Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Aziraphale bustled happily around his bookshop, humming busily to himself as he individually took time to shelve a collection of new aged novels he had received in the post after a small, guilty miracle had tipped the favors of an auction for them in his favor. 

He deserved the small treat, he thought to himself, deserved to indulge a little; the twentieth century coming to an end had been a relief, what with how much horror and death and poverty and hate and evil had run amok during the times — not even demon-strung, Crowley swore it up and down, everything involved in all of the wars and dictatorships and things along those lines were purely human, which was more than a little disturbing, but to digress — that the start of a new century was a welcome relief.

The bookshop was his top priority right now, under the guise of it being a Heavenly embassy. Even if that may be slightly ironic, Aziraphale thought with amusement to himself as he reached for another book, seeing that one of the more frequent occupants of the bookshop just so happened to be a —

“Angel!”

Well. Speak of the devil, in a way.

The front door of the very much closed bookshop banged open all at once, the door seeming to forget that it had been locked. Aziraphale turned and placed down the book he had been holding just as Crowley stumbled inside, looking a little more than worse for the wear.

His sunglasses were nowhere to be seen, which was an oddity in and of itself, but more concerning was the blatant, naked fear in his eyes; the way his pupils were shrunken, thinned, and darting around near-frantically, golden hazel swallowing up white sclera as his chest heaved desperately despite his lack of needing to breathe.

His typical black clothing was disheveled, unbuttoned and torn, his hair was mussed-up and spiked out, and his feet were bare, patterned with dark scales — but most worryingly, there were clear dark bruises blossoming along his cheek, and the slight curve of his exposed belly through a tear in his shirt, the normally-pale skin that was visible painted a blackening purple. 

(He looked scared. Crowley — cocky, brash, reckless, spitfire Crowley — looked scared. 

Aziraphale did not like that, and would not stand for it.)

“Crowley?” Aziraphale started forward, abandoning his books entirely, the heart that he did not need but always made itself present pounding deafeningly in his ears, and then he let out a sudden oof as the demon barreled forward and nearly crashed into him, grabbing onto his arm and wheezing in apparent discomfort, apparent fear, apparent pain. 

Concern and protectiveness surged up within the angel, and he steeled himself, having to work to keep his voice from shaking as he placed a hand on Crowley’s back, practically holding him upright. “Are you alright?” He asked urgently, trying to look in Crowley’s eyes, but the demon wouldn’t, pulling away. “Crowley —,”

“Jus’ — urgh, ngk —,” Crowley waved a shaking hand behind him and the door slammed shut. Aziraphale felt waves of extremely feeble power pouring from the demon as he added extra wards to protect the bookshop and its occupants, but he slumped over before he could finish them; Aziraphale reached for him and held him up, tutting with chastisement. 

“Save your strength, dear, save your strength,” he murmured, finishing the wards himself, strengthening them against all forces — occult, and ethereal, ignoring the jab of guilt in his chest at the latter. 

Crowley quivered under his touch, his head bowed, his shoulders hunched; Aziraphale’s palm rested in between the blades of his back, possessive and protective. Keeping him upright and refusing to allow him to fall any further.

“Sorry,” the demon managed to hiss after a moment of struggling to speak, his head still lowered, his hands shaking in fists at his sides. Crowley attempted to straighten a little, wobbling in place, but just wound up falling back against Aziraphale with a puff of heavy breath.

“Hell sent . . . lackeys,” he heaved out through gritted teeth, attempting to push out an explanation that even he could not explain or justify. “Dunno why, hones’ly. Too many fffuckin’ good deeds, I dunno, they never tell me what the fuck I did. Just —,”

His eyes, Aziraphale noticed with a wrench in his heart, were glistening. He wondered just how much pain the demon was in, and not showing; wondered how much the tremors under his skin and the tremble in his jaw were betraying him.

“Jus’ — I need a place to — to crash, for a couple’a days,” Crowley managed to force out eventually, gritting his teeth so hard it looked painful. “If y’don’t mind, angel. I . . .” He swallowed tightly, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. He closed his eyes, and he didn’t breathe.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Oh, no, of course not, my dear, of course I don’t mind,” Aziraphale hastened to say, his voice catching with worry for the demon. Poor Crowley, he found himself thinking sadly, even if the demon would curse him for it; Heaven and its angels may be tetchy at times, but at least they were never trying to hunt him down and hurt him, and for doing a good deed, no less.

And honestly, Hell had taken Crowley Down for things as small as holding the door for someone; it was really just because they were bored, and because no one liked the demon who was allowed to roam free topside. It was their way of putting him in his place, Aziraphale supposed with a wrench in his heart.

He shook his head a little, reorienting on the demon in his arms. “Are you alright, Crowley?”

“Ehhh,” said Crowley tiredly — which was, for him, an admission that he was in fact hurt, possibly badly, and was hiding it under the veil of not appearing ‘weak.’

He was so very ridiculously exasperating, and Aziraphale huffed, steadying his hands along Crowley’s back and torso. “Come along,” he all but ordered, ignoring the demon’s weak protests.

He supported Crowley as he moved the two of them into the private room in the back of the bookshop, with the couch that the demon so often frequented, to the point that there were a few spare, empty wine glasses from a long night a few weeks prior balanced precariously on a stack of books nearby that Aziraphale waved away hastily to make room.

He lay Crowley down along the length of the Chesterfield couch, and the demon puffed out a long, thin breath, his limbs sprawling out, his hands trembling. His cheeks were pale and drained of color, and his fully-golden slitted eyes were crossed as he looked up at Aziraphale, his forehead creased with the effort of keeping them open.

“Where are you hurt, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, his voice no-nonsense and to-the-point. Crowley frowned lopsidedly, looking almost pouting. He was still wobbling, even lying down, and his lips were trembling as he spoke in a feeble voice.

“I’m . . . nnnn . . . m’not.”

Aziraphale sighed exasperatedly, crossing his arms over his chest and casting a disapproving eye down to the clearly-in-a-lot-of-pain demon.

Crowley groaned half-heartedly, and then, without Aziraphale even having to speak a word of chastisement or scolding, he gave in — which was concerning in and of itself, Aziraphale thought worriedly, for him to so quickly admit that something was in fact wrong.

“Ffffine,” he mumbled with exhaustion, and then, stubbornly ignoring Aziraphale’s attempts to move forward and help him, he sat up the best he could, hunching over slightly and wrapping trembling arms around himself for a moment as if in minute comfort. Crowley hissed through his teeth as he began to peel up his black shirt with shaking hands, digging a fang into his upper lip so hard it looked painful and snarling in the back of his throat, an almost chillingly animalistic sound. 

Aziraphale winced as he caught sight of the demon’s torso. Crowley’s side was all but purple, splotched with dark bruises and bubbling blood under the surface of his pale skin. His ribs were swollen, and his breathing was labored, his chest rising and falling stutteringly. He gave up on trying to pull up his shirt any further and wrapped his arms back around himself, his entire body shivering as if he were freezing cold.

“They — they caught me off guard,” he confessed sullenly, but his trembling and stumbling breaths didn’t do much to help support his facade of aloofness. “Jumped outta my damn telly screen. They were low-rankers, couldn’t do real damage, not really, but it still hurts like a motherf—,”

He was cut off with a choked whimper clawing deep from his throat as his fingers twitched against his bruised stomach, and he pursed his lips tightly shut, squeezing his eyes closed. He hunched back over himself, his copper hair falling over his face, shielding his lidded eyes from sight.

Aziraphale grimaced sympathetically as he saw the agonized twist of his mouth, and wrung his hands together, wishing for nothing more than to comfort but not knowing how to go about it.

“I can’t — I can’t fix it,” Crowley ground out eventually, his posture stiff as if he were refusing to move even a sliver to keep the pain at bay. “They had a blessed miracle blocker . . . m’still, ehh, recovering from its — effect, s’pose. So, nnyeah.” He shifted a little, brushing his hair back, and then stiffened again with a poorly-suppressed whine in the back of his throat. “Just. Yeah.”

He glanced surreptitiously up at Aziraphale, and the angel caught the question in his slitted serpentine eyes — the question that he would never voice, for asking for help would be too much vulnerability being shown to the angel who was supposed to be the demon’s enemy. But Aziraphale saw it, and, with protectiveness surging up in his chest, asked one of his own, keeping his voice soft and nonthreatening, as if he were coaxing a spooked animal into his arms.

“May I?” The angel inquired of him very, very gently, allowing a warm glow to seep into his palms as he held his hands up. Crowley stared at him, his eyes going very wide, before he nodded begrudgingly, exhaling a long, thin breath.

Aziraphale smiled reassuringly at him before very, very gently peeling Crowley’s shirt up all the way, rolling his eyes and ignoring the demon’s weak crack of oi, buy a bloke a drink first at the motion; he would usually tut disapprovingly with some amusement, but for now, he would let Crowley get away with whatever he wanted. Anything to keep him here, to keep him Crowley. To keep him from thinking about his pain, his injuries . . . to keep him thinking about the demons, his own kind, who had been sent to hunt him down and hurt him so horribly.

With lots of deep breathing to stay calm, Aziraphale managed to get the torn clothes up enough that Crowley still felt not too exposed, but that the angel could see the full extent of the damage which, thankfully enough, was only centered along his torso and sides, and a couple of bruises on his face and knuckles. 

(He had tried to fight back. He had tried to fight back, and he hadn’t been able to do enough, because the demons were filthy cheats who jumped him in his own home under Hell’s jurisdiction. He had tried to fight back, and they had hurt him worse for it.)

Dark, ugly bruises stained the expanse of Crowley’s pale skin, blossoming across where his belly rose and fell in a trembling motion.

Upon closer inspection, they appeared to be almost black in some places from burst capillaries, and some were even lumpy, suggesting internal injuries; Aziraphale wondered with a sick feeling in his stomach how hard the demon had been hurt, how badly he had been ‘caught off guard’ and pummeled before managing to flee, to leave such marks. 

“This — this may hurt a bit, my dear,” Aziraphale whispered as he leaned over Crowley, forcing himself to be composed, for the demon’s sake. “I do apologize.”

He waited for Crowley to nod bravely before closing his eyes and carefully moving his hands down, humming comfortingly as he pressed his palms against the aurora borealis of bruises across the demon’s torso. He winced as Crowley hissed with pain and tried to ignore the tremors running underneath the demon’s skin as he sent warm pulses of angelic power throughout the wounds, sweat beading on his brow as he pressed his hands harder down against Crowley’s clammy skin.

Crowley whimpered, a choked, bitten-back sound, and then cried out, writhing against his hands. Aziraphale murmured gentle, tearful apologies, but did not withdraw, even as Crowley trembled and cried underneath him.

Only when there was not a trace left of demonic energy that was not Crowley’s did Aziraphale open his eyes and pull away, running his hands over the bruises one last time and healing them fully, no longer with the strain of demonic-fueled wards. He also ran a hand through Crowley’s copper hair, which looked like it had been pulled and yanked, soothing the pain along his scalp. Crowley sighed with relief, sagging back, his head lolling to one side and his eyes drooping.

“Should say thanksss,” he mumbled, placing one quivering hand protectively over his torso, running his fingers nervously along his belly, now clean of bruises or hurt. He seemed to flounder for speech for a moment before continuing, his voice now weighted down and heavy with clear shame as he slumped against the couch. He still looked scared, and Aziraphale hated it. “Sssorry, angel.”

“Please, dear boy, do not thank me, nor apologize,” Aziraphale stated firmly, worry for what could happen if Crowley even deigned to thank him twisting at his chest. He did not want to ever hear those pained, strangled whimpers again . . . though this was not the first time he was thinking so, nor was this the first time he was telling Crowley not to thank him after he healed him from Hell’s lackeys. Nor was it the first time he spoke the words: “It is not your fault.”

“Mhm, t’ is,” Crowley muttered, fixing Aziraphale with a weak, squinting glare. “M’ a good demon. Not good enough for Heaven, ‘n not nearly bad ‘nuff for Hell.”

He shuddered feebly, and Aziraphale’s heart clenched. “M’ so tired of gettin’ hurt,” he rasped out, staring up at the ceiling as if determined to not let the tears pearling at the corners of his eyes come into fruition, and Aziraphale thought that he would cry, if he wasn’t already. 

How exhausted Crowley must be, he thought sadly, to allow himself to say such things without abandon.

“Rest, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured with a slight hitch in his voice, moving his hand down and smoothing Crowley’s shirt back over his healed skin, offering that slight comfort and familiarity, at least. He was nudged with the sudden inexplicable urge to press a kiss to the demon’s forehead, and pushed the thought away, cheeks slightly pink; Crowley needed security right now, not an entirely new unknown thing. “You are safe now. I am here.”

“Safe?” Crowley mumbled. His eyes had already drooped shut, his body slumped over and boneless. He looked as if he had been ready to pass out for hours, but had not felt, in a word, safe enough to do so; as if he had been fighting to make it here, to the bookshop, because he knew it to be his haven.

Aziraphale’s heart seized in his chest; he was reminded of the bookshop’s opening in 1800, when he had given Crowley a personal invitation stating that he, a demon, was always welcome in the bookshop, the home of an angel, and Crowley had shown up the next day demanding to know whether or not he was fooling with him, because he had not been able to possibly imagine that someone would want his company. Aziraphale had laughed pleasantly and taken Crowley’s hand and led him across the threshold, and had told him that as long as it was his own home, it would be Crowley’s, too. 

“Yes, dear heart,” he said quietly in eventual response, and gently stroked a hand through the demon’s mussed-up hair as Crowley immediately dropped into sleep (sleep that would be dreamless, Aziraphale ensured), exhaustion crashing down over him in a wave so heavy that even Aziraphale could feel it crashing at the edge of his psyche. 

Exhaustion. Fear. Pain. Anger. 

And yet, above it all, as Crowley unconsciously pressed into Aziraphale’s hand: a feeling of safety, at being protected, at being safe. 

Aziraphale watched over him, drawing a blanket over his thin frame and cocooning him with it when he began to shiver (cold-blooded, after all), placing an aged classical music record on the player to spin and croon softly, filling the bookshop with a comforting aura that matched the peaceful light of the falling sun outside and the soothing dark of night. 

The angel remained at the demon’s side, eventually retrieving a book and reading quietly as Crowley slept on, able to at last give in to his exhaustion; able to at last feel safe under the watchful gaze of the Principality Aziraphale. 

Chapter Text

Aziraphale remained largely unmoving as he watched over his counterpart, as unflinching as the stone of the tomb of Christ, only lifting his head occasionally when Crowley squirmed or shifted briefly in his sleep before lowering it again as serene calm fell over the demon once more.

The moon rose in the sky and fell again, followed by the cycle of the sun; three days passed in limbo, and Aziraphale remained still, watching over the demon in his care.

He had promised to protect Crowley, to keep him safe, and he would keep that promise; he would not leave his side.

He soothed the demon whenever any lasting aches flared up through him, making his thin frame quiver and his throat convulse with whines until the angel sent calm throughout him once more; he shushed him and smoothed back his hair whenever he whimpered; he watched over him, and protected him, and kept him safe, as Crowley allowed himself time to heal as he slept through three circles of the sun.

On the threshold of the fourth day, however, when the day was meeting the night once more and the nightingales had hushed outside, there came a sudden surge of rather weak, feeble, but still unexpected enough to make a dent, demonic power, shoving against the angel’s wards. The wards were the same that the Principality Aziraphale had placed around the Gates of Eden, with the exception of humans being generally allowed in the bookshop, within reason; the demons that lurked outside, however, were not.

They were not welcome here.

Aziraphale rose from his position, his corporation’s protests at the sudden movement after days of stillness being silenced by the simmering angelic power that lay below the surface of his unassuming, bookish self. He placed a broad, warm hand over Crowley’s forehead, smoothing his copper hair back and allowing himself a small, graceful smile as the demon pressed unconsciously into his touch, his lips parting, his brow furrowing almost with confusion.

(The poor thing probably wasn’t used to such gentleness.)

“I will be back,” he promised quietly, and then he stood fully, drawing away. His pure-white, feathered wings unfolded with a ruffling sound from his back, making his shoulder blades shift and groan at the change, and he folded them close to himself as he stepped out of the bookshop and shut the door behind him with a burst of power rolling from him in waves, reinforcing the wards, sending out pure Holy essence.

Aziraphale exhaled deeply to keep himself calm as he heard twin yelps of raspy-voiced demons, and he stood entirely still as their yips and scurries grew closer until they stumbled from just around the corner, shaking a little from the shock of angelic power and muttering to each other with malice and frustration. But when their eyes landed on the broad-winged angel waiting for them, hidden under the shroud of darkness lit only by street lamps, their gazes lit up, and they both grinned, exchanging a glance.

Aziraphale could only guess what they were thinking, but he assumed that it was something along the lines of, this’ll be a piece of cake.

He quite liked cake; perhaps he’d have some, after he dealt with all of this.

It would not take long.

Piece of cake, after all . . .

But not for them, rather.

“Hiya, there, angel.” The first demon — rather canine-esque, with protruding fangs in an overbite, spiked fur and deep obsidian eyes that glittered in the light of the dark, abandoned street cast into half-shadow of the lamplight — stepped forward with a snarl of greeting, her ears pricking, the fur on her uncovered shoulders bristling with excitement as her eyes glimmered with malice and glee.

Her gaze flicked over Aziraphale, sizing him up and lingering on his wings; a shadow of uncertainty passed over her face for a moment at their juxtaposition, but then it was gone. She flexed slender fingers adorned with claws, and Aziraphale’s heartbeat roared and pounded in his ears as he saw the faint hints of bruises on her knuckles . . . and the copper hairs still entangled in her blood-spattered claws, as if she had dug them into someone’s hair and yanked hard. 

Lord, give me strength not to smite them where they stand.

“We’re lookin’ for a demon,” the canine continued, a growl rising in her throat as she snarled the words out with relish and satisfaction, rasping her broad tongue over her claws, as if showing off the blood flecked over her skin — the blood that smelt ever so familiar, for it had been over Aziraphale’s hands not three days before. “You wouldn’ve happened to see one, now didja?”

“I see two right now, most unfortunately,” Aziraphale responded coolly, his rage boiling and bubbling beneath the surface of his more calm, angelically-oriented exterior as he prayed to God for strength to not allow his strength to overtake him through anger. 

Be angry and do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger, and give no opportunity to the devil. Whoever is slow to anger is better than the mighty, and he who rules his spirit than he who takes a city. Refrain from anger and turn from wrath; do not fret — it leads only to evil. 

Aziraphale took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment; and when he opened them again, he spoke, his voice quiet and dangerous, but void of his rage.

“I am afraid that I must ask you both to leave, lest I turn to the necessary protocol of a Principality encountering evil-doing demons lurking on earth, which, I am sure you are aware —,”

“Awww, what’re you gonna do?” The other demon, a more reptilian type of indeterminate origin, mocked, their grin widening impossibly until it was near-eerie, a black tongue poking out from in between their sharpened teeth.

They scratched at their cheek, at scabbing scales, and Aziraphale noticed the same thing about their knuckles and claws as the other; that same boiling rage popped and hissed within him, and he breathed deeply through his nose as the demon continued in a jeer.

“We’ve heard’a you, Principality. Rather sorry excuse for an angel, ain’t ya? Real cinnamony type; gone native, soft.” Their teeth glinted, and they licked their lips, scratching at a bruising scab at the corner of one of their eyes; familiar claw marks were sliced over their greying skin, and Aziraphale’s chest flared with momentary pride, before the demon’s next words sent him back into his anger that he was trying so very desperately to reign in. “Just like Crawley, one n’the same.”

Lead us not into temptation — lead us not into temptation — be angry and do not sin — 

“Crowley. His name is Crowley," Aziraphale corrected frostily, through gritted teeth. He forced himself to continue breathing, his lungs expanding as he spread his wings to their full expanse; thunder rumbled ominously above them, making both demons momentarily jolt before cocky expressions overtook their features once more.

Aziraphale focused on forcefully keeping his angelic powers in check; an accidental smiting would most certainly not do, especially not while Crowley was passed out on his couch in the bookshop, vulnerable and exposed and ever so small — and especially not while there were wards very clearly against Heaven surrounding the Heavenly embassy that was his bookshop.

He breathed. In through his nose, out through his mouth. He breathed, and he closed his eyes as though he were drifting off to sleep, though within, he summoned the power he had heralded when he had parted the Red Sea for the Israelites; when he had carried Elijah up to Heaven in a flaming chariot; when he had rolled aside the stone at the tomb, and welcomed the resurrected Son. 

When he opened his eyes once more, six others, glowing piercingly blue with the light of the Heavens, opened alongside them, his wings spreading till they ached, his body swelling tall and his voice reverberating with that of God.

Aziraphale the Angel; the Principality; the Hand of the Lord.

“I am not going to ask again,” he breathed, and She spoke through him, for even those She had forsaken, She would rise again. “Leave.” 

“You — you ain’t gonna smite us.” The canine demon, even as she trembled, raised her chin bravely, cocking a brow and flexing her claws. “You ain’t got the guts.” But she didn’t sound as sure, and the reptilian demon had backed away a step, and then another and another, looking very much like they were beginning to severely regret their words.

“I do not believe,” Aziraphale stated carefully — and here, he truly did allow his rage to just barely begin to bubble over the surface, and for his True Form to leak through the cracks of his corporation until the demons’ courage shrank away into blatant terror and fear at the sight of the angel’s four sets of eyes gleaming with the reflection of God Herself — “that that is a risk you would like to take.”

The demons were both shaking and trembling, now, the reptilian one cowering all the way on the ground, half-bent at the knee and splayed back. Aziraphale took a single step forward, and the canine demon fell down beside her partner, both of them recoiling and shivering at his feet, practically groveling. 

Aziraphale felt perhaps one single sliver of guilt, and then was reminded at the forefront of his mind of Crowley’s pitched whimpers of pain; of the hairs entangled among the demons’ bloodied claws; of the serpent’s choked-out m’ so tired of gettin’ hurt — and that guilt peeled away into satisfied rage very much unfitting for an angel of his stature.

“Do not come near Crowley, nor me, ever again,” the Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, member of the Heavenly Host, and Angel of the Lord, breathed out in a tone of pure, utter wrath — for no one knows the deadly sins as closely as the Lord and Her kin. “Do you understand?”

They both whimpered beneath him, nodding vigorously and quivering where they kneeled, but he just shook his head and crouched down, his wings expanding above them. Holy, pure angelic power — pure angelic Grace — poured from him in hungry, all-consuming waves, and both demons squealed and convulsed with the shock of it; it was not enough to harm them, not really, but it stung, and could injure a particularly vulnerable demon, but would not cause lasting pain.

Aziraphale did not wish to cause harm; only to strike the fear of God into them, or rather, the fear of Aziraphale.

“Say that you understand.” 

They both hurried to comply, nodding and squeaking out a chorus of, “I understand — we understand — please, we’re sorry, we’re —,”

“Good,” Aziraphale cut across them, and he closed his eyes, breathing deeply and allowing his rage to seep away into contented pride in himself, enough for him to give a little happy wriggle; when he opened them, his wings were tucked away, his eyes blinking back out of existence, and he had a pleasant smile on his face. He beamed down at the two demons, who trembled and shook, looking absolutely and irrevocably terrified.

“Now, off you pop.”

They both instantaneously vanished in a puff of purple smoke, leaving behind a stench of fear that was so potent, Aziraphale could almost taste it. In their wake, the angel let out a deep exhale, and then turned, lifting the darkness cast down to shroud the street from anyone seeing the encounter before opening the door of the bookshop and stepping inside, locking it deftly behind him. He breathed slowly, in and out, and sent up a quick prayer of forgiveness for all parties involved; they knew not what they did, after all.

“Wha’ss goin’ on?” Asked a slurring voice from behind him, and the angel perked up instantly, the vestiges of his rage and simmering angelic power and slight guilt seeping away into genuine relief; despite his efforts, he had still heralded some nervousness over the state of the exhausted demon in his care. 

Aziraphale turned to see Crowley half-sitting up on the couch, blinking blearily with one hand still curled protectively around his middle. His eyes glimmered in the dark with clear concern, even through the haze of his obvious exhaustion with the way he was slumping and drooping like a plant that the demon would scold loudly.

“Y’kay, ang’l?” He seemed to struggle to speak for a moment, and then, tensely: “Safe, still? Feels a bit . . ." Crowley tasted the air with his forked tongue, his brows furrowing tensely. His hands around his middle were trembling, and there was sweat beading on his brow. Aziraphale’s stomach dropped, his eyes widening. 

“Feels a bit — Holy." 

“Oh — oh.” Aziraphale’s expression crumpled, and his heart seized with panic, his breath stuttering in his throat. He instantly backed away one pace, then two, internally trying his absolute damnedest to shove away as much of the simmering power as he possibly could. “Oh — oh, goodness, I —,”

He should have thought of that, and he cursed himself for being so careless; he should have remembered Crowley’s vulnerability to the Holiness just as much as the two demons outside had been vulnerable, but Crowley more so, in his state.

“I’m so sorry, my dear,” he breathed out almost tearfully, wringing his hands together as if that would keep the Holy power within him from spilling out in a golden wave. Now that his eyes had readjusted to the light, he realized how sickly Crowley looked; he was pale, and shivers wracked his thin frame, his hands quivering where they were wrapped around his middle. 

I did that. I did that. I did that — 

“I’ll — I’ll leave you be, Crowley, I’m ever so —,”

“No!” Crowley cut across him, his lips parting with dismay, with desperation. His expression shuttered back over after a moment, but the Freudian slip of his panic, his anxiousness, his frantic fear, was enough to betray how much he wanted Aziraphale to stay, even despite the paleness of his sharp cheeks, even despite the way he held himself so very delicately. 

“No,” he mumbled again after a moment, and Aziraphale wrung his hands tighter together. “S’fine, angel. Doesn’t hurt that much, really. Jus’ a tingle. S’already fading. I swear, Aziraphale,” Crowley added, almost pleading, when Aziraphale gave him a doubtful look. “I’m good. I’m fine.”

He seemed to fight with some internal struggle for a moment, and then: “Can you . . . come back over here?" He near-pleaded, allowing his quivering hands to fall from where they were coiled around his middle; a sign of trust, a display of his soft underbelly. "And — and — what happened?”

Cautious and tentative, Aziraphale did as Crowley asked, moving a little closer and taking note of each micro-expression and movement Crowley made before settling a very short ways away, sending out a quick miracle to reinforce the broken wards when Crowley showed no sign of fresh pain.

“It has been nearly four days since your arrival,” he explained softly, as Crowley watched him intently, “I managed to heal you when you first came to me, and you’ve slept the past three days. The two demons who were sent to attack you were just here, but do not fret, my dear boy — I do not believe that they will deem it necessary to return anytime soon. They did not quite like being faced with the wrath of God, I’m afraid.”

Crowley’s tired eyes gleamed with barely-suppressed glee, and he sprawled out his limbs, relaxing as the Holiness faded; Aziraphale felt feeble waves of demonic energy weaving over his lanky body to replenish and restore, and felt himself smile with relief, especially as Crowley spoke again, his voice tired but happy. “S’that why i’ss so Holy? Did ya smite ‘em?”

“Well, erm — not quite,” Aziraphale admitted sheepishly, his cheeks going faintly pink. “Didn’t want any of my side to come to call, you know. But I certainly sent them back to where they came from with quite the talking-to.”

Crowley snuggled back into the couch cushions with a hearty growl of approval, drooping back down with exhaustion rolling over him as his body tried to recover, rubbing a hand at his chest. Aziraphale smiled tentatively down at him with affection sparking in his chest, and took a hesitant step closer; when Crowley did not flinch or have even a small pull at his lax expression, the angel allowed himself to be close enough that he could reach out and touch — which Crowley then did for him, reaching out and brushing his fingers weakly over the angel’s, making them both shiver a little.

“Thanksss, angel,” the demon mumbled, he mumbled, reminiscent of how he had done when he had first arrived and had been healed. He refused to look towards Aziraphale as he spoke, but his pinky finger hooked around the angel’s thumb. “Prolly shouldn’t be saying that, ‘cause Satan knows they’re jus’ lookin’ for another reason to hunt me for sssport, but. Y’know.”

Crowley exhaled, long and shuddering, and his eyes drooped shut, exhaustion overtaking him once more, thanks to the new demonic energy crawling through his veins, warding off all that was Holy with the exception of Aziraphale’s hand intertwined in his. “Thanksss.”

“Of course, my dear boy,” Aziraphale responded in a soft murmur, sadness twisting in his heart at the demon’s uncertain, groggy words. As bad as Heaven was in terms of passive-aggression and Gabriel’s constant irritation over his miracle use, they would never resort to torturing him, no matter how frivolous he used his miracles.

He sighed, and opened his mouth to say something, anything, to try and make this better even in the slightest — but then he realized at the feel of the demon's hand slipping from his own that Crowley had already fallen back asleep, half-falling off the couch with his mouth parted wide in a half-snore, and those words slipped from his tongue and died on his lips.

The angel smiled a little sadly down at him, and very gently lifted him up to be more comfortable; he had full intent and purpose to pull away after laying Crowley back down, but the demon hooked his hands into Aziraphale's shirt, tugging a little with a faint whine coming from the back of his throat. Aziraphale relented with barely a struggle at all, lowering himself gingerly onto the couch in between Crowley's lanky limbs; the demon instinctively pressed closer to the warmth with a low, rumbling purr, his very essence seeming to stroke over Aziraphale's, and the angel smiled tentatively once more, petting an absentminded hand through Crowley's copper hair.

He summoned a book to his other hand and began to read distractedly, but more often than not, his gaze remained fixed on Crowley; for even after all of the danger had passed, and the Holiness had receded to a simmer, Aziraphale would still watch over Crowley for as long as he was needed; for he was a protector, a Principality, and he would keep his demon safe from all harm, no matter the origin.

Crowley's sleep was miraculously dreamless and void of pain, but ever so often he would shift, and his lips would move with no words falling from them, breathing out silent prayers to the world that Aziraphale would not whisper a word of to anyone.

Chapter Text

Crowley — even as exhausted and worn out he was from the consecutive attack, healing, and Holiness exposure — wound up sleeping for much shorter of a time than Aziraphale had expected and anticipated, only a couple more days or so.

He had woken up slowly at first, groaning and grumbling and scrubbing at his face with wayward, flailing limbs, and then quite abruptly, sitting up suddenly and slamming a pair of summoned sunglasses over his eyes so hard it looked like he was at risk of denting his nose. 

“Crowley, are you quite alright?” The angel asked presently, and Crowley moaned, hunched over and disoriented, looking as if he were trying to drag himself up from the deepest dredges of sleep.

“Wuh?” He asked intelligently, his mouth half-hanging open and his brows furrowed tightly. Aziraphale, who had moved from the couch to sit in the armchair across and was nursing a warm cup of tea in his hands, smiled with endearment in his direction, feeling happy relief in his heart at the demon’s semi-restoration; Crowley had slept like the dead, to the point that it had been near-concerning, and the angel had had to restrain himself from checking the pulse of his True Form every few moments, just to be sure.

But here he was again, awake (or at least getting there), very much alive, very much whole. And, with his hair sticking up in the back, his glasses lopsided on his nose, his clothes ruffled considerably, and his shirt drooping off one shoulder, he looked very much adorable, not that Aziraphale would ever tell him so; he preferred himself in one piece as well, thank you very much.

“Good morning, my dear!” He chirped, feeling much more chipper now that the immediate threat of Crowley’s discorporation (whether from the demons or from the angel’s own Holiness, a thought that made him shudder) was absent. Aziraphale set down his tea beside him, giving the demon a beaming smile as he folded his hands over his crossed knees. “Or rather, good afternoon; I believe it happens to be just around three.”

“Wha’happ’nd?” Crowley mumbled rather incoherently, swaying a little as he struggled to stand for a solid minute before giving up when his legs refused to cooperate, flopping down onto the carpeted floor and stretching out his lanky limbs that had gotten used to not functioning, playing with a tassel in between slender fingers.

He suddenly stiffened, frowning, and then pawed at his side with a hand, yanking up his shirt and kneading with fascination at his unblemished skin, looking very confused as he glanced from his torso up to Aziraphale, a question in his serpentine eyes from above the lenses of his sunglasses. “Huh.”

“You gave me permission to heal your wounds for you, my dear,” Aziraphale told him gently, standing for a moment only to kneel down beside Crowley, handing him a second cup of tea and cupping the demon’s trembling hands in his own to keep them steady. “Though I would not be surprised if you have a lapse in memory, or if it is hazy; you were under a great deal of stress, and a lot of pain. I am simply grateful that you came to me; I was able to protect you.”

He squeezed Crowley’s hands in his before pulling away, but he still stayed close, kneeling at his side and watching him with the same reverence as a disciple watching their risen Rabbi. 

“Soooo,” the demon drawled, taking a grateful sip of the tea even as his hands quivered before lowering it again and drumming slender fingers along his raised knee, “you threatening Jelzeb and Hafe wasn’t just a really great dream I had?”

Aziraphale chuckled, giving Crowley a cheeky wink; it was better than reprimanding the demon to not make jokes about such things, at any rate, he knew that he used it to feel better. “If you mean the two demons who hurt you and then tried to come after you once more while you were under my protection, in my bookshop, then, yes, not a dream,” he responded loftily, folding his hands in his lap and then raising a brow when Crowley grinned at him; Aziraphale couldn’t help but give a soft smile back as a warm, happy feeling bubbled in his chest, just at seeing the way the demon’s face positively lit up. “What?”

“Nothin’, nothin’, just . . .” Crowley rolled his head to one side, wriggling back to lean against the couch. His chin tipped back, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, relaxing into the cushions. He looked like he belonged there in a way that took Aziraphale’s breath away. 

“S’pretty cool, is all,” he muttered eventually, and Aziraphale glanced away with a blush of his own as he saw the flush of red high in the demon’s sharp cheekbones. “They’re dicks. M’sure you could tell from the, eh —,” He made a flippant hand gesture over his midsection, and they both winced. Crowley gave a little full-body shudder that made Aziraphale’s anger flare up again for a moment; he hated that the demons had hurt Crowley, yes, but moreover, he hated that they had made him so scared. “All that.”

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale sighed, trying and failing to keep the sadness and pity from rising in his chest, knowing that Crowley would hate him for it. “I believe that they did see the error of their ways, my dear.”

“Wish I could’ve seen it,” Crowley muttered, entirely disregarding the fact that he would likely have been entirely blinded by the Light, by the Grace. Aziraphale pushed away that thought as well; he had gotten very good at compartmentalizing over the past six thousand years. But even still, he sighed again, and placed a gentle hand on Crowley’s knee, squeezing a little and feeling him quiver lightly. 

“What happened, Crowley?” He asked in a quiet whisper. “How did they — manage to do that, to you? It was . . . it really wasn’t pretty.” That was an understatement. 

“You sayin’ I’m not?” Crowley pouted playfully, then shook his head with a mirroring sigh, leaning his head back once more and allowing his hair to pillow out behind him. “Alright, yeah. So basically. I was having a night in, y’know? Just finished a temptation gig, launched a site called Facebook that’s gonna fuck up a lot of peoples’ days with bullshit.”

He smirked, and Aziraphale tutted disapprovingly; Crowley just spread out his hands, as if to say, whaddaya want from me?

“Anyway. I was having fun. Poured myself a glass. Was thinking of headin’ over here, actually, but I wound up jus’ sittin’ down to watch some Golden Girls, and then . . . and then . . .”

“They jumped out,” Aziraphale filled in softly, and Crowley nodded gravely, unusually grim.

“Yeah.” He flexed his chipped claws, running one hand through his hair with a shall shudder and rubbing at his chest. “Didn’t — didn’t, hngk, get the chance to, to react, before they had me on th’ground. I swear, I’m — m’usually better at takin’ care of myself, angel.” Crowley grinned lopsidedly at Aziraphale, who wasn’t even able to muster up the smallest of smiles at the demon’s clear attempt to lift his spirits.

“You should not have to defend yourself against your own people, Crowley,” he whispered earnestly, wringing his hands together in his lap. “Heaven and its angels may not be the nicest sometimes, per se, but . . . but they never invoke violence when I displease them. I’m very sorry that yours do; it is not right, my dear boy. I am truly sorry.”

“Ngk.” Crowley looked away, his breath trembling a little as he breathed. He rubbed a hand over his middle, tentative and wary, as if he were expecting the pain to flare up again all at once just as he let his guard down. “S’fine,” he mumbled, eventually. “M’used to it, angel. No need to fuss.”

“But you shouldn’t be, Crowley, that is rather the point,” Aziraphale pointed out with some fervency, making Crowley glance up at him with a lilt of surprise tilting at his mouth. “Oh, I do hope I was able to aptly drive them off,” he added on, more anxiously, unaware of the demon’s look; “I don’t want you getting hurt again, Crowley.”

“No need to worry, angel, really,” Crowley grunted out, tearing his gaze away and curling tighter around himself with a small grumble. “M’good.”

“You — but — it’s only —,” Aziraphale wrung his hands together so tightly that they almost ached. “You were in so, so much pain, Crowley,” he whispered eventually; his eyes had welled up with tears, and he wiped them away hurriedly. You are an Angel of the Lord, Principality, he reminded himself sternly, do not cry over this. Do not.

“You were hurt, so very badly, and . . . and then I hurt you, with my H-Holiness.” The memory of that made them both flinch a little. “I — I do not wish for either of those things to occur again, my dear boy.”

“Wasn’t your fault, angel,” Crowley insisted, his voice hushed as if he were conspiring. He patted Aziraphale’s hand awkwardly, shifting a little bit closer. “It wasn’t, Aziraphale. You helped me. You always do, I — s’why I — why I came to you.”

He looked down, averting his gaze, and his words became low and mumbled. “I remember when — when they let me go. They told me — they told me to run.” His voice was harsh, angered, and his cheeks were flushed and burning with the memory of his humiliation. “Like I was a piece of prey for them. And — and I did run, Aziraphale, I ran because I knew I was running to you, and because I knew you would protect me.” He shrugged, as if trying to say, no big deal, even though they both knew how untrue that sentiment was.

“I — I trust you. I knew you’d keep me safe, and you did.”

“Of course, Crowley, always,” Aziraphale said with fervency, wiping hastily at his wet gaze and sniffling a little, feeling decidedly unangelic as compared to when he had quite literally harnessed the powers of the Lord Herself a few days prior. “I will always keep you safe, and you may always come to me, but — but I still must apologize, for — for harming you further, however minimal and however brief. I am sorry.”

Crowley began to open his mouth to interrupt, but Aziraphale beat him to it, his voice pleading. “Please, please, let me say it.”

Crowley scoffed, rolling his eyes, but nodded reluctantly, sipping aggressively at his tea before miracling it away and crossing his arms over his chest. “Well, I — forgive you, or whatever,” he grumbled begrudgingly. Aziraphale chuckled wetly at the way Crowley said the words with such disgust, smiling despite the sheen over his blue eyes.

“Thank you, my dear,” he murmured, squeezing his hands together tightly before clearing his throat, straightening a little. “Are you — look here, are you hungry, Crowley?” He urged, sidling the topic into calmer waters, for both of their sakes; Aziraphale wasn’t sure if either of them had the capacity to handle all of this, not right now, and likely not for another six thousand years, with their poor track record of actually talking about things. “I’m sure you’re still exhausted, but — if you’d like, I have some lovely boeuf bourguignon that’s been stewing . . .?”

Crowley made a face that suggested his answer even before he spoke. “M’not sure if I can stomach anything right now, to be honest,” he muttered, almost sulkily. “Still achin’ a bit. Corporation’s recovering, and whatnot. But could — could I maybe —,” His expression contorted, passing through anger, frustration, want, desire, grief . . . fear. “Could — nrghh —,”

“You can stay here for as long as you need, Crowley,” Aziraphale interjected softly, sympathy squeezing at his heart. “The bookshop is your home as much as it is mine; I said the same in 1800, and I haven’t changed my mind since.”

“Ngk,” Crowley mumbled, his cheeks flushing. He glanced away, and glared at the nearest bookshelf as if John Milton and Homer had personally offended him. “Well, eh — thanks, for, y’know. All of that. I — ‘preciate it, y’know.”

“Of course, dear heart,” Aziraphale responded softly, keeping his voice purposefully gentle as he saw the demon’s expression;  it was torn and flooded with clear, unbridled distress, and yet, Crowley visibly attempted to shutter it, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose and toying with a strand of wayward copper hair. 

“Think I should cut my hair?” He asked abruptly, so very obviously an attempt at deflection that Aziraphale welcomed with gratefulness. Talking about their feelings had never quite been their desire nor their strong suit, and they weren’t about to start now — weren’t about to confront how heavy and monumental this sanctuary was for the both of them, because it would mean confronting why it was a sanctuary in the first place, and why it felt so empty and lonely when Crowley was absent . . . and why Aziraphale had been so terrified of the prospect of facing that lonely emptiness until the end, with Crowley bleeding and in pain in his arms.

“If you’d like,” the angel responded presently, shooing away his thoughts and reorienting them to more pleasantry. “I’ve no preference.” That was not quite true; he had been wonderfully partial to the demon’s unruly, cascading curls in Mesopotamia, but he was not about to mention that. “Do whatever would make you happy, my dear.”

“I guess,” Crowley mumbled. He glanced at Aziraphale from the corner of his eye almost warily, sprawling out his limbs impossibly further and pressing back against the cushions as if trying to become one with them. 

“. . . Angel?”

“Hm?”

“Did I . . .” He hesitated, struggling with his words and grinding his teeth so hard Aziraphale could hear it, and then started again, frowning deeply. He was not looking at him. “Did I say anythin’ ridiculous, while I was — y’know? Hard to remember, ‘cause — ‘cause the other times shit like this happens, s’not as bad, but they — they, they hit my head —,”

Crowley made a gesture, indicating the floor and then his head, gingerly running his slender fingers through his hair; Aziraphale’s gut roared with fury that he very quickly silenced with a deep inhale and exhale, driving himself to focus on Crowley’s lips moving to form words. 

“Obviously, you healed it an’ all,” the demon was saying, rubbing at his head as if were still throbbing and pulsing with pain despite his words, “but — s’harder to remember — point is, point is —,” Crowley actually growled, looking very, very frustrated. “Did I say . . . anything?”

“Not that I can recall, my dear,” Aziraphale responded softly, privately storing away the memories of the demon’s lips moving silently in breathed-out, inaudible prayers; those had not been spoken, after all, and were between only Crowley and his unconscious. “Do not fret. And even so, I would never judge you.” 

Wouldn’t you?, his mind whispered; shouldn’t you? You are an angel, he is a demon. You should be judging him. He is Fallen. 

But he is Crowley, Aziraphale murmured in response, his heart cracking a little as he saw the look in Crowley’s eyes behind his dark glasses; the vulnerability, the fear, the way he looked so, so small. He is Crowley, and he is —

(Perfect, he thought, but would never let come to fruition.) 

“Right,” Crowley mumbled, and Aziraphale blinked, fluttering away a sheen of tears with light lashes kissing his pinkened cheeks. “Right. Ngk. Yeah. Thanks.” He exhaled deeply, rubbing his hands over his face, and then, as he began to slowly remove his sunglasses, keeping his gaze averted: “So if you wouldn’t — I mean, would it — do you care if, if I —,”

Serpentine scales shimmered up his neck from along the line of his shirt, and he wriggled a little, looking so very small, and so very vulnerable, and Aziraphale thought, somewhere in the very back of his subconscious, that if he wanted to, it would be so very easy to break him.

“Ssss’just . . . it’ll feel normal . . . fassster,” Crowley whispered, and Aziraphale’s heart twisted as he realized that he wanted to do nothing more in this moment than keep him safe, and make him feel at home — because he was, even if neither of them were quite allowed or able to say that yet.

“Of course, of course, go right ahead, my dear boy,” the angel encouraged warmly, and Crowley let out a thin half-whine, half-hiss of appreciation as his lanky limbs shifted into a scaly, lengthy body, coils and coils of black and red scales all piled up on top of each other as he slithered back up along the length of the couch, his tail flicking, his stretched, slitted pupils roving to find Aziraphale’s gaze.

The serpent jerked his triangular head slightly with a garbled, hissed-out question, and Aziraphale only smiled as he too lifted himself up to the couch, closing his eyes and exhaling deeply as Crowley slithered along his shoulders, nuzzling his pointed nose into the angel’s fluffy blonde curls.

“Feelssss better already,” Crowley hissed out, the words jumbled on his forked tongue but still able to be deciphered by the angel who had long ago learned how to. And then, as soft as a serpent possibly could be: “Thanksss, angel.”

“Oh, do hush, darling,” Aziraphale murmured in gentle, soft chastisement, warmth making his heart flutter against his ribs, his eyes burning with tears that he did not scold away this time. “There is no need to thank me, truly. Just rest, Crowley.”

“Don’ wanna burden ya,” Crowley managed in a hissing mumble, his scales rubbing against Aziraphale’s neck and cheek almost soothingly. His coils wrapped tighter around the angel as he slithered upward in a way that did not feel constricting, but rather, comforting; Aziraphale relaxed into it, glad at the chance to have some comfort after such strain of protecting his demon. He would, quite honestly, not be surprised at all if Crowley had not even needed to change into his serpent form; if he had simply wanted an excuse to be near the angel’s warmth, and to provide warmth for Aziraphale in exchange. 

He truly was so very, very kind, even if he did not spare any of that kindness for himself.

(Or perhaps, he simply hadn’t wanted Aziraphale to see him cry. Serpents could not cry, now could they? And Crowley’s tears culminating in his serpentine eyes had simply evaporated into salty grief haunting the air.)

“Alr’dy been here fffor a while, haven’t I?” Crowley added on, a tremor running under his scales, from the pointed bridge of his nose to the tip of his quivering tail. To think, Aziraphale mused, that this was the same Serpent who had tempted Eve with the apple; here, wrapped around the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, feeling ever so terrible at the prospect of overstaying his welcome. “Jusssst sssay the word, angel, an’ I’ll sssslither right off.” 

“There is very much no need for that, Crowley,” Aziraphale responded in a firm voice that invited no argument. He ran his fingers reverently along Crowley’s thick scales, feeling a quiver run underneath them at the gentleness that was ever so foreign to the demon. “Please, stay. For as long as you need. You are always welcome, and never are you a burden; not to me. Do you understand, dear boy?”

Crowley hissed unintelligibly, pressing himself into the folds of the angel’s neck. All at once, he was suddenly back in his human corporation (sans glasses), limbs entangled around Aziraphale as he clung close to him under the pretense of seeking out warmth, of healing . . . the pretense that hid the things beneath the surface. Aziraphale inhaled sharply, but only held Crowley tighter, with a trembling little smile and a sudden flare of sympathetic determination.

“I would very much like to hear you say that you understand, if you are able,” the angel murmured in the demon’s ear. “You think so lowly of yourself, Crowley.” He should think lowly of himself, whispered the voice in the back of his mind that sounded like Gabriel, he is a demon, or have you forgotten? But Aziraphale only silenced that voice by speaking again, a quavering note held in his words. “I’d prefer that my dearest friend not be told such things about himself.”

“Oh,” Crowley mumbled into his neck, trembling fingers digging into Aziraphale’s skin. He looked vulnerable, and frightened, and so very, very small. “Oh.”

“Do you understand, dear?” Aziraphale’s voice was sweet and kind, things that Crowley was not given nearly enough.

“Ngk. Yeah. Yeah.” Crowley’s heart leapt and pounded in his chest, beating at the same rhythm of Aziraphale’s pressed against it, and the angel smiled. “I — I underssstand.” 

“Very good,” Aziraphale murmured, gently stroking a hand through Crowley’s hair, ignoring the little shudder that coursed through the demon’s body. “Now, you may stay for however long you want, and you may always come to me for anything. As I’ve said, this is your home, your sanctuary, as much as it is mine, and I am your protector, for as long as you should want me.”

(Yours, was all that spun through Crowley’s dizzy mind, his thoughts spiraling into that one smoothly-spoken word. Yours. Yours. Yours. Yours.)

Aziraphale, unaware of such inner turmoil, shifted a little to hold Crowley close with one arm, and summoned a novel with the other, placing his reading glasses on the bridge of his nose and humming to himself with a happy little wriggle. “You make a lovely pillow, by the way, my dear.”

“Thank you, angel,” Crowley choked out, his warm breath tickling the angel’s jaw. “Not — not for that, for — fffor everything. All of it. Lemme say it, alright? Thank you. Even though I shouldn’t — but I don’t — just, thanksss.” He exhaled shakily, and pressed impossibly closer, as if it would make them both forget the fact that he was clinging onto Aziraphale as if he were his entire world.   “An’, an’ I’m sorry. For worrying you.” I didn’t think you would be went unspoken, but they both heard it anyway.

“Anytime, my dear,” Aziraphale whispered warmly — they were both speaking softly, barely moving, barely breathing, for fear of sending splinters across this perfect, blissful moment devoid of any pain or grief or questions of the emotions pulsing at their hearts that weren’t even meant to function. He tilted his head for a moment, his lips barely grazing against Crowley’s hair, before he remembered himself, and simply leaned his cheek against the demon’s head, flipping a page of his book without having read any of it at all.

(Later, Crowley would untangle himself from around Aziraphale’s neck and brush himself off with red flushing up his cheeks and a tremor making his hands shake; he would place his sunglasses back on his nose and make a crack about his serpent form making him a clingy little bastard; he would probably give another half-arsed apology and shrouded thank-you, the fear of what those words could do to him returning in an ebbing flow, before stepping from the bookshop to return to his gloomy, lonely, ever-so-empty flat that was still littered with dark blood and torn-out hair. 

He would stand over it, anger and grief bubbling in his chest, and he would wish he had stayed in the bookshop; in his sanctuary. With his Principality; his protector. 

Yours. Yours. Yours. Yours.

But he would shove those feelings away; he would wave the blood away as if it had never been there at all; he would take a moment to scream at his plants till his throat was hoarse, and then he would hurl his television into the deepest pits of Hell, and he would storm out to his Bentley and drive and drive and drive, Queen blasting from the stereo and the wind roaring in his ears. 

He would not return to his sanctuary, nor to his protector, until he realized just how limited his time was three years later with the arrival of the Antichrist — and he would not allow himself to linger, even then, too afraid and too angry at the possibility of things that would slip up from his heart and tongue unbidden. He would never overstay his welcome again as he had done, despite what the angel had promised him, despite what he had said he had understood.

Despite Aziraphale’s lips forming the word yours, over and over and over in his mind.

It took the burning of his sanctuary and of his protector for Crowley to allow himself to linger once more — to allow himself to have slips of the tongue, of the mind, of the heart, to allow Aziraphale to be his, and for himself to be the angel’s — and after that, he never left.

But that would all come later.)

For now, they were both content; Crowley’s tangled limbs practically encasing the angel as Aziraphale peacefully flipped through the novel in his hands, not consuming a single word as Crowley’s breath ruffled his hair and his fingers kneaded at the fabric of his shirt.