Chapter Text
“Okay, Aziraphale, out with it,” Crowley said finally. “What’s wrong?”
Aziraphale blinked. He suddenly seemed very interested in looking anywhere that wasn’t at Crowley, fiddling with the napkin in his lap.
“I don’t -- I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
Aziraphale really was a terrible liar. Under other circumstances Crowley might have found it charming, cute even, but his concern had been growing ever since he’d picked Aziraphale up for breakfast that morning.
Everything seemed normal enough, at first. The only out of the ordinary occurrence was that Aziraphale had swapped out his usual tartan bow tie for an ocean blue one that Crowley had never seen before. It was really rather distracting, and he’d been forced to pull his gaze away from Aziraphale’s throat and back to the road several times on the short drive to the restaurant.
Aziraphale hadn’t appeared to notice Crowley’s distraction in the slightest, and had been quieter than usual. Normally when they got together after a time apart, Aziraphale was practically bursting with topics he wanted to fill Crowley in on; new books he’d read, particularly persistent customers he’d been forced to creatively dispatch, and so on.
Well. Aziraphale was allowed to be a little more reserved from time to time, it wasn’t unheard of. Crowley wasn’t worried about it...until suddenly, he was.
The first real alarm went off when their waiter suggested a round of mimosas and Aziraphale politely declined, which was decidedly very un-Aziraphale like behavior. Crowley tuned in a little more after that, and his vague feelings of unease quickly morphed into true concern.
Aziraphale was distracted, nervous. His hands wouldn’t keep still, constantly finding ways to occupy themselves: spinning his ring around his finger, or smoothing out non-existent wrinkles on his waistcoat. Eventually, Aziraphale had trailed off in the middle of his own sentence, staring off into the distance at nothing in particular, and Crowley’d had enough. If Aziraphale didn’t want to volunteer the information then Crowley would draw it out, bringing them to the present and Aziraphale’s obvious lie in response that confirmed Crowley’s suspicions.
“Come on, you know exactly what I mean,” Crowley pressed. “Something’s obviously on your mind. What is it? You can tell me.”
Aziraphale pressed his lips together, still looking down at the napkin in his lap as he twisted it through his fingers.
“It’s nothing, really. It’s not important, I’m sorry to--”
Quick as a flash, Crowley reached across the table and snatched Aziraphale’s plate of half-eaten eggs Benedict, prompting an irritated huff of surprise.
“Crowley, what are you doing? I wasn’t finished with that, you know.”
Aziraphale’s familiar disgruntled expression replaced the obviously anxious one that had clouded his features a moment before, and Crowley was happy to see it.
“I’m holding these hostage until you tell me what’s going on,” said Crowley. “And every time you start to apologize about it I’m going to take a bite.”
There was a smile tilting up the edges of Aziraphale’s scowl now.
“You don’t even like hollandaise.”
“Exactly, which is why you should appreciate my supreme sacrifice in this endeavor,” Crowley said airily. “Now, spill it.”
Aziraphale sighed, but there wasn’t much weight in it.
“Well, if you really must know,” he said. “I have a meeting with Gabriel this afternoon and I’m...not looking forward to it.” He eyed the plate of stolen eggs. “May I have my breakfast back now?”
Crowley almost acquiesced, his habitual response to anything the angel asked of him, but something held him back. Something in Aziraphale’s eyes, buried beneath the surface…
“What is it about this particular meeting, then? I know Gabriel is an insufferable prat but you’re not usually this wound up over seeing him.”
There it was again, that flicker in Aziraphale’s eyes as he caught Crowley’s gaze before quickly looking away again.
“You’re right, I really shouldn’t let it get to me like this, I’m sorry that I--”
Crowley supposed he could have just picked up a fork from the table, but decided that materializing one in his hand would be much more dramatic. He speared a small piece of egg and swallowed it down as quickly as possible. Ugh, hollandaise must have been one of Hell’s creations. If not, he should really consider taking credit for it.
“Try again, angel.” Then, softer, “Whatever is going on, it’s clearly bothering you. Maybe talking about it will help? Less apologizing this time, though.”
“You really are being very difficult right now, do you know that?” Aziraphale grumbled. Still, his posture had started to relax, and his hands finally stilled as he folded them over his stomach.“To be completely honest I might have, possibly, done something slightly outside of my orders.”
Well, this was interesting. Somewhat surprising as well -- Aziraphale used his magic on so-called “frivolous” miracles regularly, and rarely seemed too concerned about it. He’d literally miracled up their reservation for the restaurant they were currently sitting in a few minutes ago.
“Is this about the patisserie near your shop that was about to close?” Crowley asked with his best (and hopefully, most charming) devilish grin. “Seemed awfully miraculous when they opened back up.”
“No,” Aziraphale said insistently. Then, with a bit of a flush coloring his cheeks, “Well all right, yes, I might have had a hand in that too, but that’s not what Gabriel is concerned about.”
Aziraphale paused for a moment. When he spoke again, it came out in a rush, as if a dam had been removed and he couldn’t stop the river of words from spilling out.
“There was a woman passing by the shop with her daughter and I could hear her prayers, Crowley...She was so sad, just terribly desperate, and I thought surely there wouldn’t be any harm in helping them, surely that would be the right thing to do. Her daughter was so young and I could feel that she was sick and I just...fixed it.”
Aziraphale started wringing his hands together again.
“I didn’t think Heaven would even notice but...the girl must have been sicker than I realized. Much sicker, in fact. No one expected her to get better and...well. There was a lot of press about it, afterwards, people saying it was a miracle, a recovery that science couldn’t explain.”
Aziraphale propped his elbows on the table and dropped his head into his hands, seemingly exhausted by his sudden, frantic confession.
“I got a note from Heaven a few days later,” he muttered through his fingers. “Gabriel will be expecting an explanation and an apology, in person, this afternoon.”
“An apology?!” Crowley exclaimed, and Aziraphale flinched a little at the intensity in his voice. A familiar and unpleasant sensation starting to boil in the pit of Crowley’s stomach, and he took a deep breath.
“You don’t have anything to apologize for, Aziraphale,” he continued, lowering his voice. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Aziraphale lifted his face from his hands to look at him across the table.
“Do you really think so?” he asked, and his voice was so small and unsure that it made Crowley want to scramble over the table and embrace him.
Instead, he pushed the plate of eggs back over to Aziraphale.
“Of course I do,” he said, watching as Aziraphale began to tuck back into his meal. “There’s nothing wrong with helping someone! Or with giving your favorite place to get croissants a little boost, while we’re on the subject.”
Aziraphale smiled at that as he chewed, but it dissipated when he spoke.
“But if it’s not a part of the Plan…”
“Oh, fuck the great and ineffable Plan,” Crowley groaned.
It was the wrong move, and Crowley knew it as soon as the words left his mouth. Aziraphale stiffened but declined to reply, his expression going tight and unreadable. Okay, time for a different approach.
“Do you want me to be there in the shop when Gabriel stops by? You know, for moral support.”
Aziraphale nearly choked on a bite of his breakfast.
“What? Absolutely not, have you lost your mind?”
Crowley was pretty sure he’d lost his mind the moment that he’d stepped beneath the shelter of a pair of white wings on the wall of Eden, but that was neither here nor there.
He shrugged.
“I could hide somewhere. Big snake is just one of many options, you know, I can also be an extremely tiny snake when the occasion calls for it.”
“Can you really?” Aziraphale asked, his head tilting to the side with an academic interest normally reserved for extremely boring textbooks. “I didn’t know that. But I’m afraid you’ll have to save that particular party trick for another time...Besides, it’s better if no one else is around. It’s much easier to try to forget it afterwards, that way.”
Somehow, Crowley didn’t think that was a particularly healthy way of looking at it, but he had enough self-awareness to recognize the irony of him commenting on someone else’s coping mechanisms.
“Well, you’re missing out,” he said. “I don’t think you understand how very tiny that snake form is, it’s positively itty-bitty. I’ve been told it’s almost unbearably cute.”
“I have no doubt that it could be anything but, considering it’s you, my dear,” Aziraphale said fondly, and Crowley suddenly had to work very hard to keep an extremely un-demonic blush from creeping over his ears. “But thank you, for the offer...and for listening. I do feel better.”
Warmth bloomed in Crowley’s chest as he studied Aziraphale, his face no longer drawn, his curls lit by the backdrop of sunny blue skies over the restaurant patio. A vase of flowers sat on the table nearby, and Crowley noticed one of the tulips starting to blossom, its petals unfurling under the ambient wave of Crowley’s emotion. Aziraphale turned to signal the waiter, and Crowley took the opportunity to shoot a venomous glance at the offending flower, which quickly closed its petals.
A minute later, he was forced to deliver an equally poisonous glare to the Bentley when it started to boot up a particularly romantic refrain on the radio the moment that Aziraphale slipped into the passenger seat. Honestly, sometimes it felt like every inanimate object in London was determined to give Crowley away…
Something was wrong.
Crowley could feel it, a sharp and electric current across his skin telling him that something in the universe wasn’t right. He’d felt it before, a number of times, usually right before having to take off and pull Aziraphale out of whatever trouble the angel had managed to make for himself.
This time, however, when Crowley tried to follow the sensation back to its source, it was like hitting a wall. A golden, vaguely celestial wall that reeked of such pompous righteousness that it could only be Gabriel’s particularly infuriating brand of magic.
He was sorely tempted to drive to the bookshop and take a peek through the window but...Aziraphale had wanted him to stay out of it.
Besides, everything was fine. Wasn’t it? Aziraphale had received unpleasant lectures from his boss before, just like Crowley had. So then why was this apprehensive feeling prickling across his nerves? Maybe he should just get out of the flat for a while, clear his head. He could go to that tea shop that Aziraphale liked so much, pick out something to surprise him with later…
A sudden and insistent buzz from Crowley’s pocket made him jump. He pulled out his phone and his heart lurched at the sight of the name lighting up the screen.
“Hey, Aziraphale, what’s up?” he answered, aiming for casual.
Silence. The uneasy feeling in Crowley’s chest spread, branching out to his throat, his stomach.
“Aziraphale? Are you there?”
There -- the sound of a ragged breath in, a shaky exhale out.
“...Crowley?”
That one word was all it took for the electric sparks along Crowley’s skin to explode. He tracked them back to their source and this time there was no wall to stop him from feeling the full force of wrong wrong wrong emanating from the space where Aziraphale’s presence flickered and glowed.
“What’s happened?” he nearly shouted in the phone. He thought his keys must already be in his hand and then they were, and he was across the flat and out into the hallway in less than a heartbeat. “Angel, what--”
Silence again, and a glance at the screen confirmed that the call had dropped.
“Fuck!”
The short distance from his flat to the car went by in a blur and Crowley slid into the Bentley with no memory of getting there, The engine started with a roar as the Bentley took off and Crowley dialed Aziraphale’s number.
“Come on, come on, pick up,” he muttered as the line rang and rang. A click, and then--
‘Thank you for calling A. Z. Fell and Co. This establishment is most likely closed at the time of your call, so please find a different bookshop…’
Crowley snarled and chucked the phone into the passenger seat, pressing the gas pedal down until it was nearly parallel with the road below. The Bentley rocketed through London and made it to Soho in an amount of time that would be deemed impossible by the laws of known physics.
Crowley hit the curb and was out of the car a split second later, ignoring the shocked looks of passersby on the sidewalk. The door to the shop unlatched and swung open before he reached it, fleeing under the force of Crowley’s panic. The “We’re Closed” sign flapped against the glass as Crowley slammed the door behind him, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet bookshop.
“Aziraphale?” he called out, sweeping his gaze across the empty shop.
At first, everything seemed to be in its usual place, but as he moved toward the back room it became clear that something was amiss. Over in the corner, an end table was knocked over, books spread out on the floor around it. And there, a disheveled rug pushed up against the wall, directly below a painting on the wall hung askew.
Crowley narrowed his eyes and looked closer. Next to the crooked painting was a sizeable dent in the wall which suggested something had been thrown up against it with considerable force.
Crowley rounded the corner into the backroom, Aziraphale’s name on his lips, and stopped dead in his tracks.
Sitting at his desk, arms folded over its surface, was Aziraphale. The lights were dimmed low, and a single candle nearby cast flickering shadows up and down the soft fabric of his waistcoat and over the sleeves of the pale blue shirt beneath. Aziraphale’s head was resting on his arms as if he’d just decided to take a quick nap in the middle of some reading.
Crowley didn’t think that was the case, as the rest of the room was a mess. Books were scattered about, pages torn out and spines torn asunder, and some of the charming bric-a-brac Aziraphale had accumulated over the years was shattered on the floor. Aziraphale’s beloved coat lay on the floor like a thrift shop rag, the broken coat rack lying in pieces atop it.
Aziraphale’s face was turned away from Crowley, giving him only a view of fluffy blonde hair on top of Aziraphale’s folded arms. He didn’t move when Crowley came in, or when Crowley moved to his side, anxiety churning his stomach.
The entire scene felt frozen and tense, as if Crowley was walking on thin ice and everything might shatter if he spoke too loudly.
“Angel?” he said softly, and reached out a cautious hand to graze Aziraphale’s shoulder.
Aziraphale stirred, making a small noise low in the throat that sounded an awful lot like a groan.
“Crowley?” he mumbled, lifting his head and then wincing in pain. He gingerly touched the back of his head and blinked, dazed. His eyes were distant, and it took a noticeable amount of struggling before he was able to focus them on Crowley’s face. “What...what are you doing here?”
“What am I -- you called me!” Crowley sputtered.
Aziraphale eyebrows drew together, confused.
“I...I did?”
Even in the dim light it was obvious that Aziraphale’s fair skin was a shade paler than usual.
“Yes, you did. What is going on?” Crowley tried to keep his voice down but it pitched up on the last word, his distress growing with every passing moment.
Aziraphale dragged a hand over his face. His eyes were clearer now, but he looked beyond exhausted, with an unhappy sort of weariness tugging at his features.
“I was just...resting for a moment,” Aziraphale said slowly, clearly aiming for confident but looking rather disconcerted that he’d been resting at all. “I’m sorry, Crowley, I shouldn’t have called. I didn't mean to worry you.”
“Oh, we are way past that now, angel,” said Crowley, running a hand through his hair in frustration. His other hand was still resting lightly on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Look, whatever’s going on, I’m sure we can sort it out, yeah?”
The words were as much of a reassurance to himself as anything, but Crowley thought they sounded confident enough. He moved his hand to Aziraphale’s arm and gave him what he intended as an encouraging squeeze, but Aziraphale sucked in a breath at the touch.
Crowley snatched his hand away immediately.
“Whoah, whoah, what was that about?”
“It’s nothing, really,” Aziraphale managed around a grimace of pain that made his weak attempt at the lie even more pitiful. “You don't have to stay, I shouldn’t have called…”
He shifted in his chair and the light from the nearby candle shifted as well, moving its shadow farther down and illuminating Aziraphale’s face and neck instead. His blue bow tie was in disarray, nearly unraveled entirely, and just above it…
A furious hiss escaped Crowley’s throat unbidden as his vision clouded with red. Every single atom of Crowley’s being lit up. For a brief moment he thought he might discorporate on the spot, might simply explode outward into a million tiny pieces of rage and hate and hellfire. It was only through force of will that he kept his wings from bursting forth in sheer reflex.
Underneath Aziraphale’s collar was a dark, vivid bruise, just barely visible above the fabric. Crowley leaned forward and saw a line of matching bruises that wound around the front of Aziraphale’s neck before disappearing beneath his shirt.
Crowley wasn’t sure exactly how long he stood there, frozen in his fury, before Aziraphale finally sighed, breaking the silence.
“There’s really no need to get so worked up, you know.”
“Worked up--?!”
“Yes, you do seem rather agitated. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll fetch us a drink?” As Aziraphale spoke he reached up and undid his disheveled bowtie, carefully unlooping the fabric until it hung loose around his neck. He turned slightly away, but not before Crowley caught another glimpse at the bruising around his throat. Had it gotten darker since Crowley had first seen it?
Crowley stared at him, mouth agape.
“I don’t want a drink, I want -- okay, actually I do want a drink, but mostly I just want to know what is going on!?” He gestured wildly around the room and at Aziraphale himself, spinning a little on his feet as he struggled to pull his thoughts together. “Am I dreaming? Is this just a really, really shitty dream?”
Aziraphale was tying his bowtie now with quick, efficient movements that spoke of many, many hours of practice.
“I’m afraid not,” he sighed. He gave his tie one final adjustment and made a small sound of satisfaction once it was back in place. “There, much better.”
Aziraphale placed his palms flat on the desk and slowly pushed himself up from the chair. He was breathing very slowly and very carefully, his movements calculated and precise as if he were the one standing on thin ice. When he finally straightened there was a light but noticeable sheen of sweat on his brow.
As if sensing Crowley’s concern, Aziraphale gave a flippant wave of his hand and said, “I’m fine, Crowley, just a bit sore. Give me a moment and I’ll be in tip-top shape. Now, would you prefer wine or something stronger?”
“Tip-top?”
Was Crowley losing his mind? This must be what it felt like to lose your mind. How else was he supposed to rectify the fact that Aziraphale was placidly discussing beverages as if his expression wasn’t tight with pain, as if the very air in the shop around them didn’t reek of enough violence that it made Crowley’s skin crawl. Crowley took a deep breath.
“Aziraphale, will you please tell me what happened?” he said, more quietly now. He pulled off his glasses and ran a hand over his face. “Please, before I well and truly lose it?”
“Something stronger it is, then,” Aziraphale said with a half-hearted smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Then, because Crowley shot him a glare that might have been enough to evaporate a mortal, he sighed once more and continued. “I’ll just nip off to the pantry for those drinks, and then I promise I will fill you in.”
Crowley started to protest once more but Aziraphale had already disappeared around the corner with a, “Won’t be but a moment!” leaving Crowley alone in the room.
Okay. Time to pull himself together. Crowley looked around at the scattered mess of books and papers, an unpleasant contrast to the usual absentminded clutter Crowley found so endearing. The broken coat rack was easy enough to fix with a wave of his hand, and he gently hung Aziraphale’s coat back up on one of the pegs. He briefly considered righting the rest of the room with a snap of magic, but the thought of sitting still on the sofa with nothing to occupy his hands was so unpleasant it felt almost physically painful.
He began to make his way around the room, picking up. He didn’t need Aziraphale to tell him what had happened, not really, not when Crowley’s overactive imagination was more than willing to try to fill in the gaps for him. A series of horrible images looped over and over in Crowley’s mind -- had Gabriel shoved Aziraphale against the wall? Had he wrapped his hand around Aziraphale’s throat and squeezed until…
Crowley growled deep in his throat and shoved the images away. Containing his anger was more important than going on the world’s worst imaginary road trip through every appalling possibility. Anger wasn’t what Aziraphale needed right now. Crowley didn’t really know what Aziraphale needed right now, exactly, but he hoped he could figure it out once Aziraphale started talking. Whatever he needed, that’s what Crowley would be.
He continued to tidy the space, mending things when needed and replacing them where they belonged when he was finished. A small silver tin lay on the floor near the sofa, a large dent in one side where it had struck something. Crowley picked it up, smoothing out the dent with his fingers and a touch of magic. He turned it over in his hands as he heard the sound of Aziraphale’s footsteps behind him, coming back around the corner.
“Hey, where does this belong?” Crowley called over his shoulder. “I don’t recognize it…”
No response. Crowley turned around to find that Aziraphale had stalled in the doorway, a bottle and two glasses held loosely in his hands. Even from across the room Crowley could see that Aziraphale’s eyes were glazed and unfocused, his shoulders tense. He was looking out across the room but didn’t seem to really see any of it, Crowley included.
“Aziraphale?”
Nothing. Slowly, Crowley made his way over to Aziraphale’s side but the angel took no notice, continuing to stare blankly into the distance.
“Angel…” Crowley said quietly. Tentatively, he extended his hand and brushed Aziraphale’s elbow.
Aziraphale startled at the contact and flinched away. The sudden movement drew out a gasp of pain and Aziraphale’s eyes went wide as he abruptly grabbed at his side. The bottle of liquor dropped from his grasp and would have shattered on the floor if Crowley hadn’t intervened with a quick snap of magic that sent it over to the nearby table instead.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he said, quickly taking the glasses from Aziraphale’s shaking hand before those were dropped as well. “It’s just me.”
“Oh, of -- of course,” Aziraphale stammered. His gaze swept around the room and then back over to Crowley, looking him up and down as if double-checking he was really there. He twisted his hands together and drew in a short, steadying breath. “Of course. I’m terribly sorry, dear boy, I was rather lost in my own thoughts. Woolgathering, you know.”
Crowley had caught Aziraphale ‘woolgathering’ many times before; while out in the mountains or near the ocean, or sometimes when they passed a particularly tempting bakery. In those moments Crowley would carefully watch out of the corner of his eye as Aziraphale’s face went soft and warm, his blue eyes crinkling as he lost himself to whatever it was that angels daydreamed about. Aziraphale’s ’woolgathering’ had never looked like this.
Crowley wanted to press. He wanted to insist Aziraphale give him a catalogue of everything that was wrong, a map of what hurt, everything Crowley could try to fix. But...Aziraphale was looking at him in a way that was both very tired and very fond, and his small smile was a soft plea for Crowley to let the matter go.
Once, Crowley might have pressed on anyway...but that was a different Crowley, the demon he used to be. He’d learned patience, since then.
“Woolgathering, hmmm?” he drawled with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “Awfully jumpy for woolgathering, but maybe I’m too sneaky for you. I’m not going to come into the shop next week and find out you’ve bought me a bell to wear, am I?”
“Now there’s an idea,” Aziraphale said, clearly relieved. His smile turned a little more fond and a little less tired. “Although perhaps a tad inconspicuous for a demon, might make it a bit more difficult to enact all your dastardly deeds.”
“Eh, we can workshop that part later.”
Crowley crossed to the front of the sofa and sank down heavily into the cushions. He placed the glasses on the table and picked up the bottle of gin, pulling out the stopper with a soft pop. He was about to start pouring when he realized Aziraphale hadn’t sat down beside him as he’d expected. Instead, he was hovering near the arm of the sofa, his shoulders held in an oddly rigid way.
Crowley raised his eyebrows and gestured at the empty spot on the sofa next to him.
“Are you waiting for a handwritten invitation or….?”
Aziraphale shuffled a little in place and only slightly avoided Crowley’s gaze.
“I prefer to stand, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Since when?”
Crowley narrowed his eyes at Aziraphale suspiciously. It was all well and good to pretend everything was fine to an extent if that’s what made Aziraphale more comfortable, but Crowley’s concern was growing.
Aziraphale didn’t reply, just looked pointedly at the bottle in Crowley’s hand and put out his hand expectantly.
“Now who’s being difficult,” Crowley muttered, but he obligingly poured out a glass of gin and handed it up to Aziraphale before filling the second glass for himself.
Aziraphale took a grateful sip.
“Thank you. The botanicals are really very vivid in this vintage, don’t you agree? The rose element in particular is quite refreshing...”
Crowley didn’t respond, didn’t even really hear anything that Aziraphale was saying. He’d started to take a drink as well, but the glass was frozen in his hand above the table, and he suddenly had to focus very hard on not allowing it to shatter in his tightening grip.
Aziraphale’s shirtsleeve had pulled up when he’d lifted his glass, revealing another set of bruises that wound around his wrist, dark and slightly swollen.
Aziraphale trailed off, his own gaze following the path of Crowley’s stare. His face paled at the sight of the newly-revealed marks on his wrist, and he winced as he gently tugged his sleeve back into place and concealed them once more. Aziraphale opened his mouth and seemed about to try to deflect the conversation again, but now it was Crowley’s turn to offer a silent plea with his eyes.
Please, angel. Please don’t shut me out.
“I did try to heal myself,” Aziraphale finally said, his voice somewhere between resigned and unsure. He continued to fret with his sleeve, fingers tugging at the button on the cuff. “I suppose it’s not surprising that it didn't work, considering the...circumstances.”
Circumstances. As if what had happened to Aziraphale was the result of some unfortunate accident, like a car crash or a tornado, rather than the deliberate act of someone who wanted to hurt him. A slow, hot rage started to swarm inside Crowley’s chest like a cloud of hornets.
He generally tried to avoid rage. It was always accompanied by the memories of a time when he’d felt like he was made of nothing but rage. Then, he’d all but drowned beneath the tide of all that fury, and once he’d managed to claw his way back out of its depths he found he’d rather lost his taste for it.
There was no avoiding it now.
Crowley raised his glass and drained it in one long pull, focusing on the slight, not unpleasant burn of the alcohol as it slid down his throat and settled in his stomach. The heat of it grounded him a little, and when he spoke his voice was soft, his wrath carefully tucked away and out of sight.
“Has it always been like this?”
Please say no, he thought desperately. Please don’t tell me it’s been happening all along and I just didn’t notice.
“No,” Aziraphale said, and the harsh buzz of emotion in Crowley’s chest lessened, but only slightly. “No, usually Gabriel tells me what I’ve done wrong, I apologize until he’s satisfied, and then he leaves.
“And this time?”
Crowley poured himself some more gin. He had a feeling he’d need it. Aziraphale was apparently of the same mind, because he took a long drink from his own glass before he spoke.
“Well, I’d been thinking about what you said. This morning, I mean.”
That’s right; they’d had breakfast together this morning. It felt like decades ago. Was that the catalyst for all of this? Crowley’s big stupid mouth?
“So I told Gabriel that I wasn’t sorry, that I’d do it again if I had the chance...”
Fuck. That might have been enough to make Aziraphale Fall, once. There was a tiny spark of defiance still flickering in Aziraphale’s eyes as he repeated the words to Crowley now and oh, Gabriel must have hated that little flame of disobedience. How long had it been since anyone dared defy him? Centuries? Millenia?
“..and I meant it, Crowley, I still do, but…”
Aziraphale trailed off for a moment, staring blankly at some undetermined point past Crowley’s shoulder. As Crowley watched, the spark in his eyes dimmed darker and darker until it winked out entirely, replaced by the same glassy expression he’d been wearing earlier when Crowley had caught him unawares. Both of Aziraphale’s hands were wrapped tightly around his glass, but even his white knuckled grip wasn’t enough to keep the liquid inside from rippling as he started to tremble.
“I knew he wouldn’t like it but I didn’t think -- I didn’t know--”
Aziraphale’s breathing was picking up, each word coming out a little closer to frantic than the one before it.
“I’ve never seen him so angry before and he-- he --”
“Angel…” Crowley started hesitantly, his concern rapidly growing, but Aziraphale didn’t seem to hear him.
“I didn’t know what to do and he wouldn’t -- he wouldn’t stop and I thought -- oh, I thought he might actually discorporate me, Crowley, I--”
Aziraphale was struggling for air, panting in short, sharp bursts that didn’t seem to be doing him any good. Crowley started to rise, and that’s when Aziraphale tried to draw in a breath and choked on the inhale.
Immediately, Aziraphale cried out and wrapped an arm around his side, his face twisting into a grimace. The glass slipped from his hands and this time Crowley wasn’t quick enough; it hit the floor and shattered noisily at Aziraphale’s feet, sending a spatter of glass shards in all directions.
Aziraphale stumbled backwards, panicked and off-balance. Crowley reached for him but it was too late -- Aziraphale staggered back a few steps and his shoulders hit the wall with enough force to rattle the nearby bookshelf. Every ounce of color drained out of Aziraphale’s face at the impact, and he let out a horrible strangled sound, his entire body going rigid.
All at once, the uneasy pressure that had been building in the shop seemed to pop, the sensation hitting Crowley like a shotgun blast. For one terrifying moment, he was frozen. Useless. Then Aziraphale made another muffled sob of pain and finally, Crowley was able to act. He didn’t even bother stepping around the sofa, just hurtled over the back toward Aziraphale without a second thought.