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Crowley feels he is handling things extremely well, overall. Aziraphale came back from Hell proud and laughing, and Crowley pushed back his own worries, laughed with him and praised his cleverness and took him to lunch. Aziraphale phoned him at two in the morning, saying with a shake in his voice “I’m sorry, I just, I had to check-–” and Crowley, still mostly-asleep, said “Half a sec,” slid down the phone line and manifested in the bookshop to hold him until he could stop trembling: here I am, angel, here I am, no one’s taking me from you ever again. He’s spent days on end loitering in the back room of the shop, waiting for Aziraphale to need him; he’s fetched cups of tea and bottles of wine and, once, when he felt Aziraphale particularly needed comforting, a slice of Sachertorte retrieved directly from Vienna (this effort went unnoticed, but he did get to watch Aziraphale eat the cake, so it was worth it anyway). He has been the very picture of a pillar of support.
Crowley has not had a good week. But Aziraphale has had a worse one-– lost the bookshop (even if he did regain it), lost the corporeal form he’s so attached to (even if ditto), lost whatever faith he had left in Heaven, very nearly lost the entire stupid, splendid world he loves so much. He needs comforting, needs looking after, and Crowley is here to provide it.
And if he’s spending more nights than usual sleepless, if he’s drinking a little more freely and being a little less careful to sober up before bed, if once or twice he’s woken up breathless and panicked and nearly made a two o’clock phone call of his own before dragging himself back under control-– well, it’s no one’s concern but his own, is it? He’s doing it in his own flat, and well out of Aziraphale’s way, and not giving the angel anything more to worry about than he has already.
He can’t tell Aziraphale about the dreams, anyway, because he’d have to tell him about what happened in Heaven first. And he hasn’t done that because-– well-– because he doesn’t need to know, obviously, because it would only have hurt him and it was easier to shrug a little too casually and say “‘Bout the same, really,” and let him go on believing Heaven would show at least as much mercy as Hell.
Not because he doesn’t think he could say it aloud. Not because it would break something in him, to see Aziraphale’s face fall. Only because Aziraphale has had enough troubles as it is, and Crowley isn’t going to give him any new ones to deal with.
Anyway, he’s a demon. Demons lie. It’s what his forked tongue was made for-– although lying to spare the feelings of an angel probably didn’t factor into Hell’s intentions at the time.
And it doesn’t matter, anyway. He has everything under control. He is handling the situation fine, he is under no stress at all, and this is all very good and very convincing until the ninth day after Armageddon, when he’s half-dozing on the couch in Aziraphale’s back room and hears the door jingle, and a startled little oh from the direction of Aziraphale’s desk, and then a big, genial, American-accented voice saying, “Hi, I’m looking for-–”
Crowley is off the couch before he’s even fully awake, charging out into the front of the shop, his sunglasses abandoned and hellfire in his eyes. Aziraphale is in front of the rarely-used till, the intruder standing on the other side of the counter; Crowley bolts toward them, shoulders his way in front of Aziraphale, and spits, “Touch him and I ssswear I’ll sssssee you burn.”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale snaps at him, a reprimand. It’s not the sort of tone people normally take when confronted with the Serpent of Eden in all his hissing, flaming glory, even people who have known him for six thousand years, and it gives Crowley pause for just long enough to look up and realize that there is not, in fact, an archangel in the shop. That he’s just come roaring out of the back room at some poor ordinary human, who doesn’t even, now that his conscious mind has time to think about it, sound that much like Gabriel.
He subsides, a little, and manages with an effort to turn the boiling hiss into a, “Sssorry.”
The human bolts anyway.
“Showss what good it doess you, apologizing,” Crowley mutters, trying to rein himself back.
Failing to rein himself back. The hissing, spitting rage has deserted him, but it hasn’t left him calm; he can’t stop thinking how the stranger was within arm’s reach of Aziraphale by the time he got there, how if it had been Gabriel he would have been too late, even as close as he was-- can’t stop thinking of the pillar of hellfire–-
“Crowley,” Aziraphale says again, from just behind him, and then, alarmed, “Crowley, what just happened? Are you all right?”
You’re upsetting Aziraphale, you idiot, shape up, Crowley snarls at himself, but he can’t seem to pull himself together enough to answer. His hands are shaking, his breath coming in desperate little gasps-– he doesn’t even need to breathe, why can’t he get under control-–
He can hear Aziraphale step away, glass clinking in the back room. A moment later the angel’s back at his elbow, pushing a glass into his hand. “Sit down,” Aziraphale says. “Drink this. I mean-– come sit down first.”
There’s a hint of that terrible two-in-the-morning shake in his voice again; Crowley curses himself for a bastard, but even for Aziraphale’s sake he can’t make himself settle down, can’t steady his breathing. He takes a long sip of what turns out to be whiskey, which helps a little, and says hoarsely, “Gabriel.”
“What,” Aziraphale says, sharp and alarmed.
“I mean-– I thought it was Gabriel coming in here. From the voice.”
“Why would–-”
“They won’t leave you alone,” Crowley says, desperately. “Hell might, but Heaven-– you didn’t see Gabriel’s face, he’ll come after you, I know he will–-”
He doesn’t dare look at Aziraphale, but he’s close enough to hear the angel’s intake of breath. “And so you came charging out to protect me.”
“I have to.” Crowley’s still shaking; he takes another swallow of liquor, but the panic’s still there, bubbling just below the surface. “I didn’t mean for you to know-– I didn’t want you to worry, you’ve had so much to worry about already, I thought if I could just stay close enough, keep you safe–-”
“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale says gently, takes the half-empty glass from Crowley’s hand and gathers him into his arms, and that’s all Crowley can take; he feels something give inside him, and he buries his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder, sobbing, vaguely conscious that this should be humiliating but unable to bring himself to care.
When he surfaces, eventually, he’s mildly surprised to discover they’ve somehow made it to the couch, Aziraphale leaning back against one armrest and Crowley draped across him, nearly in his lap.
He starts to straighten up, opening his mouth to apologize. Aziraphale puts a firm hand on the back of his neck and says, “Absolutely not.”
“Angel-–”
“Stay put. Sleep, if you can.” Aziraphale’s grip softens, his hand shifting up to stroke through Crowley’s hair. “You’ve been looking after me so well, my dear, and I didn’t even realize. Let me look after you for a bit.”
I don’t need looking after, Crowley wants to protest. But he’s so comfortable, and Aziraphale is so warm, and he feels so worn and weary, drained of the desperate tension he’s been carrying...
He does drift off, slowly, Aziraphale’s fingers tracing patterns in his hair. And if he wakes gasping again, the pillar of hellfire vivid in his mind, to find Aziraphale already holding him close and murmuring comfort-– maybe there’s something to this, to not bearing it all on his own.