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In all of his 6,000 years on Earth, Aziraphale has never weathered a thunderstorm on his own.
From the first rainfall, Crowley has always managed to find him and offer a comforting wing. He can’t say he’s ever minded the intrusion, not when more often than not it comes as a most welcome surprise. Even if they haven’t spoken in the better part of a year, a thunderstorm will always bring Crowley knocking on his door.
Now, in a time where they’re seeing each other almost daily, his arrival is expected, but somehow still as a sudden as always.
Aziraphale doesn’t even look up from his book when the door opens with a bang and a flourish. Even his regular patrons are no longer surprised by the androgynously dressed redhead sashaying his way into the tiny shop. He waves hello to an elderly woman Aziraphale often has tea with, as if she isn’t outright scowling at him. Aziraphale can’t quite blame her. After all, that’s a new rug Crowley’s dripping all over.
Aziraphale makes sure no one’s watching before miracling up a towel. “Hello, dear.”
“Hello, angel.” Crowley says. He takes the towel from Aziraphale’s outstretched hand and lazily rubs his hair dry. “It’s a mite too cold for my tastes. Mind if I crash here?”
“Not at all.” Aziraphale forgoes pointing out how Crowley would have had to walk all the way here in the rain to even get here, simply because he prefers the company. Most of his patrons are beginning to trickle out, escaping for home before the storm gets severe, so he’s bound to close up shop soon.
Crowley sprawls out in the nearest chair, giving Aziraphale a knowing look over the top of his tinted sunglasses. “How’s the storm treating you?”
Aziraphale smiles, that strained smile that only reflects a fraction of the stress bubbling just beneath the surface. “Oh, I’m fine. And yourself?”
“Good, good.” Crowley lifts his hand to inspect his nails, but it’s clear from behind those glasses that he’s looking right at Aziraphale. The bell dings behind him, signalling the last patron leaving. The air tingles, like Crowley just miracled the sign to say “closed.” “Well, since I’m going to be here a bit, what would you say to a little age regression?”
The words are enough to turn Aziraphale bright red, right up to the tips of his ears.
It took decades after bringing up age regression, which Aziraphale read about and thought “sounded charming, but not something I’m ready to try myself,” for Crowley to even venture suggesting it, and Aziraphale continued to turn his down for decades to come, claiming that it was all “moving too fast.” Then along came a thunderstorm, and well, it’s hard to hold onto your pride after an episode like that. Crowley tries to restrain himself, but sometimes he can’t resist teasing the poor angel about his remarkable ability to fold himself into Crowley’s lap.
“Whaddya say, angel?" A wry smile comes to Crowley’s lips. “Flip for it?”
“If you need it that badly.” Azirapahle relents. The weather is never kind to Crowley, he’s probably aching for an excuse to cuddle.
Now, as expected at this point, both angel and demon are less than stellar at voicing their wants and needs. Which is why they’ve boiled down their regression time to something as simple as a coin flip. But what Aziraphale refuses to acknowledge is that sometimes he can be just as stubborn and emotionally constipated as his partner. This ruse is as much for him as it is for Crowley. It’s easier this way.
Crowley produces a coin from his pocket. Surprising, since he can barely fit his hands in those tiny pockets of his. “You call it, angel.”
“Heads, dear,” he says it nonchalantly, but his eyes follow the coin’s every movement. There’s an uncertainty in his face, like he isn’t quite sure what side he wants the coin to land on.
Perhaps it’s an unspoken rule between them, or perhaps they truly don’t notice, but nary a word is spoken about it. Whichever way the coin lands, it lands, and that’s that.
However, this is one very special circumstance, and one that Crowley will never admit to, but he can see his angel needs a little extra help today. The coin, as it is, is their way of saying “I need help today,” the flip even more so. It’s no coincidence that the coin lands in favor of whoever needs the help, but it may be a miracle. However, rarely do Crowley or Aziraphale make this decision for one another, but one again, this is a special circumstances.
Crowley miracles the coin to twist so that it lands squarely in his palm, heads up. With a grin, he stuffs his hands as far in his pockets as they’ll go in an attempt to look casual. “It’s your lucky day, angel.”
Aziraphale exhales softly, his mouth twisting into a soft smile. He looks up at Crowley, eyes shining with affection. “So it is.”
Despite himself, Crowley’s face softens. “Let’s go upstairs, love.” He rests a tender hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder and guides him upstairs.
The rain ticks up in intensity, the white noise from outside crescendoing. Aziraphale’s body goes tense.
Crowley shushes him, putting a finger to his lips. “Just a bit of rain, angel. You know I’ll always keep you safe.”
And he did know that. Very well. It’s impossible not to. Aziraphale leans into the touch. His eyebrows are creased, the strain in his face begging for care. Crowley is more than happy to oblige.
They have a shared bedroom. Any nook that isn’t overflowing with books is filled with blankets and pillows, all part of a grand compromise between angel and demon.
Crowley loves to sleep. He finds it equal parts comforting and convenient. After all, what better way to duck out of a conversation than to pretend to be asleep until the other party gave up? It’s a personal favorite method while regressed, especially when Aziraphale says he has to change into his pajamas before bed.
Aziraphale, on the other hand, likes to read, usually at his favorite desk. Now he’s making habits to read in bed so that he and Crowley may spend more time together, which would be going swimmingly if Aziraphale’s ridiculously bright reading light didn’t bother Crowley’s eyes so.
But they were working on it, and one of the best parts of being the regressed one was that you got special treatment for the day. Which for today, meant minimal sleeping and lots of reading.
“In you get.” Crowley nudges Aziraphale toward the bed as he goes about turning on every source of light in the room, as if the sheer strength of the light could silence the roaring dark outside.
Aziraphale turns to stare at him, his soft face furrowed in confusion.
“Good catch, love. Want to do things the old fashioned way?”
Aziraphale holds out his arms, silently asking Crowley to take off his jacket. As fond as Aziraphale is of his regular attire, it’s hardly fit for a proper cuddle. Which is exactly why he has two occasion-appropriate outfits for him and Crowley.
Once Crowley has helped him into his cream-colored jumper and tan flannel trousers, Aziraphale climbs into bed without a fuss. He curls up on the left side, the side farther away from the window.
From what Crowley can see, it’s only getting worse out there. It’ll probably only be a matter of time before it starts booming thunder. If possible, he’d like to have Aziraphale asleep before that can happen—or at the very least, somewhat calm.
Crowley changes into a red jumper and black flannel pants. He hates the outfit, desperately, but Aziraphale likes to cuddle up to him when he’s wearing it. And if he has to, he’ll admit that it is kind of nice to have something that retains his meager body heat so well.
Crowley babbles to him the entire time, talking about nothing in particular, and Aziraphale remains ever the enraptured audience. Crowley’s starting to suspect that he doesn’t quite process language as sharply as he does out of headspace, and instead simply likes the big sweeping gestures Crowley makes when he talks.
They tend to both go a little quiet when they fully settle into headspace, but Aziraphale even more so. Even after a few hundred years, Crowley still hasn’t managed to get more than a few words out of him at a time.
Aziraphale smiles shyly, and Crowley can’t help grinning back. He may be reserved with his words, but his smiles he gives out freely.
“There’s a boy.” Crowley plops in beside him. He can’t help but notice the book in Aziraphale’s other hand. “Whatcha got there, angel?”
With a sweet little grin, Aziraphale presents him with an old, weathered book.
“Great Expectations,” Crowley reads, trying to sound anything other than infinitely tired. “What fun!” He says, when he really wants to say, “Darling, if you wanted to torture me, you could just give me the silent treatment.”
Even if he liked Dickens, even if he liked reading, nothing could make the book he’d been reading to Aziraphale for one hundred and fifty years interesting again.
“From where we left off last time?”
Aziraphale nods, much to Crowley’s dismay. He has no clue where they left off last time, but he’s not about to admit that. So he turns to a random page in the first quarter of the book and hopes Aziraphale doesn’t remember enough about where they’d been last time to correct him.
As much as Crowley hates reading, it’s easy for him to get swept away in the theatricality of it all. The voices he uses for each character, the dramatic pauses, the willing audience looking at him like he’s hung the moon…it all makes the process a little more bearable.
He shifts the book to one hand to run his free hand through Aziraphale’s hair. His curls are baby soft, and the touch never fails to make Aziraphale melt. He shuffles in a little closer, another little piece of the outside world falling away.
He only makes it a couple chapters before his eyes start aching and he’s forced to take a break. His snake eyes aren’t meant for reading, especially for this long.
But of course, Crowley doesn’t pause the story. That’s just poor showmanship, especially for a narrator of his caliber. Instead, Crowley takes a longer pause than necessary to pinch the bridge of his nose and squeeze his eyes shut.
Aziraphale is fast asleep, his cheek smushed against Crowley’s bony shoulder. He breathes in sync with Crowley, but he’s probably a breath or two from sliding right off Crowley’s shoulder and face first into the pillows behind them. Not a pleasant way to wake up.
Normally, he’d just throw the book over his shoulder, but it was his angel’s—and his angel’s favorite—so he sets it gently on the beside table, stretching his arms as far as he’s able to do so without disturbing Aziraphale.
Even with every light blaring in his face, having his little angel tucked under his chin sends him off to sleep with ease.
It’s still storming when Crowley wakes up.
He blinks blearily. His eyes have an even harder time adjusting to sudden light than most, so it takes a solid few seconds for him to get his bearings.
Thunder cracks with a fury, so loudly that even Crowley starts.
It must’ve been thundering like this for a while; Crowley has a habit of sleeping like the dead. And that can only mean…
He finally takes stock of his empty arms and notices the trembling pile of blankets planted on the far end of the bed.
“Hey, love.” Crowley crawls over and snakes his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders, as if his strength alone would be enough to stop Aziraphale’s trembling. “It’s alright. Everything’s tickety boo, yeah?”
He hates that silly phrase, but even in his worst moments, it’s able to get a laugh out of Aziraphale. A weak giggle leaks out from under the covers.
“It’s alright,” he repeats. The room has taken on a slight chill. “But I’m sure Great Expectations is getting cold, yeah?”
The lump doesn’t move.
“Alright, you asked for it.” Crowley fetches the book from the beside table and lies on his belly beside the shivering lump. He loops an arm around the lump and begins to read again.
Crowley reads and reads, silently wishing he’d at least cursed Dickens back in the day. He wills himself through every ounce of eye strain, reads until his mouth feels dry and his voice is tired, and soon, amazingly, a head of white curls pops out from under the covers.
Crowley gives an exaggerated gasp. “Angel! It was you under there the entire time?”
Aziraphale giggles and leans over, nuzzling his cheek against Crowley’s bony shoulder. “Love you,” he murmurs against Crowley’s shoulder.
Oh, how Crowley loathes that four-letter word. Another near-miss apocalypse wouldn’t get him to say it. But this isn’t Armageddon, it’s worse. It’s Aziraphale’s puppy eyes.
“Love you too, angel.”