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Over the millennia, Crowley has come close to mastering the art of sleep. Sending his consciousness out into the void, neither waking nor dreaming.
Crowley has come close to mastering the art.
And sometimes, still, all his mastery fails him, and his void becomes a horror, filled with falling and fire and fear. Usually, when this happens, he wakes up to find himself on the wall, or ceiling, or floor, every muscle tense, throat locked in a silent scream, eyes burning with unshed tears.
Never before has Crowley woken from a nightmare to find himself in the arms of an angel.
“Aziraphale?”
“Shh, shh, you’re safe, I’m here, it’s okay, it was a dream…”
Never before has Crowley cried upon waking from a nightmare. This time, he does. He lets the tears flow, and they do not burn, and as Aziraphale’s hand moves in rhythmic, soothing circles on his back, Crowley can feel the flames retreating and his body unclenching.
He’s safe. Aziraphale is here. It’s okay. It was a dream.
Never before has Crowley fallen asleep again so soon after a nightmare. Drifting back to the void, he thinks dreamily that this is the true art. An angel’s arms.