Chapter Text
Crowley would be a liar if he said he'd never imagined what life might be like living with Aziraphale.
Reality wasn’t much lining up with what he may or may not have daydreamed about (only a time or two, certainly), but he’d been waiting for awhile, after all, and he’d take what he could get.
And he would say that he hadn’t ever imagined it, probably, if anyone ever had the idea to ask him.
That was alright though, because he was a liar, wasn’t he?
“It’s great, thanks, angel,” he would say when Aziraphale pushed yet another bowl of soup into his hands and then waited impatiently for him to try a spoonful. Sure, his gratitude towards the effort the angel went to for him was genuine - and they said thanks to one another a lot, now, maybe making up for missed opportunities - but his concoctions were always...a little lacking. Improving over the last each and every time, but still not something Crowley had much interest in eating. Really, for all his love for the finer foods in the world, the angel apparently couldn’t cook to save his life - or to nurse a demon’s human body back to health.
There were probably better ways to be using his limited energy than thinking away the contents of the bowls he was given once the angel puttered off to another room in the flat, but not many had ever accused him of being clever, either.
“I couldn’t eat another, really,” he would insist whenever, similarly, Aziraphale handed him another cookie or tart, usually still warm from the oven. Because for however terrible a cook the angel was, he certainly made up for it with baking skills. They were always immensely better than any of the soups, so even though he didn’t have much of a sweet tooth, he always preferred them. And he could eat another, of course he could, but then there would be fewer for his angel, whom he knew would enjoy them far more than he might.
He asked, once, why Aziraphale went to all the trouble of cooking and baking in the first place, when he could just pick something up from a shop or even just miracle it into existence if he was feeling particularly uninvested. The angel only shrugged, apparently a little flustered as he muttered something about picking up new hobbies before going to check the oven (which seemed to have announced the finished cake with a very convenient ding).
Crowley decided he wouldn’t bring it up again. For awhile, at least.
“You can go out, I’m good here,” he would suggest in what he hoped was an offhand manner when he’d wander into the living room some mornings to see Aziraphale standing serenely in front of the window, hands clasped behind his back or around a plain old mug as he watched people pass by and life continue onwards down on the street below.
But the angel only ever turned around to greet him with a bright smile, always impeccably (if outdatedly) dressed no matter what the hour was, and making Crowley feel just a bit like a layabout. His attire those days usually consisted of some sort of pajamas and a dark plaid housecoat. Aziraphale had given it to him on his third full day in the flat, and although he had grumbled about the pattern at first, he didn’t often take it off nowadays. It was soft, and warm, and he was always, always cold.
“I’m happy to wait until we can go together, my dear,” Aziraphale would always reply after offering him a cheerful greeting, before giving his arm a soft squeeze or placing a quick and gentle hand on his cheek for just a moment before heading off to make a second mug of cocoa. And Crowley would have a moment alone to try and get his flushed face and rapid, stuttery heartbeat back under control.
He felt terrible, truthfully, but also extremely grateful that the angel didn’t seem too interested in leaving the flat without Crowley along for the trip. A trip he wasn’t very interested in taking, for the time being, because the very idea of going down those stairs to the bookshop and beyond brought a strange tightness to his chest and a cold sweat across his skin and a feeling of awful, awful dread.
It was quite unbecoming for one of his nature, so he just tried not to think about it. He spent a lot of time trying not to think about a lot of things. He could see the Bentley still parked out on the street when he too glanced out the window, and he was certain his plants wouldn’t dare start to wilt while he was away, and that was good enough.
“It doesn’t hurt,” he would almost always manage to keep his voice steady whenever Aziraphale checked his wings, a sort of routine which happened several times a day. Crowley had seen them in the bathroom mirror, once, and had to desperately fight the urge not to bring up the soup and cookies he’d had for lunch. After that, he took the angel at his word when he said they seemed to be healing nicely. He could sneak another peek in a month or two. Or maybe six.
They did hurt, though. They always did. Not like before, but it was a constant radiating pain, moving along his back and through his wings, and a constant reminder that he wasn’t quite right anymore. He usually kept them on the other plane, the continuous, minimal effort (perhaps a little concerning in and of itself, as he’d never really had to put any work into doing so before) was a simple choice to make, when the other option was to have fresh and much harsher waves of pain flare up from every little bump or jostle to them.
The only time he dropped the concentration of keeping his broken wings hidden away was when Aziraphale wanted to check them. The angel’s hands were always gentle, changing bandages and passing along small streams of angelic healing as he chattered away about whatever book he had been reading earlier or some gardening magazine Crowley really ought to give a chance.
Whatever would help distract him from the pain.
It never worked, but he appreciated the effort all the same.
“I’m not tired,” he would - usually - succeed in stifling a yawn whenever Aziraphale asked if he’d like to go and have a nap - or just retire for the evening, depending on the time of day. It was weird, because although he had always been a fan of sleeping, he’d been doing an awful lot of it lately against his will. The achey, bone-deep exhaustion was always there, but he did his best to keep it at bay in favour of spending time with the angel.
Even if that time was just spent side-by-side on the couch, the television remote in Crowley’s hands and a book in Aziraphale’s. It was a comfortable quiet in the room that always seemed to lead to him waking with a start sometime later, a fluffy knitted blanket pulled up around his shoulders and a hand gently running through his hair or up and down his arm. Because regardless of whether he woke up curled into the angel’s side, head on his shoulder and gripping hands ruining an otherwise perfectly ironed shirt, or sprawled out across most of the couch with his head in Aziraphale’s lap, neither of them ever commented on it. On the contrary, the angel would only smile softly and turn the page of his book with one hand as Crowley settled himself and drifted off again.
Accidental, cozy afternoon naps on a couch in front of a crackling fire were always preferred over other options, anyway. They were usually safer.
“It was nothing,” he would mutter eventually, once his breathing had evened out some and he’d angrily wiped away any tears that had dared to make themselves known. He didn’t even know why he bothered trying to sleep in the bed, truthfully - the room was darker, especially since he always ended up there at night time, and much more quiet, and at first Aziraphale hadn’t always been there either. He would have stayed in the living room or the study when Crowley finally decided he couldn’t stay awake any longer and dragged himself to bed, but would always come running when the screaming started.
Not that Crowley knew that, at first. Because he was sleeping.
And dreaming.
...nightmaring?
Whatever one step above that was, because for all of his imagination and long, long time on earth, never in his life had he had dreams like those.
They were more similar to memories, although worse for the fact that he was always back in the bookshop not just remembering, but reliving all over again. It wouldn’t often play out exactly how reality did several weeks prior, but the result was always the same.
The first couple of times, he would wake up to Aziraphale all but shaking him desperately, the genuine fear in the angel’s eyes always managing to spark up a little guilt in him even as he tried to settle his own panicking mind.
Aziraphale would calm, slightly, when frightened yellow eyes would finally meet his own, and he gripped the demon’s upper arms as tightly as he dared. “Crowley, are you...that was, I didn’t...are you alright?”
His shakily adamant - albeit likely weak - attempts to reassure the angel never worked, and it only took a couple nights until Aziraphale was joining him in the bed when his body was giving him no other choice but to try and sleep.
Aziraphale didn’t sleep, but he would settle under the blankets beside Crowley with comfy pajamas of his own. He talked quietly about nothing in particular or just read his book aloud, soothing background noise either way was a comforting presence until the demon finally drifted off - something much easier to do with his fingers laced together with the angel’s.
It didn’t solve the...issue, but it helped. And soon enough Aziraphale was usually able to wake him up before the memories got too far, got to be too much, and he’d jolt back to consciousness with only a few tears in his eyes, rather than the full on sobbing and screaming.
Small progress was still progress, he was pretty sure he’d heard that once.
“I’m fine,” was his go-to, his catch-all phrase during attempts he knew were useless to appease Aziraphale and his seemingly never-ending worry and concern for Crowley. “I’m fine, angel. You need to relax.”
Aziraphale would frown at him, and he would immediately feel guilty. Not enough to say anything else on the subject - I’m cold, I’m tired, I’m weak, I’m hurting, I’m scared - but enough to try and crack a thin smile, to lighten the mood however he was able. “A bubble bath, maybe? I hear that -”
“I just want to help.”
And Crowley’s false smile would fade away, be replaced with a softer, sadder, more genuine one.
He was a liar, but that didn’t mean he always lied.
“You are,” he would always reply, and dare to reach out and take his angel’s hand. And it settled his heart and mind both like nothing else when he never pulled away, instead held on just as tightly.
He wasn’t fine. But he might be eventually.
~
It always started with the sudden, overwhelming exhaustion that came with a snap of her fingers and refused to let him fight back as he was forced to the floor.
Angry red eyes and far too many teeth on an otherwise pretty, smiling human face he tried not to look at when she slowly pulled off his sunglasses and tossed them away - strange, that, since he'd never bothered to wear them since he'd taken up residence in the flat, and so he never usually had them in the dreams, either. He might have struggled harder, done something more the first few times, but he knew well what was coming by now and couldn’t do much to stop the tears.
She laughed, then. “Whatever is the problem? We haven’t even done anything yet.”
And then he tried, like every other damned time he tried again. To save himself, to stop it from happening again, to pray for some other outcome. But just like every other time, the sharp chill of fear matched only by near overwhelming panic flooded his mind as something - as always - stopped him from shifting his wings out of the material plane.
There were fingers threading through his hair, rough and almost painfully hot as she gripped tightly and yanked his head up so he had no choice but to meet her gaze again. He’d seen much more than his share of hatred during his centuries in Hell, but few had ever matched the waves of it radiating off of her. Hatred, but also excitement. She enjoyed what she did, each and every time.
“You know what comes next, so let’s just get to it, shall we?”
It was worse in some ways, this time. The dreams hadn’t gotten to this point in awhile, usually Aziraphale would wake him up before this - where was Aziraphale?
It wasn’t long before he was screaming once again, and his tormentor sighed contentedly, apparently satisfied for the moment with simply watching her companions take over the task of slowly stripping his wings of feathers and skin, and eventually more than that.
“I’ll be honest, Crawly, I’m going to miss this,” she waved the blade she was holding a little as she spoke, before making a show of picking small, black feathers out of the blood that coated it.
He tried to listen to what she was saying, but his brain and all of his nerve endings were demanding his attention elsewhere, especially when one of their knives dug just a little too deeply and his body near convulsed involuntarily. A new set of hands on his shoulders held him in place as he heard some laughter before the blades resumed their bloody work.
“...but it’s probably for the best. We can’t keep this up forever, much as I would like to.” She was quiet after that, and he couldn’t even try to keep his attention elsewhere other than on the desecration he was suffering through yet again.
Finally, finally they seem to be finished, as hands let go and they all stepped away. He didn't bother trying to move, but she grabbed his hair again and hauled him into a kneeling position with frightening ease. The sudden movement nearly caused him to pass out, but that would have been too easy of an out and a little further demonic influence kept him conscious.
She knelt in front of him, patted a blood-smeared, tear-stained cheek, and laughed when he winced sharply at the simple movement. “Listen carefully, you need to remember this part. We’ll see you soon, alright?”
With that, she stood and headed for the door of the bookshop, and in an instant he was back in the actual memory rather than some distorted version. He was on the floor again, with an unfocused gaze staring at spilled chocolates and bloody feathers as they all walked to the entrance.
But he heard what she said as she left this time, clear as the bell on the door that announced their departure.
“We’ll see you both again really soon.”