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Aziraphale’s hands itched whenever he was near Crowley.
It wasn’t like the way they burned when he drew too near the demon’s bandaged neck, the violent brand hidden but still very visible in his mind as it glowed red hot and angry.
No, this was the tingling sensation that accompanied a plate of sweets left on the coffee table.
He wanted to touch – to soothe, to aid, to reassure himself that Crowley was there, in the weeks since the disastrous heist. Except he couldn’t stand the way the demon tensed at the sudden contact, the quiet hiss of pain when Aziraphale got too close to one of the many scarring wounds.
So he shoved his hands deep into his pockets and told himself it was getting better.
At least Crowley no longer flinched whenever he unexpectedly saw the angel.
“’M fine,” the demon snapped, holding up his hand to stop Aziraphale from coming any closer. “Just … give me a minute.”
Aziraphale stepped back, wringing his hands, as he waited.
“This how it felt whenever I just popped up throughout the years, like in the Bastille?” Crowley said with forced levity, trying to hide the way his bandaged hands shook. “I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d have put a bell on me.”
The angel smiled wanly. “My dear, that would have ruined the mystery. And I do enjoy a nice surprise.”
Neither of them pointed out that this was far from nice.
The angel did his best to tread heavier now, or do more to telegraph his location.
Anathema noticed and said nothing.
Crowley on the other hand.
“Would you stop stomping about?” The demon asked from where he sprawled on the sofa. His jaw was taut, the most visible sign of his pain. “Making my head hurt.”
Aziraphale bit back the urge to suggest Crowley lie down in his room, thinking about the way the demon had stormed out of there a day or two ago, snarling about feeling trapped – the sentiment causing the angel to flinch. There had been a flicker of regret on his face before he’d fled to another room, where there was a bigger gap in the boarded-up windows that faced the gardens being left to grow wild.
“Sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale apologized, tucking his book under his arm. “Can I bring you anything?”
“Nah,” the demon mumbled. He nodded toward the book. “You could read here, that way I don’t have to hear you making a ruckus.”
The blond hesitated.
Crowley shifted, drawing his knees up so there was more space at the end of the couch. “I won’t bite.”
Aziraphale recoiled, a sharp pain stinging his side as he warred against the memory of teeth tearing at his flesh. He pressed the book tighter against himself, as though the tome would protect “I – I shouldn’t.”
“Shit,” Crowley cursed, sitting up slightly. “Look, jus’ – sit down, ‘kay? ‘Could use the company.”
The angel shuffled over and gingerly perched at the edge of the cushion, watching the demon out of the corner of his eye for any sign that he was causing more pain. He could feel Crowley’s gaze on him, golden eyes hidden by his glasses, as he opened his book and tried to read.
The words didn’t sink in. He was too preoccupied by his determination to not hurt Crowley that he read and reread graphs between what he thought were discreet glances at the demon.
“For Satan’s sake,” Crowley hissed after the angel hadn’t finished the page after 10 minutes. His jaw clenched as he pushed himself off the couch.
“Crowley, wait –“ Aziraphale started, silenced by a frustrated wave of dismissal before the demon stalked out of the room. His lip quivered as he closed the tome, staring at the faded cover. “I just don’t want to hurt you.”