Chapter Text
“It looks fine,” Crowley says, short.
It’s raining today, and the radio’s droning a soft tune, but no white noise can stop him from hearing, “Might I ask you—“ a hard swallow, “—not to lie to me, dear boy?”
His grip tightens on the wheel. His Bentley, not appreciating the grip, begins to allow electric guitars to fade into the song. “I’m not lying.”
In the backseat, Aziraphale lays awkwardly splayed out, face down and probably wishing he could be anywhere else. Crowley knows he does. “Now, I might be awful at knowing when you’re lying, but I’m also lying here in a considerable amount of pain, most of which is on my back.” The sound of rustling fabric on leather reaches Crowley’s ears, and then Aziraphale lets out a tiny gasp. It’s sharp, it’s pained, and it’s severely stressing Crowley out.
“Stop moving, idiot,” he snaps. Not for the first time, he curses out the M25. Ha, how ironic. He’s the reason it went up in flames, so in a way, he’s already laid a worse curse than a few rude words. “You’re just going to make it worse.”
“Ahaha. How could I make it worse?”
You’re doing it right now, Crowley thinks as he hears Aziraphale’s soft laughter taper out into trembling syllables.
He’s comforted Aziraphale plenty of times over the millennia, always finding some way to reassure Aziraphale that no, you’re not in the wrong, no need to worry about falling; yes, you’re too pure to need to worry at all. For so long, he even had to show Aziraphale the consequences of his naive, Heaven-influenced thinking. You’re too much of an angel, he would think at his worst.
And didn’t Aziraphale prove that to be true, so long ago? Didn’t he effectively tell Crowley that because he is a demon, he isn’t enough? The Metatron, a higher power of Heaven, deserved loyalty more than Crowley? Aziraphale is still solidly, blindly, too much of an angel? Didn’t he prove that?
…Didn’t he?
The Bentley finally shoves against his will, and the familiar voice of Queen, with lyrics that have become so familiar they’re practically branded over Crowley’s skin, begins to sing.
“Love of my life, you’ve hurt me…”
“Oh, don’t you try that,” Crowley hisses through gritted teeth. “Soppy brat.”
“You’ve broken my heart,” it sings rebelliously, “and now you leave me…”
“Play anything else but Queen for once, just once, you annoying little sh—“
“Forgive me.”
Crowley stiffens, and hopes he’s heard that wrong.
“Everything I did to hurt you… please, forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive.”
“Please.” Crowley knows the face Aziraphale must be wearing – mouth scrunched up into a mournful moue, eyes tearing up and rapidly blinking, his hands fidgeting at his sides instead of whatever little knickknack he has stashed away in his pockets. “Please, I—I beg you to forgive me.”
Because who else will? goes unsaid.
Ten, nine, eight, seven…
Am I unforgivable now? goes unsaid.
Six, five, four, three…
Was what I did wrong? goes unsaid.
Two, one…
Crowley breathes out. That counting to ten thing doesn’t really help. Maybe he should find a different set of numbers.
“Not right now,” he says, hating how he can practically feel Aziraphale wilt into the Bentley’s seats. The Bentley doesn’t like it either, and changes the radio tune to something a little cheerier. “Let’s get to my flat first. Then we’ll…”
Agh, he needs to blink away the moisture gathering in his eyes. “We’ll… talk. The way we should have, I think, a long time ago.”
“…Yes. Let us talk. That would probably be for the best.”
The rain continues to fall. Plunk, plunk, plunk.
”Ooh, you make me live,” the Bentley continues to sing. “Whenever this world is cruel to me...”
Over the years, Crowley has heard speculation that rain is, in truth, the tears of the Almighty. Considering the general poppycock humanity tends to think up, that seems highly unlikely, though it’s not as if Crowley can confirm or deny it. He had a hand in creating the universe, not the earth, for one. He’s pretty sure it’s not true since, as a demon, God’s divine tears would probably leave him as a puddle of goo somewhere, but hey. One never knows.
He might like to think the rain today is the result of the Almighty’s sorrow. That would mean he’s not the only one mourning alongside Aziraphale.
Aziraphale has sometimes been too much of an angel, that’s true, but Crowley never wanted him to stop being an angel. How is he supposed to comfort Aziraphale now? He can’t say, you’re good, anymore.
“Is this how you felt?” Aziraphale pipes up from the back, tremors disguised beneath a forced happiness that has probably been perfected during his time in Heaven. “When you Fell?”
Humorlessly, Crowley’s lips quirk up. “Hitting on me now?”
“Hitting on… How do you mean?”
“Y’know.” Crowley shrugs. “Never heard that pick-up line? Did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?”
There’s a moment of silence where Aziraphale must process it, probably with no small amount of righteous indignation and confusion. Then he says, “Oh! I have heard that, actually. So that’s what that young man meant. I had wondered how he knew I was an angel, and then I was terribly offended because I thought it was clear that I hadn’t… fallen.”
Resolutely ignoring the way Aziraphale’s voice shakes – for now, at least – Crowley says, “Hold on. Someone actually said that to you? Someone young?”
“Yes, about two years before the whole Armageddon fiasco. A young man, likely in his twenties.”
“Huh. Don’t really know how I feel about that. Probably thought you were rich, wanted a sugar daddy.” Probably. Crowley can think of a million different things that are easy to become enamored with about Aziraphale – which is a pack of worms he thought he’d sealed back up for at least another two weeks – but for humans that don’t know the half of it, it seems unlikely that any of them would have an amorous effect.
“A what? Sug-ar da-ddy?”
Oh boy. This isn’t a conversation Crowley thought he’d be having with Aziraphale, especially during their current predicament. The Second Coming has just been avoided, for Someone’s sake!
And so, Queen’s song You’re My Best Friend becomes the backdrop to their first conversation about the term Sugar Daddy. It’s not as mortifying as one might think – Aziraphale has lived through six thousand years alongside humanity. He’s seen sugar daddies since before they were referred to as such.
Still, hearing him utter the words in that sweet voice of his is so weird.
Crowley’s flat is the same one as always. He’d momentarily driven away from London, gone south, west to Wales, then north to Scotland, and circled back around to Soho, all while hearing You can’t go ninety! in the back of his head. He had caused exactly four accidents, none of which were fatal, though one car looked wrecked enough for him to forgetfully leave behind a giant wad of cash.
Point is, Crowley still has the same flat, and it’s freaking him out a bit to hear Aziraphale murmur, “I’m… so glad. To see something familiar.”
Crowley’s side of things is never supposed to be familiar. That was always Aziraphale’s thing. Familiar, never changing, something to come back to that is safe.
He just purses his lips and snaps his fingers with his free hand. The other arm helps support Aziraphale as he wobbles his way into the flat, seeking out anywhere to sit or lay in. Which brings them to another predicament.
“Don’t have a sofa,” Crowley croaks, unable to look at Aziraphale’s expression. “I don’t really invite many people over, so I, uh, didn’t think there was any need. I-I’ve, ngk, got a bed though. If that works.”
“It does,” Aziraphale says, voice devoid of judgment and instead laden with soft emotion. “Work, I mean.”
“Great.” His stomach hasn’t felt so tumultuous since that awful day. And recent, highly dangerous events that he had staunchly attempted to avoid in the beginning. “Glad we got that sorted. Let’s go then.”
They hobble over to Crowley’s bedroom, which is—not a big mess, overall, but the few bottles strewn about – empty because he didn’t want to sober up and thus didn’t refill them – speak volumes in the silence. Crowley ignores Aziraphale’s pitiful whimper in favor of helping him lay on the bed, careful to avoid touching his back.
Aziraphale goes down with a groan. He’s laid in Crowley’s bed once before, after everything went down in Tadfield. Ordinarily, Aziraphale would never sleep, choosing to stay up reading a good book, but that day was made of all sorts of exceptions and surprises. Crowley didn’t have a sofa then either, so they ended up having to share the black sheets.
Really, how is it Crowley managed to stay oblivious even through that?
“Thank you,” Aziraphale says, bringing him back to reality and looking at Crowley through the corner of his eye. His cheek is squished against the mattress. “You didn’t have to help me.”
Crowley just looks at him, feeling utterly helpless. “Feeling tired at all?”
“In a way, I suppose.” Aziraphale’s hands fidget against the wrinkles of the bedsheets. “Why? Are you suggesting I sleep?”
“Might do you some good.”
“I don’t often sleep, though. And, I think…” Aziraphale’s eyes shutter. “There’s a conversation we need to have, isn’t there?”
Simultaneously wanting nothing more and feeling two seconds from bolting, Crowley shakes his head and steps back. “It’ll probably go better if you’re well-rested. Go on, sleep it off.”
He turns to leave for the kitchen, or maybe to sulk on his throne, but then he hears Aziraphale make a pained noise. Something tugs on his jacket sleeve, and Crowley, startled, looks back at Aziraphale.
“Oi, you shouldn’t be making any sudden moves—“
“You’ll still be here, won’t you?” Aziraphale asks, his eyes wide in panic. His fingers are clutching tightly onto Crowley’s sleeve. “When I wake?”
Damn, he’s really tired, Crowley thinks dumbly. He’s actually considering sleeping.
Then the other words hit him, and Crowley needs to get out of the room before he starts to choke up. His glasses can hide his tears, but they can’t hide how his voice shakes and how his chest heaves.
Funny. That should be his line.
Bright eyes – not purple, not anymore – stare at him with easy weakness. Aziraphale has never been anything but soft, and Crowley aches whenever that gaze is aimed at him. He’s never been able to say anything but reassurances to those eyes.
“Yeah,” he rasps out. He’s weak right now, and terror begins to grip him – so many times he’s been weak, only to be broken down even further – but he manages to say, “I’ll be here, so hurry up and sleep that off, yeah?”
Those eyes gaze at him a moment longer, searching for any signs he’s lying. Makes sense, he supposes. After everything.
Then those fingers let go of him, and Aziraphale cracks a shaky grin. “I haven’t slept in a long time. I’m afraid I’m a little out of practice.”
“You managed to, after the Armageddon-That-Wasn’t. Maybe the stress will knock you out this time too.”
“Hopefully, my dear.” Aziraphale’s eyelashes are already fluttering closed. “Hopefully…”
Aziraphale falls asleep on his bed. Crowley could make a joke, or even just an observation about an angel sleeping within a demon’s dark lair, but that would just be wrong, now. He could also make a little optimistic remark; they don’t need to worry about associating together now. Who would fuss about two fallen angels talking?
But that doesn’t feel right either.
He reaches out, not knowing what he’s hoping to do, and touches Aziraphale’s white locks. He’s kept the same hairstyle, even now.
“What am I supposed to do?” he asks quietly, knowing he won’t get an answer. He’s never gotten an answer. “Can you tell me? What are… What are we supposed to do now?”