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Heaven had been too quiet.
It had been the first thing Aziraphale had noticed, when he had stepped off the elevator from Earth. And he had known it, subconsciously; had noticed it every time he had come Up to report back to his superiors, and whatnot. But he had not known it — not until he had lived it.
In Heaven, shoes didn’t make a sound as you walked across the floor. There was no echo against the pristine white walls, so whenever anyone spoke, it was too loud, but the moment their voice faded away, it would be replaced with an empty, hollow silence that was the worst thing Aziraphale had ever not heard — and the only sound filling that silence would be that of his Lord’s disappointment with each and every dull ring of his failures.
He shuddered to think about it now — but at the moment, he was all but drowning in the thought of it where he lay, frozen, in his and Crowley’s bed.
He should be at peace, he thought; he was in their cottage, in their home in the South Downs, and he hadn’t been in Heaven for almost a year, now, since they had stopped the Second Coming. He should be fine. There was no reason for him to feel like he was being crushed underneath a massive weight, squeezing his lungs and making him choke on each breath. And yet, there was a reason, because —
He couldn’t hear Crowley.
There was a storm outside, and the thunderous roar of the rain was drowning out the sound of everything else. Aziraphale could hear none of the usual birdsong of early morning, nor the tick of his grandfather clock, nor the creak of the bedsprings; all of it was drowned out into the silence of white noise, and Aziraphale’s ears were ringing, piercing and shrill.
It was too loud, it was much too loud — but at the same time, it was too quiet, and he couldn’t hear Crowley.
Aziraphale tried to move, tried to even twitch his fingers, but found that he could not; his hands were clasped over his stomach where he was buried under far-too-heavy comforters that were not comforting at all. He felt too cold, but also too hot, sweat beading on his brow. His head was spinning, and he let out a choked whimpering sound that he felt rather than heard.
He couldn’t move. He couldn’t move, and it was too loud but too quiet, too hot but too cold, and it was too much, and he needed Crowley, and —
— and then, like an answered prayer, there was the gentle touch of slender fingers against his hand, and the smell of rain washed over him like a comforting embrace.
“Aziraphale?”
That was Crowley’s voice. He could hear him, through the silence of the roaring rain.
Aziraphale opened his eyes with some effort, not sure as to when he had closed them, or why it was such a struggle to pry his eyelids apart. He blinked imploringly up at Crowley, who was leaning over him; the demon’s red hair was damp from the rain that he had clearly been out in, and his hands were wet and smelled of flora where they glided to gently cup Aziraphale’s face, golden gaze shining with worry.
“Angel,” he said — so very, very softly. “What’s the matter?”
Aziraphale blinked rapidly, a tear and then another running down the side of his face. He found that he could, just barely, move his hands, and jerkily moved them upward, pressing his trembling palms over his ears and shaking his head minisculely, lips trembling. Crowley’s eyes flooded with understanding, and — and, oh, what had Aziraphale ever done to deserve him?
“S’ too much?” He asked gently, and Aziraphale nodded jerkily. Crowley seemed to weigh the options for a moment, his brow furrowing, before making up his mind.
“Lemme know if you want me to move, or stop, or anything, alright?” He prompted, voice muffled through Aziraphale’s hands. “Kick me off the damn bed if you hafta.” Crowley cracked a crooked smile that made Aziraphale’s heart squeeze before snapping his fingers, drying himself off, and climbing fully into bed beside Aziraphale. He slowly, carefully wrapped his arms around him, and then, while murmuring soft, kind words into Aziraphale’s ear (but don’t let him catch you saying he was being kind), he expanded his wings, slowly and steadily.
He wrapped his wings around them both, black feathers cocooning them in safety and the perfect balance of warmth. His fingers slid in between Aziraphale’s where they were clasped over his ears, and he squeezed gently; a silent, I’m here, I’m not leaving, I love you.
After a few moments, Aziraphale was able to lower his trembling hands, but he kept holding onto Crowley’s, leaning fully into him and sniffling quietly.
“M’ sorry, angel,” Crowley murmured into his ear, moving their hands up to press a kiss against Aziraphale’s knuckles. “I was out in the garden,” he explained softly. “Plants are fussy when it rains.” He gently tugged one hand away so that he could card his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair, scratching against his scalp with his fingernails just slightly in the way that kept the angel grounded and present. “Was the rain what was bothering you, too?”
“Some,” Aziraphale managed to whisper in response, his voice raspy and slow, his breath shuddering. “It was too loud, but . . .”
“Too quiet, too?” Crowley filled in softly. He knew what that meant, Aziraphale knew — he knew the weight that it carried. They had come a long way with communication since Aziraphale had come back from Heaven, drained and hollow, and they had gotten around to tell each other it all — including how Heaven, with its sterile floors and screaming fluorescence and heavy weight of judgment, had sucked the life from him for so long. How its silence had nearly made him silent.
“Afraid so,” Aziraphale managed to rasp out at last. Crowley let out a soft wisp of a sigh, stroking Aziraphale’s hair and squeezing his hand lightly.
“What do you need right now?” He asked, so gently that Aziraphale nearly cried.
“Can you just hold me, my dear?” He said instead, voice mangled and choked. “And . . . and perhaps talk to me? I — I need to hear your voice.” I couldn’t hear you, love, he didn’t say — and that terrified me, Crowley.
“‘Course,” Crowley murmured, tucking his wings tighter around the both of them; Aziraphale listened to the swish of feathers against feathers, to the soft whoosh of Crowley’s steady breaths, of the slight scritch-scritch of the demon’s nails against his scalp, and he felt the heartbeat he didn’t need begin to slow in his chest as he relaxed to the sound of Crowley’s voice filling his ears, soothing him, making the tension drain slowly from his body as he sunk into obsidian feathers, and pressed into his partner’s neck with a long, shuddering breath.
Crowley went on for a while about the state of their garden; of their small, miraculously-grown apple orchard that had sprouted up in a day, and how there were new apples starting to come in. He told him about the cardinal nest that was being built in the nook above their porch swing, and about the flowers that were once again beginning to bloom; winter was melting away into the freshness of spring, and it was so very lovely. He told him about the most mundane of things, like the way he had kissed the sleeping Aziraphale’s cheek before he had gotten up, and as simple as it was, it made Aziraphale want to cry into his chest.
After a long while, Aziraphale lifted his hand that had been nestled into Crowley’s feathers, stroking over the soft black quivers. He placed it delicately on the demon’s cheek, barely visible in the half-light through his wings, and Crowley went quiet, trailing off from what he had been talking about a spot he had found on one of the plants outside from a caterpillar.
“I love you, my dear,” Aziraphale said earnestly, voice nearly cracking as he held his world in his palm. “Thank you for taking care of me.”
Crowley stared at him, eyes wide and pupils constricted, and then he smiled — tremblingly, but it was there. He drew Aziraphale close, and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to his lips that was more about the closeness of the two of them than the kissing itself.
“How ‘bout we just stay here today?” He whispered, love flooding through his own voice, through his gaze, through the softness of his hands. “You n’ me. Just relax, yeah? Take it easy.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Aziraphale murmured, tears burning at his eyes again, and he moved to snuggle back up to Crowley’s side, allowing his eyes to slip shut. Crowley’s chest hummed as he began to speak again in a quiet murmur, stroking slender fingers through the angel’s curly hair and soothing him into a place of peace — right there, tucked away in Crowley’s arms and gorgeous wings.