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2019-08-18
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Nightmares

Summary:

He's napping on the couch in the bookshop and wakes with a start, jerking hard enough that he almost topples right to the floor. His heart is racing, every sense on high alert, and it takes him a few moments to sort out that there isn't anything to fear in the bookshop in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon.

"Crowley, dear?" Aziraphale stands up from his desk and comes over. "Are you all right?"

Crowley sniffs, tastes the air, trying to see what it is that has him so on edge, what must've crept into his subconscious while he was asleep, but there's nothing out of the ordinary. "Er, yeah. Fine."

(Crowley has nightmares. Fortunately, he also has an angel.)

Notes:

After my rambling about the body swap and their executions, one of the things I mentioned in the tags that I didn't go into much detail about was that I think Crowley has nightmares after all that. Which, of course, means that I had to write it because who DOESN'T love some emotional hurt/comfort?

Unbeta'd.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Crowley should've expected nightmares.

To be fair, he's been much more concerned with whether their respective sides will actually leave them alone than with any potential psychological ramifications of their executions, so it probably shouldn't be entirely surprising that the first one catches him...well, by surprise.

He's napping on the couch in the bookshop and wakes with a start, jerking hard enough that he almost topples right to the floor. His heart is racing, every sense on high alert, and it takes him a few moments to sort out that there isn't anything to fear in the bookshop in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon.

"Crowley, dear?" Aziraphale stands up from his desk and comes over. "Are you all right?"

Crowley sniffs, tastes the air, trying to see what it is that has him so on edge, what must've crept into his subconscious while he was asleep, but there's nothing out of the ordinary. "Er, yeah. Fine."

Aziraphale frowns, but he doesn't press. "Shall we get some lunch?"

Crowley's not really hungry, but the idea of lunch with Aziraphale appeals even more than it usually does. "Sure. Sushi?"

Aziraphale's eyes light up at the prospect, and Crowley forgets what was bothering him so much.

The next two times are similar. Crowley wakes up suddenly, scared down to his bones for absolutely no obvious reason. Whatever it is vanishes from his mind the moment he opens his eyes, and the only thing left is a creeping sense of dread and the need to make sure Aziraphale's okay. He prowls his flat (the first time) and the bookshop (the second), but once again, there's no threat he can see or sense, nothing outside the ordinary level of mundane evil that exists in a city of London's size.

It bothers him more than he wants to admit. It's unsettling, and he doesn't like being unsettled. He's usually the one doing the unsettling; that's a much more comfortable spot to be in.

The fourth time it happens, Crowley finally remembers, and he wishes desperately he didn't.

He shoots awake, heart pounding, still feeling the ghost of ropes around his wrists where the angels tied him down. When he closes his eyes, he can still see Hastur and Dagon taking Aziraphale, dragging him away, only this time they know it's an angel they have, they know it's Aziraphale, and Crowley can't do anything but watch and scream through the gag in his mouth.

He grabs for his phone and immediately rings the bookshop. He has to hear Aziraphale's voice, has to know for himself that it's not real.

Aziraphale does not answer.

Crowley's out the door and in the Bentley thirty seconds later.

He reaches the bookshop in record time, probably helped by the comparative lack of cars on the road. The shop is still standing. He'll take it as a good sign.

Crowley stumbles inside. "Aziraphale!"

There's no response, and the fear he's been fighting off since he woke up surges back full force. "Aziraphale! Aziraphale, please—"

"Good Lord, Crowley, what are you doing?!"

Aziraphale comes in from the back of the shop and shuts the front door with a snap of his fingers. He's wearing a white dressing gown Crowley's pretty sure he's had since the 1850s, the reading glasses he doesn't need, and an extremely cross look.

He is very much alive and unharmed.

"Have you gone mad?" From the way Aziraphale is looking at him, this seems like a genuine concern. "It's three in the morning! What the hell is wrong with you?"

It occurs to Crowley that he probably ought to have checked the time before he drove over here. No wonder the streets were so empty. "You...you didn't answer the phone."

"Because it's three in the morning," Aziraphale repeats, and then his face suddenly softens from irritation to concern. "Crowley, what's wrong? What happened?"

Now he feels unbelievably foolish. "Er. Sorry. It's nothing. Didn't realize the time."

Crowley takes a step back toward the door, intending to leave, but Aziraphale grabs his wrist. "Please, Crowley. Tell me."

Crowley shakes his head and tries to play it off, but he didn't bother with clothes or his sunglasses so he's standing barefoot in his pajamas in the bookshop. He's fairly certain that alone is giving Aziraphale a clue that everything is not all right, never mind bursting into the shop and shouting for him in the middle of the night.

"Just...a dream, I think," Crowley admits. "I've never had one before."

Aziraphale frowns. "But you sleep all the time."

He shrugs. "Always figured it was because I'm not human. Can sleep, but don't need to, so don't dream."

"So this was your first dream?" Aziraphale asks.

Crowley nods.

"...was it a bad one?"

Crowley nods again.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He doesn't, but the words come out anyway. "It was like when we were taken. Only this time my side knew they had you. They knew, and I couldn't save you." His voice threatens to break. "The angels had me and I couldn't—"

Aziraphale pulls him close and Crowley takes the invitation, pressing his face into Aziraphale's neck and hugging him as hard as he can. The smell helps to ground him: the fading sharp scent of cologne mixed with the warm vanilla-ish smell that's been anchored in Crowley's mind as "Aziraphale" for six thousand years.1

Aziraphale runs his hand up and down Crowley's back and makes a quiet, soothing noise which should irritate him beyond belief, but right now just reminds Crowley that his angel is alive and safe and here.

"You don't sense anything here, do you?" Aziraphale asks after several minutes.

Crowley shakes his head. "Nothing smells strange."

"Good," Aziraphale says. "Would you like some cocoa?"

No, he doesn't really want any cocoa, but neither does Crowley want to leave. He holds Aziraphale tighter and doesn't answer.

Aziraphale sighs. "Come on, my dear."

Crowley reluctantly lets go so they can move, but Aziraphale catches him by the wrist and leads him into the back room, as if he knows how much Crowley needs the contact right now. He picks up a discarded book—of course, Crowley had interrupted his reading—and takes a seat on the couch, then raises his eyebrows as if to say Aren't you joining me?

Crowley sinks onto the couch, and with the prompting of another arched eyebrow, lies down with his head in Aziraphale's lap. He's still tense, but then Aziraphale cards fingers through his hair and Crowley melts into the touch.

"Is that all right?" Aziraphale asks gently.

"Mm-hmm," is about as articulate as Crowley can get at the moment.

"Good."

Aziraphale idly traces his fingertips along Crowley's hairline and combs through his hair, and Crowley's eyelids grow heavy. It feels wonderful, and peaceful, and the fear that woke him up seems a distant thing now. It's hard to be afraid when he's curled up on the couch with his angel, listening to the occasional crinkle of pages as Aziraphale reads.

"You know," Aziraphale says after another few moments, just when Crowley is starting to doze, "perhaps it would be a good idea if you were to stay over here."

"I am staying," Crowley says sleepily.

"Well, yes, tonight." Aziraphale's fingers are still working their magic, and Crowley is only half paying attention. "I meant on a more...permanent basis."

That's enough to wake him back up. He turns on his back so he can look up at Aziraphale. "Are you asking me to move in with you?"

Even from this angle, he can see Aziraphale's cheeks color faintly pink. "Or I could with you, perhaps. That way you won't have to come tearing across London at three in the morning if you're worried about me."

Crowley grins. "That's quite tempting, angel."

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. "Oh, shut up." The color on his cheeks darkens. "It's not as though I haven't done that before."

"Right bastard, you are," Crowley says lovingly.

Aziraphale presses his lips together, fighting a smile. "You haven't answered my question."

"I told you it was tempting."

"That's not a yes or a no."

"I'm a demon." Crowley takes Aziraphale's hand and gently kisses the back of it. "I don't say 'no' to temptations. Rather goes against the job description."

"Oh." Aziraphale beams, clearly pleased. "Well, all right, then. We can discuss it more in the morning. Figure out all the specifics. Get some rest, my dear."

Crowley closes his eyes and Aziraphale's hand immediately returns to trailing through his hair.

He's nearly drifted back to sleep when he hears Aziraphale whisper, "I wouldn't let them take you, you know."

Crowley half-opens his eyes, but Aziraphale doesn't seem to realize he's awake. The hand in his hair does not stop moving, but there's a ferocity in the angel's gaze that Crowley has never seen in the six thousand years they've known each other. Some part of his mind thinks he should be frightened, but the greater part of his mind recognizes this is Aziraphale and Crowley's never been afraid of Aziraphale in his life.

"If anybody should try to take you from me or me from you, it would very likely be the last thing they ever did," Aziraphale continues quietly. "You've spent so many centuries keeping me safe, my dear. I would gladly spend the rest of my life returning the favor."

Crowley's heart flips so many times that he wonders if it's trying out for the Olympics. Even though it's been months, even though he knows Aziraphale loves him, he still has no idea how to handle it. Crowley is used to being the pursuer, the tempter; he's not used to being the recipient of Aziraphale's unrestrained love and affection. And he's certainly not used to hearing Aziraphale threaten murder to keep him safe.

He waits, but Aziraphale doesn't say anything more, just goes back to reading his book and drawing his fingers through Crowley's hair.

Tomorrow, he'll probably think about what Aziraphale really meant with his promise. Tomorrow, he'll think about what it really means for them to move in together, to share a home on top of everything they've shared already.

But tonight, Crowley falls asleep on Aziraphale's couch, tucked safely away in the bookshop, while Aziraphale reads and guards them both.

And he does not dream again.

Notes:

1 To Crowley's mind, Aziraphale does not smell like vanilla; vanilla smells like Aziraphale. He knows which came first. (return to text)

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