshop and the flat upstairs, the bathroom was cramped, wood-paneled, and painted up to the eaves. There was a small frosted-glass window that looked out over Soho when you opened it to let the steam out. There wasn't any kind of fan in the bathroom, so the stifling humidity was overwhelming after a shower unless you let the breeze in while you toweled off. Currently, the shower had been running for several minutes and the mirror was completely fogged up, but Crowley had just stepped in. I'm a demon, he thought to himself. I can handle a little heat. And so he turned the knob up until it winced in his hand and broke off. Not one to back down, and never one to tell the angel downstairs that he had broken his shower, he grimaced and stood there under the water, steaming like a lobster.

His orange hair plastered itself to the sides of his face, and the expensive gel he put in it every morning washed out with an acrid smell. Crowley shifted his weight back and forth glumly, the shower being too small to properly stretch in, even with his wings hidden up behind him. All of Aziraphale's soaps, which were still packaged in the faintly honey-scented floral paper, were gifts from shepherd friends or artisanal soapmakers that had since given it up to live alone in the countryside. Aziraphale, disliking the sensation of the water on his back, prefered to just stay clean instead of going to all the human lengths of washing all the grime off again, and so he kept the shower stocked with pretty soaps for any human guest that might need it.

Crowley couldn't bring himself to unwrap the soaps—after all, they had survived the apocalypse—and so he just scrubbed at himself with the water and the little sheep-shaped loofah hanging off to the side. He cracked his neck, startlingly loud over the rush of water, and looked down at his hands. They were scarred and they were strong, though the last few days had not been kind to them. He preferred to keep up the Bentley with magic alone, rather than the awful human ritual that involved, Satan forbid, getting under it and getting one's hands dirty, and having his beautiful Bentley explode in a ball of flame had made it rather difficult to miracle it back together on the tarmac with force of mind alone. So he had been distracted, and putting the world back together was a rather messy affair overall. The scars he could have gotten rid of at any time, but he thought that they were an easy way to remember the six thousand-odd years of accidents with butterfly knives and cigarettes and, well, simple humanity that he had gotten himself into. The tendons popped out over his knuckles as he flexed them under the hot water, fascinated by the ripple and crack his meatsuit made in the heat. Strange to think he'd had it this whole time. Strange to think that he'd have it for the foreseeable future.

Crowley jumped then, as if suddenly remembering that he'd have to pay the water bill, but he could just incinerate the letter and let things work out on their own. It would all come out in the wash, or at least, it usually did. He checked over himself once more, making sure that he was clean again, and snapped his wet fingers to turn off the shower. The stream of water choked violently, then shut off with a terrific gurgle.

Of course, Aziraphale had left towels in the cabinet, and it might have been a miracle, or it might have just been a suspicion, but the one on top was white terrycloth, monogrammed with the letters A.J.C. Crowley snapped it once at the empty air, scrubbed it over his hair and then tied it around his waist, leering at himself in the mirror and baring his teeth. Still sharp. Still terrifying. Crowley considered his misted-over reflection and drew two horns in the condensation on the glass.

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Aziraphale padded upstairs when he heard the shower shut off, but not before the water boiled and he prepared two cups of tea. Jasmine for himself and Earl Grey for Crowley, although he claimed he never liked it much. Like most other things in the modest flat, the two mugs had been lovingly made for Aziraphale by a local ceramicist, one with angel's wings for a handle, one with a devil's pointed tail. They were cartoonish abstractions, but Aziraphale did find them charming.

He found Crowley sitting on the side of the bed with his head in his hands. Not in a desperate or sad way, but just in the kind of way that affects you if you've been really busy for the last few days. Or in Crowley's case, the last few millennia. Aziraphale had seen this before, and he wasn't worried—he was just taking a moment to decompress. He set the steaming mugs down on the nightstand, ruffling the demon's damp hair as he went by. Crowley hissed noncommittally, but made no effort to shake the angel off. Aziraphale sank onto the bed next to him, the springs wheezing at his fresh weight. He watched Crowley breathe: in, out, in, out. Relaxed breaths, but still focused, always focused. The demon's eyes never left the floor, tracing over the whorls in the wood as if they might begin to move.

Aziraphale lifted a hand to the demon's back, still hot from the shower. His cool touch ghosted along Crowley's shoulder, coming to rest at the base of his neck. He rubbed small circles there for a moment, seeing fit to continue the touch as Crowley rolled his neck, trying to relieve the tension of hundreds' of years worth of divine stress. He growled, evidently frustrated his how his muscles knotted and froze, and caught between the pain of putting them back in order again or letting the tension linger.

"Do you want me to work on your back?" Aziraphale asked Crowley quietly.

Crowley shrugged. "Mph. If you want." A moment passed, and Aziraphale waited patiently, not going to push forward unless the demon followed up. "Yes, angel, please."

Aziraphale pushed him gently, getting Crowley to face away from him and expose his back so that he could fix it. He was still wet from the shower, and the freckles up and down his back gleamed in the afternoon light. He positively rippled with muscle, not especially defined, but enough to impress when wanted and lift when needed. It was all relative, being that the body was imbued with the essence of a powerful demonic entity, but Crowley liked the way he looked. And Aziraphale had to admit, he did too.

Aziraphale began to work at Crowley's neck, rolling and stretching gently to get the knots out. Although Crowley gritted his teeth and complained, Aziraphale took it all with a grain of salt. After a few minutes, he moved down Crowley's spine, tracing the bumps of it down to his lower back and working outwards, kneading patiently until Crowley shifted and breathed deeply, indicating some relief. Back up to his shoulders he went, rolling them outwards and pressing into the meat there deeply, though not without tenderness. When he encountered a particularly tender spot, Crowley bucked and moaned, but held still. Damn the principality, he thought. Damn him to—well, some kind of middle place. Aziraphale's fingers moved over his shoulderblades and in, right to the inside where the demon's wings were hidden.

Two black scars, corded and lightly scaled, traced the inside of the ridge formed by his shoulder bone. They exuded a kind of darkness that looked like it was seeping out from the inside, right out from his heart, but it never went any farther than a half-inch out from the raised line. If Aziraphale had moved his fingers a little farther to the sides, they would have met the twin scars extending along Crowley's ribs, still pink from the hot water. The wing scars were tainted with the demonic energy acquired in his Fall, but the ones from his top surgery were normal, human—just right. Aziraphale kissed the tops of each shoulderblade in turn, and turned his attention to the wing scars, where he suspected the pain was originating.

"Crowley, dear, how long has it been since your had your wings out? Properly, I mean, at the airbase doesn't count." Aziraphale sat back and waited, counted one, two, three breaths while Crowley was thinking.

Crowley shook his head. "The eighteenth century, at least. I remember I had to scare that vicar, and that seemed an appropriate way to do it. I know that once I wasn't paying attention and they got clipped in a printing press, right at the top of the Industrial Revolution, but I suppose that was on me." He mused for another moment, collecting his thoughts. "Too long, angel. I suppose it's been too long."

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With a nod from Crowley, Aziraphale placed two fingers right in the middle of the demon's back, pressing down lightly until he felt a pop . Crowley shivered as his wings exploded into the room with a gust of wind and sulphur. Aziraphale jumped slightly, despite the fact that he was expecting it. It's not that often that you get to see the wings of heaven's finest, even if you are one.

Crowley's wings were magnificent in the way that an oil spill is magnificent—deep and dark and dangerous. They easily filled up the bedroom, his primaries bending in against the walls. They weren't jet black, not blackened with soot from sauntering vaguely downwards, not glossy and perfect shreds of night. His wings were marvelous things, tawny patterns obscured under a darkness so complete it spilled over them like ink, soaking through to the bone. If he turned them just so in the light you could see the patterns underneath through the black, stripes of dark and deeper dark playing over each other with a captivating beauty. And they were dusty, dirty things too, the grime of centuries covering all that wonderful patterning, although Aziraphale knew what they looked like, even when so poorly cared-for. Aziraphale breathed lightly, reaching out to run his hands over the sturdy bones supporting them from his shoulders.

"Get on with it then, angel. It hurts to have them out, you know." Crowley coughed.

"It shouldn't…" Aziraphale was distracted, admiring the way the light shone on the tips of the feathers and the way they shifted back and forth as Crowley's back tensed.

Aziraphale smoothed his hands over the heavy bone at the ridge, cleaning off dust and settling the feathers back into place. For the next hour, he carefully straightened and dusted the feathers, sometimes working at them with a bit of oil to get out a piece of grime or melted licorice scottie dog, of which Crowley was particularly fond. He stroked the length of each feather, adjusting them this way and that. It was rather like acupuncture, but the needles were attached to Crowley instead of being stuck in. He pulled each wing out to its full length, nearly knocking over a lamp and taking out a whole shelf of knick-knacks in the process. Crowley sighed deeply as the strong muscles deep in his elegant wings stretched properly for the first time in centuries.

"Really, Crowley, I'm surprised these haven't atrophied." Aziraphale tutted, worrying over the soft down at the base of the wings and gently combing through it with his fingers. Crowley was leaning forward, stretching his neck and enjoying the sensation of a proper cleaning and a thorough massage. Although he would deny it to the grave, his pupils may have dilated like a cat's, and his wings twitched in the afternoon sun. He might have even started to do what some would have called purring, a low rumbling in his chest that was nearly noiseless, except to those who knew what to listen for. After six thousand years, Aziraphale knew what to listen for, and he smiled. No one would ever know that he knew, because he had learned that Crowley would skin him six ways from Sunday if it was even suggested that he liked to sun himself like a housecat. Indeed, no one would ever know. No one but us.

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They stayed there for a long time as Aziraphale adjusted and tutted and whiled the afternoon away, combing gently through Crowley's wings with blessed concentration. With every straightened feather, the pain in Crowley's back diminished until it was just a shadow of what it used to be. His wings glittered beautifully as the breeze from the window brushed over them, and Aziraphale thought to himself that he had never seen anything so holy as his demon allowed finally to rest.

At the end of an hour, Aziraphale smoothed his hands once more over Crowley's wings and sighed contentedly. Aziraphale's tea was long cold, but Crowley had surreptitiously drank all of his.

"There, dear. How are you feeling now?"

"Marvelous, angel. Simply marvelous." Crowley looked back over his shoulder and winked at the angel, taking one of his hands in his and drawing it to him, interlacing their fingers and letting their hands fall on his lap. Aziraphale blushed, but Crowley didn't see for looking out again and smiling at the London skyline.

Aziraphale pressed a kiss to the back of Crowley's neck and held him there, arms wrapped around his stomach. Crowley hated that he had a bit of a paunch when he was sitting like that, hunched over, but Aziraphale kept his lips against his skin and held him with the insistence that nothing could ever make Crowley less perfect than he was to him in that moment, with the late afternoon honey-light cascading over him and shifting over his auburn hair, his taut back, his vertebrae that Aziraphale had spent the last hour releasing from their perpetual knots, moving in dappled patterns on his skin as if there were leaves in the window, or even, some might say, angel's wings.

Crowley sighed, relaxing back into Aziraphale's touch and allowing their weight to fall into each other, both just barely holding the other up on the edge of the bed. They were in perfect equilibrium.

Then Crowley suplexed Aziraphale back onto the bed with a shout and fell onto him, pinning him there with his head on the trapped angel's lap.

"I say—" Aziraphale tried to shove Crowley off, but the demon flipped onto his stomach and threw himself down perpendicularly across his chest with a laugh. All of his unholy weight was crushing Aziraphale's lungs, so it was no small miracle that neither of them needed to breathe.

"Payback for all the tickling. Buggered awful feeling, really. One drawback of these bodies—" Crowley was cut off as Aziraphale wrapped his arms around him, surprisingly strong to anyone else (but never to his demon), and grabbed him, rolling them both over until Crowley stopped kicking and let his weight fall back onto Aziraphale, bare back pressed into the angel's chest. They stayed like that for a long moment, settling into the bed and the idea that they finally didn't have anywhere else to be.

Aziraphale just watched Crowley breathe for what seemed like an eternity, a new eternity that they hadn't seen yet and could be anything at all. The only other times Aziraphale had seen him shirtless were times like these, when he worked on his back, but they always went back home to their own flats and ignored it until it came up again. All of the things that had happened today were normal, but they never happened all at once. The two matching mugs, the shower at Aziraphale's place, the massage and the nap, none of them had ever conspired like this, though it had occurred to Aziraphale that he might like it if they had. He loved his books, and he loved his flat, and he loved humanity, but he loved protecting Crowley more than anything at all. He loved seeing the scowl fall off his face when his back was better. He loved it when he took off his sunglasses and he got to see those golden eyes. He loved it when Crowley talked to him about how the pain made it feel like the world was ending every day, how it made the millennia of existence seem insignificant compared to the here-and-now insistence of perpetual discomfort, because in that moment Aziraphale was the person that Crowley trusted above all, even if afterwards he would stalk off and burn a book in the back of the shop to let off the anger that his friend had to suffer. He loved the wine he brought to share, because it was different every time, and he loved that every single disc of bebop he had brought Crowley had turned into Greatest Hits of Queen. He loved his aftershave and the curl of his hair. He loved the scars on his hands and on his chest and on his lip. He loved making him feel safe. He loved making him feel loved. And in that moment, he knew once and for all that he loved Crowley for everything he was.

Crowley stared off across the small bedroom, yellow eyes softening into the middle distance. Aziraphale put his arm across him and pulled him in more tightly, holding him with a love so intense that only the attempt and near success of six thousand years' close scrapes could have stoked it. Crowley felt the angel breathe against him, a reminder that there was only one other thing in the worlds that would breathe just to remind him to do it too, that drew breath for no other reason than to keep him safe. Whose heartbeat was so close that he could feel it in his chest, pumping blood through the human form that he had kept alive in defiance of Heaven and Hell. Whose fingers were intertwining with his own, and who would never, ever, let him go.

For the first time since Anthony J. Crowley had been incorporated, the hole in his chest closed just enough to make him think that it was worth going on, worth fighting through whatever else the Universe could throw at them, to make it back to this bed and this endless afternoon and the angel lying next to him. No harm would come to Crowley ever again, and the weight of living lifted from him in the deep afternoon.