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Driving angry was never good for Crowley. Well, to say it was good for him to get in a car and just move. Overwhelm his senses with stimuli he controlled, loud music, bright visuals of the nightlife, the rattle of the Bentley moving so fast— that might've been good for him. It might be more accurate to say that Crowley driving angry wasn't good for other road users. Or pedestrians. That it wasn't good for several road signs and curbs hurt in the making of the exorcise. But driving felt better than tears. Even better than yelling. It was better than plant care sometimes. Just as cathartic, for sure. Plant care was next on the docket, after parking precariously and leaving "Lost in Hollywood" on a System of a Down album Maggie had recommended blaring, shutting the car off. Crowley threw his head against the headrest and groaned.
There were nights like this. Sure, there'd been less after the last two years, but it still happened occasionally. Crowley would stumble across something that brought up memories. Little quaint sushi shops, a good dead, a baby in a pram, or an unlikely animal friendship would put his mind right where he hated it to go. He banged his palm against the steering wheel and then rubbed his hand over to apologize. "It's not your fault," he mumbled to his Bentley. Today, it was a news headline. "Horns heard over London streets, voice of an angel… or aliens?"
Apparently, with the horns, a voice could be heard. Lucky for the newscasters, shaky iPhone footage taken with heavy breathing caught the event. Horns blared as people screamed, and beams of sun shined from the sky, "be not afraid," a voice Crowley immediately recognized. "Humans below hear me," Crowley didn't want to hear, "the time is almost upon us. Hear horns of prophecy and my voice, and prepare thyselves," Crowley could never be prepared, "blah blah blah." Okay, maybe that wasn't verbatim, but it might as well be.
And he'd been doing so good. Doing so good, less pranks, less coffee, less plant yelling, more lunch with Nina, more tea and music with Maggie. He'd even run into Anathema and Newt in town recently.
Crowley sighed. He should call Beelzebub. He should go out and revisit them and Gabriel. They had told him they were there if he needed them. He should call. He should go. Escape to the place he thought he'd run away to. But he shook his head. He couldn't bear it right now. Couldn't bear to watch the two people he used to fear learning about his best friend and their judgment out there living his dream. He couldn't watch that right now.
So he heaved out of his car, deciding some good plant yelling and enough alcohol to kill a horse would be good enough. Unlocking the door, he paused before opening it.
No, he had to be wrong. What a silly notion. A dumb demon he must be. Crowley shook his head. There was no way he was right. There was no way the demon sensed what he thought he'd felt. He did not, repeat, did not sense Aziraphale. He hasn't seen the angel since… well… since the kiss. Since he'd laid out all of his feelings, bared his heart to the being he'd love for thousands of years, and got it stomped on. The day the angel ran back to heaven. For authority. To do good.
Wasn't to do good about ending suffering? What about Crowley's suffering?
He shook it off and entered his home. Crowley tossed his keys somewhere and threw his shoes into a corner, scuffing the well-scuffed wall. He peeled the jacket from his shoulders and tossed that onto its rack. His glasses have mostly stayed on since that day two years ago. He's finally been comfortable enough to sleep without them, but that's pretty much it. They stay in his home, around his friends, in the shower. He didn't want to ever be vulnerable again.
Crowley cracked his neck as he sauntered into the flat, stopping short as he saw the tear-stained face of the angel. Aziraphale's shoulders shook as they cried quietly. He raised an arm and stepped forward, "you were right." Their arms swiveled out as they stepped back, their voice shook, and his lip quivered, "you were right." They spun around dizzily, and large gashes covered his back, staining his jacket dark red, "I was wrong," they sobbed. "And you were right," they bowed, spreading his arms to his sides.
Crowley blinked. This wasn't happening. The demon ignored him, moving right past and into his study. He poured a tall glass of good year whiskey and downed that. The drink was pressed back into the wood hutch before long legs carried him into the atrium where his plants (and Aziraphale) sat (and bowed) waiting. They were unmoving as the demon strolled in, glancing around at the greenery, not his oldest friend. "You lot…" he began, "you— this— look at—" he groaned. Wow, he had to be bad if he couldn't even care for his plants. The demon gave them a few mists, ignoring Aziraphale getting up and moving to the big chair in his study.
Crowley dropped his head to his chin, "breathe just breathe, it's what humans do," he chanted. "You too!" He screamed at a tall paradise palm. The palm stretched outwards and back in as if taking a deep breath. "You are my plants. You are the lushest, greenest, healthiest plants in the country," he yelled, and they shivered. "Look alive!" They all seemed to stand straighter, lifting toward the skylight.
A strangled cough came from the dark of his study. "You… you really do talk to them."
The demon froze, his back to the room. He shook his head. Feeling sure that he really was sensing the angel. Was he really here? It had to just be his mind hoping for something… right? Oh, shit. His eyes fell on the disheveled angel, hair messed, eyes red and puffy, lips dry and cracked, blood on their clothes, a new suit, blue and grey and modern looking. He was really here, weren't they? "No, nope, no," he barreled into the kitchen and grabbed a stiff brandy from the cupboard. He cracked the bottle and drank as he crossed again into the atrium. "I did not hear that," he shouted. "I did not just hear who I thought I heard because that bastard wouldn't dare to show his face to me unless he was ready to be discorporated!" He screamed.
"Well, I suppose I am," the pained voice drawled. There was shifting in the dark, grunting in pain as Aziraphale shuffled into the moonlight leaching in.
Crowley reeled, "this is not happening."
Aziraphale's eyes kept on the floor. "I… I needed to see you."
"I don't want to see you!" Crowley yelled.
"I… I know. There was no one else—"
The bottle smashed as the demon threw it over his head. "No!" He screamed, tears forming behind dark glasses. "You do not get to just waltz in here. You can do the dance all you like. It will not fucking change it!"
Aziraphale sucked in his lips, eyes pouring tears like a broken faucet, his chest heaved, and they fell to their knees, "I know," they sobbed.
Crowley refused to comfort the angel. Refused. No. That is not going to happen. Not in any reality. No.
"I," they choked, "I need help, Crowley."
"And you think I'm gonna give it to you?" He squatted down to look at Aziraphale. "I don't owe you anything," words sharp through gritted teeth.
"I know," they gulped. "I… I know what they did to you."
Crowley looked away, shrugging, "I don't remember—"
"They told me. They… they showed me. I— I didn't mean to! I told them I didn't want to know!" He heaved, "They wanted me to know… it was my punishment. I'm sorry. I know you wouldn't want me to, but they made me."
Crowley eyed them suspiciously.
"How they hurt you… who you were… how they… they took your memory, the… the fall, Crowley. Oh, it was terrible."
The demon snorted.
"But I— I defended you!" He huffed, "I had to. I had to defend you. They were wrong. They were cruel— they knew I'd act out if I knew. They wanted me to argue, they wanted me to show you devotion. They wanted me to side with you and not them. They wanted to control me, but… but that was the last straw!"
Crowley swallowed. "And?"
Aziraphale fell into a sitting position. "They got what they wanted, I suppose," he swallowed. "I lashed out, I yelled at them, I even swore— but they called me a traitor again, they… they hurt me," they shut their eyes tight, "like they hurt you."
Crowley didn't move. Didn't say anything. What was there to say? Was he supposed to be driven by Aziraphale's loyalty? After everything? He craned to see the state of the angel's back. It did look pretty bad. They didn't deserve this.
Crowley thought for a moment. What about Aziraphale's suffering?
Heaven was abusive, and Crowley knew that. Nina explained how sometimes abusers make you feel like you can never leave. Like you're nothing without them. Like they're all you have. How sometimes manipulation is more potent than love. Crowley hadn't wanted to believe that, but it was hard not to now.
Crowley stood, walking wordlessly to his desk and pulling out a first aid kit. He brought it over and sat behind Aziraphale. "Stay put," he mumbled as he put the equipment in the angel's line of sight, opening it and grabbing some rubbing alcohol and scissors. Crowley cut an upside-down "U" in the back of the angel's clothes. "I'll put it back together when I'm done," he mumbled before he could protest.
Aziraphale smiled a little. Maybe Crowley does still care for— "Ah!" Aziraphale screamed as the alcohol was poured over his back.
Crowley patted it down with some paper towels, being gentle this time, "it's a chemical reaction, gonna burn one way or another, figured we'd do it hard and fast."
"You could've warned me," Aziraphale shot back.
"Then you'd think too much about it," Crowley muttered. He retrieved several rolls of butterfly band-aids and squeezed the split skin together before placing the little band-aid. The demon tried not to overthink about the closeness and physical contact. That burned like alcohol. Finally, after several little patches, all the wounds were bound closed. "There," he said simply.
Aziraphale turned to face him. This was right. Crowley taking care of him. This was how it was supposed to be. They crawled closer, wincing at how the muscles flexed against harmed skin. Crowley froze as they got closer still and climbed over his body. They stared at each other for a moment before Aziraphale reached up a hand, grabbed the demon's shirt, and pulled into a gentle and shy kiss.
Crowley didn't move. Didn't press his lips back. Didn't make a sound. He couldn't. He couldn't fall for this. He couldn't let himself enjoy what this might mean. It would hurt him too much when Aziraphale renounced him again. Crowley wouldn't give the angel another chance to break his heart. He let Aziraphale finish, definitely not because he wanted to enjoy the sensation. Then Crowley wiggled out from under the angel and to his feet. "I helped you," Crowley said flatly. "Now get out."
"Crowley, I—"they began.
"No."
"Need you. I—"
"Get."
"I love you!"
"Out— no!" Crowley screamed. "I don't care!"
Aziraphale's face twisted in anger. They slammed their hand into the ground, yelling twice as loud, "bullshit!"
Crowley was so surprised he stepped backward.
"That is complete bullshit and you know it!" They said again. Struggling, Aziraphale got up. "Crowley, I need you to help me stop the second coming."
"Why do you need my help?" He screeched.
"I can't do this alone!"
"Go to Muriel! They're still hanging around your bookshop!"
"I need you!"
"No you—"
"You come up with the best ideas," they confessed quietly, moving closer. "I need you because you're clever and wonderful. I need you because our love can tear heaven apart. I need you because you always know what to do. You bring out the best in me."
"You forgave me," Crowley spat.
Aziraphale stepped closer, a hand finding the demon's chest, tears in their eyes again. "You didn't do… a fucking thing wrong," they said quietly. "I was wrong to leave your side. I don't ever want to do that again." They blinked, hands finding the sides of Crowley's face now, "Please, I'm begging you, let me be by your side again."
"I… you'll leave me again," he confessed.
"No," Aziraphale shook his head. "Never again."
Crowley felt weak. It had to be a trick. It just had to be. But he was weak. Tears formed in his eyes as he scanned Aziraphale's face for anything, any sign that this was a trick.
Aziraphale reached up and took off his glasses, making Crowley flinch. "I'm so sorry I hurt you."
"I'm sorry too," he swallowed.
"You did nothing wrong," he assured. "Please. Help me with this. I made a mistake, rescue me this last time," he whispered. "Rescuing me used to make you so happy."
"Because I just wanted you to be alright. That's all I ever wanted."
Aziraphale began to smile a little, "that's all?" He asked, eyes flicking toward the demon's lips.
Crowley sighed, "No." Long arms slithered around Aziraphale's back slowly. When there was so sign of discomfort or god-forsaken forgiveness, Crowley pulled forward and settled his lips against Aziraphale's.
The angel sighed happily and pulled him even closer. Kissing him the way they'd always been wanting to. A pained sound that still was somehow relief escaped Crowley as he melted into Aziraphale.
This was a lot better.
When it was over, Crowley rubbed his hands up and down Aziraphale's arms, regaining composure. "So what do we have to do?"
Aziraphale smiled, "conquer this," he kissed the demon again, as the nightingale began to sing again, "together."