Chapter Text
The inside of the bookshop was wreathed with flames. Crowley stumbled across the floor, slipping on water and loose sheets of paper and tried to ignore the way the smoke curled in twisting clouds across the ceiling. Sorrow swam through him so strongly he felt it ringing in his molars, felt the tingling in his fingertips. A cold ball of dread settled permanently in his stomach, twisting and writhing, trying to claw its way out of his throat. He could feel it pushing upwards, past the tightness in his chest, past the ringing of his teeth, and out of his mouth in the form of a wretched sob. He closed his eyes.
Opening them, he startled only for a moment at the sight of the dim, warm, flameless room around him. The last fading memory of the acrid smell of smoke was replaced by the smell of old books and expensive alcohol. Aziraphale pushed his glasses farther down the edge of his nose and turned in his desk chair, one hand still shuffling through stacks of papers. He locked eyes with Crowley, who was lying on the sofa.
“Are you alright?”
“Hm?”
“You’re – well, you’re breathing quite heavily.”
Crowley suddenly became aware of the rapid state of his respiration. Attempting to regain composure, or at least to feign it, he flung his legs off the edge of the sofa, sat upright, and proceeded to spread himself out as far and as wide as his skinny frame would let him. One hand reached to the side table for his forgotten glass of aromatic wine.
“Didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he mumbled around an excessive gulp of red.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Aziraphale countered. Crowley met his eyes again.
“I’m fine,” he said, and swallowed. Aziraphale kept eye contact.
“I said I’m fine,” Crowley insisted.
“You don’t look fine,” Aziraphale said, shifting his gaze to the wine glass in Crowley’s hand. Crowley looked too, and supported the wine glass on his thigh to stop his hand from trembling. His breath was whistling through his nose, chest heaving.
“Well, I am,” he lied.
Aziraphale set his papers down, removed his glasses, and stood. Crowley’s vision was swimming.
“Here, sit forward, dear,” Aziraphale said, fingertips dancing lightly between Crowley’s shoulder blades. Crowley obeyed, passing his glass to Aziraphale, who returned it to its previous position on the floor. When it felt as if he would keep his forward momentum going until he ended up on the floor next to his wine in an undignified heap, Aziraphale pressed a warm hand to his chest and corrected him.
“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale said, compassion oozing from every syllable. “Are you alright?”
Crowley shook his head.
“Just breathe,” Aziraphale soothed, patting him on the back softly.
“Fucking embarrassing,” Crowley ground out through clenched teeth, and tried to control his breath. “Feels like I’m gonna pass out.”
“You needn’t be embarrassed, Crowley. It’s just me here.”
“Yeah, that’s the point,” Crowley spat.
“It’s quite alright,” Aziraphale whispered. “Here.”
He reached down to retrieve the glass of wine, but upon presenting it to Crowley, the deep burgundy color melted from the inside of the glass, leaving only crystal clear water behind.
“Bit of a reverse Jesus thing you’ve got going on?”
Aziraphale laughed. “Yes, I suppose. Now drink.”
Crowley accepted a few sips, feeling his body revert back to some semblance of normalcy.
Aziraphale watched him until he was satisfied, and then stuck his hands into Crowley’s face. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Are you serious? Four.”
“Ah, good to see your caustic attitude has remained unaffected,” Aziraphale snipped, but his hand returned to rest on Crowley’s back. “Are you feeling better, though?”
Crowley nodded. “Yes, angel. Thank you.”
“There’s no need for thanks,” Aziraphale humbly replied, but his small smile betrayed his satisfaction anyway.