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For the past few months, Crowley had felt very loved.
Since the Not-Pocalypse, Crowley had found that his mental state was in shambles. A stress regurgitation immediately after lunch at the Ritz that Sunday was what had clued him in on it, and from there, horrible nightmares, chills, and an overreaction to certain triggers (fire, the smell of wood burning, damp paper) followed.
But Aziraphale remained by his side, remained his constant. He read to him when he couldn’t sleep, lay beside him when he couldn’t get out of bed, held his hand in the bookshop when all Crowley could see were the flames. And, slowly but surely, Crowley began to recover.
He had a long road ahead of him, to be sure. The trauma still haunted him in small ways, like how he trembled when around fire, or the occasional nightmare that left him sweaty and shaking in bed. But he was enjoying life, genuinely, for the first time in a long, long time. He was drinking to get pleasantly drunk instead of trying to forget his nightmares. He was enjoying food for the first time in centuries; when the ingredients came from modern kitchens, food really did taste so much better. He was sleeping peacefully through nine out of ten nights. He was learning how to ask for distractions to work through his flashbacks.
But as he got better, he noticed, Aziraphale seemed to be getting worse.
The angel looked worn down, his cheeks and stomach thinning out under his clothes, bags under his eyes where there weren’t any before. He was starting to leave food alone, even in front of Crowley, and had stopped insisting on or suggesting dessert. He would wince as his body moved certain ways, frowning and rubbing at his temple. And, perhaps what was most alarming, Crowley would sometimes find him asleep, sometimes even for days on end.
So when Crowley noticed that Aziraphale had been staring at one page in his book without seeing it for twenty minutes straight, he decided that he needed to get his head out of his own arse. After all, he was worried about his darling angel, who had taken to not complaining, when that was against his very nature as a high maintenance little thing, and who had clearly held back on telling him some things that were troubling him. After all, Crowley thought, surely his corporation should not be the one gaining weight in the wake of the Not-Pocalypse! At least, not alone.
Crowley grunted, moving his feet from their place on the coffee table straight into Aziraphale’s lap, startling the angel, who looked up at him with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Getting bored, are you, dear boy?”
“You’ve been reading the same page for twenty minutes,” Crowley pointed out, his forehead creasing. “You’re a speed reader, Aziraphale. You invented the concept.” He leaned forward. “Penny for your thoughts?” He miracled one of the small copper-colored American coins between two of his fingers to see if he could make Aziraphale’s smile more genuine.
He couldn’t. “Oh, it’s nothing, Crowley, really, I just…rather got lost in the plot, that’s all.”
“Of the history book you’re reading?” Crowley tipped up the cover of the book doubtfully.
Aziraphale adopted a defensive look, forehead creasing and head turning resolutely away. “Yes.”
Crowley sighed, climbing into Aziraphale’s lap. They were no stranger to intimate positions and touches, though it was rarely because the angel needed comfort. Crowley watched Aziraphale subtly lean into the warmth of their shared bodies and mentally slapped his forehead. Of course Aziraphale was still holding onto trauma of his own from the lack-of-Armageddon. He’d been too selfish, and let Aziraphale be too selfless, to see it. “Look at me, Aziraphale.”
Nothing. The angel kept his eyes on the outdated paisley pattern on the fainting couch. “Crowley…please…”
“What’s troubling you?” Crowley bobbed and weaved, trying to catch Aziraphale’s gaze, but the angel avoided it. “Aziraphale,” he pleaded. “Please tell me.”
The bookshop was quiet for a moment, just the sounds of their shared breathing. Crowley slowly removed his glasses, setting them aside. He rested his cool palms against Aziraphale’s cheeks, gently coaxing those storm-colored eyes to meet his, unsurprised that they were shiny with yet-to-fall tears. “I want to help you,” Crowley told him gently, resting his forehead against the angel’s, their eyes so close that their lashes were almost touching. “Let me help you.”
Aziraphale’s shoulders shook, then, and tears began to fall freely from his eyes. Crowley wrapped his arms tightly around Aziraphale, sitting more firmly in his lap, letting the angel grip him and hold on tight as he sobbed desperately. The sound broke Crowley’s heart, of which he’d never been more sure that he had, despite reliable sources reassuring him that he hadn’t got one. He felt it now, each sob like sharp claws, digging in deep and shredding, tearing, burning, the pain only increasing as Aziraphale continued to sob desperately, fingers clenched in Crowley’s jacket, holding on for dear life as if Crowley would disappear. As if Crowley could ever wish to disappear. As if Crowley would ever, willingly, leave the angel’s side.
The demon could only run his spindly fingers through Aziraphale’s soft curls, whispering nonsense soothing words and hissing quietly, letting his weight rest on top of Aziraphale, knowing how helpful it had been to have a weight close by him when he’d been falling apart. It was probably only minutes that they sat there together in a bookshop in Soho that shouldn’t even be closed at this time on a Tuesday afternoon, that, really, shouldn’t even exist, according to some Higher and Lower powers, but it felt like hours, days, years, before Aziraphale’s sobs ceased, leaving him shaking, hiding his face, clinging to Crowley’s lapels.
Crowley pressed a kiss into Aziraphale’s temple and then one more between his brows. Lack of energy to spare towards maintaining fashionable hair for the century had left him to grow it out again, and now it fell about his shoulders in wavy auburn tresses infused with the rich, earthy shampoo he favored, complimented by his licorice-scented cologne, a sharp, sweet smell dabbed lightly against his collarbones and wrists. He was glad he’d been bothering with it again, letting himself indulge in little luxuries. The cologne and shampoo would both be familiar to Aziraphale, as they’d been favored by Crowley for almost eleven years, a constant in the ever-changing human world that, Crowley realized, went far too fast for Aziraphale, and maybe that’s what he’d meant all those long years before. That he’d needed Crowley to be something more stable for him, for Crowley to not change as rapidly as the humans surrounding them.
He hoped the familiarity was comforting to Aziraphale now.
The angel loosened his grip, resting his hands on Crowley’s hip bones. Maybe, if they’d both made the Effort, there would be some excitement due to the intimacy of their positions. But there was no time for that, and certainly no room in Crowley’s feminine-frame jeans. Aziraphale needed him. That was more important than any carnal temptation. Crowley kissed Aziraphale’s temple, making the angel huff out an exhausted laugh and lean further into him, resting his ear over Crowley’s heart.
“All right,” Crowley soothed, his voice low as his fingers began to trace patterns through Aziraphale’s soft hair, “there you are.”
Aziraphale stiffened, and his grip on Crowley tightened. “I’m dreadfully sorry about all that,” he began, drawing back, drawing himself up, settling the forgotten book between them primly on the seat beside them near Crowley’s abandoned glasses, straightening his shoulders like a good little soldier, “bucking up.” “Really, that was unacceptable of me. I should be catering to you, asking you if all is well.” He smiled but, again, it didn’t quite reach his eyes, which were beginning to water again.
Crowley shook his head, pulling Aziraphale in close for an embrace. “Oh, angel,” he breathed. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. I was so caught up in my own pain that I didn’t even see…I didn’t want to see…” He pressed his forehead to Aziraphale’s once more, wiping away stray tears with him thumb. “Angel, thanks to you, I’m…recovering.” He hesitated to say words like “fine” or “better” because he…wasn’t, quite frankly, and those words would have been lies. He was still mending, still building up his strength, still learning how to be some semblance of normal again after all that had happened. But he was much improved, and it was all happening much more quickly because of Aziraphale’s care than it would have been if he hadn’t had any help at all. “I haven’t had a nightmare in three weeks, angel. That’s nearly a month! I’m doing better around fire, and I feel like I can finally be in your bookshop alone without having flashbacks.” He blinked back grateful tears; they needn’t both be crying right now. “Aziraphale,” he gently pressed his lips against the angel’s weak, but genuine, smile. “I owe you so much of my health and quality of life right now. And I want to help you, not out of obligation, but because I love you, and I want to see you well.” He stroked a thumb down Aziraphale’s more present than ever cheekbone. He’d rarely seen this face change in 6000 years, and it was disconcerting to see it undergo such a transformation in mere months, the blink of an eye to an ageless immortal. He smiled. “Please. Tell me.”
Aziraphale crumbled and pulled him close again. He was speaking mostly into Crowley’s jacket and chest, but Crowley was not going to force him to maintain eye contact when this was clearly difficult enough without that pressure. He just wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders and listened, chin resting on top of the angel’s head. “I…” Aziraphale began. “Hell was…so awful, Crowley. I still have nightmares about it. The walls of the tall, gray edifice seemed to hold the tortured screams of a thousand damned souls, and I could feel it all around me.” He squeezed Crowley tightly enough to him that Crowley squeaked in surprise at the sheer force behind it. It was hard to forget that Aziraphale was a soldier, trained in combat, with a frame to match. Broad shoulders and chest, strong arms, and hidden inner strength and conviction. It was beautiful, just like the rest of him. Aziraphale trembled. “I kept imagining…I do still, whenever I see that horrid bathtub at your flat…”
“The one with the clawed feet?” Crowley murmured. He’d had the tub since the Reign of Terror, a spoil of being a part of a raid on one of the monarchy’s many palaces. He made a mental note to get rid of it as soon as possible, history be damned. He’d been meaning to get a more modern bathtub, anyway, maybe one with those fancy whirlpool jets in it, good for soothing 6000-year-old bones. This was the perfect excuse.
Aziraphale nodded, tensing up again. “I know it’s silly, but…I’m just…taken back, to that moment…and I can barely take a bath myself, without smelling the stench of Hell, mixed with the stale scent of Holy Water.” He pulled back, searching Crowley’s eyes, his own swimming with despair. “I have nightmares where I’m meant to watch you perish in Holy Water. Hastur’s dark eyes bore into my soul, Dagon’s sharp teeth dog into my shoulder, Beelzebub’s flies buzz in my ear…” He hid his face again. “…I’m ashamed to admit that the first time a bee got into the shop, I hid in my back room the minute it buzzed in my ear. I thought they were coming for me…for you…”
Crowley sighed, trying to hold back the swelling tide of emotions rising just under his breastbone, tightening in his stomach like a corkscrew. “Oh, angel,” he murmured. “You could’ve called me. I would’ve come right to you.”
Aziraphale sighed shakily. “You were sleeping,” he replied, defeated. “I wanted you to rest, and I was afraid…with the Bentley…”
Crowley felt a stab of guilt run through him. He’d spent a lot of time sleeping off his anxieties, trying to push them away, and it had caused him to rise later in the day, or at otherwise odd hours, for a week or so. Aziraphale must’ve been struggling even since then. “Please,” he begged, closing his eyes to keep his tears from overwhelming him. It hurt more than very nearly anything—no, he was certain this was a fate worse than Holy Water—to hear Aziraphale sound so distraught, so selfless. “Don’t do that again. Please call me.” He pressed fervent kisses to Aziraphale’s cheeks and nose and eyelids and anywhere he could bestow affection. “I don’t care if I’m asleep. I’ll come to you. I will always come to you, Aziraphale. Come Hellfire or Holy Water, I will go where you need me.”
Aziraphale let out a broken sob, clutching Crowley close again. “Oh, Crowley,” he whimpered, “I’ve felt so very alone. The coldness of Heaven, it made me feel as though I was the only angel who had any feelings of empathy at all.” He glanced up at Crowley, tears flowing freely down his flushed cheeks, eyes tinged red from his sorrow. “The things they said to me…how they bound you up and took you away…” He shook his head, crying again, his sobs hopeless.
“Shh,” Crowley ran his fingers through the angel’s hair, just holding him, not letting him escape the much-needed embrace. “Oh, angel…I’m all right, I’m here, I’m alive.”
“They…they…they threatened me,” Aziraphale sobbed. “Implied I could Fall. And I shouldn’t be so…so afraid, of that. Falling. I mean, you survived! You’re here and alive and I’m selfish, for wanting to remain an angel, when I’m not even a very good one, falling to pieces at the feet of the one I should be watching over…because I love you more than anything…more than Earth, more than my life…”
“Aziraphale,” Crowley soothed, pressing his lips against the angel’s. “Breathe, all right? You’re all right.” He sat back a little, letting the angel take deep breaths. Once they were calmer, and Aziraphale was less trembly, Crowley began to soothe. “It’s okay to not want to Fall,” he said gently, fingertips brushing over Aziraphale’s jaw. “I wouldn’t want you to Fall, angel. I’d fight tooth and nail to keep you angelic. I will, if it comes to that.” He smiled kindly. “But if She were going to cast you out, damn you forever, She would have done so long ago.”
“Crowley…” Aziraphale’s eyes shone in admiration, hands tightening on Crowley’s biceps.
“And I love you, too,” Crowley went on. “More than all the stars and planets and nebulas I helped create. More than the humans that are so very entertaining. More than my Bentley. More than my life, surely.” He pressed his forehead to Aziraphale’s. “I’ve loved you for so long, I can’t even remember what my life was like before that affection for you.”
“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale closed his eyes, cupping his hand around Crowley’s cheek, pulling his down for a proper kiss. It was sloppy and lacked any proper technique and it tasted of salt and nerves and black coffee and love, in its purest form. “Crowley, I love you,” Aziraphale murmured against Crowley’s lips. He pulled back, sighing. “Gabriel told me…to “lose the gut”.” He laughed humorlessly. “I suppose I did that, now.”
Crowley’s lips curled upwards in a snarl. “That poncey bastard doesn’t have the right!” He hissed. “You looked perfectly handsome then, just as you do now, should you choose to stay like this. Though,” he smirked, “missing out on all those lovely little human desserts for the rest of eternity sounds like torture to me.”
Aziraphale giggled, and light seemed to shine from him for the first time in ages. “Oh…oh, thank you,” he murmured breathlessly into Crowley’s collarbone. “I’m quite famished!”
Crowley laughed, too, aligning his body more effortlessly with Aziraphale’s. “That’s more like my angel. Fuck what Gabriel said, the tosser. You eat as much as you like. I’ll curse anyone who even thinks about giving you such unwanted critique!”
Aziraphale chuckled, nuzzling into Crowley’s jacket. “Thank you, my love.”
They sat wrapped in each other’s embrace for a long time, just breathing, the air between them cleared. Nothing could be fixed with just a few simple words, they knew, but it was a start. And Crowley was glad Aziraphale had told him what he was afraid of, so he could be there to support his angel when he needed him most.
“Dear?” Aziraphale asked quietly, running his hand down Crowley’s spine. “I don’t suppose you’d be up to a quiet little dinner someplace? I heard about this lovely little upscale restaurant that serves a vintage 1960s Zinfandel.”
Crowley hummed, pressing a kiss to Aziraphale forehead tenderly. “I think that sounds lovely, angel.” He groaned, stretching. “As soon as I pop my bones back into place, that is.”
Aziraphale smiled, sitting back and watching the old serpent of Eden stretching out towards Heaven on his lap.
Crowley had been right, after all. They had more in common with each other than they did with their old sides. A demon with a heart, and an angel with empathy.
As they left the bookshop, Crowley chattering on about the merits of a good red wine, Aziraphale stayed silent, letting the talk wash over him. For now, he could stand to laugh at Crowley’s dramatic hand gestures, let him pull out his seat and then pull his chair closer so that their thighs were touching, let him order for them both, let him take his hand in his own, running his thumb across Aziraphale’s palm.
It was high time for them both to mend each other…together.