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Crawley only ever had one nightmare.
Humans dreamt of falling, dropping from an undefined height, jerking awake at the last second to land, safe but terrified, on their beds.
Not Crawley.
His nightmare started with the landing, the pain of it, limbs shattering against the stone floor. He always began with his face in the dirt, on his stomach. Blind in the darkness, doubled over with hunger. Usually screaming.
They didn’t hear him.
There was always a they.
Far above, voices echoing down the long, long stone-lined drop. Clamoring but indistinct.
When he managed to roll onto his back, which wasn’t always, he could see the walls stretching up, up for eternity, the opening high above smaller than his thumb, but the light of it blindingly bright still.
They were feasting up there. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he was certain, a feast that went on forever as he writhed in pain, starving, begging for a scrap, begging for relief, anything.
He was never hungry in reality, but in his nightmare the hunger never ceased, gnawing, aching, growing inside him as he twisted and howled at the bottom of the well.
He thought of it as a well for a long time; only much later did he learn the word for it.
Oubliette.
--
He didn’t have the nightmare every time he slept. If he did, he’d never sleep again.
But when it came, it was always the same.
Little changes. Different bones broken. Different spots in the tiny cell. Sometimes there were spikes, if he’d been really stressed about something.
But always, the diners above carried on, ignoring his cries.
And why not? What was he but garbage, cast aside, discarded, gone from sight and soon forgotten?
Oubliette.
The forgetting place.
--
Crawley didn’t remember when the first change appeared. Some time after Eden, which didn’t narrow it down since that was when time began.
He rolled over, looked up. And someone looked back.
--
Someone, please. He begged in the dream. Never seemed to be able to stop himself.
I’m still alive down here! Please! Help me!
The pangs of hunger twisted in him. His stomach didn’t growl, it was far beyond that, just a long unending pain through his gut.
God, Satan, Someone! Please! I’m starving! Please!
And then, one night, as that distant face gazed at him, something tumbled down. Small. Glinting just a little in the light.
It bounced against the walls, ricocheting from one side to the other, again and again, to land with a crunch somewhere in the corner.
The face disappeared.
Ignoring the scream in his limbs, both legs broken this time, one arm as well, he forced himself back onto his stomach, searched the pitch shadows for any sign of the object.
There. A patch of darkness that was a little less black.
He wriggled towards it for an eternity, arm reaching, straining, until it finally touched something other than hard, smooth stone slick with Crowley’s blood.
Rough on one side, silky on the other, the curve inside glittering with faint opalescence.
An oyster shell.
--
For a thousand years, they tumbled down, the cast-offs of the feast.
A chicken bone.
Shattered nut shells.
A sprinkling of wine, so dispersed he could only just taste it pressing his tongue to the stone.
More garbage, thrown down to be forgotten beside him.
Or, perhaps, a gift. An offering. A lifeline.
A spark of hope in the darkness.
It should have made the nightmare easier to bear. But it did not.
There was a reason the Greeks considered hope an evil.
--
Every time the dream began, he fell anew, his bones freshly broken. Yet at the same time, he could remember all the torment of the thousands of years before.
So, this time, as he twisted his broken spine until his eyes found the light above, he searched for that distant face, for the scraps of food thrown to him.
Instead, another body fell beside him, landing with a crunch, and a scream.
What’s happening? Where am I? Help! Someone help me!
Crowley tried to turn towards the voice, but his back was too far gone. He strained his neck leaning back tear-filled eyes.
He knew that voice.
Aziraphale!
Can anyone hear me? Help! HELP! Oh, God, please, his voice broke into sobs, I’m down here, help me!
Crowley screamed his name, over and over, pressed his limbs to the ground, ignored the pain as he moved, inch by negligible inch, across the endless, endless floor.
--
Crowley woke up with a gasp, hands reaching out, still trying to grasp the pale form in the dark. But there was nothing, no one in the room but him.
As always, he had to command his heart to stop hammering, remind his lungs how to breathe, in then out. Had to fight the feeling that something was wrong, that reality was shifting. That the dream was the truth and this the lie.
But this time, he had more to contend with than the memories of his own screams.
Barely pausing to dress – tunic, shoes, cloak, more than enough for the middle of the night – he tore through the streets of London. It was only his third time in the city since its founding. Still wasn’t sure he liked it – even less in the midst of a storm, rain pouring around him, thunder echoing across the land – but it had made a good meeting spot to discuss certain points of future business. Certain Arrangements.
The rooms Aziraphale rented were on the other side of the city.
He collapsed against the door, hammering on it, choking for air amidst the slashing raindrops. “Angel! Aziraphale! Can you hear me? Aziraphale!”
The door swung open, and he very nearly collapsed onto the soft figure within, blue eyes blinking in the low glow of the fire. “What – what are you playing at?” Aziraphale’s face collapsed into a scowl. “We agreed not to meet again for the rest of the year.”
Crowley ignored that, grasped the tunic, soaking wet fingers sinking into the soft white wool. Of course Aziraphale was fully dressed in the middle of the night, as if he may be summoned to the king’s court any moment.
“Are you…” The angry frown softened into something more like concern. “My dear fellow, are you alright? What happened?” He leaned out the door, glancing up the street, trying to penetrate the gloom. “Did someone…contact you?”
It seemed foolish now. Obviously, obviously not, but he had to be sure.
“Aziraphale did you…do you…” He swallowed, gripped Aziraphale’s tunic a little tighter. “Do you ever have nightmares?”
“Nightmares? I never dream at all, that I can recall, and I hardly ever sleep.”
“But did you – I mean…” Get a grip, Crowley. “When was the last time you slept? Not tonight?”
“Good lord, no, not for at least forty years.” A soft hand landed atop Crowley’s, gently pulling it free, clasping it. The fingers of the other hand stroked Crowley’s knuckles. “Are you alright, dear? Do you…wish to speak of it?”
He had never, ever spoken of it before.
A streak of lightning cracked the sky, and the thunder chased after it.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Crowley pulled his hand free. “I was just…I just…” He tugged at his unbelted tunic, pulled his cloak more tightly around his shoulders.
“Are you…having second thoughts? About the Arrangement?”
In the darkness, a voice screamed for help, begging, pleading, but only in Crowley’s mind.
“What? No.” He scoffed, tossing his head. “Not a chance. You – Angel – you’re the one with the doubts.”
“Only because – Oh, I know you think me a fool, but I know what they would do to you if they found out.”
He was a fool, of course. There was nothing they could do to Crowley that they hadn’t already done. He was, in a twisted way, completely safe.
It wasn’t what they could do to him that scared Crowley now.
--
Aziraphale! Aziraphale! I’m right here!
Oh, God, somebody help! Help me, please! I can’t – I can’t breathe – my ribs – Help me!
They’d fallen at the same time tonight. Crowley reached, grasped, pulled himself across the floor, inch by pain-wracked inch. Not even three feet separated them, but it may as well have been the length of the universe.
Please! Please! I’m down here! I don’t know – Please! I’m still here! Help me!
Crowley strained his arm, but it still fell short. Aziraphale! Right here, just – just reach for my hand, I’m right here!
But no matter how he called, Aziraphale never heard him.
Finally, Crowley threw back his head and howled. You bastards! You fucking animals! He’s one of you! He doesn’t belong down here! Take him back!
The diners up above never hesitated in their meal.
--
Over the centuries, the dream changed very little.
Sometimes Aziraphale begged for help, for food, for a thought from his compatriots above.
Other times he whimpered in pain, in hunger, in loneliness.
Every time, a little weaker.
Every time, Crowley landed three feet away, but they may as well have been trapped in different cells, a continent apart.
Lying there, seeing the pain on his best friend’s face, watching the angelic glow drain from his body, was the worst torment Crowley had ever suffered.
--
One night, Aziraphale crashed to the ground, and made no sound at all.
Angel?
The hand stirred in the darkness, but nothing else moved.
Paralyzed from the ribs down, Crowley pressed his hands to the floor propelling himself forward. Centimeter by centimeter.
Aziraphale. I’m…I’m here…
The head turned to face him. Blue eyes glazed, distant, unfocused. He coughed, blood leaking from his mouth. C…Crowley…?
Yes! Oh, Someone, yes, it’s me. I’m here. I’m here, Aziraphale!
I can’t… he coughed again. Can’t see you. The hand fumbled vaguely. Are you…?
Crowley reached, but was still too far away. I’m coming, Angel. Hold on. Hands pressed again to the slick stone, another push.
They aren’t coming for me. Not ever. Aziraphale’s lips twitched. I think I don’t exist anymore.
Crowley flung out his hand, his own cracked and broken nails falling just short of Aziraphale’s, still well-manicured after all this time. No, no, you’re here. I’m here. Just hold on.
I’m sorry, Crowley. I can’t…I don’t…
He could see the life fading from those eyes.
No! NO! One more push and he was past the hand, reaching for the white robes, probably stained with the blood and the mud and the filth of the hole, but he grabbed them, pulled Aziraphale to him –
Already cold.
--
Crowley woke up screaming.
Aziraphale lifted his eyes from his book, frowning with concern in the soft glow of his angelic light. “My dear fellow, whatever is the matter?”
“No – I – I –” Crowley kicked the blankets aside, squirmed across the bed, pressing himself against Aziraphale, until he could feel his warmth, his heartbeat, fingers burrowing into that tartan flannel.
“Crowley…”
“Here…” he gasped holding on as tightly as he could. He never cried while awake, but his voice felt close to breaking. “’M here, Angel. Right here. I just…I’m…”
After a moment, the soft slide of a book placed on the bedside table.
And two arms, strong as steel, soft as clouds, warm as a summer’s day, wrapped around Crowley.
“Hush now, dear. It’s alright. I’m right here.”
--
“It was just a dream,” Crowley said, though he still hadn’t let go of Aziraphale’s hand. “Bad dream, but…you don’t need to fuss.”
“Nonsense.” Rain tapped on the kitchen windows as the kettle finished its boil. “Anything that scared you so badly is worth fussing over. Though I will need this hand to finish making you cocoa.”
“Don’t need cocoa,” he muttered, staring at the black mug with the coiled-serpent handle. But he didn’t need to see the angel’s face to know how those eyebrows were raised. Groaning, he let go of the hand, instead wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s soft middle, burying his face in the back of his shoulder.
“That’s a little better,” Aziraphale chided, voice gentle.
Even in the middle of the night, their cottage was bright, warm, open – everything the pit in his dream was not. No sound but that of the rain outside. Cozy was not something Crowley would ever admit to wanting, but right now, he soaked it all in, shivering despite the hot mug in his hands.
Aziraphale led him to the sofa, settling down in the corner, and held his arms wide. Crowley slowly sat beside him, still hesitant, still waiting for it to hurt again, for it to all go dark.
Until he leaned back into that bottomless warmth, felt those arms twine about him, pulling him close, keeping him safe.
“Now, why don’t you tell me about it?”
Crowley shook his head.
“Come on, dear. I’m sure –”
“Doesn’t matter. It wasn’t real.” He took a sip of the cocoa. Just a quick cup of the cheap stuff with hardly a dash of milk, but it wasn’t bad.
Aziraphale tutted, but instead of complaining, he asked, “Do you just want to sit here for a bit? Not talk of anything?”
Crowley nodded. Aziraphale settled in a little more comfortably, pressing his lips to the back of Crowley’s head, and didn’t say another word.
Another sip of the cocoa. Really, not bad at all. It was like ambrosia. Food for the gods at an unending feast.
“I, uh…” He cleared his throat. “I only ever have one nightmare…”
--
It seemed to take hours to tell, but at the same time there was little to say. It helped that he wasn’t looking Aziraphale in the eye, instead staring out the rain-streaked window, at the ghostly shapes of the rosebushes tossing in the wind.
“You never said anything,” Aziraphale finally managed.
“Nh. Wasn’t real. Nothing to talk about, is there?”
“Crowley.” A hand brushed through his hair. “You’ve been watching me die by inches for a thousand years. How is that nothing to talk about?” A shrug. “And you say it’s one continuous dream?”
“Yuh. I fall in fresh every time, but the rest is…yeah.”
“And…next time?”
Crowley shrugged, feeling his shoulders glide across Aziraphale’s chest. “Same as ever. Trapped in an oubliette. Alone. Forgotten. It’s never going to change.”
“What about me? Where will I be next time you have this dream?”
Crowley sat up, pulling himself away from the warmth, letting the cold air wake him with a slap of reality. “I…I dunno. Doesn’t matter.” He tried to take another drink, but the mug was empty. “I guess…maybe you’ll be back up at the feast. Where you belong.”
“That doesn’t seem likely, does it?” Aziraphale asked softly, taking the mug and setting it aside. “Besides, that’s not where I belong.”
“Maybe you’ll…you’ll die again. Every time. Just those last few seconds and then…gone.”
“Perhaps.” Aziraphale took his hands. “I’m not sure that fits the pattern, either.”
Crowley cleared his throat, but didn’t trust his voice to stay steady. “You might.” He cleared it again. “Might still be there. Your body. Just lying there. And I’ll watch it…Mmmmmh.” Clenched his jaw. “I’ll have to see it…” The sob he’d been holding back finally escaped, and he squeezed Aziraphale’s hands hard enough to break a human’s. “I don’t want to see that, Angel. I know it isn’t you, it shouldn’t matter, but I can’t – I can’t watch that…”
Once more, Aziraphale gathered him into his arms, and for the first time, Crowley cried. Great, hiccupping sobs, tears pressed into Aziraphale’s shoulder.
Aziraphale rubbed his back, waiting for the storm to subside. He finally asked, gently, “How often do you have this dream?”
“Dunno. Never really tracked it.” Crowley sniffed miserably, head still resting on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Couple times a century? Once or twice?”
“Then we have time.” Aziraphale pressed his hands to Crowley’s shoulders, pushed him to sit upright and face that beaming smile. Then he cupped Crowley’s face in his hands, brought him down to press foreheads together. “And we will find a way. To stop the dream. Or to change it. Or to put me – the real me – in there with you. I don’t know. But we will find a way.”
Crowley nodded wordlessly, and Aziraphale looped his arms around his neck, pulling him closer so their noses brushed as well.
“Because, my dear, you are never alone. And you will never be forgotten.”