Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Demons didn’t dream. At least, they weren’t supposed to. Then again, they weren’t really supposed to sleep at all[1], but Crowley had never considered himself a typical demon. While others were more hell-bent on tempting humans to sin, Crowley was much more fond of minor inconveniences – creating cracks in the sidewalk for people to trip over, giving out the wrong directions when asked, and inventing pop-up ads that catered to humans’ specific personal conversations which in turn led to a massive conspiracy theory that the government was listening in through everyone’s mobile devices[2]. This was always much more fun with much less cleanup.  

Of course, these minor inconveniences always managed to come back to bite him eventually. Sometimes he would forget which direction he should be driving in, trip over his own sidewalk crack without looking, and endure pop-up ad after pop-up ad any time he wanted to make trouble in an online forum or google a particularly interesting bit of pop culture.[3] As someone who had tried to keep up with the times for the past six thousand years, Crowley felt it was his demonic duty to ensure he was up to date with popular culture in order to stir up as much internet discourse as possible. He had seen every necessary film, listened to every necessary album[4], and tried every necessary trend. Meanwhile, almost all the films Aziraphale had seen were still in black and white.  

Ah, but he loved him for that.

Crowley had been enjoying not working for Hell for four entire months. He could operate by his own schedule on his own time, he could cause little bits of chaos without altering the state of humanity, and he could take Aziraphale on as many dinner dates as he wanted without having to keep looking over his shoulder. It was freeing, to say the least.

Granted, much had happened in the week before those four months began. He had (in no particular order) escaped Death twice[5], driven through fire, watched his beloved Bentley fall apart, stopped time, felt all the powers of Hell screaming within him as Satan appeared with a fury, walked through Heaven with Aziraphale’s face, and witnessed Aziraphale’s bookshop – the only place he had ever truly felt safe – burn, with the horrible, sinking feeling that Heaven or Hell had come for Aziraphale first, destroying him completely before Crowley had the chance to step in and save the day as he had so many times before. 

It had been one hell of a week.

After the end of the world didn’t happen, Crowley had been completely drained. He wasn’t sure if he had ever felt quite this run-down before. Once all the excitement had worn off and he and Aziraphale had sat down on the bench and waited for the bus, passing that bottle of wine back and forth, he could feel the exhaustion seeping into him as the minutes passed. He had slept through the bus ride home but forced himself to stay awake once he and Aziraphale had arrived at his flat, in order to discuss their outlandish plan to evade Heaven and Hell’s inevitable punishments. Once they had solidified their plan, Aziraphale had insisted that Crowley rest a bit, but with the looming anxiety of what was surely awaiting them in the morning, he found that sleep did not come easily.

It was a few days after the apocalypse didn’t happen that Crowley finally allowed himself to let down his guard. He and Aziraphale had had a lovely evening in, with soft music and a bottle of wine from the 60’s, and Crowley had laid down on Aziraphale’s sofa and dozed, as he had many times over the years.

That was when the first nightmare happened.

Crowley enjoyed sleeping. He even dreamed occasionally, but that was mostly when he wanted to. He saw sleep as an opportunity to escape the world, or pass the time when he was bored, or occasionally to get over a particularly ridiculous argument with Aziraphale. Dreams were usually pleasant, and he found that most of the time he could control what he said and did. He had only dreamt involuntarily a handful of times – a few nights when he had gone to bed drunk, and most recently, when he had spent two weeks in Aziraphale’s bed, sick as can be with no explanation as to why. His dreams had been a blur during those two weeks, but something about them was comforting. Perhaps it was the warmth of the bed, or the angel sleeping beside him. He had once heard a particularly dreary human in the 1700s refer to nightmares as “the companions of sleep.” He had laughed then, but three-hundred years later it made him pause. It had never happened to him before. So why was it happening now? Regardless, Crowley was sure that, wherever that dreary human had ended up, she was laughing at him now.

Crowley was fortunate enough to only have had a nightmare twice before, hundreds of years apart. One had occurred not long after the Great Flood – he was standing in a desert basin all alone, water falling from the sky and filling up, passing his knees, ankles, waist, until it submerged him completely. He had tried to swim upwards to safety, toward the small bit of sunlight shining through the clouds, but his limbs were too heavy and he could feel himself being pulled downward toward an inky black abyss. He had awoken in a cold sweat[6] and had been sure to stay away from large bodies of water for the next century or so. Luckily, the nightmare didn’t haunt him again after that.

The second nightmare he had had was in 1356, a few years after the worst of the Black Plague had passed. He had spent nearly a decade surrounded by disease and death with strict orders to do nothing, and though he didn’t admit it, it had weighed down on him after a while. Aziraphale had been there for a few months, but their paths had crossed and diverged as they often did, and he found that he was on his own again. There had been a small inn on the edge of a little country town where Crowley had decided to stay for a week and drink to celebrate[7] the ending of that whole nightmare. Most of the week had been a blur, but he had been good about sobering up each night before going to sleep. Unfortunately, there had been one particular night when Crowley had had so much to drink that he could hardly see his hand in front of his face. On that night, he had collapsed face-first into his small bed and stayed there for thirteen hours. That night, he dreamt of death and illness like he had never before. After he had awoken – with a doozy of a headache, no less— he promised himself that he would never go to bed drunk again.[8] Thankfully, no more nightmares plagued him after that.

Until three days after the not-so-end of the world.

Crowley had never had a nightmare like that one before. What began as a peaceful doze quickly descended into a deep-yet-fitful sleep, one that he couldn’t seem to bring himself out of. The nightmare was so vivid that he wasn’t sure it was a nightmare at all. Perhaps he had just dreamt up reality for the past few days.

The bookshop was on fire. All of the books Aziraphale had loved and worked tirelessly to preserve, burning away to ash. The comfort and safety had been stripped away, replaced only by the scent of burning paper and the thick smoke in the air. Crowley was suddenly grateful that he didn’t need to use his lungs.

What worried him more than the destruction of the one place he felt safe was the absence of the one being that made him feel safer. Aziraphale was gone. Not the temporary sort of gone, the “I’m going to nip out for some scones, dear, do you want anything” sort of gone, just gone. He couldn’t feel him anywhere.

He was too late.

Crowley cried out, cursing Heaven and Hell, and all who tried to keep them apart. He cursed himself for not acting sooner. There was a deep, burning ache in his chest he was sure was not from smoke inhalation. He could feel tears in his eyes that he knew were not from the ash in the air.

Aziraphale was gone. He had lost him. It didn’t matter that the world would end in a few hours, for Crowley, it had all come crashing down in that moment.

“Crowley! Crowley, dearest, wake up!”

Crowley had jolted awake to find soft but steady hands on his shoulders. He was drenched in a cold sweat again, and he couldn’t remember where he was. The blanket that had apparently been covering him was kicked to the floor, and he was trembling. When his vision came into focus, he found Aziraphale’s kind but concerned eyes staring down at him. It had all been a dream.

Thank somebody, he thought to himself. Aziraphale was fussing over him but he batted him away[9], pulled the blanket up and went back to sleep. By some (potentially-angelic) miracle, the rest of his sleep was dreamless.

As soon as he awoke, Aziraphale was there with questions, but Crowley simply shrugged them off and said he couldn’t remember. Speaking about it would only bring the memories back, and that wasn’t something he was quite ready to discuss with Aziraphale yet. He wanted to maintain some sense of dignity.

Of course, that sense of dignity all but vanished a month and a half later, when he and Aziraphale had holed up in the bookshop for two weeks, very ill with something akin to the flu, though neither of them could identify what had caused it. Aziraphale had seen Crowley vulnerable before, but Crowley wasn’t sure the angel had seen him quite this vulnerable. He hadn’t really ever intended for him to—at least not yet—but then again, Crowley hadn’t really ever intended to get sick. Though Aziraphale hadn’t said anything, he was sure it was the same the other way around. Nevertheless, they had managed.

After those two weeks, when there was nothing left to hide behind, Crowley had told Aziraphale how he felt in a run-down pub near the West End, and nearly cried when Aziraphale admitted that he felt the same way. They had agreed to take it slow, and that was exactly what they were doing.

Crowley didn’t care if it took another six thousand years for them to take another little step. It wasn’t as if the world was going to end anytime soon. Not again, anyway.

Even so, there were still some things he wasn’t quite ready to share with Aziraphale. One being the romance novel he had written in 1880 featuring a character with the angel’s exact likeness sweeping a man who looked peculiarly like Crowley off his feet and riding off into the sunset.

The other was that his nightmares had not only continued, but gotten significantly worse.

In fairness, they had gone away for a while. While his nightmare of the bookshop fire had left him shaken to his core, it all seemed to fade when he was with Aziraphale. He wasn’t sure if it was some greater angelic power or just the fact that after six thousand years, he felt safe with him, but whenever Aziraphale was at his side, Crowley dreamt of pleasant things.

It happened the first night he slept in his flat since he had spent those two weeks in the bookshop. Crowley had tossed and turned in his bed for hours in an attempt to get comfortable, cursing himself for the one thin, fancy blanket he owned. It clearly wasn’t doing its job, and he didn’t have nearly enough energy to miracle up another one. The first time Aziraphale had visited his flat, he had remarked about how dark and cold it was, and lamented the absence of warmer blankets, especially because Crowley was one who tended to get cold easily[10]. Crowley had merely snickered at him[11] and offered him some tea.

Now, Crowley was regretting not listening to Aziraphale’s advice. The blanket felt like paper compared to what he had been used to the past couple weeks, and he couldn’t seem to find a comfortable sleeping position. When he finally drifted off, he dreamt only of a burning bookshop and the end of the world.

Since then, the nightmares came nearly every night. Some nights were easier to forget than others, but it was the nights when he woke up with a scream still caught in his throat or drenched in another cold sweat that left him shaken for the rest of the day. It was far too inconvenient to go about one’s day replaying a terrible dream in one’s head, so after about two weeks, Crowley came up with a solution to his problem. Since sleeping seemed to be the cause of all his troubles at the moment, it was simple: he would just stop.

Of course, stopping one’s nearly-six-thousand-year routine was easier said than done. Demons didn’t need to sleep, that much was true, but Crowley had grown rather accustomed to it, and quitting was no easy feat. Nevertheless, he did his best to keep his head held high and his eyes wide open, with one goal in mind – avoid alerting Aziraphale to anything out of the ordinary.

This, of course, failed miserably.

***

The first of December arrived, cold and snowy, and Crowley had been sleep-free for two weeks. There had been no nightmares to have, and all things considered, he was doing pretty alright.[12] His mind was still getting used to the concept of no sleep, and he was a bit slower to think and act, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. Nothing he wasn’t sure would pass with time. After all, Aziraphale almost never slept, and he was doing just fine.

That particular morning of the first of December, Crowley sat down at his desk, wracking his brain for any indication of why today might be more important than other days. It couldn’t have been someone’s birthday. He and Aziraphale didn’t have birthdays[13], and anyone else he considered a “friend” or “acquaintance” had a birthday marked in his phone calendar[14]. He didn’t ever really plan to wish them happy birthdays[15], but Aziraphale seemed quite keen on keeping up with them and Crowley was sure there was no way Aziraphale would be able to figure out his own phone calendar[16].

So, what was so important about today?

A DING sounded from his phone as a text from Aziraphale came in.

Aziraphale: Good morning, dear! I do hope you had a good night’s rest. I wanted to confirm that we’ll be meeting here at the bookshop at ten. Let me know!

-Azirphle

Crowley chuckled. Aziraphale still hadn’t quite gotten the handle of texting. He wasn’t sure if he ever would, and if he did, it would probably take at least another century.

Confirmed. See you soon, Angel.

Crowley sent the text, the gaps in his mind finally coming together.

Right. Today was the day he and Aziraphale were supposed to go ice skating at the Natural History Museum ice rink. How could he have forgotten that? It wasn’t like they hadn’t been planning it for ages. Crowley kicked himself a little, trying to push his brain back into gear.

They had a whole itinerary planned around it – a walk through the park, hot cocoa at Aziraphale’s favorite café, and skating as soon as it got dark. It seemed like the perfect day.

Except Crowley hated the cold, had never been ice skating, and was currently running on two weeks of no sleep, which was not an ideal combination for a festive winter’s day out.

DING.

Aziraphale: lovely! See you soon! x

-Aziraphale

Crowley ignored the way his heart fluttered a little when he saw the little “x” at the end of Aziraphale’s text. It obviously had to be some sort of typo. After all, the angel made them quite frequently. There was no way Aziraphale knew what any of that text speak meant. There was no way he had actually meant to send a kiss.

Crowley pulled himself from his musings and forced himself to stand. Bless it all, he was going to have a good day. He was a demon, for Someone’s sake. A powerful being forged in the fires of Hell – he could absolutely pretend he knew how to ice skate. Besides, a little chill and lack of sleep never hurt anyone.  What really mattered was that Aziraphale was oblivious to all of it.

Or so he thought.

***

Early on the morning of December the 1^st, in a bookshop in London’s Soho district, the angel Aziraphale – former employee of Heaven, guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden – sat in a plush armchair, sipping cocoa from a winged cup and hatching a plan. There had been something amiss for a while, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it.

Aziraphale was, at heart, a problem-solver. From giving away his flaming sword in Eden, to averting the apocalypse, to offering change to the woman in front of him in line at the coffee shop who was short a pound, he was always offering solutions to problems big and small. In his six thousand years spent on earth, he liked to think he was perceptive enough to notice when something was awry.

Being an angel, problem-solving was like second nature to him. Granted, there were times when he didn’t always solve the right problems in the right way[17], but most often it came easily, and he always got there eventually.

Of course, most problems he chose to solve were objective, and this one was distinctly personal.

Something was very wrong with Crowley.

Aziraphale had noticed it weeks ago. Something about Crowley’s demeanor was off – he was much jumpier than usual, and his temper had shortened significantly. Every little thing seemed to irritate him, and Aziraphale had found himself walking on eggshells whenever he was around him, afraid that something he said or did might set him off. That was something that he hadn’t had to do in a long while.

It wasn’t unlike Crowley to go through periods of heightened grumpiness. Aziraphale knew this all too well, but usually they were solved with a warm blanket and a nap on the sofa.

However, despite the increasingly frequent crankiness and jumpiness, there were three things that Crowley had done in these past few weeks that Aziraphale found truly concerning:

1. He was wearing his sunglasses around him almost all the time now. Aziraphale had been used to Crowley wearing his glasses out in public, but the bookshop was their safe space. Up until a few weeks ago, he had had no concern taking them off around him.[18] That, unfortunately, meant that there was something going on that Crowley really didn’t want him to know about.
2. He hadn’t stayed the night at the bookshop for weeks. This usually was not any means for concern, but after things had changed between them and words had been spoken out into the universe, they had decided to spend more time together now that they could. Now that they were free to do so. Yet somehow, despite all that, Crowley seemed more distant than he had been in a long time. If Aziraphale didn’t know him better, he’d think he was avoiding him.
3. Even when Crowley had visited him at the bookshop in the past few weeks, he never napped on the sofa. This was perhaps the most concerning of all. The sofa was by far Crowley’s favorite spot in the shop – he had spent many lazy afternoons contentedly dozing underneath a tartan blanket[19]. He had always seen Crowley at his most relaxed when napping on that sofa. So, what had changed?

Aziraphale knew that the right thing to do was to let Crowley come to him on his own with the problem – it always happened eventually – but he hated seeing him so off. As he sipped his cocoa, he wracked his brain for any instance where things could have shifted but found none.

Aziraphale thought that the past few weeks had been going rather well for them. It was as if everything and nothing had changed. They had no trepidations about walking down the street together—sometimes hand in hand, and much more frequently— or being seen in the same place. In the quiet and comfort of the bookshop they sat close together and exchanged things they had never told the other in their six thousand years of knowing each other. It was refreshing, Aziraphale had realized, getting to be completely honest and open with Crowley. There was only one problem:

Crowley was absolutely hiding something from him.

But that was alright for now, because Aziraphale had a plan. It was obvious that Crowley hadn’t been sleeping well lately, and Aziraphale was alright with foregoing their plans for the day in order to let him rest. Unfortunately, Crowley was as stubborn as a demon could be. If he knew that Aziraphale was in any way trying to help him with something he believed he didn’t need help with, he would turn and run the other way. As frustrating as this was, he had always been that way, and Aziraphale was rather used to it by now.

The first step was getting Crowley over to the bookshop.

They had made plans weeks ago to go skating outside the Natural History Museum, and Aziraphale really had been looking forward to it. It had been a couple centuries since he had last gone ice-skating, but it had been a perfectly lovely experience[20]. The lights and decorations at this particular rink were said to be magnificent, and he had so been looking forward to holding Crowley’s hand as they skated and enjoyed the scenery.

Of course, he cared about Crowley’s well-being much more than he cared about an evening out.

He wondered if he were able to get Crowley to nap for most of the day that perhaps he would feel rejuvenated enough to go skating in the evening.

If not, well, they could always reschedule. It wasn’t as if they didn’t have the time.

Aziraphale knew it was a long shot. Crowley’s napping schedule was very unpredictable and could range from a few hours to a few months – or occasionally a year or two, depending on his mood— and judging from the state he was in, Aziraphale was sure he needed at least a week, if not more.

The trap was set, and his plan was in place – he had made the bookshop feel as warm and lovely as he could; there were extra pillows and blankets on the sofa; the tea kettle remained the exact same temperature it had an hour ago, and he had a tray set out of all the most relaxing, calming teas he could find. He had even gone as far as to bring out that old television he had bought in the 90’s[21] in case Crowley wanted to watch something. Unfortunately, all he had were old nature documentaries[22], so Crowley would have to settle. 

Half an hour later, he heard the shop bell ring.

[1] Or breathe, or drink, or indulge in the occasional tea cake or two when offered, though that was only on rare, specific occasions. 

[2] He had been particularly proud of that one.

[3] He had, of course, been responsible for a few internet fads himself, including the Banana Sprite Challenge, a poorly lit photo of a black and blue dress, and Rickrolling. He had fallen victim to the last one quite a few times since.

[4] He wasn’t a big fan of many of them, but Lizzo did have a certain charm.

[5] Well, three times if he counted his actual encounter with the Horseman on the airfield, though Death was rather preoccupied and hadn’t paid him much notice.

[6] Though technically he didn’t need to sweat at all.

[7] Forget.

[8] He had kept that promise for an entire two-hundred years.

[9] Though, if he admitted it, it felt nice to be fussed over.

[10] Being a snake with the body of a human came with a few downsides.

[11] “It’s called minimalism, Angel, look it up.”

[12] At least, that’s what he told himself. If you asked his plants, they would have told you otherwise. He was much less aggressive in his scolding and had only held a menacing glare at a plant with a wilting flower for five seconds, instead of his usual twenty.

[13] Though there had been one year where he decided he might want to have a birthday and had tested out every day of the year to see if any were a good fit. After six months of this, he decided that he was tired of birthdays. Aziraphale was relieved by this decision, as he had run out of cake recipes.    

[14] Adam, Warlock, Book Girl (who Aziraphale had reminded him time and time again was named Anathema), Newt, Tracy, Shadwell, and the little old lady who lived in the flat below him.

[15] Except perhaps Adam and the little old lady who lived in the flat below.

[16] He was correct. Aziraphale had been using the same calendar for the past century. He had forgotten to switch it out, and each year it reset to the current date simply because he expected it to.

[17] Buying up all the rooms at the inn in Bethlehem to welcome Mary and Joseph and forgetting to specify that the rooms weren’t all for him was one that Crowley would never let him forget.

[18] Which Aziraphale had no complaints about. Aside from the fact that he was delighted that his companion trusted him enough to let down one of his many walls, he found Crowley’s eyes to be utterly beautiful.

[19] Aziraphale had knitted it ages ago in a beginner’s knitting class. Unfortunately, he was eventually booted from said class because the other knitters found him intimidating, and the instructor was certain he was a spy from the rival advanced knitting group, sent to steal her patterns. While he was a bit disappointed that he wouldn’t get to learn more patterns and weaves, Aziraphale was rather glad to be gone. There was far too much drama for six elderly humans to be stirring up on their own.

[20] Though he did fall an undignified amount of times and attracted the attention of the local kids, who laughed and threw snowballs at him. It hadn’t bothered him at all, he was merely glad to have been able to make some children laugh.

[21] Technically it was from the 80s, as he got it from the secondhand store just down the block. However, it behaved as if it were any ordinary modern television, simply because Aziraphale believed it should.

[22] Not so unfortunately, because he knew those always bored Crowley to sleep.

Chapter Text

Crowley sauntered into the bookshop at exactly 10am, looking sharp, feeling less-than-sharp, and ready to show Aziraphale what a great day it was going to be.

Something was different about the bookshop today, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on what. It was a little warmer than usual, the light a bit softer, and everything about it just screamed comfort.

A little more of Crowley’s tension eased from his shoulders and he could feel the exhaustion creeping up on him again.

Perhaps if I just laid down for a moment, he thought to himself, but shook the thought off as soon as it came. This was supposed to be a good day, and there was no easier way to ruin a perfectly lovely day than a perfectly awful dream. Besides, he didn’t want to worry Aziraphale[1]. It was never much fun when he was worried.

Aziraphale made his way into the shop from the back room, greeting Crowley with a glowing, angelic smile that made his heart flutter, just as it had the first day they had met on the wall in Eden.  

“Good morning, my dear!” he said, cheerful as ever. “I hope your drive was pleasant.”

Crowley shrugged. “Same as usual.”

“Glad to hear. May I take your coat?”

Aziraphale approached almost cautiously, and Crowley allowed him to remove the heavy winter coat he had been wearing and watched as he hung it up on a nearby coat rack, beside a hat and scarf that he swore had been there since the shop had first opened two centuries ago.  

When Aziraphale had finished hanging his coat, he placed a gentle hand on Crowley’s back and led him to the back room.

“What would you say to some tea, dear? Shall I fix you a cup?”

Something strange was happening. Aziraphale was up to something. He hadn’t offered to take his coat in at least fifty years. They had long since passed the awkward hospitality phase of their relationship and had settled comfortably as equals, so what was the motivation here? 

“Alright, Angel, what’s going on? Why are you acting like my butler?”

Aziraphale looked slightly taken aback. “Whatever do you mean, Crowley? I’m simply being hospitable, I would do it for anyone.”

“Do you offer to take all your customers’ coats when they walk through the door?”

Aziraphale hesitated. “Sometimes, yes. If they look like they need it.”

“So, you’re saying I looked like I needed help?”

“Not necessarily, but I—”

“I can hang up my own coat, Aziraphale, it’s not like it’s a very difficult thing to do,” Crowley said, and immediately regretted how harsh the words sounded coming out. There wasn’t really anything wrong with what Aziraphale had been doing. In fact, he was being perfectly lovely, but there was something about the way the angel smiled and stared that made Crowley feel like there was something else at play.

“Sorry,” Crowley conceded after a moment. Aziraphale nodded his head.

“It’s quite alright. I know how you can get in the cold weather. It’s much warmer by the fire, why don’t you sit down?”

Crowley sat on the sofa and tried to ignore how blessedly comfortable it was. There was a warm fire crackling in the fireplace, and he wondered if perhaps he could stay here for a few centuries. The exhaustion was creeping up again, and he sat up a little straighter in an attempt to shake it off. Unfortunately, it didn’t do much to help. Aziraphale placed a cup of tea in his hands and sat beside him.

“I hope you don’t mind, it’s an herbal infusion. I picked it up at that little tea shop down the street last week, they said it’s an excellent stress-reliever.”

Crowley nodded, only half-listening. The absolute warmth emanating from all around him was almost overwhelming, but not in a bad way. At least, not normally. In fact, this would be a completely ideal environment to take a lazy nap on a cold winter’s day, but that was precisely the problem.

“Crowley? Are you listening to me?”

Crowley pulled himself from his thoughts and turned to see Aziraphale, staring at him expectantly.

“Sorry, what?”

“I said, what do you think about staying in for the day? It’s dreadfully cold out, and you’re looking a bit pale.”

Crowley shook his head. “I’m fine. I’ve got my coat, I’ll be alright.”

Aziraphale seemed unconvinced. “Really, Angel, you worry too much,” Crowley said with an attempt at a smile, though he wasn’t sure if he succeeded or not. “Besides, we’ve had these plans made for weeks, we can’t cancel them now.”

“There are other days in the year, you know,” Aziraphale said. “It’ll be open until the end of the month. We don’t need to rush—”

“Honestly, Aziraphale, I’m fine. Let’s just do what we planned.”

Aziraphale was quiet for a moment, and Crowley could have sworn he saw gears turning in his head.

“Alright, then,” he said, “we’ll skate tonight, but I’d prefer to stay in until then. You may say you’re fine with the cold, but you’re not the one who has to deal with you when you’re obviously not.”

Crowley scoffed, though what Aziraphale had said was completely fair. He was almost always at his worst when in the cold. This had been particularly difficult when he had been sent on assignment to spend four weeks in the Soviet Union during the Cold War. To this day he was convinced that there was never a colder winter than the winter of 1983[2].

Crowley let out a long, dramatic sigh, and sunk a little further into the sofa.

“Yeah, alright. Whatever you want.”

As the two sat sipping their tea, a silence descended that neither was quite sure how to break. Silence was not unknown to them—in fact, they had spent many days and nights together in silence, just enjoying the other’s company—but something about this was different. There was some unspoken tension that Crowley couldn’t quite place, but perhaps that was because his sleep-deprived mind couldn’t place a lot of things at the moment.

After a while, Aziraphale spoke up.

“Do you remember that television you insisted I get a few years back?”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “A few years back meaning 1991?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Yeah, I remember. Don’t tell me you’ve still got it lying around here somewhere.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I do, in fact.”

“Why? Have you ever actually watched something on it?”

Aziraphale paused for a moment. “Well…no, but perhaps we could test it out today. I’ve got a fine selection of DVD’s somewhere around here.”

“What sort of DVD’s?”

“Let me show you!”

Aziraphale set down his tea and hopped up. Five minutes later he returned with a dusty box full of DVD’s that looked nearly ancient[3]. Crowley sighed. He knew there couldn’t be anything of remote interest in there.

Two minutes later, Aziraphale was putting on a DVD entitled Sharks: The Terrors of the Deep, an American documentary that had been released in 2007.

Crowley hated nature documentaries. He had never understood their appeal. They were always boring, the narrators never had engaging voices, and at the end of it he really felt like he hadn’t learned a single thing he didn’t already know. He had tried to watch a few of those newer documentaries streaming nowadays with the celebrity narrators, but he just couldn’t will himself to be interested in those either. There was something about the genre that simply went in one ear and out the other.

Crowley hated nature documentaries, that much was true, but he loved Aziraphale. So, he sat back – if not a bit reluctantly – and let the angel have his fun. After all, this day wasn’t about him.

Aziraphale dimmed the lights with a wave of his hand as the documentary began. Crowley kept his eyes fixated on the screen, determined not to let the warmth of the tea and the dim of the lights invite him into an unwanted sleep.

Aziraphale reached over and took his hand. That was nice. If he was going to watch a boring documentary about sharks, at least he was going to get to hold the angel’s hand through it all.

Perhaps that made it all worth it.

***

The plan was not going well.

Aziraphale knew that Crowley suspected something was off the moment he entered the bookshop. He felt foolish to think that the one being who had known him longer than anyone else on the planet wouldn’t immediately catch him after walking into his trap.

Aziraphale didn’t call himself a bad liar. In fact, he believed himself to be quite good at it[4], but Crowley was his one exception. For some impossible reason, Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to lie to him, especially not after Armageddon. Or, rather, the lack thereof.

The one comfort he had was that Crowley hadn’t brought anything up to him just yet, so perhaps he wasn’t completely aware of what was going on. That was enough to work with for now.

After getting off to a rocky start, the plan had been going well for a while. He had gotten Crowley to sit on the sofa, drink the tea, and he hadn’t made much of an effort to stand up since then. He had dimmed the lights, put on a so-called “boring nature documentary” for him, and taken his hand.

Crowley didn’t move for a long time, and it was difficult for Aziraphale to tell if he was actually watching the documentary or if he was finally dozing. He very much hoped it was the latter – Crowley was truly looking dreadful.

After half an hour passed, Crowley slowly eased his head onto Aziraphale’s shoulder. That was a good sign. That meant he was comfortable. Perhaps comfortable enough for a nap. Aziraphale wrapped an arm around him and let himself be immersed in the documentary for a while.

Sharks really were terribly misunderstood creatures. They always had been, ever since their first discovery, and they had never seemed to be able to catch a break since. Aziraphale had, in past times, made some effort to donate to and promote shark conservation, even going as far as to adopt one on the internet[5]. It always saddened him to see humans ramble on about how dangerous they all were – having lived on the Earth for six thousand years, Aziraphale could assure anyone that humans were far more deadly.

This particular documentary was unfortunately quite inflammatory toward sharks as a species, touching upon the broad topics of shark attacks, rogue sharks, and the risks of getting eaten – which this film seemed to imply were immense. Aziraphale sincerely hoped that since the documentary had been released, more research and studies had come out in favor of the poor creatures. After all, he knew firsthand not to judge a book by its cover. He was in love with a demon.

Somewhere around the halfway point, Aziraphale nearly felt like dozing. The documentary went on and on about the dangers and risks of the sharks in the ocean without doing anything to talk about the dangers and risks the sharks themselves were facing, and he found himself wishing it would be over.

Crowley, however, who was very much not asleep, sat up – engaged for the first time.

“You idiot!” he shouted at the television, which was currently showing a human swimming in the water with a cut on his leg. The shadowy figure of a shark passed below him. “You idiot, that’s rule number one! RULE NUMBER ONE!”

“Crowley, please, you’ll frighten the neighbors again,” Aziraphale said, placing a calming hand on Crowley’s knee[6]. He had never seen him react so strongly to any documentary they had watched together. More often than not, he was out within the first twenty minutes.

“Everyone knows you’re not supposed to go swimming with a great big gash on your leg if you don’t want to attract unwanted attention! They’re making it look like it’s the shark’s fault!” Crowley shouted.

“Yes, I know. It’s rather unfortunate, the way the humans have painted them out to be. They’re such beautiful creatures, and completely misunderstood.”

“Bloody humans are always so dramatic! A shark could brush up against their leg and they’d call it an attack!”

Aziraphale nodded. “Unfortunately, yes. Fear is a very powerful thing.”

Crowley got quiet for a moment. Aziraphale wondered if he had said something wrong.

“Crowley? Dear, are you alright?”

“Hm?”

Crowley shook his head slightly, snapping himself out of wherever his mind had wandered and glanced at Aziraphale, who could just barely make out his eyes behind his dark glasses.

“You looked troubled for a moment.”

Crowley shrugged him off. “What? No, I’m fine. I was just thinking. Don’t make a fuss.”

Crowley leaned further back into the sofa, engaging himself in the documentary again. Aziraphale couldn’t tell if he was trying to get comfortable or trying to hide.

Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?

Crowley surely had to know that at this point, after everything they had gone through together, Aziraphale would do anything for him. He had to know that Aziraphale would drop everything in a heartbeat to help him through if he was hurting, or in danger, or simply needed the company. Crowley wasn’t always good at asking for things. He offered to take Aziraphale places, he made suggestions about things to do, he indicated in odd ways what he might want, but he never asked outrightly. This was difficult for two reasons:

1. This made Crowley incredibly difficult to shop for on holidays. Aziraphale was lucky that, six thousand years later, he knew him well enough to take a good guess[7].
2. Crowley was never very good with expressing his needs. Aziraphale understood this to a certain extent – in their line of work, expressing one’s needs was never prioritized, but he hoped that since they were now exclusively on their own side, Crowley would feel more comfortable telling him what he needed.[8]

Aziraphale sighed and let Crowley be for a while. He was worried about him, yes, but he didn’t want to dote on him to the point of making him uncomfortable or driving him away. The last thing he wanted was for Crowley to leave and have to face whatever he was going through on his own.

Ten minutes passed, and Crowley got up in arms about the documentary again, off on a passionate tirade against the discrimination of sharks and other marine life deemed “intimidating” or “dangerous.” Aziraphale nodded politely – he had made many good points – but found it slightly annoying that he couldn’t hear a word of what the people in the documentary were saying. This, unfortunately, was how it continued throughout the rest of the film.

Aziraphale was slightly relieved when it finally came to an end, until Crowley immediately stood and rummaged through the dusty DVD box, emerging with another documentary about sharks that Aziraphale wasn’t sure had been in there a moment ago.

He sighed, sitting back and preparing himself for another two hours of inaccuracy and angry rambling, but it didn’t bother him as much as it usually would. If this was somehow helping Crowley, then he was willing to sit through as many inaccurate shark documentaries as he wanted. Besides, perhaps this would be good. Perhaps Crowley would eventually tire himself out and take that nap that he so obviously needed.

This, of course, was not the case.

***

They were on their fourth documentary – a direct-to-DVD special entitled Rogue Sharks: The Truth Revealed, and Crowley had never enjoyed a film more.

The quality was truly terrible – it had clearly been made in the early 90’s – and all the facts seemed to have been made up on the spot[9]. If it hadn’t taken itself so seriously, Crowley would have believed it to be some genius work of satire.

Aziraphale had left halfway through, and Crowley wasn’t sure if it was to check something in the shop or bang his head against the wall, though he wouldn’t have blamed him if it had been the second one.

In a way, Crowley was grateful for the distractions that these absolutely ludicrous documentaries were providing, to the point where he nearly forgot about the exhaustion still creeping into his bones and the dull ache that was beginning to radiate behind his eyes. If he could just focus on what was in front of him, then he could easily work past the temptation to sleep, and ignore the warm invitation of the sofa, the blankets, and the angel (almost always) sitting by his side. 

Aziraphale returned five minutes later looking a bit frazzled and holding two cups of tea. Wordlessly, he handed one to Crowley and sat beside him again.

It was impossible to tell if Aziraphale was enjoying the documentaries anymore. Each one had been more outlandish than the next, and while the first had begun with soft, soothing music, this most recent one had a score composed entirely of heavy metal. The narrators had become even more ridiculous – tripping over their words without correcting themselves and spewing nonsense – and Crowley found himself wishing he had a bottle of wine or two to enjoy this a little more thoroughly.

Oh well. Tea would have to do for now.

Something about Aziraphale was off. Crowley had noticed this the moment he had walked into the bookshop, but he was picking up on it more as time went on. Aside from the fact that Aziraphale had been acting almost too polite at the beginning of their meeting, it had been odd of him to cancel their plans when they had been set for such a long time. He had seemed so excited only a few days ago. What had changed?

Since they’d sat down on the sofa, Crowley had also noticed that Aziraphale was more fidgety than usual. He was used to his frenetic, nervous energy, but something had shifted in his demeanor today. He was constantly glancing over at Crowley like he was trying to check in with him about something. Crowley was usually quite good about picking up on silent conversation between the two of them, but this one was especially difficult. Aziraphale was clearly trying to be nonchalant[10], and Crowley didn’t want to drive him away with questions.

He took a sip of his tea and enjoyed the warmth that accompanied it. It was one of the coldest days of the year, and though it was undoubtedly strange for them to cancel their plans so quickly, he was glad not to be out in the cold all day. Actually, under any other circumstance, this would be a perfect day for him.

Of course, when you’re dedicating every ounce of energy you have into not falling asleep, then tea, blankets and the one you love sat next to you are all humungous obstacles in the path to victory. Crowley, however, was always up for a challenge.

Though as time dragged on, that challenge seemed more and more difficult to overcome. The documentary was winding down and getting boring again, the tea was infuriatingly calming, and Aziraphale’s presence at his side made him feel safe.

What a pity it was that he couldn’t be safe from his own subconscious.

Crowley could feel himself losing the fight as the minutes dragged on, setting the empty teacup beside him and leaning against Aziraphale again. His eyes grew heavy and he was dangerously close to drifting off when he caught a glimpse of the clock.

It was nearly 7:30.

His eyes opened wide and he shot up, all thoughts of sleep tossed aside. Aziraphale looked up at him, startled.

“Are you alright, dear?”

“Angel, we’re going to miss it!”

“Miss what?”

“The—the thing. The ice-skating thing. We should’ve left an hour ago!”

Aziraphale looked slightly annoyed. “Yes, well, you were too engrossed in all those shark documentaries to peel your eyes away from the television screen and look at the time.”

“You could’ve checked too, you know!”

Aziraphale sighed. “Why don’t we postpone? It’ll still be up for a few more weeks, we can go later.”

Crowley frowned. “Why?”

“Because, we were having a lovely time watching these horrible documentaries, and you seem tired.”

“I’m not tired.”

Aziraphale stared him down with a look that saw right through his lie, and he knew it.

“Crowley, you were leaning very heavily on me.”

Crowley could feel himself blush. “I was just enjoying your company, is all,” he mumbled, as he gazed intently at a wine stain on the carpet.

“Well that’s all well and good, I enjoy your company too, but there’s something else going on here. Why won’t you tell me?”

“Nothing’s going on!” Crowley snapped. “Why do you always assume there’s something going on with me? I’m fine! It’s cold, I’m just a bit grumpy from the cold.”

“Well then why are you wanting to go somewhere where you’ll be colder? Look, it’s nice and warm in here, why don’t you just lie down on the sofa for a bit? You always like to—"

“Aziraphale, are you listening to me? I don’t want to sleep, I don’t need to sleep, I want to do what we planned to do! Is that too much to ask?” he hissed, standing and shaking off the heavy feeling in his limbs. “Now get your coat, I’ll drive.”

Aziraphale looked slightly hurt, but it was quickly swallowed up in a worried glance. He sighed, conceding.

“Alright, dear. If you really want to go, we can go. But you’ve got to wear that scarf I knitted you, it’s freezing out.”[11].

Crowley nodded, walking from the back room without another glance. Aziraphale followed.

The drive over was a special kind of miserable.

[1] Not to mention the fact that he had been on a no-sleep streak for two, nearly three weeks now, and there was a certain amount of determination that came with keeping that up.

[2] He was, of course, incorrect. The coldest winter in Russia (then still the Soviet Union)  had actually been recorded in 1940 when Crowley was nowhere nearby, but to someone who cannot handle cold very well, every winter is the coldest winter.

[3] Though some of them had been purchased as recently as 2008. Aziraphale’s bookshop always had a certain style to maintain, and the DVD’s understood that completely.

[4] Sometimes frighteningly so.

[5] It had been extremely difficult to figure it all out, but once he had, he’d received an adoption certificate and a photo of the shark in the mail. He had named it Edgar, after his good friend Edgar Allen Poe, and still checked in on him every so often. Once or twice a year he would even go as far as to perform a few miracles that allowed Edgar to find a bountiful meal or escape any poachers that may have come his way. Edgar didn’t know it, but he was the luckiest creature in the ocean. Not many fish have a guardian angel looking out for them.

[6] In reality, Aziraphale’s neighbors were never truly bothered by their loud conversation. Everyone on his street had long since come to know the ways of the odd Mr. A. Z. Fell and his husband who may or may not be working for the Mafia.

[7] And he was always right. Then again, the gift itself was never very important to Crowley. What was important was that Aziraphale had thought to give him something at all. That was a gift enough in itself.

[8] Of course, that was easier said than done. Six thousand years of routine was not easily broken.  

[9] i.e. Sharks were descended from aliens; they could swim forward, backward, and in loops; if a human dipped one toe into the water the sharks could track them and send out brainwaves to other sharks in the area to tell them it was feeding time.

[10] And failing miserably.

[11] Aziraphale had knitted Crowley a scarf as his first project in his former knitting group. It was a lovely, deep shade of red, with a rather complicated stitch that he was out of practice with nowadays. He had given it to Crowley as a gift on their first day working at the Dowling Estate, as a sort of “good luck” charm, and had been delighted to see him wear it every day the following winter. Crowley had nearly cried when Aziraphale had given it to him. No one had ever really given him a gift before – especially not one that had been handmade—and it was by far the most comfortable scarf he had ever worn in his entire existence.

Chapter Text

Crowley was a demon of many talents, but one that seemed to be uniquely his was the ability to drive anywhere in London and get there in record time, traffic be damned.

Of course, this was because he followed no rules or regulations except his own, drove quickly and recklessly, and paid no mind to his surroundings.

The first time Aziraphale had ridden in the Bentley he had wondered if it was possible to discorporate from sheer terror. Crowley drove quickly, made sharp turns without using his signal, and swerved around any obstacles that came his way, whether they be living or inanimate.

Frankly, it was terrifying.

As time went on and Aziraphale spent more time in the Bentley, he became accustomed to Crowley’s reckless driving, but still found himself in the role of the backseat driver from time to time. Not that Crowley ever listened to him.

But today was more frightening than any other time that Aziraphale had driven with Crowley over the past century.

Crowley was driving slowly.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure how or why this was happening, but Crowley’s eyes were trained on the road and he sat, stiff and unmoving in the driver’s seat, going at a snail’s pace compared to his original speed and stopping at every traffic light they came to.

The very fact that Aziraphale was watching this play out sent a chill up his spine. He had never, in all the millennia he’d known Crowley, seen him go so slow. He pushed down the worry that was threatening to suffocate him and focused on the road.

Something was wrong. Something was so wrong. Something was so very wrong—

The car stopped, and Aziraphale took notice of their surroundings.

“We’re here,” Crowley said. Aziraphale nodded. Neither moved to get out of the car.

“Look, I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” Crowley began after a long, tense silence. “For what it’s worth. I know I’ve been difficult to deal with today. You’ve been nothing but kind, and I really haven’t been. At all. I’m sorry for that.”

Aziraphale shrugged. “Well, you are a demon. It’s in your job description,” he said in an uncomfortable attempt at a joke. Crowley looked at him, and Aziraphale could tell, even behind his glasses, that his eyes were sincere.

“Not to you,” he said, and his tone sounded serious. “Never to you.”

Aziraphale reached over and took Crowley’s hand.

“You know you can talk to me, don’t you? About anything?” he asked, and Crowley nodded, his expression oddly blank.

“Yeah, I know,” he said, and left it at that.

The silence between them this time was less tense, but there was still much left unsaid. Their hands remained entwined, and Aziraphale gazed at his companion with a look that said please, Crowley, please just tell me what’s wrong.

After another painfully quiet moment, Crowley let go of Aziraphale’s hand, straightened his glasses, and opened the car door.

“Shall we?”

Aziraphale tried to hide his disappointment. “Yes. Let’s.”

***

The ice-skating rink was simply marvelous. All of the trees were wrapped in beautiful strands of fairy lights, and a magnificent tree sat at the center of the rink, a sure sign that the winter holidays were on their way. While relatively uncrowded for a Sunday evening, the rink was fairly occupied, and Aziraphale could feel love all around him. For a moment, as he took in the sights, he forgot he was ever upset at all.

He resisted the urge to laugh as he glanced over at Crowley, who looked quite ridiculous. His coat was bundled around him and his scarf had been pulled so high that all Aziraphale could see of him was the top of his head and his sunglasses. He bore a strong resemblance a celebrity going out for a night on the town and trying desperately not to be recognized. A light breeze was blowing in, and Crowley shuddered, muttering some complaint. Aziraphale smiled – things seemed almost normal.

Pleasant holiday music drifted in through unseen speakers as Crowley and Aziraphale put on their skates[1] and stepped out onto the rink. Aziraphale was looking forward to skating again for the first time in a long time.

Crowley was looking forward to pretending he knew what he was doing and not falling on his face.

One of them got their wish.

***

Throughout all the years of his existence, Crowley had always tried to maintain one thing: the sense that he was undoubtedly, assuredly cool. He did his best to keep updated with all the latest fashions, was constantly changing his style, and made sure his flat was furnished in the most modern, minimalistic way possible. The oldest thing he owned—aside from a few historical items in his flat that he had collected over a few centuries—was his Bentley, and having an old-fashioned car was cool to outsiders in its own way. Besides, Crowley couldn’t stand modern cars. They just didn’t make them like they used to.

There had, of course, been many times that Crowley had looked decidedly uncool. Most of these times had been in front of Aziraphale and (thankfully) in private, but there had been the odd moment where he had gotten a little too drunk at a pub and fallen on his face, or forgotten the punchline of a joke, or tripped over his own feet when sauntering down the busy sidewalk. And while all of these unfortunate, most-definitely-uncool mishaps had made him want to shrink away just a little bit more, he had always had Aziraphale to help him up, or finish the joke, or grab his hand before he tumbled to the floor, and he was grateful for that.

Today was no exception.

Crowley slipped almost immediately after stepping onto the ice, his only saving grace being the wall that he now found himself clinging to. Aziraphale was remarkably steady on the ice, but he had to remind himself that the angel had at least a little more experience than he did. Taking a deep breath, he tried to balance himself again and found it to be a horrible decision. He clung tighter to the wall as his legs slipped every which way, trying hard not to think about the other skaters who were beginning to stare. Aziraphale reached out to steady him.

This was incredibly embarrassing.

“Just center your weight, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, trying to help him steady while also keeping himself balanced. Crowley continued to slip.

“Easier said than done!” Crowley replied, still clinging to the wall. So much for pretending he knew what he was doing[2].  

“Grab my hands, I’ll steady you,” Aziraphale said, attempting to pry Crowley away from the safety of the wall.

“No, I’m alright here, thanks,” Crowley said. “Besides, I’ll only bring you down with me.”

Aziraphale smiled. “That’s fine. At least we’ll be together.” Crowley wasn’t prepared for that response and melted just a little, allowing Aziraphale to pull him from the wall and hold him up until he regained his balance.

“There we go! Not so bad when you get used to it.”

“I think you should know that I’m really very not used to it at all and you’re the only thing keeping me from slipping.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Yes, dear, I’m aware of that. You’re holding your feet all wrong. No wonder you’re slipping all over the place, you’ve got them all turned in. You have to keep them straight and level. See?”

Aziraphale demonstrated, and Crowley tried to follow his lead. After a moment, he could feel himself falling backwards. Aziraphale caught him just in time.

“And keep your weight centered. If you shift too far back or too far forward, you’ll fall.”

“Why are there so many rules to this?” Crowley grumbled, but he managed to center himself at last.

“Very good, dear. You’re doing fine. Now just follow my lead.”

Before he knew it, he was being swept away[3] by Aziraphale, who was teaching him how to glide. He relied on the wall for support for a while and would have liked to have remained there longer, but was inevitably pulled to the center of the rink by a determined angel who was much stronger than he appeared. After a while, Crowley found he could let go of Aziraphale’s hand and still keep his balance for an entire thirty seconds before needing his support back, and that was enough of a victory for him. Besides, he enjoyed the feeling of Aziraphale’s hand in his, and every time they had to separate, he found himself getting just a little bit grumpier.

An hour passed, and Crowley could feel his sour mood lifting little by little as he tried to focus on the moment before him – on the lights in the trees, on the way his skates glided on the ice and the way Aziraphale’s hands felt in his as he guided him along.

Maybe skating’s not too bad, he thought to himself, and made the decision to take the next glide with confidence.

Unfortunately, he overshot, sending himself crashing down toward the ice. In a desperate attempt to stay balanced, he grabbed onto Aziraphale, who tumbled down with him as they both hit the ice with a thump.

“Perhaps you need a bit more practice before you try skating on your own, my dear,” Aziraphale said with a chuckle. He was remarkably good-natured about falling face first onto the cold, hard ice. Then again, it was in Aziraphale’s nature to be good-natured, even if he could be a right bastard sometimes.

Crowley sat up and realized too late that he was no longer wearing his glasses, which had fallen off and skidded down the ice, too far away to grab quickly. He watched Aziraphale’s smile fade as they met eyes, his expression shifting from one of amusement to one of concern.

“Crowley, what’s happened to your eyes?”

Scrambling to pick up his now-cracked sunglasses, Crowley threw them back on, grabbed onto the wall and attempted to hoist himself up[4]. Aziraphale stood easily, joining him at the wall.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Crowley said, looking away. He could feel Aziraphale’s gaze boring into him, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he was going to crack and tell him everything, and what an embarrassment that would be—

“Stop saying that! There is something wrong, I’ve never seen your eyes look so red! Why haven’t you been sleeping? How long has it been?”

Crowley, still clinging to the wall, made an attempt to slide away from Aziraphale, but the angel followed quickly.

“I’ve been sleeping fine. Just leave me alone.”

“Why won’t you talk to me?” Aziraphale sounded almost desperate, and Crowley pushed down the guilt that bubbled up somewhere in his chest.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he said, as he reached the entrance to the rink, slipping again before stepping off and wrestling out of his skates. Aziraphale snapped his fingers and was back in his regular shoes.

“What do you mean?” he said, following Crowley, who was making his way swiftly back to the car park. “Crowley, please just talk to me!”

Crowley swung around to face him. “Just leave it! You don’t have to go sticking your nose into other people’s business all the bloody time!”

Aziraphale stopped walking. “I’m not sticking my nose into anyone’s business, thank you very much, I’m just worried about you! You’ve been acting strange for weeks now, you think I haven’t noticed?!”

“Well why should you care, anyway? You’re an angel, you’re not supposed to care about a demon’s well-being!” Crowley snapped back.

“What are you going on about? Do you hear how ridiculous you’re sounding? We agreed, Crowley, we’re on our own side!” Aziraphale took a deep breath, centering himself. “You know you can talk to me about anything. Don’t you trust me?”

Crowley shot him a cold glare that he knew was completely unwarranted. Aziraphale held his ground.

“Well? Do you?”

“Yeah. Sure,” he said, wholly unconvincingly, and sauntered off to the car, leaving Aziraphale looking quite stricken.

Crowley felt a little bit like crying. Well, more than a little. He knew Aziraphale didn’t deserve what he was shouting at him, he knew he had been nothing but kind all day and that he could talk to him about anything he needed to. He trusted him more than anyone, but there were some things Aziraphale just didn’t understand. Some things Crowley just wasn’t ready to fully face yet. Some vulnerabilities he wasn’t quite ready to share—

He heard the car door close as Aziraphale got into the passenger’s seat.

All was quiet.

This was the worst kind of quiet. The suffocating silence of words spoken and regretted, and all in-between left unsaid. Aziraphale stared down at his hands. Crowley was feeling like possibly the worst being in existence.

I’m sorry, he wanted to say. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean any of it. I just can’t face going to sleep at night because I’ll wake up in a world where I’ve lost you again.

The only sound that passed between them was the hum of the Bentley and the sounds of the traffic outside.

***

Crowley wasn’t sure if it was the way he was driving or the movement of the cars, but traffic was unbearably slow, and their drive back to Soho was taking much longer than he had the patience or energy for.

Aziraphale was still horribly silent, and Crowley wanted to scream a little more as each second passed between them. Or cry. Or perhaps both.

All of this was just getting to be too much. He was too tired, the traffic was horrible, and he was pushing away the only one who had ever chosen to give a damn about him.

The only thing remotely calming was the heat and low hum of the Bentley, which moved almost soothingly between the cars. Crowley could feel that all-too-familiar exhaustion creeping up on him.

Not here, he thought, not now… 

He shook it off, keeping his eyes trained on the road. He hadn’t slept for weeks, and he certainly wasn’t going to start right now.

Crowley blinked and his head hit the steering wheel.

“Crowley, what are you—Crowley!”

The car swerved and steadied as Aziraphale grabbed onto the wheel and Crowley shot back up, his head spinning, unsure of what had just happened. He looked over at Aziraphale, who still held onto the wheel with a fearful look in his eyes that was quickly being eaten away by anger.

“Pull over,” Aziraphale said, his voice like steel. “Now.”

Crowley didn’t dare protest.  

When the car had come to a complete stop, Aziraphale turned to face Crowley. There was something akin to fire in his eyes.

“Okay, what the bloody hell is going on with you?!”

Crowley’s eyes widened. He hadn’t seen Aziraphale this angry in a long time, and he hadn’t heard him swear like that in longer.

“I told you, it’s—”

“I don’t want to hear that it’s nothing, Crowley, it’s not nothing. You just fell asleep at the wheel and nearly caused an accident! That is not nothing! I’ve tried to be patient, I’ve tried to be kind, I’ve given you every opportunity to talk to me about what’s going on and you just won’t listen. Well I’m through with it! Either you tell me what’s going on, or I’m walking home.”

Crowley’s stomach was in knots.

“I told you, you wouldn’t understand.”

“Then help me understand! How can you say I won’t understand if you won’t even tell me what’s wrong in the first place?” Aziraphale looked desperate again. “Please, Crowley. Don’t shut me out.”

Crowley was suddenly glad to be wearing his glasses, as he blinked back tears that were threatening to fall.  

“Aziraphale, there are some things you just wouldn’t understand. Can’t we leave it at that?”

“No! No, we can’t! I’m worried about you, Crowley, you haven’t been yourself for weeks! Why can’t you just tell me what’s—?”

“You don’t know what I saw!” he snapped, and Aziraphale looked taken aback. “You don’t know how it felt!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale said, desperate to understand. “But you can talk to me—”

“No, I can’t. Not about this,” Crowley said, and he felt a bit hollow. “Just leave me alone, Aziraphale, I don’t need you!” Crowley regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth.

A sickening silence descended, and Crowley wanted to disappear.  

Aziraphale’s expression was unreadable. “Very well then, Crowley. Have it your way. I’ll walk home.”

“Wait, Angel, I didn’t mean—”

“No, you were abundantly clear. If you ever decide that you need me again, you know where to find me. Have a pleasant evening.”

Aziraphale left the car[5], and Crowley watched as he disappeared down the street.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wish I could tell you, but every time I try, it becomes too real. You’re right, I can’t sleep. I won’t. Because every time I do, I see that day.

Every time I do, I lose you again.

[1] They were able to evade the line with the help of the small miracle of conjuring up their own. Crowley’s skates were just as one might expect them to look – sleek black, with deep red blades and laces that tied themselves. They looked new and very in-style, and he was quite proud of the design he had come up with on the spot. Aziraphale’s were a bit clunkier and more old-fashioned, with a tartan design that didn’t quite match the rest of his ensemble. All the same, despite their antiquated look, they were sturdy and very comfortable.

[2] Crowley had often heard the term “fake it till you make it” used by humans and thought it an excellent idea. Unfortunately, that didn’t seem to apply to everything.

[3] Literally and figuratively.

[4] And managed to look remarkably like a snake on ice while he did. In fact, he was certain it was the most ungraceful he had ever looked.

[5] But not before issuing a small miracle to ensure that Crowley would arrive home safely. He may have been hurt and angry, but he wasn’t thoughtless.

Chapter Text

Well, he blew it.

Crowley had only had one goal for the entire day: show Aziraphale what a really great day it would be, and he had officially destroyed every hope of it ever being so.

The skating had been nice. The nature documentaries had been surprisingly entertaining, but Crowley just couldn’t get past what he had said in the car.

I don’t need you.

How, after all that they had been through, could he have possibly said something like that? They had faced Heaven and Hell to stay together, and Crowley had just pushed Aziraphale away like he was nothing.

As Crowley parked the Bentley and headed up to his flat, his heart felt heavy in his chest, and he could feel a lump in his throat.

Don’t cry here, not in front of all these humans. It’ll attract too much attention. Just wait until you get to the lift.

The lift was out of order[1] and he was forced to take the stairs, which only made him want to cry more.

Silently, he cursed himself for choosing to live on the top floor.

He was just one floor away when he spotted someone kneeling outside of one of the doors, trying desperately to pick the lock. Crowley smiled when he realized who it was. They had spoken a few times when she had moved into the flat below his[2], but had found themselves both in a pickle on New Year’s Eve of 2016, when they had both been locked out of their respective flats with no sign of their keys and Crowley was too drunk to miracle his own unlocked. They had sat and chatted for a long time, and it had been surprisingly fun. She had asked him about his life and why he was alone on New Year’s Eve, and he had explained that his plans had been untimely cancelled[3]. She had told him about her grandson who was supposed to be getting married that evening but had gotten stuck on a last-minute flight to London and missed his own wedding. Needless to say, the event had been postponed and she had found herself with nothing to do and no one to bring in the new year with. She had only asked him once about his glasses, which he had brushed off as a light sensitivity issue. It seemed to be enough to satisfy her.

When midnight struck and the year turned over, the two of them had sat on the floor outside her flat and toasted with invisible champagne flutes to a better year ahead[4] as they waited for a locksmith to arrive and let them into their flats.

After their impromptu New Year’s Eve meeting, Crowley had dropped by to check on her every so often. Sometimes it would be a quick wave in the hallway, or a polite nod in the lift. Other times he would knock on the door and bring her a plant that had been giving him more trouble than it was worth[5]  and she would invite him to stay for tea. Most of the time he said he was unavailable, but there had been one or two occasions where he had stopped in for a little while and chatted with her. She was by far the funniest human he had ever met, and having been around humans since The Beginning, that was saying something.

Crowley wasn’t sure how old she was, but he had to assume that she was between seventy and eighty. She walked slowly but always had a little bounce in her step that reminded him, oddly enough, of Aziraphale. He’d always thought the two of them would get on.

“Alright, Mabel?” he said, stopping where she was. The woman jumped, startled, but smiled brightly when she saw who was standing next to her. 

“Oh, hello there, dear!” she said, getting to her feet. “You’re home awfully early, it’s only ten. Is everything alright?”

Crowley nodded. Everything was very much not alright, but he wasn’t about to spill all that out onto an innocent old woman he was still getting to know.

“As well as it can be,” he said, swallowing the lump in his throat. Mabel’s eyes narrowed.

“Are you sure about that?”

Crowley nodded, taking the opportunity to inspect her doorknob.

“Forgot your keys again?”

Mabel nodded. “Second time this week. I ought to keep a tracker on them, I’ll forget my own head next.”

Crowley chuckled, then reached forward and turned the knob. With the help of a small demonic miracle, it opened.

“Oh, look at that,” he said, “must’ve just been jammed.”

“But that’s impossible, I tried everything!”

“Well maybe you just needed a second pair of hands,” Crowley said, and Mabel considered the possibility.

“Maybe I’m just losing my marbles,” she said, opening the door a little further. “Would you like to come in for a cup of tea, dear? I think it might do you some good.”

Crowley thought about it for a moment. Even though he wanted to curl up in his flat and sulk for a few months, he didn’t really fancy being alone. In fact, alone was the last thing he wanted to be right now.

“Alright, then,” he said, and Mabel welcomed him in with a delighted smile and a small skip in her step.

***

On a street in Santa Monica, California in the United States of America, there sits a pair of houses just on the beach, side by side though they could not be more opposite. One is dark, jagged, and just a little bit foreboding. Devoid of all colors except the darkest shades of brown and black, one may choose to call its exterior Brooding. The other looks, to no other description, like a doll’s house come to life, composed of vibrant shades of pink and purple and a classic design that absolutely screams Dream House. Sat side by side, one might wonder what the owners of the houses are like as people.  

One might imagine they’re a bit like Crowley and Mabel.

Crowley and Mabel’s flats could not have been more different if they tried to be. While Crowley’s walls were dark and grey, Mabel’s were a soft pastel pink, with a small floral design along the edges. Family photos sat on the mantle of her fake fireplace, and little knick knacks lined her shelves and cabinets. There were plush chairs set up neatly in the sitting room, and there was a warmth and kindness about all of it that made Crowley feel unspeakably cozy.

A minute passed, and Mabel brought him his tea, taking a seat in the armchair beside him.

“Now, you’re sure nothing’s wrong?” she asked, and Crowley was certain she had already seen through him. He nodded his head and she sighed, clearly disappointed in his lack of honesty. “Not to be rude, dear, but I don’t believe you one bit.”

Crowley leaned a little further back into his chair in an attempt to make himself smaller. How could everyone always tell how he was feeling? Was he really that terrible at hiding anything from anyone?

No, it was mostly Aziraphale. He was absolutely rubbish at keeping things from Aziraphale, and he had noticed certain similarities between Mabel and the angel he had chosen to love. Perhaps they were a bit too similar in that way.

“How did you know?” he asked finally, still pushing down that lump in his throat. Mabel reached over and patted him lightly on the arm, an obvious attempt at comfort that, oddly enough, helped a little.

“I’m a grandmother. I’ve got an extra special intuition for these sorts of things,” she said with a kind smile, and Crowley nodded along. He wasn’t sure what any of that really meant, but he’d take her word for it. He took a sip of his tea, realizing this was the third cup he’d had that day, though this tea wasn’t nearly as good as Aziraphale’s had been.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, with a gentleness that almost made Crowley crumble, but he managed to hold himself together. He could wait to cry until he got to his flat. He could leave himself enough dignity for that.

Instead, Crowley shrugged. “Just…haven’t been sleeping well, is all.”

He bit his tongue. Why had he said that? Why was he telling her anything? What he had meant to say was goodnight, thanks for the tea, let’s do this again sometime and then excuse himself. Why was she so difficult to lie to?

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mabel said, “is there something that’s been keeping you up?”

You have no idea, Crowley thought to himself, but remained silent. He wasn’t sure where to start, nor if he even should. 

“Nightmares?”

Crowley almost choked on his tea. Had he said anything out loud? How could she possibly know that? He looked up and was met with an almost-overwhelmingly sympathetic gaze and had to look away again. It was too much. He didn’t deserve that.

“It’s alright, dear, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. It happens to everyone.”

Crowley was almost at the breaking point. “How do I make them stop?”

Mabel thought for a moment. “Well, getting on a good sleep schedule would be one, but I can see that that’s a bit of a catch-22. Do you drink a lot before you go to bed?”

Crowley shook his head. He hadn’t gone to bed drunk without sobering up in years, and he only liked to have coffee occasionally in the mornings.

“Alright, well, I know from experience that practicing your breathing is quite helpful. It’ll center you a bit more and relieve your stress, which could help you sleep better.”

Crowley nodded. None of this was very helpful. He knew what was causing these nightmares, and unfortunately, the real cause was much too outlandish to ever tell his neighbor: leftover memories from a day that had never happened.

“Have you tried talking about it to anyone? What about that lovely bloke of yours? The one that always dresses so old-fashioned?”

Crowley could feel himself blush. He didn’t know Mabel knew anything about Aziraphale.

“How did you—?”

“Oh, don’t be coy, love, I’ve seen him here a few times. He and I had tea together one afternoon while you were napping upstairs.”[6]. Crowley raised his eyebrows. This was brand new information.  

“Really?”

“Oh yes, we had a lovely chat! You’ve really lucked out with that one, he’s an absolute angel.”

Crowley’s chest twisted a little more. She was right. He had lucked out, and now he’d mucked it all up.

“I can’t tell him.”

Mabel sat up a little straighter. “Why not?”

“Because he wouldn’t understand.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

Crowley sighed. “It’s difficult to explain. He’d worry too much and walk on eggshells around me and I’d muck up what’s left of what we have.” He knew he was being dramatic. He knew that at some point he and Aziraphale would probably come back together with some apologies at the ready, but he had no idea how much time would come between now and then, and things had been going so well for them up until this point.

Mabel looked at him, her eyes sincere. “Anthony, dear, if he really does love you, and I think he does[7], then he’ll listen and understand. He’s probably more worried right now that you’re not telling him anything than he would be if you opened up about it.”

Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose. She was right, of course. Mabel had an odd talent of being right about everything. Crowley couldn’t chock it up to the wisdom of age – he was, after all, quite a bit older than her – but he could tell from the moment they met that there was something oddly special about her. Maybe some humans were just like that.

After a few moments of preparation, Crowley set down the now-empty teacup and forced himself to stand.

“Thank you, Mabel, it’s been lovely,” he said, and he meant it. He would work up the nerve to tell Aziraphale, hopefully sometime soon. Until then he would be online researching the most expensive box of chocolates he could buy to show just how sorry he was for what had happened in the car.

“Always a pleasure, dear. Come see me anytime, and do try to get some rest,” Mabel said as she bid him goodnight, closing the door behind him as he left.

Crowley mustered his strength and made the final trudge up to his flat, snapping his fingers and walking inside.

He cried for two hours straight, but luckily the flat was remarkably soundproof.

***

When his tears had subsided and his breathing had returned to normal, Crowley had found that he was completely and utterly exhausted. It was a great feat of strength just to keep his eyes open, but he was nothing if not determined. He wasn’t ready to sleep yet. He wasn’t ready to face the nightmares, he needed to talk it through with Aziraphale first.

Of course, he wasn’t quite ready to do that either. Stuck in this limbo, all Crowley could do was sit at his desk and stare blankly at the television, which flipped channels of its own accord every ten minutes or so until it found something that might be suitable to Crowley’s interests.

A day passed. Crowley didn’t notice. Or perhaps he didn’t care. He was still working up the nerve.

Another day passed. His plants were growing concerned. He had now gone three days without screaming at them, and those had been the scariest three days of all.

As night fell on the second day, Crowley felt like he was in an odd sort of daze. Halfway between sleeping and waking, it was almost difficult to make out what was a dream and what was reality.

At some point, his television had opened Netflix, and was now on the third installment of the Christmas Prince trilogy, A Christmas Prince: The Royal Baby.[8] Crowley hadn’t been paying close attention, and really didn’t care much about what had been showing, but he did briefly remember hating the second film. The third was much more engaging, if not a bit over-the-top.

Even then, he could feel his eyelids growing heavier, and his will to fight against it diminishing as the seconds passed. He wished Aziraphale were here.

After ten more minutes of a difficult battle, Crowley lost, and let himself fold over onto his desk, sleep claiming him at last.

***

His heart was pounding.

Hastur was trapped (for now), Hell was still after him, but at least he had gotten a head start.

He just had to get to Aziraphale before anyone else did.

If he could get to Aziraphale, he could figure out the next phase of the plan. Whether that be running, or hiding, or disappearing off to another galaxy, all that mattered right now was getting the angel to come with him. That was step one.

He called Aziraphale. No answer.

That’s okay. Maybe he’s busy with a customer. Maybe he’s having tea. Maybe his phone’s not working.

Maybe he’s—

Crowley’s stomach lurched when he saw the smoke billowing out of the bookshop, surrounded by firefighters with long hoses attempting to tame the flames still raging within.

There was no sign of Aziraphale outside.

Please, please, please…

Crowley ran in, ignoring the humans uttering protests outside. With a snap of his fingers, the doors were closed behind him.

He looked around. Every possible inch of the bookshop was on fire. All of Aziraphale’s beloved books, all the memories they’d shared there together, everything was going up in flames—

Aziraphale. Where was Aziraphale?

“Aziraphale!” Crowley called out, “Aziraphale! Where the Heaven are you, you idiot? I can’t find you!”

There was no response. Where could he be? Crowley’s heart was threatening to beat out of his chest.                                                                             

“Aziraphale! For God’s—for Satan’s—ah! For SOMEBODY’S SAKE, where ARE you?!”

A jet of water shot through the window, shattering it, hitting Crowley square in the chest and throwing him to the ground. When he recovered, he saw that his glasses were left in a shattered, melted mess beside him, but none of that mattered.

He was gone. Aziraphale was really, truly gone.

Somebody killed my best friend.

The flames were closing in. This wasn’t a dream. This couldn’t be a dream. Aziraphale was gone. The only being who had ever truly cared about him, the only being he had ever truly loved, and he’d lost him. He was too late.

The world was ending indeed.

He could hear himself scream, though he wasn’t aware enough to actually tell if he had screamed aloud. Every part of him, all the way down to his very essence was screaming. The air was heavy with smoke and ash, but still, none of that mattered. Nothing mattered anymore. The world was about to end, and he had lost him.

He was alone.

Crowley could feel himself break. The tears wouldn’t stop, and he tried to scream again, but no sound came out.

Only the sound of roaring flame.

I’m sorry, my dear, I’m so sorry. I should have known, I should have seen it earlier. Please come back. I’m here, just come back.

Crowley could have sworn he was hearing Aziraphale’s voice, like some cruel trick the universe had chosen to play on him, here at the end of it all.

Come back, Crowley, just wake up. Please!

He wished he could. He wished he could rid himself of this nightmare of reality, but there was nothing to wake up from. He was alone. The world was ending. He hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye.

Please, my love, wake up. It’s alright, I’ve got you.

The world was fading now, and Crowley wondered if this really was the end.

He was struck with the sudden sensation that he was being held up, with strong arms wrapped around him.

That’s it. Easy, now. You’re alright.

Crowley closed his eyes, giving in to the odd sensation. When he opened them, he was home. He was still at his desk. There was, in fact, an arm wrapped around his waist, and a gentle hand over his forehead, holding him in place.

He recognized the hold immediately.

“…Aziraphale?”

The angel breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes! Yes, it’s me, Crowley, I’m here.”  

[1] He may have had something to do with that a little while earlier.

[2] He thought it only fair to warn her that she may hear a lot of screaming above her, but not to worry because he was just very passionate about his gardening.

[3] Aziraphale had been called to Spain for a last-minute miracle, and they were both quite disappointed that they couldn’t bring in the new year together, as had been their tradition for many years prior. Fortunately, Aziraphale had returned the next day, and they were able to celebrate belatedly.

[4] As far as years went, 2016 had not been the best of them.

[5] He had, of course, made the other plants believe he had shredded it first. He didn’t want to give them a reason to start slacking.

[6] Aziraphale had decided, while Crowley was asleep, to nip out for some biscuits and come right back but had found himself quite lost on the floor below. Mabel had opened her door and they had gotten to chatting before she invited him in for tea and biscuits of her own making. Aziraphale had been delighted to find out that they were both once part of the same knitting group, though she had left of her own volition long before Aziraphale had been booted.

[7] That much was obvious to her after just one chat.

[8] Technically the film wasn’t due to be released for another two days, but Crowley’s television prided itself in being ahead of the times.

Chapter Text

Two days earlier…

To say Aziraphale was angry was an understatement.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt quite this enraged, but he knew it must have been a while. Crowley always knew how to grind his gears, but most of the time it was somewhat endearing.

What was not endearing, however, was being pushed away and brushed off like their entire six thousand years of knowing one another meant nothing.

I don’t need you.

How could he have said something like that? After all they had been through, all the laughs they’d shared and the secrets they’d entrusted, all the times they put their lives on the line for each other, how could he say something like—

I don’t even like you.

Aziraphale’s own words of only a few months ago echoed unwillingly in his head, and as they did, he felt like the biggest hypocrite in the universe. He had been regretting what he said at the bandstand for months now, and though he and Crowley had talked about it, it didn’t do much to quell the guilt. He had been afraid. He knew that Heaven and Hell would come after them if they ever found out they were working together, and his worst fears were coming true. It was an immense amount of pressure to be under, and he was terrified.

Who was he to hold this against Crowley when he had done the same thing not four months ago?

A day passed, and he was having trouble staying mad at Crowley. They argued and fought from time to time[1] and separated for a little while[2], but they always ended up coming back together. Afraid to drive Crowley further away, Aziraphale decided to wait it out. Crowley would come back to him when he was ready.

Still, that worry nagged in the back of his head. Something was wrong, that much was clear. Aziraphale knew that Crowley hadn’t slept for weeks if not from his demeanor, then most definitely from his eyes. He had never seen them look so bloodshot.

What the Hell had gotten into him?

Aziraphale ran through every possibility in his head, came up with some truly horrible scenarios, and eventually arrived at no helpful conclusion. All he knew was that something was dreadfully wrong with Crowley, and for some odd reason, he was refusing to tell him what it was. Did he not trust him enough? Was it a dangerous secret that would get him hurt if he knew? Regardless, it seemed to be weighing Crowley down immensely, and all Aziraphale wanted to do was lift that burden just a little.

There are some things you just wouldn’t understand.

You don’t know what I saw! You don’t know how it felt!

Crowley’s words played back to him in his head as he tried so hard to figure out what they meant. What had he seen? Why wouldn’t Aziraphale be able to understand? Had Hell come back for a second vengeance and done something to Crowley without him knowing it? Could he really have seen past something like that?

Another day passed. Aziraphale’s anxiety grew.

He was finally calming down a bit in the evening, convincing himself that Crowley was probably just taking some time to himself and would surely drop by as soon as he was feeling better. He had just poured himself a nice cup of tea and had taken out his well-worn copy of Pride and Prejudice[3] when he felt a strange shift.

Something was wrong. Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

Crowley was in danger.

Aziraphale could feel his distress, his fear, his absolute agony all at once, and the teacup slipped from his hands, shattering to the floor. He paid it no mind, as he bolted from the bookshop, only remembering at the last moment to snap his fingers and lock the door.

***

The walk from Soho to Mayfair is not a very long distance and can be reached in about twelve minutes if one walks at a decent pace.

Of course, when one is running frantically through the snow from Soho to Mayfair in an attempt to rescue one’s love from whatever horrid trouble he has gotten himself into, it does tend to feel a lot longer.

Aziraphale hated running. He always had. It left him feeling out of breath and a bit run-down, and he could not for the life of him understand why people would ever choose to do it for fun.

There were times, however, when running was an absolute necessity. This was most definitely one of those times, and when he wanted to, Aziraphale could run fast.

As he made his way to Crowley’s building, still feeling the demon’s immense distress weighing down on him, he tried not to imagine every horrible thing that could be happening. Had Heaven or Hell come back for them already? Had someone broken into his flat and tried to exorcise him? Had holy water—

No. He didn’t want to think about any of that.

Through all the centuries they had known one another, Crowley had always shown up for Aziraphale. He had rescued him from the Bastille, he had risked his own well-being to cross consecrated ground and get him out of trouble with a group of Nazis[4], and even at the supposed end of all things, when he had every opportunity to go off to Alpha Centauri on his own, he had stayed. He had tried everything to get Aziraphale to come with him, and even when he had been rejected and Hell had come after him, he still ran into the burning bookshop to find him—

Oh.

Aziraphale was struck with the sudden realization that he was an absolute idiot. A proper fool. How could he not have seen it earlier? All this time Crowley had been suffering in silence, and aside from an odd shift in demeanor and temper, Aziraphale had noticed nothing.

Crowley had always been there when he needed him, and Aziraphale almost never had to ask him to be. Now Crowley needed him, badly, and he’d be damned if he was going to let him face this alone.

Look, wherever you are, I’ll come to you. Where are you?

“I’m coming, Crowley,” he said, and he picked up speed.

***

Five minutes and many flights of stairs later, Aziraphale was standing outside Crowley’s flat, hands hovering over the doorknob, trying to decide whether to knock or break the door down altogether. He could hear crying coming from inside, and something twisted in his chest.

“Crowley! Crowley, it’s me!” he called, but there was no answer. “I’m going to come in, alright?”

The sobs grew louder, until all he heard was a strangled cry that morphed into his name.

“AZIRAPHALE!”  

Aziraphale acted quickly. With one swift kick the door fell in, and with a wave of his hand it was restored again as if nothing had happened. Aziraphale ran through the flat, following the sound of Crowley’s distress until he came upon him, folded over his desk, asleep at last but clearly suffering through it. He was thrashing around, knocking various items off the desk with seemingly no awareness of any of it, caught in some horrific nightmare. 

“AZIRAPHALE, WHERE ARE YOU?!” he cried, and Aziraphale recovered from his initial shock and rushed over to him. His hands hovered over him for a moment, unsure of what to do, unsure of what might help him and what might hurt him.

Crowley let out a scream, clenching his fists, fighting against something, and Aziraphale could take it no longer. He wrapped his arms around him, pulling him back into the chair and holding him steady with an arm around his waist and a hand around his forehead. Crowley fought against him but he held him tight, uttering strings of apologies and comforts he wasn’t sure Crowley could hear.

“I’m sorry, my dear, I’m so sorry. I should have known, I should have seen it earlier. Please come back. I’m here, just come back,” he said, and Crowley cried out again.

“AZIRAPHALE!”

“Come back, Crowley, just wake up. Please!” Crowley was trembling in his arms, and Aziraphale just held him tighter.

“Please, my love, wake up. It’s alright, I’ve got you.” he whispered. He wasn’t sure how to wake Crowley up from this. This was uncharted territory. He had seen Crowley dream before, but not like this. Never like this. Even the nightmare at the bookshop all that time ago didn’t compare. Crowley was trapped in his own mind, and he needed to bring him out of it, quickly.

“I love you,” he said, and he leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. Immediately, Crowley began to relax. He was finally coming out of it.

“That’s it. Easy now, you’re alright,” Aziraphale said, running his hand through Crowley’s hair. Finally, he opened his eyes.

“…Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale felt like he could breathe again.  “Yes! Yes, it’s me, Crowley, I’m here.”

Crowley finally let himself fall apart, and Aziraphale was ready with open arms. As Crowley wept into his shoulder, Aziraphale took off his coat and wrapped it around him, holding him close for as long as he needed. He was absolutely freezing, and this poorly insulated flat wasn’t doing him any favors.

No, this wouldn’t do at all.

With a snap of his fingers, they were sitting on the sofa in the bookshop.

“That was a stupid waste of a miracle,” Crowley muttered without looking up. He must have noticed the sudden temperature change, and the scent of old books was difficult to miss.

“Oh hush,” Aziraphale said, “you’re in no state to drive and I’m in no state to walk. I’m still recovering from running all the way to Mayfair.”

Crowley looked up for the first time, tears tracks still down his face. “You ran there? Why?”

Aziraphale stared at him, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You needed me.”

“How did you know?”

“The same way you know when I need you,” he said, and somehow, he knew that Crowley understood.

It was a while before either of them spoke, but Crowley did not, at any moment, let go of Aziraphale’s hand. He remained pressed up against him, grounded by his presence, and Aziraphale was glad when Crowley allowed him to wrap the knitted tartan blanket around him.

“I can’t stop seeing it,” Crowley said, breaking the silence after nearly twenty minutes. His voice trembled as he spoke. 

“Seeing what, dear?” Aziraphale prompted, arm still wrapped around him, grounding him to where he was. 

“That day. The day it was all supposed to end. I can’t stop seeing that fire, and all those books you love burning up, and feeling that…that horrible feeling that you were just…gone. Forever.”

Aziraphale squeezed his hand. “I’m here, my dear. I promise you. I’m safe, you’re safe, and so is the bookshop. There’s nothing to worry over, not anymore.”

“But it happened,” Crowley said, his voice breaking. “I saw it happen. I saw this entire place burning to the ground, and you were gone.”

Aziraphale brought him in closer, holding him tightly. “How long, Crowley?”

“What?”

“How long have you been suffering through these nightmares?”

Crowley shrugged. “About a month.”

“A month?!” Aziraphale cried, but quickly took a breath to center himself. He needed to be there for Crowley right now, he could fret about all that later. With a bit of a calmer voice, he continued. “A month?”

 Crowley nodded. “Couldn’t stand it after a couple weeks. That’s why I stopped sleeping. It’d been about two weeks now, since my last one.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Crowley kept his eyes fixated on the floor. “I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because that meant it was real.” Aziraphale squeezed his hand. “Besides, I know how you worry. I didn’t want you tiptoeing around me.”

Aziraphale considered this. He had, over the past few weeks, been tiptoeing around Crowley a lot more than usual, but now that he knew the cause of his distress, he didn’t feel the need. At least now he knew how to help him.

“I don’t want you to think that,” he said, “I don’t want you to think you can’t tell me something because I’ll worry.”

Crowley looked up at him. “But you would worry.”

“Of course I would worry! What difference does that make? I’m always worried about you, Crowley, that’s what families do! They worry!”

Crowley didn’t respond, which Aziraphale took to mean that he understood. Instead, he squeezed Aziraphale’s hand.

“Do you trust me?” Aziraphale asked after a while.

Without hesitation, Crowley replied, “always.”

“Then please, please tell me when you’re suffering. You’re always so quiet about what you need. You’re wonderfully attentive to me, but you deserve to be looked after as well. You deserve to be taken care of. We’ve said it a thousand times before, we’re on our own side. We look after each other. No more secrets. Please, Crowley, promise me.”

Crowley nodded. “Alright. I promise.”

“Good. I promise too.”

Crowley shifted, leaning over and resting his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale pulled the blanket around him.

“I’m just worried I’ll see it all again,” he said. “That the minute I go to sleep, I’ll be right back in that fire.”

“Well if you do, then I’ll be right here to pull you back out of it and reassure you that I’m here,” Aziraphale said, his hand sliding up and down Crowley’s back. He could feel him grow heavier against him as the tension from his nightmare finally dissipated.

“Angel,” Crowley muttered, only half awake. “I’m tired.”

Aziraphale smiled softly. “Yes, I know, dear. You should sleep. You need it.”

“I’m scared.”

With the most tender care, Aziraphale ran the back of his hand across Crowley’s cheek, and the demon’s eyes fluttered closed.

“Don’t be, dearest. I’ll stay with you.”

Crowley smiled slightly, his eyes still closed. “I love you,” he said, and fell fast asleep.

Aziraphale felt warm, and it wasn’t only because of the bookshop’s excellent heating.

“I love you, too.”

With a wave of his finger, Pride and Prejudice was back in his hands, and with Crowley finally asleep beside him, Aziraphale felt relaxed enough to read.

Perhaps, in a way, his plan had worked.

Aziraphale glanced over at the sleeping demon beside him. He looked peaceful and positively endearing beneath the large tartan blanket, curled into him for support when he had finally allowed himself to crumble. As Aziraphale watched him sleep away, not a care in the world etched onto his face, he thought of a time a lot later down the road; of a little cottage shared between the two of them. A garden out front for Crowley’s plants, and a little library of shelves for his favorite books.  He pictured a winter’s evening not so different from this one, curled up in front of a nice fire, reading a book while Crowley dozed in his lap and he eventually carried him to bed. He pictured a little reading nook by the kitchen table, a nice window by the sitting room, and a record player that really shouldn’t work anymore playing old music from centuries past as they danced slowly by the window in the moonlight. 

Of course, that wouldn’t be for a long while. Crowley was still getting used to opening up to him, and that idea was perhaps a little too big to share at the moment. Besides, it wasn’t as if they didn’t have time. Still, Aziraphale hoped they would get there someday.

A week passed, then more, and he never left Crowley’s side once.

***

Crowley finally awoke on December 12^th to find that he wasn’t on the bookshop sofa anymore at all, though he did recognize this bed.

Dragging his eyes open was difficult to say the least. Aside from the fact that he was making up for nearly three weeks’ worth of no sleep, someone was running a gentle hand through his hair and caressing his face, and he hoped it would never stop.

When Crowley finally opened his eyes, he saw Aziraphale staring back at him, a soft smile on his face.

“Hello there, dearest,” he said, “how are you feeling?”

“Angel, were you watching me sleep?”

“Well, I told you I’d keep watch. In case you had anymore nightmares.”

Crowley nodded. That made sense, and he was too groggy to think on it anymore.  He rolled over onto his back and looked around.

“How did I get here?”

“Ah, yes, I can explain that,” Aziraphale said. “You’d been on the sofa for a week and I realized you’d be much more comfortable up here in an actual bed, so I carried you.”

Crowley resisted the urge to blush. “You what?”

“I carried you. Mind you, it wasn’t easy. You were an absolute dead weight.”

Crowley really wished he had been conscious for that for several reasons[5]. He shifted again and noticed that something felt different.

“Am I wearing pajamas?”

He looked down to see dark fleece pajamas that were just his color and absolutely the most comfortable things he had ever worn, but he couldn’t remember putting them on.

“Yes, I miracled them onto you. Sleeping in those clothes you wear looked dreadfully uncomfortable, and you deserved to be wearing something warm. Don’t worry, I’ve got your other clothes folded downstairs.”

Crowley was flattered in a thousand ways he couldn’t articulate.

“Thanks, Angel,” he said, and Aziraphale nodded.

“Always. Now, how are you feeling?”

Crowley shrugged. “Better. A bit more rested, but I might need another day.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Take all the time you need, dear. I’ll stay. …Any nightmares?”

Crowley shook his head. “Not one.”

Aziraphale seemed delighted by this news, and frankly, so was Crowley. This past month had been exhausting, and he was glad to finally be getting some proper rest.

“I’m sorry, by the way,” Crowley began, “for everything I said.”

Aziraphale took his hand. “All is forgiven. I’m just glad to see you’re doing better. You’re looking more like yourself.”

Crowley was certain he didn’t look like himself. His hair was a mess, his eyes were heavy, he was wearing ridiculously cozy pajamas…

Then again, Aziraphale knew him better than anyone, so perhaps he did.

“How long did it take you to figure out that I couldn’t skate?” he asked after a while, and Aziraphale chuckled.

“Oh Crowley, I already knew that.”

“What? How?”

“You’re a snake, my dear,” Aziraphale said, “Those legs of yours were not designed for something like that. Not to mention you hate the cold. All things considered, you did an excellent job of it.”

Crowley smiled slightly. “Even when I pulled you down with me?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “Happens to everyone.”

“You’re just trying to make me feel better,” Crowley teased, and he could feel his eyelids getting heavier. Aziraphale pulled the blanket up to his shoulders. “Sorry,” he said with a yawn. “Might need a few more days.”

There was a hand running through his hair again, and Crowley couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer.

“It’s alright, dear,” he heard Aziraphale say, “take as much time as you need. I’ll be with you.”

Crowley’s mind was foggy. Someone was kissing him on the cheek. He felt impossibly safe.

“Sleep well,” he could hear a voice say as he drifted off.

And he did.

Better than he had in centuries.

THE END

[1] Which is healthy for two immortal beings who have known each other six thousand years to do.

[2] Sometimes days, sometimes weeks, sometimes a century or so.

[3] It was a signed first edition, given to him by Jane Austen herself. They had been friends back in the day, and she had even gifted him her original manuscript, then called First Impressions. Aziraphale had enjoyed it thoroughly and celebrated with her when she finally published the renamed novel 1813. He always kept several copies on his shelves in the shop in her honor.

[4] The burns on his feet had taken weeks to heal, though he never complained about it once. Well, once or twice, perhaps, but not nearly as much as he should have.

[5] One being that it would have been the perfect fuel for that romance novel he had written a few centuries ago and still found himself coming back to from time to time.