Chapter Text
Crowley sighed quietly as he shifted slightly from one foot to the other, wringing his hands together and doing his very best to ignore the tingling sensations of aches and pains itching up his sides.
His slitted, serpentine golden eyes remained fixed on Aziraphale, who was sitting innocently, curled up in his familiar armchair with a book and a cup of tea; his typical morning. Crowley had been standing and watching him from the doorway of their small, cozy living room for a while now; lingering, fidgeting restlessly and flexing slender fingers as he fought to not behave as erratically as he usually would, in the . . . stage that he happened to be in.
He was, however, doing his absolute damnedest to ignore the cries of his body (it was his bloody corporation, after all; it should listen to him, and it was fucking annoying that it wasn't), and he ground his teeth together harshly as he kept his gaze fixed on Aziraphale, who had not yet acknowledged his presence; likely he had not noticed, too lost in his book.
Warm morning light filtered through the windows, including the sunroof that shone down onto Crowley’s plants that were clustered around Aziraphale’s bookshelves, and it cast everything into a beautiful, almost angelic sort of glow — fitting, really.
It was a nice day; there had been tens of thousands of them, in the past hundred or so years since they had moved into their cottage in the South Downs, after everything had settled and their feelings for one another had become painfully clear through the agonizing kiss that they had shared — their first, and their worst; they had made up for it, since then — and its aftermath.
It was a nice day. Typically, the days were nice, because the local ethereal/occult forces were happy. And so, it was a nice day.
It was a shame, then, that Crowley couldn’t enjoy it; and it was a shame that the warm glow of the day was seeing the beginnings of being shrouded and overcast by dark, foreboding clouds of rain, lightly starting to patter from the sky as aching pains made Crowley’s thin, lean frame tremble and his teeth grit harder as he remained tense and stiff, barely upright.
He knew what the aches were, of course. It was exactly why he was standing in the doorway, watching Aziraphale silently, struggling to muster up enough scraps of his dignity to go to the angel’s feet and ask for the help that he knew he so desperately needed. It was why he had been sleeping in far too late and going to sleep far too early the past few days; why he had been so withdrawn; why he had been taking more baths, eating less food, and shying away from the angel’s touch.
(And the Lord God said to the serpent: because you have done this, you are cursed; on your belly you shall go, and dust you shall eat, all the days of your life.)
Crowley knew exactly what the dull aches in his bones were. He had felt the aches before, more times than he could count, ever since he had flown too close to the sun and fallen like Icarus, and crawled out of the sulfurous pits on his charred belly, scales already chipping away into painful nothing.
He had dealt with it on his own for centuries, for millennia — and yet one single bloody time spent with the angel had seemingly made him unable to handle it on his own.
Or perhaps, he just knew now that there was someone to take care of him, and he knew that he really did need that, because . . .
He was about to shed again.
Bloody inconvenient, sometimes, being a snake — or, really, being a snake cursed by God, but the specifications weren’t all that important.
Crowley remembered his last shed with a wince and a repressed shudder; it had been when he had been living in his car, and the Bentley had driven him to the bookshop (which was the angel Muriel’s, now, and they were very happy with it, just as protective of the angel’s collection as Aziraphale had been, at least the ones he had left behind; the cottage was practically stuffed full with the angel’s ridiculous amount of books he hadn’t been able to bear to part with, but that was neither here nor there) and dumped him at Aziraphale’s feet.
The angel had cared for him so gently that it had left Crowley spinning, unable to return to the bookshop for weeks after he had slunk away because of his shame and guilt for having allowed himself to be so vulnerable — despite the guilty, nagging pleasure it had left him with, the feeling of being taken care of.
He had become more comfortable with being vulnerable since then, of course, but still. There was a reason he hadn’t told his angel when he had first woken up two days ago to the familiar itchiness caking the dried scales on his feet, the familiar aches behind his eyes that would soon go cloudy and blue, the familiar exhaustion dragging him down and making him want to curl up into the fetal position and go to sleep until this was all over.
But Aziraphale would find out soon enough anyway, the demon was trying to reason with himself; and Crowley wanted to tell him while he was still coherent enough to do so. Something about being emotionally aware and able to ask for his needs, or maybe it was just that he did not want to appear weaker by winding up babbling out the truth of what was wrong to the angel when he was in the throes of agony; Aziraphale had already asked him twice over the past few days if there was something wrong, and Crowley had denied it, but he could not any longer.
He knew Aziraphale would care for him with just as much gentleness as before, just as much love (though now they could say it); knew that logically Aziraphale would never be cruel or judging or any of those things. He knew that.
It didn’t make it any less hard, though.
“Good morning, darling.”
Aziraphale’s soft murmur made Crowley jolt a little in the doorway, the gentle voice sifting through his spiraling thoughts. The angel looked up at the demon, giving him a warm, beaming, caring smile that only faded a tiny bit at whatever he saw in the demon's expression.
"Hi," Crowley croaked out, and Aziraphale's frown deepened. He closed his book, folding his reading glasses and placing them aside, fixing Crowley with a scrutinizing gaze. The ring on his pinkie finger went tip tip tip against where he was holding his book in his hand, and Crowley was hit with an almost hysterical sense of déjà vu.
“Whatever is the matter, Crowley?”
Crowley lingered reluctantly in the doorway for a few moments longer, and then he slunk silently across the room and curled up on the ground at Aziraphale’s feet because his bones ached too much to sit on the arm of the chair, leaning against Aziraphale's legs instead; the angel lowered a hand to gently brush his fingers through Crowley’s hair, and the demon leaned into it.
For a moment, he allowed himself to be lost in the touch of Aziraphale’s soft fingers through his hair, and then fresh pain flared up his spine and he clenched his jaw tight, squeezing his eyes shut and taking a deep breath as he summoned up all the courage in his chest, feeling completely and utterly ridiculous at how fucking scared he felt.
“S’just — I —,” He struggled for a moment before letting out a groan, ducking his head down and whining in the back of his throat. Aziraphale hummed above him, still stroking through his hair.
“Take your time, dear, take your time,” he soothed gently, and Crowley breathed slowly, closing his eyes.
This is Aziraphale, he reminded himself. Safe and warm and home and love and safe. My angel. Safe.
He needed Aziraphale; needed the warmth and comfort that the angel offered, needed the sense of knowing that he would be protected, that he would be kept safe, that he would be loved. And he did know it, but it was still so hard.
“Do you — do you remember a century ago,” Crowley managed to whisper at last, keeping himself tethered with the gentle but firm touch of the angel’s fingers carding through his hair rhythmically, “in the bookshop?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to be a bit more specific, my dear,” Aziraphale responded softly, apologetic and kind.
“Gggk.” Crowley glared up at the angel through squinted eyes, but softened at the genuine concern he found in Aziraphale’s expression; he roved his eyes over the angel’s face, drinking in each curve and wrinkle and spot of pink while he was still able, using it to ground himself even as his skin prickled, the peeling scales scratching and itching, unable in his current position to satiate the pain crawling over his skin in prickling psoriasis and only working to distract himself, until he could really ask for help, if it would just stop being so goddamn scary.
He took a deep breath, and hid his face between Aziraphale’s plush thighs, which was a very nice place to hide his face, in his opinion. “When I . . . shed, in th’bookshop, a hundred years ago,” he ground out at last, “it’s — happening again.” He bit back a whine, shifting his feet beneath himself as they itched and ached. “I can — I can ffffeel it.”
“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale’s voice was low and sympathetic, and he placed down his book, stroking firmer through Crowley’s hair, his other hand coming to cup the back of his head.
His hands were soothing and gentle, and Crowley pressed into his warm palms as he dug his nails into the tasseled carpet below so as to not give in and itch at the aching, prickling scales bubbling up from his pale, dried skin, chipping and peeling away, leaving him weak and vulnerable. He whimpered a little, and Aziraphale clicked his tongue sadly, speaking again in a very soft voice, evidently remembering Crowley’s aversion to loud noises the last time. “When did it start?”
“Noticed a couple’a days ago,” Crowley responded, his voice tense and quiet and thick with shame. He squirmed, resisting the urge to dig his nails into the dry scales already burning at his calves, and he clenched his fist down on the carpet so hard and so deep that it tore; he could barely muster up enough emotion other than the desperate, building pain, however, and the jab of guilt went unnoticed. “Thought — maybe if I, if I ignored it — could just be my imagination —,”
He whined as a fresh flare of pain burned along the surface of his skin, cutting through his words, and he pressed harder into Aziraphale’s touch, desperate and near-panicked. The angel scratched at his scalp gently, and a blissful little groan slipped from the demon’s chapped lips as he squirmed in an attempt to alleviate the bloody itchiness.
(For you were made from pain, and to pain you will return —)
“Could you change into your serpent form?” Aziraphale wondered, his voice still quiet and soothing, his fingers still carding through Crowley’s copper hair. “Would that help, do you think?”
“S’too much —,” Crowley moaned suddenly as his muscles convulsed, dry scales rippling eagerly along his shoulders at Aziraphale’s suggestion. “Nnnn, too much, I can’t, I can’t.”
His voice was strained and pitiful, his words half-garbled, and he squirmed, panting a little, scratching at Aziraphale’s knees. The angel looked sympathetically down at him and extended his arms warmly without even needing to ask, and Crowley did not even hesitate before climbing up into his lap, wrapping himself around his partner, clinging close.
“I hate this,” he whined, as another flare of itchiness shot from his toes to his nose, scalding him as it burned. “I hate this, I hate —,” Crowley shoved a fist into his mouth to muffle a cry, and Aziraphale hummed sadly, holding him close, rocking him slightly as he tried so very hard not to cry. “I — I —,”
(My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?)
“Shh, shh, you’re alright,” the angel whispered to him, his words gliding across the final cry of the lamb as he ran a hand up and down Crowley’s back, the demon arching into his touch with a sort of needy desperation that would have ashamed him so very deeply, not even a century ago; it was a learned behavior that was being unlearned, another thing that was so very difficult but was being overcome anyway, especially now, as he allowed himself to be cared for; as he asked for it.
Aziraphale seemed to agree, and he spoke again as Crowley quieted. “Thank you very much for telling me, Crowley; I am so very, very proud of you. Now, my dear, what would help? A warm bath, perhaps?” One of his hands found one of Crowley’s, and his thumb smoothed over the demon’s palm. “Your skin — er, scales? — feels ever so dry.”
“Nnnye — yeah,” Crowley managed to breathe out, and Aziraphale kissed the top of his head, somehow soothing the pain even briefly.
“Alright, darling. Would you like to come with me as I run you a bath, hm?”
“Mhm,” Crowley whimpered, feeling ever so vulnerable and ever so small but barely finding it in himself to mind; they had both evolved, greatly, over the past ten decades that had done more for them than six thousand years, and because he knew that this was Aziraphale — home, and warm, and safe. “Please.” And then, because old habits really did die hard, and because Aziraphale had looked so peaceful with his book sitting in the glow of mid-morning outside: “M’sorry, angel.”
“No apologies needed, Crowley, you know that,” Aziraphale admonished lightly, “I wish to care for you, my dear.” And then he stood, scooping Crowley up fully in his arms as if he weighed no more than a bedraggled kitten. The demon burrowed into his neck, clinging tightly, his breath hitching in his throat as he dug his fingers into the angel’s plush shoulders.
He squeezed his eyes shut as he breathed raggedly, inhaling Aziraphale’s warmth, bathing himself in it.
(Safe. Warm. Home. Safe and warm and home and warm and safe and home.)
Aziraphale carried Crowley to their bathroom, which was large and tiled with light granite, a stained glass window over the ornate tub in the corner casting colors across the muted off-white. Aziraphale hummed quietly in the demon’s ear, and the sound muffled all else, from a miracle dimming the light to the water beginning to pour against the porcelain.
“Would you like soap or bubbles, my dear?” Aziraphale whispered in his ear, and Crowley shook his head weakly.
“Nnnuh . . . jus’ make it hot . . . please.”
“Of course, dove.”
Crowley nuzzled gratefully into Aziraphale’s neck, clinging tightly as the angel puttered about, cleansing the water of any remnants of soaps and making it the perfect hot temperature that he knew Crowley liked, making steam rise up and cast a soothing mist over Crowley’s sensitive skin. He whimpered again, and Aziraphale shushed him gently, stroking a finger along the shell of his ear.
Eventually, after preparing the tub, the angel sat the demon down on the bathroom counter, allowing Crowley to lean fully against him as he gently stripped him of his clothes, making him shiver and cling tighter to his lover.
“Darling, could you lean back a bit for me, just for a moment?” Aziraphale murmured in his ear, and Crowley obeyed with some reluctance, squirming a little. He stilled, however, at Aziraphale’s gentle “Well done, lovely”, the praise flooding him with warmth and momentarily making the rapidly-increasing pain recede.
Aziraphale peeled away his long-sleeved black shirt and casual trousers, unclasping buttons and undoing zippers, pulling off his duck-patterned socks as well as his boots and the rings adorning his slender fingers, because even if he was shedding and it hurt like a bitch and he had nearly cried when he had gotten dressed with the clothes chafing against his sensitive skin, he would be damned (again) before he went out without style.
Once the angel had pulled off all of the demon’s clothes, he lifted Crowley in his arms once more and very slowly lowered him into the steaming water. Crowley gave a full-body shudder as the heat bathed over his dry, scale-ridden skin, and he whimpered as Aziraphale drew away, cracking his eyes open as liquid leaked from the corners, momentarily blurring his sight and sending a brief jolt of panic through his tight chest.
“Aziraphale . . .?”
“Don’t fret, my dear, I’m just right here,” Aziraphale whispered from where he had moved to crouch at Crowley’s side, leaning against the mouth of the porcelain tub. Crowley whined, his gaze going blurry again and reminding him of the upcoming blue, and he squeezed his eyes shut with a poorly-hidden sob; Aziraphale pressed a comforting kiss to his exposed, freckled shoulder, moving closer to hold the demon’s hand, squeezing soothingly. Crowley cracked his eyes open just the tiniest bit and nearly cried out as he felt the burn in them that anticipated the upcoming blue stage.
“S’hurting — hurts, hurts,” he whimpered, and Aziraphale pursed his lips tightly together, looking as if he were holding back tears of his own, sending guilt curdling uncomfortably in Crowley’s gut as he caught the angel’s eye. Aziraphale opened his mouth, closed it, and then only spoke when Crowley gave him the tiniest of nods to do so.
“Why didn’t you tell me right away, Crowley?” He asked sadly, squeezing the demon’s hand gently as he spoke and casting a warm, angelic glow over the both of them, momentarily soothing. “Why wait until it became this bad? I am so very proud of you, my dear, for coming to me for help, but darling, you know I would not’ve hesitated to help you in any way you needed, and in any way you need.”
“I — I didn’t — I fffelt —,” Crowley struggled to put the roiling emotion between his ribs into words, and he bit his lip hard, leaning his head back against the cool porcelain of the tub. Just a few nights ago, he and Aziraphale had been taking a bath together, laughing and drinking wine and flicking bubbles at each other and kissing with passion that was helped along by the convenient ability to not have to breathe when they inevitably splashed underwater in the throes of it all; now, here he was, weak and helpless and damned and —
Pathetic, the voice in the back of his head that he had spent the last hundred years with Aziraphale carefully boxing up and hiding away crooned nastily in his ear. You’re pathetic. Pathetic. You don’t deserve to feel safe, or warm, or at home. You’re pathetic; you were a pathetic excuse for an angel, and now you’re a pathetic excuse for a demon, might as well look at the common denominator —
“Darling, look at me.”
Crowley blinked up at Aziraphale at the sound of the angel’s soft, compassionate voice, his golden eyes burning with tears that soon would not be able to fall, his heart aching in his chest along with his skin, and then his heart seemed to burn as he saw how the angel was looking at him with such gentleness — as if he were a precious thing, a breakable thing to be held and cherished with careful hands — that Crowley thought that he might break.
Aziraphale cupped the back of Crowley’s head in a broad, warm palm, and leaned to press a long kiss to his creased forehead, keeping their hands clasped tightly together between them; water soaked into his overshirt and sleeves, but he didn’t seem to mind, and after a long moment, he moved his lips downward to brush against Crowley’s arched nose as he pressed their foreheads together in a gesture of intimacy so familiar and so full of love, the demon nearly sobbed.
“My beloved, you are not pathetic; nor are you weak, or in a position that garners shame, or whatever other distasteful things you are thinking of yourself.”
“How — how did you —,”
“Oh, Crowley, you still doubt how much I know you?” Aziraphale gave him an exasperated little smile as he pulled back, but kept his hands clasped around Crowley’s, squeezing lightly, a silent I’m here. “I know you, my darling, and I love you, and I want to take care of you. I couldn’t say it then, but I can now. And how much I want to care for you has not changed, my dove, nor has my love for you — rather, that’s only gotten stronger, though that feels near-impossible, what with how much love I have for you already.”
Aziraphale’s smile became softer, and his eyes crinkled at the edges, love bubbling from him so strongly that even the demon could feel it pressing at his sharp edges, and it made him begin to relax, allowing it to seep into his aching bones and wrap around him like the warmth of the water he lay in. “I want to take care of you, and I want you to come to me when you need care, do you understand, dearest?”
Crowley trembled, overwhelmed but in a good way, and squeezed Aziraphale’s hands weakly, reassured by the stronger squeeze he got back. “‘Kay,” he whispered, barely a wisp of a breath.
“Thank you, dove; you're doing ever so well.” Aziraphale murmured out the praise in an almost purr, and Crowley exhaled a shaky sigh, allowing the words to wash over him as he sank lower in the tub, his chin dipping in the water, his long legs stretching out the length of the tub.
The angel drew back one hand for a moment to snap his fingers, then, and gentle classical music began to weave its way along the tiles of the bathroom, floating around them in an orbit of metaphorical notes. Aziraphale knelt at the tub’s side, and Crowley waved a hand feebly to summon a soft, fuzzy rug beneath his knees, keeping them cushioned.
“Oh!” The angel beamed, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “You’re so very kind, my dear.”
“Sssshut up,” Crowley mumbled, cheeks going red, but a smile of his own twitching at the edges of his mouth. He sighed with bliss as he sank as deep as he could into the steaming water, the tips of his ears dipping low, and brushed his hair from his eyes.
Aziraphale only chuckled, scooting a bit closer and kissing Crowley’s hair, smoothing a hand over the copper curls. “Would you like to pull your hair up for you, my dear?” He murmured, “Just in case it itches?”
Crowley’s hair had been allowed to grow out the past few decades, and it spilled down in curly, more russet-copper color ringlets down his shoulders. The demon hummed appreciatively in agreement, and Aziraphale’s warm fingers began to card over his scalp once more, pulling back the damp curls and gently plaiting them back into a neat braided bun.
“Thanksss . . .” Crowley’s hiss was lazy and weak, and he slid deeper into the water, rolling his shoulders feebly and sprawling out his limbs as if they were jelly. He was less itchy, less achy; he knew it would be worse again, that it would only get worse from here, but for now, at least he felt okay. “Angel.”
“Of course, my love.” Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand back in his and squeezed gently, leaning close to kiss over his half-lidded eyes and breathing warmly against him, pressing their foreheads together once more. “Rest, now, Crowley; I will watch over you, beloved.”
“M’kay,” Crowley mumbled, feeling so very warm, and so very safe, and so very at home under the care of his angel — and the last thing he felt was not aching pain, but the light brush of ever-so-gentle lips pressing against his skin.