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“It’s the 24th,” Crowley says, showing Aziraphale his phone. “8:14 AM, GMT. Can I get you anything?”
“Not yet,” Aziraphale says, pressing his hands into the mattress to keep them from clutching at Crowley’s arm. “I think… would you mind terribly? Staying a little longer?”
“Long as you need, angel,” Crowley says easily, and pillows his head on Aziraphale’s chest as if he’s been doing it for millennia. As if it had always been that simple.
In stealing the Book of Life, Aziraphale had claimed Heaven’s most potent weapon for his own, but he had not left them defenseless. He had found himself trapped in a sort of temporal dead-end; every time he tried to use the Book, he was kicked back to the moment he first laid hands on it, forced to go through the ensuing days over and over again. He could gain some time by not using it right away, but sooner or later the other angels would have him cornered, and he’d have no alternative, praying desperately that this time it would work, knowing that it wouldn’t.
Aziraphale wasn’t sure, now, how many times he’d been unable to overcome his fear and hurt pride to approach Crowley for help before the archangels found him. At one moment he was certain Crowley would reject him; at another that Crowley would help him, on condition that they never see each other again. At last, wordless, at the end of his endurance, he had simply walked up to Crowley and held out the Book of Life. If Crowley chose to turn him away, perhaps he would still take it to save himself, to fight one last time for humanity —
“Oh, angel,” Crowley had said, horrified, furious. “What have they done to you?” And it had been that easy. He had broken time’s unnatural hold on Aziraphale, and together they had used the Book to break the powers of Heaven and Hell, so that neither could wage war on humanity any longer; and now the only thing left for Aziraphale was to make himself believe it.
“What’s the time?” he asks again, when he can’t keep quiet any longer.
“8:42,” Crowley answers. Barely a half hour since the last time, too soon, still too soon. He’s got to get a grip on himself, he is fine, everything is fine, this is beginning to get ridiculous. Some of that must show in his face, because Crowley squeezes his shoulder, gives it a little shake. “Angel,” he says. “It’s been four days since you were released from the time loop. You were in it — how long?”
“I don’t know,” Aziraphale says miserably, because they’ve been through this catechism a hundred times and Crowley must be so tired of it — Aziraphale is tired of it. “I lost track.”
“You lost track. You, with your perfect memory. Which means it was a long time, and it was terrible, and you don’t have to be over it yet.” Crowley’s face is so soft and open, his yellow eyes full of such perfect understanding, and Aziraphale can’t stand it any longer.
“I didn’t come back here to — to — burden you!” he cries, squeezing his eyes shut against frustrated tears. “I treated you abominably and you saved me, and all you get for it is… is this, this mess, and I’m not getting better, and you won’t even get angry at me!”
“For not getting better?”
“For any of it!” Aziraphale tries to glare at him, but the tears spilling down his cheeks must ruin the effect. “You deserve — so much more — and I can’t — can’t g-give —”
“Stop,” Crowley says, but it’s so gentle it doesn’t sting. “It’s been four days. You haven’t realized you’re safe yet. It’s going to take time.” He gives Aziraphale a crooked little smile. “Do I need to tell you to have faith?”
“It’s not fair,” Aziraphale mutters, closing his eyes. Crowley pulls him close, kisses the top of his head.
“Fuck fair. Fair means we made it out alive.”