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Here is something they will always tell you about Falling: It hurts.
Crowley had never really meant to Fall. He had never harbored the same anger and resentment that the others had – his had been a genuinely innocent trip downwards. Not doubtful, or prideful, or bitter – only curious. Curious to know why the others were so upset, curious to know their reasoning and causes, curious to know how She would respond, and curious to know why She would do whatever She chose to do.
But apparently angels don’t wear curiosity as endearingly as humans can.
Crowley Fell, and it hurt .
Burnt feathers charring black as he tumbled, eyes throbbing painfully in their sockets, a sensation of coldness he had never endured before, and a deep-set sense of loneliness that hurt more than he could have ever imagined. An awful hurt and betrayal – emotions he had never known before and had never been curious about – and a desperate need to know why his questioning had gotten him lumped along with the others, the ones who had chosen their hatred and rage in a way Crowley never had.
He can feel that same betrayal now – the same anger and hurt – but it had been an unwanted gift thrust upon him, never something he had taken up for himself.
(He wonders if he could beg for forgiveness and have it granted to him. He wonders if he could ever truly bring himself to forgive Her for what happened. He thinks that these wonderings are what cost him everything in the first place, but still can’t bring himself to stop. This, if nothing else, is likely a good indication that the potential of him being forgiven could never truly be realized.)
Here is something that they’ll never tell you about Falling: the hurt never really stops.
It’s not as if there is a guidebook to this sort of thing (one of those probably could have satisfied Crowley enough to prevent him from ever needing it in the first place), but it still manages to remain an unexpected side effect of everything that had happened all that time ago.
The pain of Falling had made sense, retrospectively; being torn away from something (Someone) that had been so integral to one’s existence and being cast aside like an unwanted toy. The lingering pain makes a little less sense, if only because the mechanics don’t seem to add up. Perhaps if it was still everything ; if the skin on his wings was still burnt and raw, if the broken emptiness of his chest had never begun to scar over, if the dry burn of his eyes had never faded. Yet, all of it had receded (in one way or another.)
Except, of course, all of the pieces that hadn’t .
"Why?" he asks, head tilted upwards, already knowing good and well that he's not ever going to get an answer.
The others are long gone, wandered off to foster their rage and nurse their wounds and decide what to do now, but Crowley is still exactly where he'd landed. The thought of getting up is too much to deal with - the pain is too new for him to cope with, the form too strange to know how to navigate without making it worse, and the hurt and betrayal settled so deeply in his chest that it seems to sap any of the strength he might have had left.
"You had to know I wasn't like them," he says. The space where She always was is gone, and Crowley feels the cold acutely, but some part of him feels better as he talks at Her anyway. "So why did you do this to me?"
She is conspicuously silent.
Crowley will get used to this, eventually, but in this moment - before the callouses have formed, it's all he can do to keep from crying.
(She won't ever answer, but he can still be grateful that no one else is around when he inevitably fails.)
Crowley is positively aching with the curiosity, but he has never once mentioned the pain out loud (at least, not to any being still capable of hearing him – though Crowley is still never sure if She simply chooses to ignore him or if being cut off meant that nothing could ever get through again. He doesn’t think either option leaves him with enough leeway to get an answer.)
He’s a complainer for sure – Crowley will complain about anything and everything so long as he sees fit to do so (he usually does). The pain is an exception. It has been since the start.
The thing about all of it is that he can never quite figure out if the others know or not. Do the others that Fell have any of the same problems? Do they share the same aches and pains? They are certainly decrepit and rotting in way that Crowley never has been, but Crowley still never hears their joints pop or their voices speaking about their bones like they’re still filled with Hellfire.
He can’t be sure if they know, so he can’t say a word. It’s no real secret that no one in Hell particularly likes or understands Crowley, though they put up with him because on paper he is very good at his job – but a good record isn’t nearly enough insurance to risk giving away a potential weakness.
Aziraphale is no exception.
No matter how often Crowley wishes he could be.
The rain is still brand new, and Crowley has yet to learn that the presence of it in the sky will cause his joints to swell and ache in new and exciting ways, but he does know this:
The angel he's just met spreads his wings to shelter him without a second (or even a first) thought, and there is no flinch or sound of pain as he does so.
No matter how seen Crowley feels in this moment, he is still acutely aware of the fact that he is alone.
The circumstances that led to that first meeting are compelling enough.
Crowley – tasked with causing some kind of trouble in order to try and get under Her skin, and just curious enough to wonder why a human’s curiosity could be more acceptable than his was (just bitter enough to prod and see if their punishment would be just as heavy-handed as his had been) – looking for some company, and Aziraphale – tasked with keeping the humans out of the garden they had once ruled over and already doing a poor job – too confused and polite to force the demon away.
The angel’s unusual demeanor and earnest kindness had been enough to pique Crowley’s curiosity (honestly, what wasn’t ?), but he had still known better than to trust him.
To be honest, some part of Crowley had fallen hard during that first meeting, at the first respect and decent conversation he’d had since Before, and at the knowledge that the angel had almost certainly broken protocol in handing away his flaming sword.
(Crowley is no expert, but he had been around when She had seen what had happened. He’d heard their punishment – and he hadn’t felt guilty about it, he hadn’t . He doubts quite seriously that the one tasked with keeping the humans out had ever been intended to give away the tool used to enforce that banishment. The angel is probably incredibly lucky that Man hadn’t chosen to repay his kindness with something less grateful, especially with the whole of the garden on the line.)
Every proper angel is known for being polite and nice, of course, but Crowley knows blessed well that ‘nice’ and ‘kind’ are not quite synonyms.
Aziraphale, despite everything, is kind .
This is somehow not quite good enough.
"Are you alright, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, face twisted like he can’t decide whether to be annoyed or concerned.
Crowley has to admit that he can’t be too terribly surprised at the angel’s potential annoyance. Ever since he’d started making an effort to eat food, he’s been a bit obsessed ( not that he responds well to having this pointed out) and Crowley had promised that he was nearly ready to leave several minutes ago already.
(Their intentional excursions are very few and far between, though not by Crowley’s choice. Aziraphale always seems perfectly fine at the first suggestion, but if their last pleasant interaction happened too recently he’ll back off again quicker than Crowley can distract him. It’s been a while, and Crowley always looks forward to meeting him again. He’s pretty sure it’s not just wishful thinking to say that the spaces between Aziraphale’s protests have been getting further and further apart.)
It’s not as though the getting ready is terribly important, but the fact remains that this is one of the first ‘nice’ restaurants Earth has to offer, and appearances do matter. Even if they didn’t, Crowley likes to make an effort, even if it does all seem to go straight over Aziraphale’s head.
It’s just that his fucking arms won’t let him finish doing his hair.
“These things take time ,” he says, face turned deliberately away to hide the twitch in his eyes at the way his fingers protest as he tries to get them to wrap around a section of hair to pull it back properly. The fact that his shoulder is screaming at being held aloft for so long does not help even a little. “It’s a matter of pride, you know.”
It is and it isn’t, but phrasing it that simply is a surefire way to get under Aziraphale’s skin and either drive him off for the next ten years or keep him rambling long enough for Crowley to figure something out.
The angel does spend a few token seconds protesting the evocation of the sin, and Crowley uses the time to force his shoulders into compliance long enough to very nearly finish the braid he’s been working on.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Aziraphale finally says, making a gesture that Crowley hears but can’t see. Before he gets a chance to ask, there are terribly warm fingers knocking his hands away from his own hair. “Just let me do it.”
Far too flustered to decide how to respond to this, Crowley sits in place and tries very hard not to move, as if a single twitch could break this strange spell and send Aziraphale fleeing into hiding for the next century. He’s holding himself too stiffly to even be able to appreciate the loss of strain in his arms, which is a shame.
“There,” Aziraphale says primly, running his hand down the entirety of Crowley’s hair in a smooth motion that nearly has the demon choking on his own breath. Once he’s recovered, Crowley lets his own fingers flutter over the braid and finds it quite clumsily done.
The thought of trying to fix it doesn’t cross his mind (though later he’ll regret not having pushed for the possibility of Aziraphale trying a second time), he stands from his chair with enough speed to wrench an awful series of cracks from his joints that Aziraphale is too preoccupied to hear and blusters his way ahead of the angel to avoid letting him see the heat in his face as they head to dinner.
The temptation to spill everything is nearly unsettling in its intensity; knowing that he would throw away centuries of careful lying and disguise for just the possibility that Aziraphale would pity him enough to do his hair more often.
He’d call himself pathetic, but that’s old news by now.
Crowley has always known that if he was going to tell anyone else about the pain, he’d tell Aziraphale. Throughout the years, the centuries, the millennia, no one else had ever gotten Crowley the same way the angel had, and that has always made him the only possible option for a confidant.
But Crowley has never harbored any delusions about what the angel would be willing to do for him or what he’d be willing to give up for him.
Without a doubt, Aziraphale is far from your typical angel. He is kind, enjoys delighting in the sensations and experiences that humanity has to offer, makes a habit of consulting with demons (well, one demon in particular) to avoid having to trouble too much with work, and is a little more indulgent than any of his kin are truly meant to be.
But one of the things Aziraphale is good at is rationalizing . Little twists of logic to make the sting of sin run a little smoother – to keep that potential guilt from becoming too preoccupying.
The hoarding of books can be dismissed as a cover story, the enjoyment of good food and drink deemed acceptable under the guise of keeping up a human appearance, and even being polite with Crowley can be rationalized away as being for the greater good and counted as having only a general angelic love for all of Her creations (even the ones She doesn’t love any longer). But fraternizing – allowing himself to feel or admit to any deeper trust or relationship – that’s a little harder to dismiss.
Crowley has never once operated under the delusion that Aziraphale would choose to side with him over Heaven, if it were to ever come to that.
Thus, the pain remains a secret.
(He never wants to imagine how far it could go. Never wants to think about how it all might play out. Whether Aziraphale would rationalize well enough to allow himself to keep the secret, if he'd tell one of the other angels and let them do all of the work, or if he'd do it all himself - targeting the worst joints specifically because he had been told exactly where they were. Crowley never likes to think about it, but sometimes the curiosity gets the better of him anyway.)
(You'd think he'd have learned, by now.)
Some days are better than others, which does make things a little easier.
It is, after all, less difficult to lie and hide when you’re not having to think through a haze of pain that makes it hard to concentrate (and walk).
(There are, of course, ways to disguise and explain away the walk; it’s purposeful, it’s unique, it’s swagger . If you do it enough, if you affect enough confidence, if you put on the right expressions, hardly anyone bothers to doubt you.)
Other times don’t go quite so smoothly.
Those days it’s more like an uphill battle; taking staggering steps with knees that ache and bones that burn under his weight, ignoring the swell of his joints in favor of making grandiose movements that keep others from being able to look too closely, using centuries of practice and a few little miracles to keep on track and focused to ensure that no one else can tell that his mind is a tad bit preoccupied.
He spends almost every moment of it expecting to be caught out in the lie. Waiting for someone else to leap on the faults in his façade and demand their answers and explanations.
No one ever does.
Crowley can’t tell if that annoys him or not.
(Sometimes he wants for it. Wants to beg for it. Plead that someone notice, that someone help. Wants to demand the space he needs to take up and force someone to take notice of just how small he’s made himself to be. He wants to make a sense. Wants it to make a difference.)
(He knows better than to think it truly could .)
"Watch where you’re going,” some demon snaps, turning their head to glare over their shoulder back at Crowley, who’s a bit stuck in place.
There are a lot of responses to something like this. Pointing out the fact that the demon is definitely the one who’d run into him, indicating that Crowley had been making his way up this side of the hallway slow enough that there was no way he could have been missed, snarl in anger and pain at the way the impact had jarred his back and shoulders and nearly knocked the technically unneeded breath from his lungs.
But the thing about living like this, living for as long as Crowley has in general, is that you learn a few things.
Things like how pointless it is to try and defend yourself. How outsiders are always going to respond the same way, no matter what changes in the world around them. How it doesn’t matter what you say or do, you’re still always the odd one out.
How the world won’t change for you.
How it would choose not to if it was given the option.
Crowley grits his teeth, and once the pain has subsided enough to move, he goes on his way, and doesn’t bother looking back.
Despite it all, Crowley is good at his job. He has to be, really, what with the company he keeps (what with the body he has), but the most ironic thing about it all is that no one could do his job better than the humans can.
After centuries of struggling with poorly thought out buildings and inconsiderate architecture, Crowley creates the idea of legally obligated accessibility when his turn comes around. Aziraphale gets to explain it as a good deed for his records – finally finding out a way to ensure that disabled people have better experiences in public places. Crowley has to explain it as an inconvenience to business owners and architects everywhere – an extra step in their building process and more variables to keep in mind.
Neither of them really anticipates the real impacts. The poorly thought out and shoehorned in half-fixes, the frustration of the disabled communities as they’re ignored and pushed aside despite everything, the ‘solutions’ that only serve to make things more difficult for the ones they were meant to help.
Crowley gets a commendation. The buildings he’d needed to access are not made any easier to get into.
He figures it all has to balance out somehow, in the end.
(There is nothing quite like the hell of having to walk around an entire building just to try and see if you can find a way of avoiding the stairs, of having to cross an entire floor to find someone to work the elevator that shouldn't have been locked in the first place, of having to come up with a convenient excuse as to why you can't sit in those particular seats behind the steps in a restaurant. Sometimes Crowley wonders if it was all Her idea - a way to force him to endure the hell he tries so hard to avoid returning to.)
(Jokes on Her - he's always in hell, these days.)
(But let's be fair, Hell's not the place it all originated from.)
(Crowley didn't crawl out of Hell like this - he was already like this when he got there.)
Ever since Crowley had gotten the Bentley, he doesn't bother to walk most places.
After all, if he could get someplace quicker and with less hassle, why wouldn't he? (And if he can explain it to the higher ups as a genuine act of Sloth, even better.)
But the fact of the matter is that some places in these cities just aren't suited to being driven to (Crowley isn't the one responsible for making parking like this, but he's sure that some other demon had), and Crowley takes the walk with sullen resentment and whatever ease he can manage that day.
Sometimes, though, something happens that makes him wonder why he even bothers.
The incessant press of a human's hand against their car horn as Crowley makes his way a cross a street is one such thing.
"That's not going to make me go any faster," he snarls, baring his teeth and middle finger at the driver. It doesn't make the man let off the horn, but it makes Crowley feel better, so he takes what he can get.
Walking even slower isn't doing him any favors either, but the spite of it all gives him far more satisfaction than showing up on time for this office temptation ever could.
Although, the stunning lack of elevator in the building brings it all back down again.
Of course it does.
Aziraphale can talk for hours about the marvels of human advancement and creations. Crowley could listen to him do it for even longer.
But the fact remains that Crowley was the first bitter cripple to limp across the face of this planet.
It’s been 6000 years, and things don’t seem to have gotten much better.
"Are You even the one who did this to me?” Crowley asks, face buried in a pillow, still knowing blessed well that he’s not ever going to get an answer. He’d given up on trying to start his day hours ago, exhausted by the tear and jolt of muscles and joints when he’d tried to force himself up. “Was any of it on purpose at all? Is this part of Your ‘Great Plan’?”
Aziraphale is adamant that disabilities in humans aren’t any kind of divine punishment or torture, regardless of what some texts or humans may say, and Crowley is inclined to believe him.
He just can’t decide if it being some huge cosmic coincidence is any real comfort.
(After all, if it was on purpose, then it would have a purpose . It could be worth something, somehow, possibly. To someone, surely. Even if only Her. At the very least, he could have someone else to hold responsible.)
(Without any of that, the only one he could hold blame for is himself, and that’s hardly a better option at all.)
The Apocalypse threatens, comes, and passes. Crowley’s car is held together with spite and desperation, and then falls apart completely. He surprises himself, how badly that hurts.
(Although, perhaps it shouldn’t come as a surprise. A mode of transportation he could control for himself that drew no special attention from others? Something he could ride that wouldn’t jostle and jerk – or throw him off entirely – the way horses had? The Bentley was Crowley’s first real taste of painless freedom, and knowing that it could be replaced by some other car else just doesn’t take that loss away.)
All in all, it could have gone better. It could have gone worse, too, but Crowley really could have done without all of the nonsense he’d had to go through. Running around from Hastur and Ligur, enduring the stress of losing Aziraphale, being knocked about by the fire hose, the strain of holding the Bentley together. By the end of it all, the shaking of the ground as Satan emerged bad been enough to knock Crowley solidly off his feet – his legs shaky and pained from the work he’d put them through.
It takes several small miracles to keep anyone from noticing the way he’d trembled from effort just to stay standing as they’d begun to go home. (He’s already in trouble with Hell, so he might as well risk holding onto this one secret until there’s nothing left of him to keep it.)
Despite his own reservations, he doesn’t hesitate at all before inviting Aziraphale to stay with him. He can rationalize it all he wants, lie to himself about fully expecting Aziraphale to turn the offer down as he always does, but the reality is that he had seen the lost and grieved expression on the angel’s face at the reminder of his lost shop and Crowley’s heart hadn’t bothered to check with his brain to see if there was any reason he shouldn’t offer.
The warmth of Aziraphale leaned against him on the bus ride back to London is enough to drive away any pressing anxiety.
They might both by dead by tomorrow. At least Crowley had managed to get this much before he went.
The thing about Aziraphale is that he does try so terribly hard.
Dubious choice of friends aside, he’s undoubtedly the kindest and most sincere angel that Heaven has left to offer.
And Crowley has been there since the beginning. Was there to see him mourn those left behind by the Ark and swallowed by the Flood, watch as he wept and grieved so terribly he’d nearly Fallen over those lost to the Black Plague, was an unwilling observer to the layers of skin he’d torn through trying to save those lost in Pompeii.
Crowley has long since resigned himself to the fact that there is nothing to be done to save him from this pain.
One of the reasons he’s never told Aziraphale about it is that he’s never entirely sure the angel could accept that in the same way.
(If Crowley was the reason Aziraphale Fell, he’d never forgive himself. He’d drag his way back up into Heaven just to let Her know that he’d never absolve Her of it either.)
The apartment building Crowley lives in has no steps at its front entrance and its elevator is always in perfect working order. He still doesn’t protest Aziraphale’s choice to simply miracle their way directly into his room.
If Crowley were still capable of thinking clearly through the fog of pain, he’d marvel at the sudden leaps that Aziraphale has decided to start taking. How he’s managed to hit more milestones in just these few hours than they’d accomplished in the past 5000 years. Everything from accepting Crowley’s hand in Tadfield, to coming home with him, to trading his usual aversion to sleep in favor of wiggling his way into Crowley’s bed.
But as it is, Crowley is mostly thinking only about this: the relief of finally being able to get off of his swollen feet and rest his body on a soft mattress, the comforting weight of exhaustion driving the pain into something less pressing, and the unadulterated pleasure of the safe warmth of Aziraphale’s body as it curls protectively around his.
If he had managed to stay awake for any longer, he would have marveled at the way the heat alone seemed to lessen the pain more than anything else he’d tried over the past 6000 years.
Would have nearly lost his mind at the careful press of Aziraphale’s fingers against the tight muscles in his back, slowly smoothing away the knots that have been building there since the Beginning.
Instead, there is the relief, the warmth, and just barely enough time to press his face solidly into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck before Crowley is sleeping more soundly than he’s managed in centuries.
(Even through the pain, the sensation of being wrapped so firmly and tenderly in Aziraphale’s arms is by far the closest Crowley has ever come to touching divinity in his entire existence.)
(The thought alone is surely the purest form of Blasphemy there is, and Crowley thinks that it must be a wonderful thing to be a demon and not have to care about that anymore.)
It’s midway through the afternoon before Aziraphale’s excitement over his middle-of-the-night revelation finally wins out over his desire to let Crowley sleep longer, and Crowley would swear that waking up has never been easier than it is right now.
“I’ve figured it out!” Aziraphale says happily, his arms loosening but not letting go as Crowley forces himself to stretch and get the first round of cracks from his joints out of his system. “Agnes’s prophecy – ‘Choose your faces wisely’!! We need to switch forms!”
Crowley, still very much half-asleep and desperate to hide the fact that he’s certain he’ll be unable to stand even as he presses closer back into the angel’s embrace, is not entirely sure what is happening, but does his best to follow along anyway.
The lingering exhaustion evaporates almost instantaneously once he realizes that Aziraphale means exchanging their corporeal forms entirely, and not just a quick disguise or glamour.
“You what?” he splutters, not sure if his revulsion at the idea is enough to make him want to back out of Aziraphale’s reach.
“I’ve been thinking,” Aziraphale says, thrilled and utterly oblivious to Crowley’s distress in his usual almost-endearing way. “We’re almost certainly going to be recalled back to our respective sides, our previous respective sides I should say, and are definitely going to be punished for preventing the apocalypse, even despite our invoking of the ineffable. They’re almost certainly going to use Hellfire for me. And the smell in your hallway made me think that they could wind up using Holy Water for you – after all, they might not quite be able to punish you for interfering with God’s Plans, but they might for obliterating a coworker. But if we switched forms, then neither of us would have to worry about a thing! I doubt that they’d bother to check past the surface, they seemed angry enough to want to get it done sooner rather than later.”
Crowley listens to this explanation as carefully as he can and is loath to admit that the angel certainly has a point. Several of them, in fact.
But he also can't shake the dread that comes with the thought of I am in so much pain that I can barely move; how could I possibly pass this form onto you?
To be fair, Crowley tries to argue with himself, he's never truly been able to work out if it was the corporeal forms that were the real source of the pain. After all, even when he's been discorporated there is still usually a dulled and decentralized pain that remains, no matter what Crowley tries to do to get rid of it. It's one of the reasons he had never protested being constantly forced back up to the surface (even once the pain had become so unbearable that it had been better to sleep through a century rather than deal with it for another moment). It's possible that this plan could work, and that Aziraphale could inhabit this body with no side effects whatsoever, and leave it none the wiser.
But is it an acceptable risk?
The answer is, unfortunately, no.
"That's certainly a good trick," Crowley says, and takes a moment to be endeared by the self-satisfied noise Aziraphale makes at the compliment. "But, there's just... That is to say, maybe, some kind of. Well, not a flaw, but. It's only that-"
"My dear boy," Aziraphale interrupts, once it becomes clear that Crowley isn't going to be reaching his point any time soon. "What on earth is the matter?"
Crowley winces. "It's only that, there's something you might have to be careful of," he manages. "I've never really been able to tell if it's the corporeal forms or if it's me, but if you're going to be taking it you should just just in case. It might not be a problem at all. But-,"
"Crowley."
"Right, yes, okay. I am in pain," he says finally, spitting the words out with a great deal of difficulty. "All of the time. And I don't know if you'll be able to feel it if you're in my form."
This catches Aziraphale's attention very quickly. "Are you hurt?" he demands. "Did something happen? Was it when the Bentley caught fire? Oh, you should have told me; I could have fixed it last night..."
"No, it's not... an injury, it's just. It's always been like this. Ever since," he stumbles over the words, but forces himself to continue, "the Fall. It's not, I don't think it's something that can be healed."
The angel takes a moment to process this, and Crowley holds his breath as he waits for a response. He has no idea how he's expecting Aziraphale to react to this news, but the anxiety is there nonetheless.
"Always?" Aziraphale asks, finally, and Crowley nods a little uncertainly, something in him jolting with panic at the little wounded noise Aziraphale makes. "Darling, why did you never say anything?"
This is, perhaps, the worst line of questioning to be pursued, and Crowley has to pause and wonder if everything that's happened has just been the build up to some kind of cosmic joke She'd put into place. He tries to answer anyway.
"I just, never thought I could. Or should," he says. "I never wanted to acknowledge it."
As if saying it out loud could make it all real in a way that living with it all those years never could have.
Aziraphale squeezes him a little tighter at that, but seems to realize that Crowley's ability to continue this kind of conversation is quickly fading. "Well, thank you for warning me. I don't think it should take very long to get everything over with, and I'm certain that if there is an issue, that I'll be able to cope with it for long enough. After all, if you've been dealing with this for," he falters. "Well, I'm sure I can handle it."
They take the time to indulge in their own time together and get themselves ready before making the switch, and Crowley braces himself without truly knowing what for, keeping a careful eye on Aziraphale's face even as it shifts to become his own looking right back at him.
His own pain hardly changes at all, and Aziraphale doesn't appear to be any worse for wear.
Crowley is more relieved than anything else, but that doesn't change the fact that there is something else there - something more resentful curled up under his skin.
The fact of the matter is that Crowley wouldn't know how to not be in pain if the Almighty Herself descended down from Heaven to heal him personally.
He isn't sure what that might say about him.
Aziraphale's plan goes off without a hitch (though it takes all of Crowley's self-control to not snarl in anger at the way the other angels talk to Aziraphale, at their casual disregard and disdain for the one that Crowley cares for so much), and Crowley can almost find some kind of comfort at the feeling of pain settling back into his own bones.
"It really wasn't too bad for you?" he asks, despite the fact that he has been asking this question since the switch first occurred.
"Yes, I promise," Aziraphale assures him, just as he has been all afternoon. "If anything, it was like echoes - like your body remembered. Well enough for me to figure out how to accomplish that distinctive walk of yours."
Crowley smirks at the comment and lets the bristling emotion in his chest settle at the knowledge that the threat of hurting Aziraphale is over and should never be necessary again.
They're on their own now, after all. No longer tied to putting on acts, hiding any secrets, or keeping up appearances. Freed from the pressure of having to answer to someone else and hide their truths in ways that did them both more harm than good.
The warmth of Aziraphale's hand in his is proof enough of that.
All of the freedom in the universe, and no better place to spend it than right here at each other's sides.