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Crowley turned away from his window as lightning cracked the sky; thousands of electric blue veins shattering the swirling inky-gray clouds. He imagined his heart looked something like those murky clouds in the seconds after lightning vanished. Falling from God’s Grace was a lot like a thunderstorm. Another blinding flash illuminated the room, just as She had when relaying his sentence to Fall. “Please, please no,” He begged and crashed to his knees. Thunder reverberated through Crowley’s chest, replacing unconditional love with emptiness. Oh, that had been the worst. He never noticed how ingrained in his psyche Her love had been until she tore it from him in a bone-rattling rumble of anger. The loss left him so terribly hollow, he was afraid he’d shatter when he landed in Hell’s Pit. But even as he Fell, Crowley knew he wouldn’t be so lucky.
Falling.
Falling.
Falling.
Galaxies he built flashed past – dizzying arrays of swirling blues, greens, purples and pinks splashed across the unfathomable darkness. His arms reached for the stars, his fingers aching to touch his little creations once again.
Falling Harder.
Falling Faster.
Crowley’s white wings burst into flame as he careened toward Hell. He caught a feather between his fingers and watched the blaze engulf the brilliant ivory, leaving behind a shadowy whisper of his former beauty its wake. The wind swallowed Crowley’s screams as it howled in his ears.
Falling; Crashing.
He opened his serpentine eyes and saw a world on fire. One name perched on his newly forked tongue, “Aziraphale?”
Crowley blinked and the inferno vanished. He looked around his flat. Finding nothing amiss, the demon shook his head in a vain attempt to dislodge the memory. Unfortunately, unrelenting lightning and thunder dragged him down, deeper into his flashback. He had to get to the bookshop – to his angel. His wet footsteps sounded miles away as The Almighty’s voice filled his mind again. Shitshitshit! No!
Aziraphale felt the tell-tale twinge of a demonic miracle and glanced to his side. He swallowed his cheerful greeting as worry coiled around his chest. Crowley stood before him in rain-drenched clothes, shivering violently. “Crowley! Are you all right?” He searched for any visible signs of injury before he miracled his demon dry.
“‘M sssorry! I won’t asssk any more quessstionssss!”
Aziraphale’s brows furrowed. “Dear boy you haven’t asked me anything.”
“Pleasssse! ‘M sssso sssssorry!” He backed against a bookshelf as tears ran down his cheeks.
His demon’s serpentine eyes were focused on something Aziraphale couldn’t see and the poor boy was hissing. “Crowley, my dear, you’re safe.”
The demon searched for the source of the beloved voice. “Angel?” He asked, his breaths dangerously shallow. Although supernatural entities didn’t need oxygen, their corporations could hyperventilate. “Angel, where are you?” Crowley whined. He plummeted faster and faster, the wind screaming past his ears drowned out his Principality’s assurances.
“I’m right here, dear boy.” Aziraphale cautiously took Crowley’s hand. They so seldomly touched one another, he fretted the simple gesture may be too intimate. However, those slender fingers immediately tightened around his and gave him an affectionate squeeze. “Can you hear me, Crowley?”
“Yesssss, Angel.”
“Do you know where you are, dear boy?”
“Not ssssssssure.” He held tightly to the perfectly manicured hand tethering him to reality. Crowley shuddered. “Sssssscared.”
“Would a hug help?” He inquired softly. The offer felt strange on his tongue, but it seemed to be the right thing to say as Crowley leapt into his arms and wrapped his long limbs around the angel. Aziraphale held him securely to his chest. “There you are, my dear,” he murmured softly and settled onto the floor. “I have you, Crowley.” The principality made sure he didn’t smush any of those gangly limbs clinging to him. He took great care to hold his demon tightly, just as he’d watched Nanny Ashtoreth do with Warlock when the young boy had panic attacks.
A sudden burst of heat flooded his crotch. Oh-oh dear—his poor demon was having an accident. The torrent grew stronger, almost forceful, as cries shook the bony frame in his arms. “That’s all right, Crowley, you’re all right.” He held him close and whispered reassurances while his demon sobbed and wet. “You’re safe here. I have you, dear boy.” Aziraphale rocked Crowley slowly, rubbing his back. He didn’t care about the mess; his main concern was helping his demon calm down. “Crowley, I need you to breathe with me. Deep breaths, just like this, my dear.” He demonstrated. “Do you think you can do that?” Aziraphale felt the demon’s chest erratically rise and fall in time with his own. “Good, very well done.” He sat with him, waiting for his breathing to steady a bit. “Now, tell me, what are three things you can hear?”
Crowley shook his head and tightened his grip on the angel.
Aziraphale traced soft patterns along his demon’s back. “Crowley, dear,” he prompted gently, “Can you please list four things you can hear?”
He squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating. “H-heartbeat. Breathing – y-yours and m-mine. My voice.”
“Bravo, dearest.” He praised. “What are four things you feel?”
The demon kept his eyes closed and rubbed his cheek on the angel’s shirt. “Your s-s-shirt – ‘sss ssssoft.”
Aziraphale allowed himself a small smile. “Indeed, it is. Right, that’s one; three to go.”
“Okay.” Three sounded like far too many to list. He had to try – for his principality. “Your arms around m-me. And… and… umm… your breath on my face?”
“Very good, my dear! Just one more,” the angel encouraged.
One more – he could manage one. Crowley slowly took a mental inventory and worked his way down his body as he tried to locate a final sensation. Wet. His breath caught. He was wet. WET. He squirmed out of Aziraphale’s arms and stood. His angel’s trousers were soaked, too. Ohshitohshitohshit. Every instinct screamed for him to run – to get as far away from the principality as possible. Maybe if he bolted fast enough, his angel would never speak of it. He doubted he’d be able to meet Aziraphale’s eyes again – with or without his dark glasses. The cool tingle of a cleansing miracle washed over him and shame burned crimson in his cheeks. Crowley snarled, “Could’ve done that myself, angel!”
“Of course, you could have,” he replied softly. “I merely wished to help.” Aziraphale remained on the ground as he watched Crowley stalk to the door. Of course, the angel wanted him to stay – but he wouldn’t keep him against his will.
Crowley paused; his fingers wrapped around the handle. He looked out at the busy street and realized, with a start, he was already home. The principality had been his shelter since the day they met upon the wall. No other angel would offer a demon cover from the first rain – especially not beneath his wing. But Aziraphale had. Crowley sighed. Hanging his head, he trudged over to the couch and flopped down gracelessly. A few minutes passed as he silently mulled over an explanation. Finally, the demon settled on “Sorry.”
“You have done nothing which warrants an apology, my dear,” Aziraphale replied and carefully joined Crowley. He perched on the edge of the cushion, regarding his demon with soft concern.
He growled. “Bullocks, Angel. We both know what happened.” Crowley glanced at the principality’s pristine trousers. His shoulders fell as his cockiness rapidly dissipated. “It might happen again,” he admitted, color returning to his cheeks.
“Then we’ll take care of it,” Aziraphale replied matter-of-factly. He wanted, rather badly, to simply pull Crowley back into his arms and hold him until the storm ended. Perhaps, even longer. However, his demon was a prickly serpent and it wouldn’t do to scare him off. “If you do have another accident, what would you like me to do, my dear?”
He cringed. ‘Accident’ made him sound like a bloody child! Maybe that’s all he was — a weak, needy bastard. Crowley made a choked noise in the back of his throat. Pathetic excuse of a demon, he. But Crowley hadn’t heard any judgement in Aziraphale’s voice. He chanced a quick look at his angel; the principality’s soft, patient eyes melted his frustration. Evaporated anger gave way to a confusing tangle of emotions and Crowley’s bottom lip trembled. “Bath,” he managed.
Aziraphale nodded and smiled brightly. “Then a bath it will be.” A few miracles would do away with any threats lightning brought. His demon appeared to sink lower into the sofa. He clasped his hand once again and spoke gently but confidently. “My dear boy, I do not think any less of you for having a panic attack – nor for anything which occurred during said attack. Regardless of the circumstances, I would not think less of you for having an accident. I believe it took a great deal of courage for you to let go of that door handle and stay here with me. And I’m extraordinarily proud of you for doing so.”
“Really?” He whispered and blinked pesky tears from his eyes.
“Of course, my dear.”
Crowley pulled his knees to his chest. “The Fall – My Fall. That’s what… that’s why I…” Unable to get the words out, he shook his head.
Aziraphale scooted closer. “It must have been rather terrifying,” he sympathized.
The demon nodded and mumbled. “Thunderstorms sound like Falling, Angel.” He cleared his throat. “Guess that’s idiotic, huh?”
“No, no, not at all, my dear. In fact, a thunderstorm seems an appropriate comparison – at least, from what I understand.” Truly, the angel didn’t know much about Falling, though he’d heard a few rumors around Head Office, and none sounded very pleasant. “I’m more than willing to listen if you’d like to speak about it,” He offered.
Before Crowley realized what he was doing, he’d rested his head on Aziraphale’s leg and started describing his Fall in pain-staking detail. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he recalled the terrible way he received the news, his unceremonious plummet – those days, weeks, months? He wasn’t sure. Any control he’d had vanished in the blink of an eye. Crowley recounted the loss of his wings, mourning what they had become, and the sheer agony of finally, finally hitting the bottom of Hell’s Pit. He admitted opening his eyes and seeing a terrible world on fire. Strong arms tightened around him, snapping him from his memory. He snuggled into the embrace.
Aziraphale whispered, “Thank you for telling me, Crowley. I’m so very sorry.” He knew the phrase wasn’t nearly enough to convey all that he wished, but it was the best he could do at the moment.
Crowley gave him a squeeze and buried his face in his angel’s shoulder. He felt the depths of Aziraphale’s sorrow in those few words. They stayed entangled for a good while, until Crowley slowly let go. He rested his head once again on his angel’s thigh. “Go on and read something, Angel,” Crowley muttered, unwilling to give up his cozy, safe spot.
He chuckled and miracled a novel over, skimming the well-read pages as he stroked his demon’s hair. Around three-fourths of the way through, the angel found himself fretting more than reading. Aziraphale worried Crowley was worse off than he’d let on. His demon had excused himself to use the facilities thrice in the past hour, alone. Not to mention that each time the poor thing came back looking even more put-out than the trip prior. “Are you all right?”
“’M fine, Angel,” he replied and resumed his position, resting his head in the angel’s lap. Thunder boomed overhead and Crowley flinched. He made sure Aziraphale’s nose was thoroughly buried in his novel before surreptitiously checking his crotch. Damp. He snarled under his breath, “Bullockssssss!” ‘Course a little demonic miracle would fix it – if only he had the fortitude to perform one.
Aziraphale set his book aside. “What was that, dear?” He asked, taking off his reading glasses.
“Nothing, Angel.” Crowley failed to deflect the disbelieving look he received. “Ssssstorm,” he admitted.
Ah, yes. Quite honestly, the angel didn’t pay much attention to the weather and was able to tune it out rather well. But, of course, his demon was denied such a luxury. “Perhaps something to take your mind off of it? Might I suggest a film?”
He perked up at the idea and quickly found himself lounging in front of a large flat-screen showing “The Phantom of The Opera”. Crowley curled up tightly against his angel. Under normal circumstances, he couldn’t allow himself to be so clingy. But these weren’t exactly normal, were they? Another menacing growl of thunder shook the bookshop. He shuddered. Nope, definitely not normal, the demon decided.
Aziraphale spread a tartan blanket over both of them and scared, serpentine eye met his. “It’s all right, my dear,” he said without missing a beat. “You’re safe here.” The angel draped his arm around Crowley, his heart in his throat. Oh, he hoped he didn’t do the wrong thing. Beneath his arm, tightly coiled muscles started to slowly relax. Aziraphale smiled. He did his best to keep his attention on the film, but his gaze repeatedly found its way to his demon.
Crowley sleepily rested his head on Aziraphale’s lap. He’d been dozing for the better part of an hour. It wasn’t his fault, really, his angel’s thigh just happened to be a perfect pillow. And he wasn’t complaining about the perfectly manicured fingers toying with his hair, either. Crowley closed his eyes again, drifting off as the film drowned out the sounds of the storm. A resounding boom jarred him from his stupor. Crowley jumped; his fists balled in the angel’s clothes as he clung to him. “Not falling,” he mumbled to himself and buried his face in Aziraphale’s plump midsection.
“Correct, you’re not falling, dear boy. You’re beside me, safe in my bookshop,” he affirmed, rubbing his demon’s back.
A faint hissing filled Crowley’s ears as his crotch grew warm and wet. Shit! He wiggled and pressed his thighs together, trying his best to clamp down on the flow. Despite his efforts, he couldn’t stop urinating. No, no, no… Maybe Aziraphale wouldn’t notice—he was under the blanket after all. His face burned as wee drenched his legs, pooling around him on the sofa. He wasn’t kidding anyone; of course, his principality would notice! It’s pretty bloody hard to miss a lake of piss on a pristine, white couch. Not to mention the incriminating tears on his angular cheeks. He angrily wiped them away, but more fell in their place. The demon choked on a sob as his stream dwindled.
“It’s all right, Crowley. I’m not upset, my dear, everything can be taken care of with a miracle and a bath,” he said softly and did his best to ignore the urine slowly seeping into his trousers. Aziraphale kept gently stroking Crowley’s back while patiently waiting for his demon to finish. Once it seemed he was done, the angel offered Crowley his hand, “Come along, dear boy, let’s have that bath I promised.”
The demon took it, his slender fingers shaking badly. He pulled himself to his feet and a final bit of piss dribbled into his underwear, as if to spite him. Crowley bit down a whimper. Aziraphale lead him to the washroom where an oversized tub readily awaited. He hardly noticed as the angel stripped him and guided him into the flowery-smelling suds. Crowley sat, dumbstruck in the bathwater and stared at the bubbles. Bubbles! He was a bloody demon for Someone’s sake! Part of him wanted to lay back and indulge in the simple pleasure of being bathed. Crowley had often hoped Aziraphale would take care of him, but he was far too terrified to admit it to himself, much less, his angel. Now, the demon had all the attention he’d imagined but was far too distracted to properly enjoy it. Instead, his accident kept replying in his head as he, despite the principality’s words, fretted over whether Aziraphale’s perception of him had changed. Well, of course it had! 6000-year-old demons don’t go about wetting themselves, do they? Crowley groaned. His angel couldn’t possibly want him around after something like this.
Aziraphale kept his attention on Crowley’s fingers as he affectionately scrubbed. He figured his poor demon was still agonizing over the days’ events. “I’m glad you came here, dear boy,” He said softly
His jaw dropped. Damn, his angel knew him well. “Why?”
“Because you were severely frightened,” Aziraphale replied, sensibly, “and I’m honored that you trust me to care for you.”
Crowley wanted desperately to believe him. But that voice in his head chanted that his angel only cared because he was bound by his obligation as a principality. “Come on, Angel, just sssay it!” He loathed that the hiss in his voice betrayed just how vulnerable he felt.
His brows furrowed and he cocked his head. “Say what, exactly?”
“I don’t know!” He gestured wildly as he searched for the words. “Whatever it issssss you’re going to about me pissssssing mysssself!”
“Well, I hadn’t planned to say much of anything else, dear boy.” Aziraphale paused and set aside the washrag. He looked his demon in the eyes. “Given your elevated emotional state, as often brought forth during and after episodes of PTSD, I’m not surprised you wet yourself.” He saw Crowley cringe and immediately took his hand. “As I said before, you have nothing to be embarrassed about, my dear. We were the only two here, and I’m certainly not judging you, nor am I going to tell anyone.”
“But how? How can you not judge me? I… I—” He stammered, unable to verbalize it again.
Aziraphale’s voice softened. “Crowley, I’ve known you for 6,000 years and in all that time, you never truly spoke of your Fall. Of course, I longed ask if you wished to talk about it; but I hadn’t wanted to upset you, my dearest.” He, unsuccessfully, tried to clear the tightness from his throat. “I care very deeply for you, Crowley. I-I believe I love you.” Yes, the words felt right. Aziraphale nodded and repeated himself confidently, “I love you, my dear. And I recognize that it was rather difficult for you to allow yourself to be so vulnerable as you confided in me. I am so very proud of you for doing so, dear boy.”
Crowley bit his lip to keep it from trembling. “Love you, too.”
“Are you all right, my dear?”
His eyes burned from the incessant tears, his chest ached with tumultuous emotion, and his skull dully throbbed. Shit, he was exhausted. But it was a good exhausted. Surprisingly, Crowley actually felt better. He mumbled, “Just tired, Angel.”
“Right, then, let’s get you out of the tub and into some fresh pajamas,” Aziraphale replied, a big, soft towel already in hand. He wrapped his demon up tightly in the plush fabric.
“I can dry myself,” Crowley said, not making the slightest move to take the towel. Of course, he’d never admit it to the angel, but he enjoyed feeling Aziraphale’s perfectly manicured hands care for him. Crowley allowed himself to commit the glorious sensation to memory. Finally, he indulged the gentle, loving touches for which he’d longed – even before the beginning of time. A soft cry escaped his lips and he clamped his jaw shut. Once dry, he thanked his angel and dressed himself quickly, hoping to keep some shard of his reputation intact.
Aziraphale led the demon to his room and turned down the bed. He tucked Crowley in beneath a tartan comforter. “Sleep well, my dear,” the angel was poised to leave, but slender fingers around his wrist stopped him. “What is it, dear boy?” He worried he’d forgotten something.
Stay! Crowley struggled to move the word from his head to his mouth. It felt far too pathetic to utter; especially since Aziraphale had just spent hours tending to him. Instead, his fingers remained glued to his angel’s arm.
The principality looked from the hand desperately clutching his wrist to the barely-concealed panic in those serpentine eyes. “Perhaps a rest would do me some good as well.” He clambered in as best he could and settled against the headboard. Aziraphale gently guided Crowley so the demon’s head rested on his chest. “There, now, that’s better.” A gangly arm wrapped around his torso as Crowley made himself comfortable, nuzzling deeper into his chest. The principality rubbed his demon’s back, “That’s it. I’m here with you, my dear.”
Crowley smiled and listened to his angel’s strong, steady heartbeat as he drifted to sleep.