Work Text:
“Breathe.”
He can’t. He can’t. He can not breathe . For the sake of all that is damned why can’t he get air past his damned lungs? It’s trapped there and he feels like he’ll explode from the pressure but if he doesn’t keep it in, if he doesn’t stay so very perfectly still then he’ll be shot. He’ll be gone. There then no more. And who will bring Aziraphale a blanket first thing in the morning when he’s reading at his desk? And who will stop his angel fading away because Crowley has hurt him by leaving. Because Crowley can’t move or he’ll die because Crowley can’t-
“Breathe!”
An awful lot happens at once as Aziraphale shouts. Crowley gasps air out and air in at last, forced to by the release of his wings (just two pairs. One pair requires concentrated thought. Any more would discorporate his body. Two is a reflex. Two is a reaction.). There isn’t space for his wings in the bookshop’s back room, newly made and uncanny at every boundary, but he doesn’t have time to care about it and Aziraphale, unbeknownst to Crowley, is actively rebuking anything tempted to break or be disturbed by Crowley’s wings. Aziraphale, quick as a flash, moving his hands from where he’d pressed hard into the dip of Crowley’s spine meeting his neck, cradles, firm and loving, Crowley’s cheeks. Crowley shudders and his refound breath starts to stutter once more.
“Don’t you dare, you darling serpent. Keep breathing,” Aziraphale coaxes.
Crowley gasps a hoarse laugh, an ugly, ripping huff of exhausted panic. “Don’t-- Don’t need… Shouldn’t-...”
“Hush, stop talking, Crowley,” Aziraphale shushes him, one hand gliding down his jaw, round to support the back of his head.
That laugh again. Those sharp edges smoothed somewhat. Crowley longs to hold. To grasp and grip and latch on. But he fears he’ll hold too hard. Grasping will become scratching. Gripping will become tearing. Latching on will be destroying. Love as destruction. He learnt that lesson millenia ago. He will not teach it to his angel. His love will not hurt. It will not damage.
“That’s it, you’re doing wonderfully, my dear. Come back to me, that’s it.”
Crowley slouches. Slumps forward, letting Aziraphale fold him into his embrace.
He breathes.