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Crowley has never really known what it's like to feel safe .
To be bound to Hell is to know that they own you. That your continued survival is dependent on the whims of whoever holds your chains. Surviving in Hell is constant tightrope walk between appearing dangerous enough that you aren't worth going after, and being so dangerous that besting you would lead to a promotion. It's a delicate dance between knife-blows at every moment, and one wrong step might be your last.
The closest he's ever come to feeling something like safe has been spending time with Aziraphale in the shop. The bookshop is Aziraphale's home, and it's thoroughly warded against intrusion. Hell can't get to him there.
But of course, just being too close to an angel presented its own dangers, for both of them, and so for most of history their time together had to be limited. All too often that meant keeping their meetings brief, and far away from their known stomping grounds.
But things are different, now.
The end of the world failed to happen a few months ago, and things have been good. More than good; things have been wonderful. He's been spending days at a time with Aziraphale as they take in the sights of London. They've visited any number of restaurants and cafes the angel has had his eye on, and spent evenings enjoying the many entertainments the city has to offer. Their time together is easy and comfortable, and they can finally luxuriate in it the way they've both wanted, without worrying about who might see.
It's amazing, this freedom. It's everything he'd hoped it could be, when he'd dared to let himself hope at all.
Except.
He can't quite let himself believe it. To accept that they really are free now. That these good times will last. Too much bitter experience has taught him that it's always when things seem to be going well that the rug is about to be pulled out from under your feet.
So the longer it goes on, the more pleasant days that pass by, the more things start to feel... off. It's subtle at first. Just a bit of nervous jitters when they're out in public. A flash of movement out of the corner of his eye that leaves him twisting to the side, certain it's an enemy. A bit of static on the radio that leaves him bracing, wondering if Hell is about to drop another assignment into his brain.
Nothing unexpected, really, given all they've been through.
But the fear doesn't fade. Instead it only gets worse, the anxiety growing until it's a persistent, lingering cloud of dread that hangs over him, spoiling his mood. He grows distant and distracted, too busy watching the shadows for danger to properly pay attention to what Aziraphale is saying. His replies are short, almost snappish, not wanting to miss some vital warning sign masked by the noise of conversation.
He hates it, and as the days pass, he finds himself visiting Aziraphale less often, not wanting to burden the angel with his bitter mood. But at the same time, spending time apart only makes the fear worse, because anything might happen, and he wouldn't know about it until it's too late. He can't bear the thought of something coming for Aziraphale while he's not there to stop it. He's still haunted by the memory of driving to the shop only to find it burning.
He stops sleeping. His fears bleed over into his dreams, and he spends too many nights startling awake from nightmares-- visions of Hell discovering their ruse, dragging him out of bed or worse, going after Aziraphale-- before he gives it up for lost.
He takes to pacing his flat, too restless and jumpy to do much of anything. He can't focus long enough to read, and he can't bear the thought of listening to music or watching TV only to have Hell interrupt.
After all, just because Hell agreed to leave them alone doesn't mean they aren't still watching.
Sometimes he'll take the Bentley out, criss-crossing the countryside with long drives, but that comes with the same problem. He still shudders thinking about the way they'd given him the Antichrist assignment. He'd nearly ended up discorporated, and of course they'd have been all too happy to punish him for that failure, nevermind that they were the cause.
So he spends time in his flat, twisting himself into knots and wearing circles into the floor. And, inevitably, he ends up screaming at his plants.
It helps, is the worst part. It always helps. He feels better after, because at least all that fear and anger has somewhere to go, just for a little while. But it doesn't solve anything. The fear always comes back eventually, and the relief is tinged with guilt and shame.
Because the thing is--
The thing is, when all this started, when he got the plants back in the 70's, when he first read that talking to them would help them grow, he never intended for it to become... this. Whatever this is.
He knows, deep down, that it's unfair. The plants don't deserve this. They're doing their best. Better than best, even. They're the lushest houseplants in London, and they put even some of Kew's specimens to shame.
But he can't- he can't let up on them. If he stops, if he gives them leeway now, they might start slacking off. And if they start slacking off, they'll relax. They'll get complacent. And complacency is exactly what leads to disaster. It only takes one tiny slip-up, one hair out of place, and suddenly you're there on the chopping block with no idea how you got there and a one-way ticket to the deepest pit. He can't allow that. They have to be perfect, because anything less will ruin them.
Still, he never does more than grumble at them when Aziraphale visits, limiting himself to glaring over the angel's shoulder as he coos and warbles over their foliage, making sure the plants remember who the real boss is here.
Because he's- he's ashamed, when he thinks of the angel witnessing one of his shouting sessions. Aziraphale knows he's a demon, yes, but there's a difference between knowing a thing and seeing the whole of it. Aziraphale thinks he's deep down, just a little bit, a good person. Not someone who terrorizes innocent plants with impossible expectations. Who threatens them with empty pots as a reminder of what will happen to them if they're the next to fall out of line.
He doesn't want Aziraphale to see this part of him. Doesn't want to sully the angel's light with such darkness.
No, he'll keep it safely tucked away, something to be let out in the lonely silence of an empty flat when things get a little too much. It's fine. It won't last forever. They're free. The fear has to fade eventually, and Aziraphale never has to know.
It'll be fine.
The fear doesn't fade, though. It doesn't go away. It wanes a little, sometimes, easing back until he half-forgets about it, only to come crashing back down on him at unexpected moments.
It's worst in public places, in crowds. In the bookshop, it's not so bad. The bookshop is surrounded and threaded through with wards; anything ethereal or infernal would have a Hell of a time getting in, and they'd have ample warning before it even reached the door.
No, when it's just the two of them in the back of the shop, he can-- not relax, exactly, but let down his guard a little. Enough to get drunk, to close his eyes, to drowse lazily on the sofa-- although he still doesn't sleep. Aziraphale is there, and he'll let Crowley know if something happens, and nothing will happen to him without Crowley there to intervene. They're together, and if they're not safe, they are at least protected.
But in crowds--
Hell has a lot of spies, is the thing. Back in the old days, before they'd had human communication technology to use, they'd handled contact in a few different ways. Most times, there'd just be a flash of hellfire before a mysteriously-stained letter materialized in front of him. But sometimes there'd be a personal contact. He'd be walking along a street, or sitting in a pub, and suddenly there'd be a hand on his arm, a pair of eyes glittering in the darkness, and a gruff, whispered order about his next assignment before they were gone.
Even when they aren't delivering messages, Hell's spies are everywhere. Ears to the ground, eyes in every shadow. He doesn't think they go in much for possessing humans anymore, not like they did in the old days, but you never know. It's easier to steal a human's corporation than bother sending low-level imps up top with their own. And in a crowd, it's too hard to keep track of everyone's intentions, or who might be a little more occult than they seem.
(Too many chances for false positives, too. There aren't a lot of witches around these days, but in a big city like London, there are enough.)
So they go out, and they eat lunch, or dinner. They visit museums, or go to the theatre, because Aziraphale loves these things, and Crowley wants Aziraphale to have the things he loves. But every time they're surrounded by people, and he can't concentrate on listening to Aziraphale and monitoring their surroundings both. Eventually he gets distracted, losing track of their conversation because he was too busy scanning for danger, or getting lost in their debate only to flinch when some hapless human gets too close or stares a little too long. It leaves him wound tight, joints aching from the tension threaded through them, doing his best to hold it together long enough to drive Aziraphale home.
He never lingers at the bookshop, on those days. He can't.
Instead, he goes back to the flat and shouts at the plants, and he feels a little better.
(But not really.)
He knows Aziraphale suspects something is wrong; he can see it in the glances the angel gives him, the slight frown hovering about his lips. But, ever the gentleman, he doesn't pry.
Time passes. Things are fine, or mostly fine, and if the fear isn't getting better than at least things aren't getting worse, either.
Until, inevitably, it all goes wrong.
It happens like this.
They'd decided to take a holiday, and ended up in Paris for almost a week. They took a tour around the Louvre, wandered through the Bastille, and visited a truly excessive number of creperies as Aziraphale searched for some that could match the ones from 1793 in quality. In short, they'd played tourist, visiting all the famous sights and quite a few of the lesser-known ones. It had been fun. Aziraphale had been delighted, and Crowley enjoyed seeing the angel so happy, no matter how many sarcastic remarks he made about the crepes and fashion to die for.
The problem was, they were hardly the only ones playing tourist. There were crowds everywhere, and Crowley's nerves were worn thinner and thinner with each day that passed. It was simply too much. By the end of their trip he was ready to crawl out of his skin, practically twitching every time someone walked by, and his responses had gone beyond clipped and into monosyllabic. Aziraphale was clearly worried, but Crowley brushed him off, making excuses that felt flimsy even to him. He didn't want Aziraphale to worry. There was nothing to worry about, anyway. It was nothing Crowley hadn't dealt with before, and and nothing he wouldn't deal with again. He was fine. He wouldn't ruin their trip over his useless nerves. He could hold it together long enough to get back home. Maybe he'd take a nap, nightmares be damned.
He'd be fine.
They made it back to England, and Aziraphale suggested a quick trip round the park before they parted, to visit the ducks after their time away, and Crowley had agreed. Of course he had. It was a beautiful day, and he was fine. It should be just the thing for soothing the nerves, a quiet walk in the park.
But then-- then there was someone coming up from behind him, running down the path in a hurry. They were pushing forward through the crowds, something glinting in their hand, and he--
He hadn't thought, he'd just moved, shoving Aziraphale behind him and lashing out--
And then there was just a human on the ground, clutching their nose and shouting, blood trickling between their fingers. There was Aziraphale, giving him a shocked look before he bent down to help, and there were people crowding in all around, trying to see what had happened, what was wrong--
He can't. He can't. It's too much, all of it, and he tosses out a clumsy miracle to make sure none of the humans notice as he abruptly teleports himself back to his flat.
He stumbles as he appears, trying to pretend he's not shaking. He looks around, and he's in the plant room, of course he is, and the words start tumbling out of him as he paces around, all the tension that's been building up over the last week finally unleashed.
“I can't believe you,” he snarls at the plants. “It was one week. One week! Hardly any time at all! But you couldn't even handle that much! Just how pathetic are you?”
He stalks over to a fern, holding the tip of one vibrant frond up with a sneer. “Look at this! You're practically falling apart, and nothing's even happened! Everything is just the same as it always was! You're ridiculous, the lot of you!” He begins pacing again, digging fingers into his hair.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he hisses. “You're so stupid. You're fine, everything's fine! Why can't you just get ahold of yourself?!”
He'd been-- he'd been so sure, just for a moment. The human had messy black hair, a flash of red on their hat, and for a second, it had looked so much like Beelzebub...
“What is wrong with you?” he snarls, fingers still raking through his hair. “Why can't you just get over this already? Everything's fine! It's practically perfect, you've got everything you ever wanted, so why can't you just get it together?”
He's aware, distantly, that he's no longer even pretending to be yelling at the plants. He can't bring himself to care. His breath is coming in heavy, harsh pants, as he coils tighter, clawed fingers digging into his arms.
“You're better than this, so just—just act like it, just BE BETTER!” he shouts, and the empty concrete walls echo it back at him. He slumps, standing in the center of the plant room, curled in on himself, and feels very, very alone.
The silence stretches around him for a long moment, and he bows under the weight of it. Even the rustle of the plants fades. And then it's broken by the soft scuff of a footstep behind him.
He turns, whirling to face the threat, just as an all too familiar voice calls “...Crowley?”
Crowley freezes.
Aziraphale. Aziraphale is here. That means he-- he saw. His mind spins. How much did he see? All of it? Just the last bit?
Too much, regardless.
He grits his teeth, unable to speak, his throat thick with shame. What can he say? What explanation could he give? Aziraphale was never supposed to know about any of this. He turns away instead, his whole body a single line of tension, and turns his gaze down. He can't bear to see whatever judgment must wait in the angel's eyes.
There's a long, brittle silence, broken by the soft echoes of footsteps on the concrete floors. Crowley suppresses a flinch. He's not sure what Aziraphale will do, honestly. He fears disapproval. He dreads pity.
Maybe, if he's very lucky, Aziraphale will do them both the favor of ignoring this whole mess. Just carry on as if it never happened.
He waits for Aziraphale to say something, to demand answers of him that he can't give, to turn and walk away and leave him.
Instead, there's one footstep, and then another, and suddenly Aziraphale's arms are wrapped around him in a tight embrace. Crowley stiffens, arms held out awkwardly at his sides, unsure what to do with them. He waits for Aziraphale to speak.
He doesn't.
The silence stretches on, filling up the bleak space around them, and Aziraphale still says nothing. Only holds Crowley as if he means to continue until the world falls down around them.
Crowley doesn't know how to process this.
It's not the judgment he'd been expecting, not the condemnation he'd feared. It's not even pity. Instead it feels like- like sympathy.
Aziraphale- Aziraphale just saw him at his worst, and he's still here.
Oh, he's snapped at the angel before-- shoving him against the wall at the abbey comes to mind-- but even then, it had been a contained sort of outburst. Even in anger, he'd been careful not to push too hard, not to risk hurting the angel.
This-- what he did with the plants was something else. Something raw and festering and ugly. Exactly the sort of cruel, vicious behavior demons were known for. Unforgiveable, that's what I am, he'd said, and it was true, but it was only in moments like this that he really felt it. That he lashed out and knew he looked just as a demon should. Cruel. Malicious. Irredeemable.
There was a difference between snarling at Aziraphale “I'm a demon, I'm not nice,” and actually demonstrating it.
But Aziraphale had seen all of it, and instead of censure, he offered comfort.
It's silent around them, still, but it's no longer the bleak emptiness of before. There's a peace to this quiet. A feeling of invitation, like sunlight filtering through the leaves on a breezy summer day. A silence that offers shelter without expectation. Someplace where he doesn't have to pretend. Where he can let go and just-- be.
Slowly, the tension bleeds from Crowley's body, and he starts to tremble. All his fear and rage has been spent, leaving him hollow and exhausted. He wants only to sink into the warmth that Aziraphale offers; that calm, steady presence.
Aziraphale doesn't have his wings out, but Crowley thinks he can feel the brush of feathers around him anyway.
Crowley shudders in a breath and wonders, is this what safety feels like? Having the freedom to fall apart, and know you have someone to pick you up again after? Someone who can see you at your worst, and not flinch?
He brings his own arms up, and carefully tucks himself into Aziraphale's chest. The angel's heartbeat is steady under his palms, and gradually, his own heartbeat slows to match it.
They'll have to talk about all this later, Crowley knows. This isn't something that can be fixed overnight.
But that's later.
For now, he holds Aziraphale tight, and for the first time in all his long existence, he feels safe.