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Crowley stood leaning against the Bentley, his visible expression stone cold. It broke Aziraphale’s heart, yet he stepped into the lift anyway. He locked eyes with Crowley, and the angel just knew that there must be utter despair behind those dark glasses. It was a small mercy that he couldn’t see it.
This was terrible.
The doors closed, and a painfully bright white light surrounded him…
Aziraphale opened his eyes, and was met with darkness. The peaceful kind—the kind that accompanied a pleasantly warm summer’s night. Its dusty purple and gold glow shone through the window, past the elegant curtains he’d insisted on installing. There was a gentle weight over his torso—the arm of a demon who slept soundly beside him every night.
Aziraphale sighed in relief. It had just been a dream. Well, a nightmare. A terrible one, at that. He couldn’t unsee the image of his husband’s face looking so dejected, so defeated. It was awful. He needed some air.
Gently, Aziraphale removed himself from Crowley’s loose hold, getting a good look at the demon as he sat up. He looked so happy and peaceful, thank goodness. He kissed his forehead, then quietly made his way to the back door.
Aziraphale stepped outside, onto the small patio at the back of the cottage. From here, he could hear the sea's waves rolling onto the shore, and the light wind carried the smell of its salt to him. It’s why he and Crowley had picked this area; they’d fallen in love with the idea of a seaside home as soon as they’d come across it. He settled into one of the chairs, allowing the serene environment to overtake his senses. The fresh night air, the soft sway of plants and trees in the breeze, the calm stillness of the world around him.
A few minutes went by, and with each one the images from his nightmare became blurrier and farther away. Aziraphale was still drowsy; he knew that he’d easily fall back asleep, and in the morning he’d have no recollection of the nightmare at all.
“Hey,” said a soft voice, one that was doing its best not to startle.
Aziraphale’s heart fluttered.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, did I wake you?” he asked, turning to face his husband, who was just as drowsy as he was. He held a teacup and saucer set in each hand; one black and red, the other white and blue.
“Nah, woke up on my own.” Crowley replied. Aziraphale knew he was lying. The demon almost never woke up on his own. He was a ridiculously deep sleeper, always determined to get at least a full twelve hours of rest. It had only been five so far tonight.
The demon sat down in the chair beside Aziraphale, sliding the white and blue set across the table to him.
“Chamomile.”
“Thank you, dearest.”
Silence filled the air, save for the sounds of chirping crickets and singing nightingales. Neither celestial said a word as they sipped tea and gazed at the distant sea, until Crowley spoke up.
“D’you want to talk about it?”
Aziraphale smiled into his mug as he took a sip. He knew that’s why Crowley had come outside. He always did, when Aziraphale came here to calm down from a particularly bad dream. Ever since he’d fully separated from Heaven–not just physically, but emotionally as well–, he’d been plagued by nightmares fuelled by shame and guilt. And Crowley had been there to comfort him through the aftermath of each one. He was so sweet, although Aziraphale wouldn’t dare tell him so.
“It was nothing, dear. I can barely even remember it.” Even if he wanted to try to fish for the details, he couldn’t. The dream was too distant now, as if it had been carried away by the sea breeze.
“Good,” Crowley said, in the tone of somebody who would have been ready to physically fight a nightmare if he’d thought it was troubling his beloved angel.
They drank the rest of their tea in comfortable silence, enjoying each other’s company. It was a comfort to Aziraphale, having his husband there, even if he could barely remember why he’d needed the comfort in the first place.
“Back to bed, then? We’ve still got time before we need to properly get up.”
“We never need to properly get up,” Crowley scoffed, waving a hand to send the cups and saucers to the kitchen sink. He knew that Aziraphale preferred for dishes to be washed by hand.
“Ah, but we do, lest you sleep for a whole century.” It was a constant battle, Aziraphale’s insistence on a perfectly scheduled life, and Crowley’s insistence on naps that lasted for days.
Crowley just grumbled in response. Aziraphale smiled sweetly, as he did whenever he got his way (which was always), and took his husband’s hand, leading him to bed. The two got settled, snuggling impossibly close together. They had to make up for thousands of years of distance between them, afterall. It didn’t take long for them to both fall back into a blissful sleep, serenaded by a nightingale perched just outside their bedroom window.