Chapter Text
Crowley loved to sleep. It was his top-tier coping mechanism, the finest technique of avoidance. Escapism in its purest form.
Was it an uneventful stretch of history? He was out.
A disappointing turn in human politics? Gone.
A disappointing turn in Hellish or Celestial politics? Out. ( I do not care that you are short-staffed. I may be a duke, but I am not your goddamn pigeon. Currently on holiday, au revoir, coo coo. ) ...
Well, alright—much as he wanted to, he wouldn’t talk back like that to his higher-ups (or, in Hell’s case, lower-downs). That sort of thing had a way of earning one a century or two in the torture chambers. The consequences were rarely worth it.
Speaking of.
An angel refusing to join him for a night of debauchery in Babylon? Fine. He’d go anyway, get spectacularly drunk, commit many sins, then promptly sleep through at least ten mornings to avoid dealing with their consequences. Sins expired if ignored long enough, surely. That was the rule, right?
Sleep was a lifesaver. Or more like a nerve saver. He barely even counted as a living being. Most of the time, he simply existed. And sometimes, he wished he didn’t.
This time, Crowley holed up in an abandoned shack at the edge of a howling forest, miles from civilization. It was the sort of place that looked as though it had been cobbled together by someone more desperate for a roof than concerned with architectural integrity. Two connected rooms, a sagging wooden roof, and just enough space for a bed, a stove, and some basic kitchenware. Perhaps even a nightstand, if one were feeling generous.
Most of it was of no interest to Crowley, except for one essential feature: the bed. That was the prize. That was the whole point. So, with a snap of his fingers, he ensured it was overstuffed and piled high with thick, warm covers. A nest worthy of a creature with absolutely zero intention of dealing with the world for the foreseeable future.
His plan was simple: sleep through the fall and winter, wake up in April 1778, and greet the thaw with well-rested indifference. Outside, the wind howled, pressing against the walls as if trying to remind him of all the wars he was ignoring. He didn’t give a damn. He’ll be back in spring and enjoy the warmer weather without the hassle of freezing off a toe. This year certainly wasn’t one where he’d be roped into celebrating Christmas, much to Aziraphale’s dismay. No, this was his time. A well-earned sabbatical where he would join the bears in blissful oblivion, caring little for whatever winter might bring.
Snakes and serpents, after all, tended to go limp in the cold, and while Crowley wasn’t particularly attached to his serpentine nature, he wasn’t above admitting that hibernation had its perks. Any excuse to be lazy, to withdraw from a world far too preoccupied with devastating itself through conflicts and petty tug–of-wars for power, was a good one. His own power was his alone, and he had no intention of lending it to any tribe.
He could have used a spell to keep himself warm, but prolonged miracles tended to leave traces. Those energy signatures had a way of attracting unwelcome attention, be it nosy supernatural beings, sensitive spiritual humans or, worst of all, actual exorcists. These were an especially troublesome breed, having somehow figured out how to discorporate demons on the spot. How they managed it, Crowley had no idea, and he wasn’t inclined to ask. He only knew it had something to do with water.
Ever since Christianity was invented, it had been quite the dark age for demons. Ever since Jesus’s words were left for the masses to interpret and, more often than not, misinterpret, it had caused no end of problems, not just for demons, but for people, too. In some bizarre, nonsensical way, sometimes The Word of Love has become “The Word of Love, but only if you look and act a certain way according to the standards of modern man”. Anyone too bold, too atheistic, too different, or simply deemed a danger to the peace of faith and society was peacefully persecuted and even more peacefully burned alive. Their screams, a lullaby for children by day and night. Very peaceful.
Even though the risk was low for truly demonic beings, as these days, exorcists and other religious warriors were far too preoccupied chasing witches, Crowley still preferred caution. In their frenzied fervor, eyes ablaze with an insatiable hunger for burning young women who dared to be too clever for the comfort of the patriarchy, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that one might mistake him for a witch. His sharp, slim features, the faint aura of something not-quite-mortal, and his long, flowing hair (kept for the sole purpose of tempting a particularly pious local priest…a work in progress, that one) were all trappings that could make even the most half-witted zealot presume him to be a fundamentally wicked creature. And, well, they wouldn’t be wrong.
The last thing Crowley needed was some lunatic sneaking up on him in his sleep and tossing a torch into his bed. He much preferred his own heating methods.
Before lying down, he started a fire in the stove the old-fashioned way, letting it burn for days until the shack became a furnace. It was hotter than Hell itself. A home away from home. Well, almost. Add a few crucibles of tortured souls, some comic sans posters, and a couple of smelly rot piles claiming to be third-ring officers, and the ambiance would’ve been spot on. The devil is in the details, after all.
Crowley dialed the fire down a bit after that thought, not wanting to wake up to magma imps crawling on the ceiling.
Thanks to some insulation tricks he’d pulled off and the repairs he’d made to the broken door, the winter outside would stay where it belonged. So, with pillows stuffed with mugwort and layers upon layers of blankets, duvets, and wolf pelts cocooning him, Crowley was set for his retreat.
Diving into the softness, he conducted his most effective method to drift off—counting sheep. A classic. One he invented.
One, two, three, seven, thirteen, sixty-nine (conjoined twin, that one), one hundred, one hundred thirty… Eventually, all sheep would be herded. And then, there would be a shepherd.
An angel.
Gesturing for him to come closer, as if he were the ram. No, he was more. He was the shepherd’s shadow, trailing him and his flock all the way to the barn, where he would dissolve into the dimness inside. Enveloping them both the sheep and the shepherd.
Whatever it meant.
Subconscious tales rarely made sense, but Crowley didn’t mind. He was comfortable. He was darkness.
He sank into the rest of the shadows within. No one would find him there.
But Aziraphale...Oh, that shrewd bastard.
Aziraphale always found him.
It wasn’t as though the angel announced his visits. Far from it. He only ever came when Crowley was already fast asleep.
Came around , not to him, of course. Angels didn’t go seeking hellish companionship. No, Aziraphale would merely tiptoe around the block, vaguely in Crowley’s direction, and feign surprise when he happened upon the sleeping demon in some forgotten shack. The same particular shack he had (not) been commissioned to consecrate.
It had become an unspoken ritual. Crowley withdrew to the farthest, most unlikely places imaginable. Aziraphale sought. The game had no winner, only the quiet certainty that no matter how well Crowley vanished, disappearing into the most forsaken corners of the Earth, Aziraphale would find him. He always did.
And once he did, he returned. Again and again, whenever the opportunity arose. Crowley never knew, of course. Aziraphale made sure of that. The demon had once declared, in no uncertain terms, that he hated being watched while he slept. Said it was “annoying.” (Translated to: exposing. )
Aziraphale had taken him at his word. And yet… he watched him anyway.
He loved to linger, to soak in the quiet rhythm of breathing, the soft crackling of the fire. And he was just a bit more stubborn than Crowley was. So in the end, he always found a way to do as he pleased. As if it made a difference anyway. It's not like Crowley would ever know. He made sure to be completely inconspicuous. Completely.
He told himself it was concern. That it was only natural for an angel to check in, to care . Someone had to ensure the fire stayed lit, that the blankets hadn’t been kicked off, that the ramshackle hut wasn’t at risk of caving in and burying Crowley beneath wreckage.
Not that he needed to worry much. The structure held. It was trying its best to accommodate its resident, as if it too had grown accustomed to Crowley’s presence. As if it, too, had once been empty but now felt a little less alone.
Still, it was old and worn. And like anything that had stood the test of time, it had its nicks.
It was mid afternoon. The angel entered and a loose mischievous wooden floorboard creaked precariously under his foot as he stepped into the anteroom. It physically could not have made a more agonizing screech. It was rather… completely loud.
Crowley grumbled. He did not stir.
Aziraphale sighed in relief and shuffled off to the small kitchen to make himself a porridge.
Crowley heard something moving and walking around. Then, an awfully loud creak split through the stillness, cutting into the space that had, just moments ago, felt frozen in time. But he didn’t mind the screech. His ears perked, attuned instead to the steps that followed.
A pair of old boots. Veg-tan leather and a raised sole, he could tell that by the resonance. For some strange reason, somehow, they sounded beige . And their owner… They smelled celestial. Felt like a ray of shy morning sun peeking through the treetops.
He listened to the footsteps. They sounded so vivid, as if they belonged to the waking world rather than the hazy, drifting realm he was treading.
Sometimes, he would be lost in a dream—a scene half-formed, shifting and flickering like candlelight—only for it to be gently blown out and replaced by something way more grounded. These steps. Or a familiar voice.
He never fought it. No matter how pleasant the dream had been, he’d abandon it without hesitation. He would come to this voice instead.
Aziraphale’s voice. No question.
The words never quite reached him whole. They ebbed and flowed, washing over him in soft waves, only half-deciphered. Something about Macbeth, about the beauties of English drama. Then a sudden mention of roasted rabbit and how well it pairs with rosemary. A tangent, obviously.
Crowley couldn’t care less about the content to be content. The sound alone was enough. It sank into him, lulling him into a warm, impossible sense of safety. A ridiculous notion for a demon, really. Yet he wondered, vaguely, how his own senses could conjure something so real. Was there truly an angel sitting nearby, filling the room with his curious musings?
Crowley wasn’t sure.
He didn’t mind either way. As long as it was there. As long as he could listen.
On the contrary to Aziraphale’s belief, Crowley knew.
He was rarely ever truly unaware when sleeping—unless he chose to be. His instincts were precise, his ears keen, his sense of smell keener still, sharper than that of a well-bred, highly trained bloodhound. He was trained, or rather, disciplined, because he had made himself so. Well-bred, however, was left to wishful thinking. To breed, one needed a willing counterpart. And he, a picky demon with standards still set ludicrously high from his days in Heaven, would have to be willing in turn.
Sadly, the only being ever unfortunate enough to be the center of his desire was so celibate that even the Pope would stand impressed. That, in summary, was his luck with just about everything.
As a safeguard against unwanted disturbances, Crowley had an ever-present nuisance radar. One that started beeping whenever angels, other demons, or tax collectors came within range. A built-in feature with no option to uninstall. And he had noticed it from the very first time Aziraphale stumbled into its range, and it had never stopped vibrating once the angel decided to stick around. Or rather, purring. What a device.
But Crowley never mentioned any of it.
Eventually, he even started making it easier for the angel to find him. Subtly, of course. He wouldn’t want to rob Aziraphale —the most enthusiastic honorary member of the Bow Street Runners (because of course he was)—of the thrill of sneaking around, would he? A clue here, a trace there, just enough to ensure the angel’s search wouldn’t be too difficult or frustrating.
Against all odds, Crowley found he didn’t mind the visits. In fact, he welcomed them.
There was something about knowing Aziraphale would come, knowing he was being watched over, that made him feel safe. For the first time in eternity, he allowed himself to truly sleep. Not the usual vigilant rest with one eye half-open, but something dangerously close to peace. And that was energizing on a spiritual level…if his pathetic, frowzy little flicker of willpower (Living to be a nuisance and existing out of spite) could even be considered a spirit.
Aziraphale never lingered long. Crowley only ever registered the signs at the fringes of his drowsy awareness. The fire burning a touch steadier, a whisper of miraculous warmth wrapping around his toes, the faint scent of an angelic presence drifting through the air. And then there was the bedding, once loosely draped, now snugly tucked around him, cradling his form with the kind of careful attention Crowley would never ask for but never rejected either.
Sometimes, beyond talking, he caught the soft hum of a tune, the rustle of a turning page, a voice murmuring in a sweet tone he never heard before, or the quiet sounds of eating. His subconscious, ever the analyst, automatically identified the meals. A crisp, earthy bite—an apple. A soft, barely audible chew—bread. A faint smack—chicken leg. A deep, mighty slurp—thick broth. Or porridge. Always a possibility.
However, in the end, the sounds all blended into the background, muffled by the heavy walls of sleep, just out of reach of deliberate perception. But they were soothing anyway. A kind of white noise he could sink into.
Crowley dreamed sometimes. Whether by choice or by instinctive rebellion, Satan knows. But when he did, his whole body engaged with the plot.
Aziraphale found it entertaining when Crowley dreamed… most of the time.
Once, Aziraphale bore witness to a particularly eventful one. Crowley started to fidget, huffing and flailing his arms, kicking his legs as if caught in a fight…or perhaps in a particularly clumsy performance of martial arts. The kind practiced in pub brawls, when men got drunk enough to believe in their own abilities a little too much.
It certainly seemed to be the case when Crowley mumbled through gritted teeth, his words barely coherent “Y’damn pig! M’gonna make mashed pork outtayou...! Hngg—” He rolled over, hand shooting into the air in a sluggish threatening wave “An’ it’ll be the best cookin’ your filthy esth-ah-bilishmment’s ever sssseen—”
Aziraphale, perched nearby, watched with quiet amusement at the harmless fight. Crowley’s tongue was as sharp as ever, even when its retorts came out slurred. He was cursing and swinging an imaginary axe, as if he were a Gaul at Cannae and the pillow a particularly fat Roman. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the battle ended. Crowley went limp, slipping back into still sleep—now sprawled sideways across the bed, his head tilted backward and hanging off the edge. His mouth had fallen slightly open as he surrendered to gravity.
Aziraphale didn’t dare claim that Crowley’s serpentine spine couldn’t handle such a position, but it certainly looked uncomfortable. With practiced ease, he reached out and gently moved him back.
Small interventions like this had become routine. Automatic. Unquestioned. Well, what else could one do for a sleeping demon?
Whenever the calm settled again, Aziraphale, as already demonstrated, often made himself a warm beverage, gathered some snacks, and sat down near Crowley’s bed. He was always happy to have a companion for a meal, conscious or not, alive or not. Humans nowadays were barely worth the trouble. He’d once found more mutual understanding with a corpse than with any living member of the local community. But then, that could have been due to recent events. His favorite human, a kind-hearted herbalist, had been falsely accused of poisoning someone when, in truth, the so-called “victim” had simply suffered an unfortunate case of intolerance, where the resulting bout of diarrhea was so violent it triggered a heart attack. The locals, in all their wisdom, had responded to that by crucifying the healer.
Perhaps there were still good humans out there. But Aziraphale had been too angry since the incident to bother finding out, and he will be for a couple more years.
Of course, he was an angel, a being of divine forgiveness.
But forgiveness could wait. It was a process, after all.
Thankfully, he had Crowley. A demon who sometimes too liked to imitate the walking dead but, in the end, carried more life than anyone Aziraphale had ever met.
Some evenings, the angel would express his gratitude by bringing a book to read aloud. Hoping, perhaps, that a passage or two might entertain Crowley or, at the very least, teach his stubborn head something new.
Crowley didn’t read. He showed about as much interest in books as a neutered dog did in eating grapes. But Aziraphale was nothing if not persistent when it came to spreading knowledge, or, in this case, sharing the amusing tales of the ten Florentine escapees. The way Boccaccio intended.
Sometimes, Crowley would wake up later and think of things he didn’t remember learning. Since when did he know the full plot of The Decameron ? A mystery, truly.
One evening, a fierce snowstorm broke outside, swallowing the world in a churning white abyss. The wind shrieked through the trees, dragging flurries of ice and shattered branches in its wake. Hailstones and clumps of snow drummed against the windowpanes in an angry, uneven symphony. In the dark, something small and winged was hurled against the glass as a final beat. A dead sparrow crash-landing. Never to rise again.
The storm was not merely harsh but merciless, an untamed force with no regard for the fragile creatures caught in its grasp. Even Aziraphale, unbothered by cold and untouched by mortal frailty, had no intention of stepping into such violent upheaval. Stranded mid-visit, he resigned himself to staying inside Crowley’s lodge. Longer than usual. Perhaps much longer still, given the storm showed no sign of relenting.
Truly, it didn’t.
In no time, dulled greens vanished beneath an unbroken sheet of white, the snow thickening with each passing hour, swallowing the world as far as the eye could see. A full day had passed, and night had settled thick and heavy, the black sky standing in stark contrast to the endless white plains.
That was when Crowley began to stir.
At first, it was barely noticeable. A twitch of fingers, a shift in breath. Then, as though the storm itself had crept beneath his covers, he started to toss, gripping the sheets with a knotted fist. His jaw clenched, lips parting just enough to bare his teeth in a strained grimace. A low, pained sound slipped from him.
Aziraphale, who had been absently rereading the same passage and wondering why the words refused to settle in his mind, suddenly understood. His gaze lifted toward the bed, searching for a clue as to what was happening.
Crowley huffed.
Awake? No, his eyes were still shut tight.
Then it must be another dream.
A soft wail escaped Crowley’s lips.
Oh… a nightmare.
Aziraphale slid his chair away from the fire and toward the bedside, the movement swift, almost urgent, like reaching out to catch him tumbling down the stairs. Or falling, period. He wasn’t sure why his mind had leapt to that particular metaphor. Not at first. But soon, he would understand that It wasn’t just a metaphor. It was exactly what was happening.
He had seen Crowley’s bad dreams before. They were usually fleeting, bitter little things that flickered in and out of existence, disturbances that never fully took root. Nightmares, yes, but not battles. And if they ever were battles, Crowley had long since learned how to fight them off on his own. He had centuries of experience in such wars, and he knew, perhaps without even thinking, how to beat them back into the dark. But this time, it wasn't that easy.
Sweat had begun to bead on Crowley’s forehead. His muscles had locked tight, his entire body braced as if ready to bolt at any moment. The distress refused to loosen; instead, it pressed in. This battle was strong, relentless, and painfully vivid.
Crowley was losing.
Aziraphale was starting to worry.
The demon tossed again, his head twisting as if shaking off something unseen. The small, breathless "no, no, no’s" forming on his lips were enough to tell that whatever that was, he really didn't want it.
Then, his voice crawled out louder, growing more concrete “No! Don’t leave me—” he pleaded.
“Mother, forgive me… please, mother.”
At that, Aziraphale froze.
Never, in all his wildest imaginings, would he have expected Crowley to call out to Her, let alone beg. Not even if forced. And yet, he was forced now, trapped in whatever played out behind his closed eyes. Aziraphale peeked and saw a lost child whose mother had left him to die in the storm, crying for her return.
Crowley had always claimed to have severed ties with the Almighty long ago. Whenever the conversation veered toward the Ineffable Plan, he remained detached at least, skeptical at most. Sometimes, he’d even mock it and dismiss it as nothing more than a grand cosmic ruse, a story spun by the higher-ups to soothe the naive into believing existence wasn’t, in fact, utterly pointless. (Which it absolutely was, he’d insist.) And Aziraphale had taken that as hatred, perhaps even spite. He couldn't really blame himself for that, the demon was never exactly forthcoming about his personal stances. But grief as the root of the spite…grief had never once crossed Aziraphales mind.
"Please…" Crowley sobbed, raw and defeated.
Aziraphale felt his heart clench.
He had never thought of Crowley as the mourning sort, or the sort to carry wounds. He never let anything, be it happiness or pain, close enough to touch him. He was an expert at holding the entire world at arm’s length, even proud of it, Aziraphale would reckon. But vulnerable like this, unraveling…it felt like witnessing a truth never meant to be seen by anyone else other than its owner and maybe God, if She cared.
Aziraphale couldn't help but wonder…how could the Almighty listen to that and do nothing? What crime had Crowley committed to warrant such cruelty?
The struggle went on, escalating.
“Nothin’ wrong— I did… nothing. Wrong—” Crowley lamented.
"You didn't," Aziraphale wanted to respond, but the words caught in his throat, sudden doubt surfacing.
Did Crowley do nothing wrong? Aziraphale… he didn’t know that, did he? Would he be telling a lie if he said it?
It wasn’t the first time this question arose, since he had never learned the exact reason for the Fall. The demon had concealed it from him in a halfhearted cryptic joke and made it very clear that he wasn’t willing to explain it. Aziraphale had thought the answer was just further proof of the detachment and "over it all" image Crowley had tailored for himself over centuries. But now he suspected it wasn’t that. Was it avoidance? Humans had developed ways of deflecting pain they didn’t know how to treat, and perhaps, demons did too.. However, was guilt in there too? A guilt rooted in a real wrongdoing? Was Crowley hiding something awful about his past?
Aziraphale struggled to even entertain the thought. He saw Crowley as a being with a heart of gold—well-hidden, yes, wrapped in a rocky crust, but there nonetheless. He believed in that heart more than he believed in God. Even when Crowley didn’t believe in either.
"You see good in everyone, angel. It’s your bloody job," Crowley would say, exasperated.
"One doesn’t need it to be a job to see the truth, now do they?" Aziraphale would counter, unwavering.
Crowley would scoff. "Then you’d better check your sight” gritting his teeth “I'm a demon. Unrepentant spawn of evil tainted with sins you wouldn't even dare to imagine. That’s a truth. Try seeing that one. Might be a blind spot."
And, dear Lord, did it even matter? Sins were committed, mistakes made—some even unmade. The past was long dead. The very nature of the past was that it had passed, irretrievably and unchangeably. The present, however… that was all that remained. Crowley hadn’t needed him then, but he needed him now, Aziraphale assessed. Well… maybe not him outright, but he needed something. An anchor, perhaps, to pull him back from wherever his mind had dragged him. But what that could be, Aziraphale hadn’t the faintest idea.
He felt helpless. Because he was.
He watched him without blinking, caught between the instinct to help and the quiet, awful truth that, in the end, there was nothing he could do. And yet, something deep within beyond reason or definition kept pulling him to act. He shifted closer, leaning over the bed as if ready to crawl in if needed, his fingers tightening in the bedsheets as if, through the strands of fabric and wool, he could somehow send comfort. He wouldn’t crawl in, of course. But in a way, he wished he could. Just so Crowley wouldn’t be so alone in there.
No one could replace the Mother, the divine love Crowley had been missing and calling for. No person, not even an angel, could fill the gaping hole She had left in his soul. Aziraphale was no parental figure, nor did he wish to be. That simply wasn’t the dynamic that would be right for either of them. But he cared—cared in a way that dangerously tiptoed over the lines of camaraderie. He wanted to care for Crowley in a way that felt almost impossible within the rigid walls of celestial law that stood between them.
Only in fleeting moments did the affection surface, slipping into the light. In struggle, in victory, in those rare, quiet instances where The Arrangement stretched just a little further beyond its original shape. Bending, shifting, inching toward new freedoms. Never quite loose enough, but fuller with each time it happened.
He wanted to get closer. Closer still. He would if he could. He would.
But he couldn’t.
He wasn’t even supposed to be here in the first place, let alone closer.
There was an invisible barrier, one that seared Aziraphale’s conscience whenever he even thought of breaching it. The sense of wrong felt too real, too clenching, like claws sinking into his skin and dragging him back into his place. A place he was slowly, achingly, growing out of with each passing century.
He wasn’t even fully conscious of the restraints, but he felt them. A slow, suffocating sense of being trapped and diminished. And yet, he desperately told himself it was simply the primal demonic power of temptation and misguidance. That was easier to believe. That was safer to blame. Because if he admitted it for what it truly was… it could be the end of him.
Then, Crowley wailed again, fiercer than before. He rolled onto his belly, his spine curving like a terrified feline. The energy around him shifted, thickened, and began to burn. Aziraphale felt it emanating from the demon’s back, but he didn’t recognize what it meant. Not soon enough.
A split second later, two massive, black-feathered masses burst into existence, unfurling from the astral plane. Like caged panthers, pacing and biding their time, they jumped out ready to reclaim their space the moment the bars crumbled. The sheer force of their sudden emergence sent a gust through the small room, and Aziraphale barely had time to react before one wing struck him square in the face, momentarily obscuring his vision.
He recovered quickly, blinking away the sting of displaced air and stray feathers, and without thinking, he scrambled onto the bed. He grasped at the wild, flailing limbs, struggling to contain them before they could do something irreversible. The wings beat frantically, as if trying to take flight, to lift Crowley and drag him upward, back toward something that no longer welcomed him.
“MOTHERRRR!” Crowley screamed, the sound drenched in betrayal. It pulled him down, preventing any attempt to rise back to heaven. Not even the angel’s touch could lift such weight.
"Crowley, shhhh," Aziraphale murmured, holding tight, keeping him still with an unbidden divine strength he only ever mustered in the most necessary of moments. "It’s okay. Let go.”
Crowley didn’t let go. He was stubborn—always had been—but more than that, he was driven to self-preserve, to save himself from a Fall that had already happened. It was, of course, a futile effort. The attempt to rewrite a memory that had resurfaced to haunt him was only making it worse. But maybe… maybe the nightmare wasn’t there to hurt him. Maybe the bad memory only wanted to be relived, to be accepted. Maybe it was seeking closure or resolution but wasn’t getting either. Instead, there was only resistance, a desperate urge to undo what had already been set in stone.
It was one thing to believe there was good in people, even in those who had done terrible things. But to extend that belief to events, to suffering? To something so fundamentally awful that it had shattered a soul? That was harder. Maybe even impossible.
Yet the truth remained: perhaps Crowley could bend time, pause it, twist it—but he could never turn it back. Still, he tried. He argued, pleaded, denied, let loose streams of delirious words Aziraphale couldn’t understand. Until, at last, he stopped fighting.
So, after what felt like an eternity of struggle, Crowley finally stilled. Aziraphale waited a moment longer, just to be sure, before gently releasing his hold. The demon’s wings fell limp against the bed, no longer thrashing, though tension still lingered in them.
Aziraphale barely had time to feel relief before his heart clenched anew. The frantic despair had ebbed, but in its place came quiet, shuddering sobs. Crowley barely moved now, save for the slight tremble of his chest. Tears leaked from behind closed eyelids, and though the dream had passed, its remnants still clung to him.
His words were hoarse and almost lucid. "I don't want to… fall."
Aziraphale's heart clenched even more. He wanted to reach for Crowley’s hand, to rest a reassuring touch on his shoulder. But before he could, Crowley turned away, curling in on himself and retreating toward the wall. His body spoke for him, a wordless "leave me alone." Touching him now wouldn’t feel right. And even if it did, Aziraphale wouldn’t dare.
So instead, he gripped the sheets a little tighter. "You won’t fall," he murmured, voice steady, smoothing a hand over the rigid tension in Crowley’s wings, willing the tightness to ease. "You’re safe. You’re on Earth. Everything is okay. You can let go..."
He kept repeating it, alongside other soft intercessions, until Crowley finally drifted back into a dreamless unconsciousness. He let go. It was over. Aziraphale let out a heavy breath.
He remained seated on the bed, replaying everything in his mind, trying to process it all. Without realizing it, his hands had started stroking the ruffled feathers of Crowley’s wings—still tangible, still present—grooming them back to their pristine state. When he eventually realized it, he sighed.
Well, at least he could be useful in some way. Hopefully, the demon will appreciate waking up to his wings in perfect shape.
Then, a thought struck him. Will he? Crowley hadn’t given, couldn’t give, permission to be preened. Was this an overstep? But by the time the question arose, Aziraphale was already halfway done, and stopping now felt even more wrong. After all, there was nothing improper about a bit of service, was there? And the fact that he was doing it mostly out of his own interest, because he simply wanted to…well, that was a loophole he’d flatly deny. Instead, he reassured himself that this was merely an act of kindness, not a boundary violation. It was a very kind, very tender…violation.
To be fair, it was difficult to resist. The fluffy plumes were impossibly soft, far softer than he would have ever expected from demonic anatomy. And the flight feathers, when he looked closer, weren’t just black but shimmered with rich blue and purple hues. He realized then, with a humbled awe, that he was touching something far more precious than he had ever given it credit for.
Even after the feathers were groomed to perfection and the wings looked more stunning than ever, he lingered. His fingers drifted over them a bit longer. Not out of necessity, but simply for the sake of it. For comfort.
Again, for his own comfort more than Crowley’s. He was a bit of a bastard (worth knowing).
At the very least, Crowley showed no signs of discomfort. If anything, his features softened, the strain that had gripped them smoothed away. Aziraphale could have sworn he heard a faint hum rising from beneath the covers, but he blamed it on the wind.
God may have disowned Crowley.
But Aziraphale never would.