Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world keeps spinning and that's the most bitter part. 

The audacity of it all was what really irked him. The Sun kept gleefully shining, humans kept laughing, and all the wrong birds kept singing—blissfully unaware and uncaring towards him. They keep going about their lives and going home to their lovers and Crowley just has to keep driving. Crowley thinks he’d feel better if the whole world just exploded because then everyone else would understand how he felt.  

But the world just won’t stop ticking, not even for him, so he drives. He has to get out of Soho, possibly out of England, and keep going until he doesn’t catch the scent of vanilla and old paper on the wind. The car is silent and slow, like his mind. 

Crowley drives until the sun sets then rises again, fingernails digging into the leather of the steering wheel and fighting back tears to the point it's giving him a headache. He can’t make the car go faster than twenty miles per hour and for once he doesn’t even try—there's no world to save, no angel to pick up. There’s just him, alone in this massive city with no home and nowhere to go. 

Once night falls, the reflectors on the road are the only stars this deep in the city. He tries to look out the window to see if he can catch the distant glow of his creations, but it's futile. It really shouldn’t bother him as much as it does, it’s just the typical London sky, but he can’t fight back the tears that finally slip over his cheeks. Even his stars are gone. 

With a great sigh, Crowley slouches over the steering wheel, resting his forehead on the cool leather. The Bentley doesn’t need him to steer, but for a moment he feels a sense of satisfaction at imagining the sting of headlights shining through his windshield. He closes his eyes and they burn against his eyelids. It’s like he’s been flipped inside out, everything soft and vulnerable and squishy that he’d kept protected underneath his scales facing the world, spilling out of him in a visceral mess. He’s an exposed nerve, aching and burning with every movement. 

Hadn’t Aziraphale noticed? Hadn’t he seen the blood dripping off his own fingertips and onto the polished hardwood floor? Hadn’t he tasted the blood pouring from Crowley’s lips when they kissed?

Surely he had, Crowley reasons. Surely, Aziraphale had noticed. It just wasn’t enough. Crowley’s bleeding heart in his mouth wasn’t enough. He’d never be enough, not like this, not with his yellow eyes and black wings and overly sharp teeth. Aziraphale didn’t want a demon, he wanted an angel. The thought squeezes a shuddering breath out of him, the noise far too close to a sob for Crowley’s liking. 

The tears building in his throat taste like blood and Crowley would like nothing more than to go to sleep, to escape the shredded remains of his corporation. The ache has seeped down to his actual body, burrowing itself deep in his many coils of scales. Even his skin feels weird, crawling with the lingering touch of Aziraphale’s hands. 

Or was it the absence of them? 

Crowley didn’t know but to feel Aziraphale’s hand on his arm, between his shoulder blades, laced with his own, would make him crumble like the Tower of Babel. He’s never needed to feel it more, but it's gone. 

It’s likely he’ll never feel Aziraphale again. 

Crowley takes another shuddering breath and the pressure on his chest forces it out of him with a ragged sound. His shoulders stutter as he sobs again, the sound nearly animalistic as it’s torn from his throat. He feels the car roll to a stop and the engine shut off but he doesn’t even care, he just grips the steering wheel tighter. Tears splashed onto his sunglasses’ lenses and dripped off his nose onto the leather wheel and his jeans as he shook. It hurts, the force of his sobs. 

He can’t get any air into his lungs, he doesn't even need it but his corporation had rather grown used to it and the distress mounting in his throat made it hard to remember that. Crowley sobs again, harder, ribs aching against the strain. 

The street lamp bulb shatters above the car, the electric boom echoing down the street and the downpour of glass pinging against the Bentley roof. He jumps, yanking his head up, the sound grating against his ears and shocking him out of his own head. 

Crowley looks around through his tears, confused. He’d forgotten himself—accidentally blown something up. He detaches his hands from the wheel, forcing his fingernails to resemble something a bit more human than the claws they’d turned into. He figures his eyes are in a similar condition, yellow from corner to corner, but doesn't bother fighting them. 

The electric blue light of an inn sign blinks down at him, the flashing light worsening his headache even through his glasses. 

“Okay,” he says to the car, taking the key out of the ignition. He wants, needs, to sleep, and both of them know it. He’d slept in the Bentley before, of course, but it honestly wasn’t that comfortable. A bed would be nice. 

Crowley’s legs ache when he steps out of the car. He walks through the puddle of glass and into the lobby. There’s a middle aged woman sitting at the counter flipping through a magazine. The clock above her head reads a little past midnight and a mounted box television hums an old sitcom in the corner of the cigarette smoke scented room. This place is old and a bit on the lower-quality side when it comes to inns. 

“Can I get a room?” he asks, sticking his keys in his jacket pocket. He ignores the choked, broken sound of his own voice. 

The woman sets down her magazine and looks up, and her face pinches. Crowley realized he hadn’t checked his reflection, or really stopped crying for that matter. He must look like shit, with flushed cheeks and tears streaming down his face. 

“Are you okay, love?” she asks with a thick Liverpool accent. 

“Fine,” he rasps and scrubs the salting tears off his cheeks. “Room?” 

The woman gives him a skeptical look, but takes out her list of rooms. “One bed?” she asks. 

Crowley nods. “Yeah,” he replies. 

She marks on her paper then turns around in her swivel chair. Selecting a key, she takes it off the hook and lays in on the counter in front of Crowley with a click. “How many nights?” 

“Just tonight. What part of London are we in?” 

She gives him a strange look, but answers, “Bromley. Where’re you from?”

“Soho. Your street lamp blew up.”  

The woman hums, casting him another confused look, glancing once outside. Thankfully, she seems done with the small-talk. She makes another mark on the paper and says, “That’ll be forty pounds.” 

He could just snap his fingers to make her believe he’s paid, but he really wasn’t feeling up for it. With a thought the cash appears in his wallet, which was a gift from Aziraphale, he remembers bitterly. 

He takes a humiliating, stuttering breath as he removes the old leather wallet from his breast pocket, fingers brushing over the A.J. stamped on the corner. 

Crowley hands the woman the bills and shoves the wallet back into its pocket. He grabs the key and storms out of the lobby before he humiliates himself further. He needs to sleep, desperately. 

He finds his room eventually, he’d walked by it twice in the identical stretch of corridors. The inn isn’t entirely dissimilar from some of the endless hallways in Hell, designed to induce madness in damned souls. 

Room Forty-Two clicks open when he turns the key, a blast of cold air washing over him. The singular bed in the center of the room is Queen-sized, with cheap sheets that look scratchy even from the doorway and a coughing air-conditioner. An ugly lamp sits on the nightstand, its old bulb casting the room in an orangey haze. Crowley has no bags. He locks the door behind him. The only belongings he has are his car keys, wallet, sunglasses, and his phone, and he sets them all down with a shaky kind of reverence. 

The clothes on his back ripple into pajamas and he kicks off his shoes. Crowley climbs into the bed, the sheets slightly better than expected, and turns off the lamp with less than a thought. The emerald glow of the alarm clock illuminates the nightstand, catching on his keys, as he pulls the blankets up to his shoulder. 

The bed dips only slightly under his weight—it’s nothing like the worn, threadbare couch painted with quilts in Soho, he thinks with a wobbly sigh. A sting burns his eyes when he closes them, strained from tears and headlights and restless days. 

Sleep does not come easily, but eventually his mind drops off into the inky, thoughtless black. 

The smell of tomato soup fills the bookshop, swirling between the shelves. The aromatic steam curled off the pot Aziraphale was stirring as he hummed a tune that hasn’t been played since Rome. 

Crowley watched Aziraphale work, sitting at the dark oak table, finger dancing around the edge of his coffee mug. He leaned on his hand, not even trying to fight the lazy smile that’d wiggled its way onto his face. 

The kitchen was cozy and warm, the air almost a hazy gold in color. The tops of the cabinets were decorated with dishes from throughout history, spanning from fine Victorian-era China to plates made of real glossy jade. There’s photos on the wall of Aziraphale and Crowley, some faded with time and others quite new. 

The room feels like home. 

Aziraphale is in pajamas, hair tousled and sticking up in places. He’s positively glowing in the purple-tinted light that streams through the window. He says something, Crowley thinks, but it’s more a rumble of tone than anything. 

“What?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale turns around, wooden spoon in his hand. There’s a fake look of annoyance on his face, Crowley can tell, and his eyes are bright in the sunlight. The sight of him makes Crowley smile more, and Aziraphale softens. The angel leans over the table, closer and closer and Crowley makes a quiet noise of surprise when Aziraphale’s lips press against his. Crowley surrenders to the kiss, hand coming up to rest on the side of Aziraphale’s warm neck. The faint taste of tomatoes is dashed across his lips.

His fingers brush against the fluffy curls and they’re softer than he could’ve imagined. 

Aziraphale’s free hand cups his face gently, like he’s the most precious thing in the bookshop. Crowley melts. 

After a far too short moment, Aziraphale pulls away, cheeks pleasantly blushed and a smug look on his face. A very demonic and very threatening noise escapes the back of Crowley’s throat at the loss. 

“Now that I have your attention,” he drawls, brushing the fringe out of Crowley’s eyes. “Would you like grilled cheese? I know you’re not fond of chewing but I thought I'd ask.” 

“Oh. No, thanks,” Crowley stammers out. He swallowed thickly, eyes drifting back down to Aziraphale’s lips and heart thudding in his chest. 

“Very well then,” Aziraphale says and grants him another light kiss. 

Aziraphale turns back towards the little stove and Crowley laughs quietly to himself, fingers brushing fleetingly over his lips. Real contentment, like flowers, blooms in his chest in the golden glow of their kitchen. 

After a few more minutes of stirring, Aziraphale pours the soup into two bowls—one red and one blue. Setting down the two bowls and one grilled cheese on the table, Aziraphale trails his hand over Crowley’s shoulder blades as he sits. Their legs are pressed together under the table and Crowley playfully nudges his shoulder against Aziraphale. He’s so warm. 

“Thanks, angel,” Crowley says, picking up his spoon. 

Aziraphale reaches over and takes Crowley's free hand. “Of course, Crowley, I love you.” 

Crowley drops his spoon and the sound clatters throughout the kitchen, piercing Crowley's ears. It reverberates off the cabinets, echoing around the room as though they were in a hallway. Over his ringing ears, he sputters out, “What?” 

Aziraphale’s fingers lift up Crowley's chin, so they are staring into each other's eyes. Crowley’s brow furrows, heart thundering viciously in his chest. There's something in Aziraphale’s eyes, something wrong. The blue of his irises is off, it’s too dark. 

 “I love you, you know that right? I'll never leave you,” Aziraphale says, voice full of affection. 

“Angel?” 

The word was whispered into the dark, falling from his lips unwittingly, as Crowley blinked his eyes open. The image of Aziraphale’s loving face was replaced with an ugly popcorn ceiling. 

The sound of his voice is still hanging in the air when Crowley blinks the haziness out of his senses. Blankets are bunched around his legs, tangled around his ankles and feet. His mouth is still dry from the dream, the scent of tomato soup and grilled cheese still lingered in his nose.

Aziraphale would want to hear about that dream, he thinks. He might even make him soup.  

“Angel?” he repeats, hand falling off his chest to the side, searching the bed for the warmth that still floats on the edge of his awareness. 

It lands on freezing cold sheets. 

Oh, he thinks to himself as his heart sinks in his chest. It takes all his will, for to actually look would make it true, but finally Crowley forces his head to the side. There’s no blond curls on the pillow beside him, just the empty expanse of cheap white sheets. Despair crushes his chest as the last dregs of the dream are washed away and reality slams into him. He’s in a hotel room. He’s alone. Aziraphale is gone. 

I’ll never leave you, echoes in his head and he doesn’t even bother to fight the tears building in his eyes and flooding down his cheeks.

It was so real, he could almost still feel the warmth of Aziraphale’s lips pressed against his. Even sleep wasn’t free from the tantalizing kiss of an angel. Like a bullet from a gun, a sob wretches free. The sound is pathetic, broken. 

“Are you happy now?” he asks, voice cracking and messy and spilling out of him like a raging river. The words taste like his own bone marrow, like his own shredded soul. “Have you not punished me enough?”

Who he is speaking to, whether it’s Aziraphale or God or himself, he’s not sure. 

It doesn’t really matter. None of them are listening. 

Maybe it’s because there's no one to see him, no judgment or teeth ready to sink into the most vulnerable parts of him, he lets himself cry in a way he never has. His whole corporation is shaking, crumbling under the weight of the despair lacing through his soul. The emotions are simply too large for this tiny body. 

Aziraphale was gone. It really hits him.  Aziraphale, who he loved more than anything in the entire universe, who he’d spent his entire immortal life with, was gone.

Aziraphale hadn’t chosen him. He thinks that's what hurts the worse, more than Aziraphale going back to his old side and more than the agonizing kiss. Crowley knew Aziraphale loved him–he must have, right?-he had seen it in the way he’d look at him, tasted it in the orange slices they shared, felt it sparking between their palms. And yet, Aziraphale left him like he was an unwanted dog. 

And wasn’t he just?  

God had loved him too, he supposed, at one point. He swore She didn’t even treat Satan like this. 

With aching ribs and his throat tight, he wonders if this is how his stars feel as they implode into nothingness. 

Morning comes in choppy waves.

He’d half-slept, half cried his way through the night, leaving him more exhausted than before. He doesn’t get up when he wakes from an unrestful burst of unconsciousness and finds sunlight streaming through the gaps in the curtains. Wasting away in an uncomfortable bed is far more appealing than anything else. 

Crowley falls back asleep for a few more hours before he finally rolls out of bed. 

He decides he needs to go on a walk. Clear his mind, a bit. 

Opting for a wool turtleneck and a long coat instead of his usual getup, Crowley stomps out of his hotel room. He chucks the room key on the front desks and bursts through the doors, hit with a wave of crisp August air. 

August, he thinks bitterly as he walks past the Bentley and onto the cracking sidewalk. What a foreboding month. Not quite hot, not quite cold, just enough to make him uncomfortable no matter what he wears. 

Crowley tries to breathe in, letting the air fill his lungs. It carries the sharp scent of gasoline, exhaust, and concrete. The sidewalk is crunchy under his boots, footsteps oddly pronounced as he walks past fellow pedestrians. They instinctively part, like water around a rock, their minds not even fully noticing him but their spirits repelled by his dark, overspilling energy. Just breathe, just walk, he tells himself, trying to forget everything but the motions of existing. 

He walks and walks, trying to shake off the buzzing energy nestled under his skin. 

Crowley doesn’t know how far he gets before his tired eyes land on something up ahead. A dog, not much older than a puppy judging by the size, skittering between shoes, scrambling away from oncoming humans. The poor thing looks petrified and with every panicked step is inching closer to the street. 

Crowley walks a bit faster. Nobody else seems to notice the dog but him, even as it whined and tripped over its own feet.

Crowley’s pace had become brisk by the time the dog tumbled over the sidewalk and onto the road, flailing briefly on its back. His useless heart beat forebodingly. 

Crowley cringed as the car hit the dog. The driver hadn’t noticed it. He watched, mouth slightly agape, as it happened too fast for him to summon a miracle. The thump echoed down the chattering street, silencing the crowd as passersby turned to stare. 

The dog skidded across the pavement as the car jerked to a stop with a sickening cry, and Crowley ran onto the road. It was almost instinct. 

The scene wasn’t gory, all things considered, as Crowley dropped to a crouch by the limp animal. The dog was wheezing, whining so loud and brokenly Crowley knew he wouldn’t be able to forget it for decades. Its bones were crushed, shattered like glass, and it stared up at Crowley with pleading wet eyes. It's breath rattled, broken jaw jerking as it tried to rid the taste of asphalt from its tongue. The taste burnt Crowley’s own mouth. 

Crowley’s eyes scanned the dog’s crumpled body. It would die, slowly and painfully. The thought made his mangled heart hurt, so he held one hand over the dog and snapped. Crowley wasn’t nice, but he wasn’t cruel. 

The infernal energy tumbled recklessly out of him, cracking the dog's bones back into place with violent snaps. The blood slowly choking it fades back into its veins like a receding tide. Muscles healed, bruises faded, limbs righted.

Demonic healing wasn’t pretty, but it was effective. 

The dog yelped, life flooding back to it—him. His big, doe eyes defrosted and he wobbled as he rose to his feet, tentatively pushing his nose into Crowley’s fingers. There was an overly tight, rusting collar fastened around his neck. Crowley’s lips curled, and he snapped his fingers. The collar fell away, and the dog’s tiny tail began to wag. 

“Oh my God, is it dead?” the driver of the car screeched, his shoes appearing in Crowley’s periphery. 

The dog scrambled back, ducking behind Crowley’s legs, shaking. 

Crowley snarled, contempt burning hot on his heels, “No, he’s not. Watch where you’re going next time, you asshole.” 

The man opened his mouth to say something mindless, but Crowley stood, glaring daggers through his sunglasses. To his pleasure, Crowley realized he was much taller and the man shrunk under his shadow. 

“Good, great, I will,” he stammered and promptly retreated back to his car. 

Crowley hummed, shooting the man another look through the tinted windshield. He leaned down to pick up the dog, blinking when he realized it was gone. 

“You’re welcome,” he huffed to himself and got out of the middle of the road.

Chapter Text

Animals had never liked Crowley—a part of his demonic nature. Not even the skeletal horses Hell sent would let him ride for longer than a few minutes before he was on his back in the dirt. There were a few exceptions of course, snakes, crows, and the occasional dog or cat will take a liking to him. 

Aziraphale’s horse during the 1860s—a beautiful, glistening horse with white hair and a long blonde mane—was rather fond of him. Annabelle, was her name. 

Crowley sighed, pushing that train of thought off the tracks. He felt even more tired—healing really wasn’t demonic, no matter how you tried to twist it, and it took extra effort to pull off. 

He considered walking back to the car, but Crowley really didn’t want to go anywhere. For once, he wished the ground would swallow him up where he stood, letting the humans and trees and cars pass him by. Quiet would be nice, he thinks. 

Crowley stands still on the sidewalk, breathing. Part of him wants someone to ask him if he’s alright, even if it’s to hear the words ‘I’m fine,’ spoken into existence. He was always good at convincing himself. Nobody asks him, though, so he gets his legs working. 

The Sun gradually slinks further into the horizon, turning the world an insultingly fitting shade of gray. 

He passes pubs and dives and true cesspools. He probably should get horrendously drunk, but the effort that’d take just isn’t worth it. He just wants something to take his mind off everything for a few minutes.

Crowley spies a young man smoking outside a bar. That’d do. 

“Can I borrow a cigarette?” he asks, smirking slightly at the way the man flusters when he looks up. 

“Yeah, shit, hold on,” he stammers, fumbling around in his pocket and almost dropping the box. He finally works a cigarette free with a great deal of cursing and holds it out to Crowley. 

Crowley plucks the offering from the hand. “These things’ll kill you, you know,” he says. 

The young man barks a nervous laugh. “If I had a dollar for every time someone said that I’d be the richest man in London. Do ya’ need a light?” He offers his lighter, tiny flame dancing on the metal. 

“No, I’m good,” Crowley deflects, taking a Zippo that wasn’t there a moment before out of his pocket. Crowley lights his own cigarette, watching the man disappointedly lower his lighter.

The man shifts on his feet, blushing as Crowley takes the first drag. “Can I buy you a drink?” he tentatively asks, voice smaller than a mouse. 

“No, but nice try,” Crowley smirks, smoke curling off his words.  

He walks off, tapping the ashes away. They briefly burn orange on the wind, hot as stars, then drop dead like flies. 

The smoke does nothing more than sting his lungs slightly, doing none of the damage it would to a human. The red glow of the end of the cigarette illuminates his face, reflecting off his glasses, smoke curling around him. Truly demonic, he imagines he appears. 

The warmth in his chest is fleeting, does nothing to chase the chill in his bones, though he’s not sure nothing ever could. 

Aziraphale could.

He looks to his side and the emptiness haunts him. Is that what ghosts are? Just an absence, an echo, an unmet expectation—the memory of what should be by his side but is not. 

Crowley shoves the thought away, snarling at the ache that washes over him. He huffs out the last breath of smoke and drops the cigarette in a trash can, feeling the heat of the growing garbage fire on his back. The sounds of alarmed pedestrians makes him smirk just a bit. 

Then, he notices the quiet pitter-patter of paws. Rather insistent paws. At first he tries to ignore it, hoping the animal just gets bored and goes away, but the tapping sound of nails on concrete persists. 

Crowley turns and trailing along behind him is the puppy he healed. His big brown eyes are wide, staring up at Crowley with equal skittishness and interest. “Are you following me?” he asks the dog, who tilts his head innocently. 

“Stop,” he says flatly and resumes walking. Couldn’t a demon get a moment of quiet?

The tip-tap-tip-tap follows him. 

Crowley turns around and the dog lowers his ears with a whine. “What do you want?” Crowley huffs, and the dog perks his ears up. 

Crouching down before the dog, Crowley squints, looking deeper at the animal. It’s just a normal dog—not a Hellhound or spirit—so why would it follow him? He has thin black fur with burnt orange around the muzzle and legs, a breed Crowley’s sure he’s seen before but can’t place. The puppy whines again, more insistently. “Are you hungry? Is that it?” he tries. 

The dog whines again, which he takes as a yes. 

Crowley huffs and snaps his fingers. He doesn't really know what dog food is supposed to taste like, so he miracles up a pile of steak pieces. 

The dog goes wild, scarfing down the meat with the ferocity of his wolf ancestors. His little tail is wiggling faster than a whip. 

“You’re welcome. Again,” he tells the dog and stands, brushing the nonexistent dirt off his jeans. 

 Crowley watches the dog for another moment, a smile trying to force its way onto his face, and decides to walk back to the Bentley. The dog doesn’t follow, thankfully, and on his way he can’t help but look up to the cloudy sky. 

He could yell at the sky, loud enough that all the angels in Heaven would hear, but he does not. They’ve ignored enough of his screams. 

Whether the walk helped anything is unclear, but he feels a little less tense. 

Crowley sleeps in his car that night, heater on full blast to fight off the chill of midnight. He sleeps in his snake form, curled up in a pile of blankets he’d stolen from a store on the walk back. It’s really the only way to comfortably sleep in the Bentley. 

Sleep comes eventually and there's no ghosts tantalizingly haunting his dreams. 

The next day when he slithers out of the car, blinking sleep out of his eyes, the dog from before is sitting on the sidewalk. “What the Hell?” he mumbles, closing the car door behind him. 

The dog yips. 

Crowley looks up at the sky, wondering why he was cursed with never having a moment of peace. “Go away,” he huffs. 

The dog cowers, looking pitifully guilty. 

“I’m not your mother,” he tells the dog and starts walking, hoping the dog will get the memo and wander off. 

The animal follows. 

“I’m serious,” he snaps at the puppy that’s trotting alongside him. “Go away.” 

He does not.

Crowley huffs, stopping. It was clear the dog wasn’t going away. With every breath the dog took, Crowley could see the outline of his ribs, the dirt matted in his fur. Big eyes pleaded with his shielded ones, shivering from the cold. 

His throat is suddenly very tight with second-hand guilt. “Ohh, fuck you,” he drawls, casting his eyes back to the sky, and sits down on the curb. 

He’s sure the dog just thinks he’s a free buffet, but he honestly has nothing better to do. The dog tentatively stretches towards him, sniffing his jeans and coat. He almost looks confused.  

“I guess I don’t really smell like a human, do I?” Crowley hums, feeling his cold nose press against his fingers. 

Crowley reaches over to pet the dog and he scrambles back, something between a growl and a yelp tearing out his throat. Then he chomps down on Crowley’s hand. 

“Ow! What the Hell?” Crowley yelps, ripping his hand back. The bite hadn’t drawn blood, but it hurt like shit. 

The dog growls, the sound a low, pitiful rumble. His ears are flattened, a look shining in his eyes that Crowley knew very intimately. Crowley’s angry words die suddenly on his tongue, the ghost of them exhaled in a sigh. 

The dog turns and runs off, disappearing down an alley. 

Crowley puts his hands in his lap, looking out over the street. He knew the feeling well, and tried not to feel stung by the rejection. “Sorry,” he quietly says into the cold morning air. 

The day feels equally timeless and endless, like when you step out of a bustling party and stand on the porch of a stranger. He walks down the streets, feeling disconnected from the ground beneath him. 

He walks until he finds the obnoxious neon lights of a pub. Through the window, the room is a cloud of smoke and far too many people, but he’s running out of options. 

He stomps into the bar and drinks glass after glass of whiskey until he can’t feel his fingertips and the bartender cuts him off. The alcohol burns his throat and warms his nerves pleasantly. It’s helping right up until it dredges up memories of warm smiles, shared bottles—his angel. 

Well, not really his angel. Not anymore, at least. 

Being drunk makes it so much worse, he realizes very quickly. The warmth feels more like heat, like the fires of Hell, and the haze feels more like a tangible sadness. He’s sweating. Has he ever sweat before? He takes off his jacket. 

Crowley’s glowering at the bar, hunched over and radiating negative energy. The heavy tang of whiskey sits on his tongue, the echo of angelic hands weighs on his shoulders. The hands that hadn’t wanted him. 

Was that the real curse of being a demon? Was that his eternal job description? Needed, but never wanted. 

Hell, he hopes he’s not crying in the pub. 

When the bartender subtly implies he’s freaking everybody out, he sobers up with a snap of his fingers. 

Bad decision, he thinks as his body is whipped back into sobriety. The harsh light of the bar burns through his glasses and the revived awareness of his skin makes him nauseous. “Can I get some water?” he rasps, tongue feeling like molten lead. 

“Sure,” the bartender—a slightly elderly woman with pure white curls pulled back and weathered hands—says quietly. 

She fills up a glass and hands it to him. He gulps the water down. 

“Are you alright? Do you need me to call a cab?” she asks, leaning her forearms on the bar, lacing her fingers. The nails are baby pink. 

“I’m fine. I don’t need a cab,” he groans, setting down the now empty glass. The words sound weak, even to his own ears, but he forces them to be true. 

She purses her lips. “You can’t drive like this, hon.” Her tone is kind, but serious, and it makes him feel guilty. 

“I walked here. My hotel’s just down the way.” Her concerned eyes were making him uncomfortable. He stands, setting the ridiculous amount of cash on the bar, and pulls on his jacket. 

Crowley walks in a pointedly straight line to the door, feeling the bartender’s eyes on him the entire way. The night is cold when he steps out, breath painting the air. 

He shoves his hands in his pockets, grumbling over the weather. Something about the woman’s eyes, their concerned, endless brown, just made him want to crawl out of his skin. It was all too familiar and strange all at once, like looking at a faded photograph. 

The kindness of strangers felt wrong, tangling him up inside. It made him feel weary, like he’s waiting for the strike. If only they knew who they were wasting their breath and time on—a demon—they wouldn’t be so kind. It was nothing he deserved.  

He looks up to the stars, finding no comfort in his stolen creations. 

Crowley gets back to the hotel parking lot to find the dog sitting by the Bentley. Crowley sighs, pulling his jacket tighter over his shoulders and sitting down on the curb. “So, you’re back. Annoyingly.” 

The dog sits next to him. Crowley can tell that he wants to be petted, but is too scared to come any closer. Crowley knew the feeling. 

Crowley miracles up a bowl of steak bites into his lap. Slowly, he sets a piece down on the ground. The dog gobbles it up instantly, licking his lips. Crowley repeats the process a few times, and then he leaves a piece flat on his palm. He thinks it might help the dog trust him, a way to show the dog he doesn’t mean harm. 

His previous owners must’ve hurt him to make him so skittish of humans. A beaten dog, following the first gentle hand. Crowley blinks away the ache in his chest. 

The dog hesitates, then creeps closer and takes the steak from his hand. He retreats a few steps, chewing suspiciously on the steak. Crowley smiles softly, hoping it looks somewhat reassuring. 

“So,” Crowley begins, watching the puppy take another piece from his hand with more confidence, “what’d your old owners dump you for? Biting? Too disobedient?”

The dog lays his pointy ears flat. 

“That's fine, I don’t mind,” Crowley hums, offering the dog another piece. “Happened to me too, you know.” 

The dog takes the last piece and Crowley leaves his hand hovering between them. He slowly turns his hand and gently pets his head. He flinches, but doesn’t bite. After a moment, his ears perk up and his little tail begins to wag.

“See? I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m not that kind of demon,” he says quietly, stroking his hand over the dog’s soft ears. “But, if you’re going to stick around you need a bath. You smell like shit.” Very, very slowly, he gathers the dog into his arms. He goes tense, but doesn’t struggle as Crowley holds him to his chest and stands. Taking a blanket from the Bentley, Crowley bundles him up and walks into the inn’s lobby. 

The same woman is there at the desk and she doesn’t say a word about the wriggling bundle in his arms. She hands him the exact same key, he gives her the same amount of cash, and he walks to the exact same room as before in silence. 

The dog peeks out of the blanket as Crowley locks the hotel room door behind them. “Alright,” Crowley hums. “Home sweet home, for now.” He walks into the bathroom and miracles warm water into the tub and some Dawn dish soap. He’d seen it in a commercial once. 

Crowley lowers the dog into the tub and, taking a cup, pours the water over his fur. The dog’s big eyes never leave him, slightly worried but not quite afraid, as he reaches over the tub and begins lathering the soap into his fur.

 He washes the dog thoroughly, making sure to scrub all the matted dirt out of his black and tan fur. The suds turn a gross light brown, grime floating in the water, but soon enough the dog is bathed. 

Crowley lifts the puppy out of the bath and dries him off. “You need a name,” he realizes, throwing the wet towel in the corner. 

The dog tilts his head. 

Crowley thinks for a moment, then says, “How about Bowie? You know, like David Bowie? Do you like that?”

The dog yips and it’s decided. 

Crowley’s never really had a pet before. 

Sure, he had horses when that was the only mode of transportation, but they’d all hated him with a burning passion. He doesn’t think he can count Aziraphale’s Annabelle as his pet, even though the pair gave him more lifts than he cared to admit. 

The closest thing he’s ever had to a pet was a crow that he fed everyday until she died. He’d named her Marilyn after Marilyn Monroe, who was rather popular at the time. 

So, there was a sharp learning curve over the next few months. 

Crowley took to his phone and Googled what humans might consider basic animal knowledge. He learns what breed Bowie is–a Doberman Pinscher–and what to feed him besides steak. He finds simple ways to teach him commands and stop him from peeing on the floor without scaring the shit out of him. 

A few days after acquiring Bowie, he made the mistake of trying to put a collar on him. Google said he’d need one incase he got lost, and Crowley had forgotten about the rusting band of metal that was strapped around his neck when he found him. Bowie had scrambled away, whining and gnashing his teeth, and it took several hours to convince him to come out from the far corner of the room. 

Crowley then had to Google alternatives to dog collars. He came to an agreement with Bowie on a harness, a dark red number that was a very similar shade to Crowley’s hair. Crowley placed the blue star-shaped dog tag on the hook, dragging his fingers over the words. 

On one side it read: BOWIE. On the other, it read: IF LOST PLEASE RETURN TO A.J. CROWLEY, followed by his cell’s number. 

They go on drives and walks, Crowley loosely holding a black leash connected to the hook on Bowie’s harness. He knows Bowie would never run off, but it really makes him feel more comfortable about the chances of his dog getting hit by a car. Again. 

With his new consistent diet, Bowie grows like a weed, quickly turning into a eighty-five pound dog with a tendency to snarl at people. Crowley had heard of humans saying that pets start to look like their owners after a while, but he’d never really believed it until he actually got a pet. The large, sleek, black and tan Doberman adorned with a cherry-red harness that stood tall at his knees was a perfect match. 

Once Bowie was fully grown, Crowley placed a tiny immortality miracle on him. 

He wasn’t losing anyone else, not even his dog, and having him around was improving his mood. It’s less lonely with a nearly hundred pound creature snuggling his way into your lap. He also got black-out drunk less and less, as that could mean accidentally forgetting to feed the dog. 

At first, he tries to get Bowie to sleep in the soft dog bed he found for him, but the effort was futile. In the night, Bowie would simply hop onto Crowley’s bed and burrow his way under the blankets. After a while, Crowley gave up on the dog bed idea and let him sleep in his bed. 

Which is exactly what led to Crowley waking up to eighty-five pounds of dog laying on his chest. Big brown eyes stare back, and he wheezes when Bowie stands and stretches. 

“Ugh, get off,” Crowley grumbles, turning over and snickering at the way Bowie rolls with him, legs sticking up in the air as he’s unceremoniously dumped on the bed. 

Crowley closes his eyes and tries to go back to sleep, listening to the sounds of London outside the curtained window. 

He couldn't stand the boring motel, so Crowley rented an apartment closer to the heart of London. He made sure it was furnished because he really wasn’t feeling up to furniture shopping, though he did switch out the mattress for something more comfortable. 

The furniture that came with the apartment is a heart-wrenching blend of his and Aziraphale’s styles, with old antique lamps, vintage prints, a worn black couch, and ornate dark oak tables. He brings his poor plants in and scatters them artistically throughout the flat. There's even crocheted blankets in the closet. 

Part of him knows he should miracle up some new furniture to spare himself the heartache, but he can’t help but dwell in the flagellation of Aziraphale’s memory. 

Being so close to the bookshop and their old stomping grounds is a little sickening, but he tries his best to not be restrained by Aziraphale’s choice. 

Bowie whines, smacking Crowley with his paw. 

“Ow. I’m sleeping.” 

Bowie barks, nosing Crowley’s face. 

Crowley reopens his eyes to Bowie sitting beside him, staring down at him. 

He huffed a laugh, reaching over and grabbing his phone off the bedside table. The blurry picture of him and Aziraphale at the park he’d set as his wallpaper months ago makes him swallow thickly, heart squeezing. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t changed it. It felt wrong, like the final nail in the coffin, to get rid of it. 

He tries to ignore it and checks the time. It’s about ten o’clock. Crowley rolls onto his back. 

The television on the dresser is frozen on the static of a fully played VHS. The television had been miracled to appear sleek and new, while also being able to play tapes and DVDs. He’d fallen asleep during his fifth Golden Girls marathon since July. The clock on the wall ticks quietly. 

He snaps his fingers, turning off the tv, and flings the mountain of covers off himself. Bowie hops down, swirling around Crowley’s feet as he slithers out of bed. He shuffles into the bathroom, splashes cold water on his face, and miracles his hair into some semblance of order. Over the past few months he’d let it grow out to his shoulders and curl the way it always wanted to. 

Bowie sits on the mat by the shower, watching him get ready patiently. 

Crowley pulls on multiple layers, finishing it all off with a long red scarf. January and snakes do not mix, but he’s willing to brave the frigid temperatures if it means Bowie doesn’t piss on the floor. He heads to the living room and yanks on his boots. 

“Bowie, come on,” he calls, and the tip-tap of nails on hardwood grows closer and closer until Bowie appears. 

He allows Crowley to pull the harness over his head and fasten it, and clip the leash on. “Ready?” Crowley asks. 

Bowie barks an affirmative and they set out on their walk. There’s a small park near the flat that they frequent, but first Crowley grabs a coffee from a shop beside his building. The employees behind the counter always insist he can’t bring his dog in, but they never do much to enforce this rule on the six-foot tall man-shaped being and his Doberman. 

Crowley sips his coffee with a smug smirk as they exit the shop, turning left to head to the park. Bowie trots alongside him, never pulling on the leash, just content to be with him. Despite the cold, the Sun is shining, and it almost seems like it’ll be an Okay day. 

Then Crowley stops dead in his tracks. Bowie stops as well, looking up at him with confusion in his eyes. 

For a moment, just a fleeting moment, Crowley swears he sees a flash of tan and blue and white in the crowd. A soft smile, kind eyes, white curls. He swears he sees Aziraphale, tantalizing as ever. 

For that second he thinks he can even feel him—that warm, golden presence in the back of his mind. His lips burn, not from the cold, but from the revived ghost of an angel’s lips and he swears the wind carried the scent of vanilla. 

He’s back on Whickber Street, watching Aziraphale turn and look back at him.

Then a man bumps into his shoulder, the crowd churns and the flash is gone, washed away with the bustling streets of London. 

“Dude, walk on the sidewalk or get out of the way,” the man shouted, throwing his hands up. 

“Shut up,” Crowley snaps, glaring through his sunglasses. Bowie begins to growl and the sound is low and foreboding, a true warning, as he bares his large teeth–a far cry from his growl a few months ago. The fur on his back raises as he slinks down. 

The man pales, looking down at the Doberman. “Yeah, okay, sorry,” he stammers and scurries off. 

Crowley takes a deep breath, fingers tightening on the leash, gets his legs working again. “C'mon,” he says. 

Bowie follows, reaching up and sniffing Crowley’s fingers. “I’m fine,” he says to his dog, to himself, though he’s not sure either of them believe it. He feels shaky on his own legs, a sickly sensation breaking out across his skin. 

Crowley makes it to the park and lets Bowie run around for a bit, watching him terrorize ducks and absolutely not doggie-bagging his shit. Crowley was a demon—he did not bag poop. Seeing his dog run around so happily made him smile, a tiny one, but a smile all the same. 

When Crowley cannot stand the cold for a moment longer, he calls Bowie’s name and he comes racing back, swirling around Crowley’s legs happily. 

They walk back to the flat, both of them relishing in the blast of warm air when Crowley unlocks the door. Crowley shrugs out of his outer layers, kicks off his shoes, and takes off Bowie’s harness. 

Bowie shakes off, leading him to the kitchen. 

“I know, I know,” Crowley sighs, no real annoyance in his tone. 

It was lunch time for Bowie and by both dog and human standards, his meals were gourmet as fuck. Crowley doesn’t like food that much anyway, and the thought of eating nothing but dry kibble everyday makes him ill. 

Bowie’s meals are a professional chef-level blend of dog food, bits of cooked chicken, steak, an ever changing assortment of vegetables, topped with a drizzle of dog-safe bone broth. Crowley quickly whips up a bowl and sets it down for Bowie who digs in with vigor, brushing his hand over his ears. 

With the dog fed, Crowley shuffles into the bedroom and sheds his clothes like skin. He pulls on his warmest set of pajamas, pulls the blackout curtains, and puts The Best of the Velvet Underground: Words and Music of Lou Reed on the record player. Hesitantly, his fingers brush the corners of his glasses and after a moment he takes them off, setting them on the side table. 

He still feels shaky, untethered, from the sight in the crowd. Crowley swallows the bugs in his throat and lays down in his dark room, pulling the blankets up to his shoulder. 

Was it really Aziraphale he saw? Or was it just a similarly dressed human? A figment of his imagination? All options are equally damning. 

The leather cord around his neck is warmed by his skin when he brings his fingers to it. He pulls the skeleton key out from under his shirt, taking the warm metal into his hand. 

His key to Aziraphale’s bookshop. A gift, Aziraphale had said, as he slid a little box with a bow on it across their table at the Ritz. Crowley’s vision blurs as he traces the teeth of the key and he refuses to blink, the world growing more and more liquefied until he can only see blobs of color. The memory sears itself into his mind, unable to shake the excited smile Aziraphale had worn.  

Holding tight to the key until the teeth bite into his palm, he stares up at the ceiling and with every breath thinks, I love you, I love you, I love you. It was the closest Crowley ever got to true prayer, because to him there was only one thing in Heaven worth worshiping. 

Crowley squeezes his eyes shut, feeling the hot tears stream down his face, salting his lips.

There was a reason why stray dogs flocked to him–he was the same. 

Crowley loved like a beaten dog, with his teeth, with his claws, unable to shake the chain of loyalty that restrained him to the porch. Flinching away from every touch, every hand, yet desperate to be comforted. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he got that kind touch—would he snap, sink his fangs into the hand that fed, or would he tilt his face towards the warmth and give in? Kindness comes so naturally to obedient dogs, but never the mangey, snarling ones—they were never chosen. 

He was never chosen. 

Even now when he has nothing, his teeth clench, and like every dog he fears the headlights, the collar.

God’s abandoned dog, kicked out for being too disobedient, unable to be tamed, and following the first person that showed him kindness. 

Then, he was left yet again and like every old dog, he has no idea what made the person he loved so much dump him on the asphalt. He was still there on that sidewalk, watching him leave. And yet, the love remained, unconditional and blind. 

It would always remain–in every timeline, every universe, every life it would remain. He’d love him even after the end of all things. When God rolled up the universe like a scroll, his love for Aziraphale would be the biggest inkblot on the parchment, seeping through the back, onto the desk, and even Her Hands. 

Crowley lets the tears run down his face, holding the key against his heart. Part of him hopes it really was his tantalizing angel finding some excuse to see him, because at least that meant he haunts Aziraphale as much as Aziraphale haunts him. 

They could’ve been eternal. 

Nothing lasts forever. 

The words, still, were like a dagger to his stomach, sneaking in between his scales. Crowley’s head and throat hurt sharply from withheld sobs. That everlasting, insatiable ache in his chest forces the air from his lungs with a ragged wheeze. Once that breath left him, he couldn’t stop the crying. The tears ran thick as honey down his cheeks, sobs ripping through him. 

He hated crying, Hell, how he hated it, but there was nowhere else for all the emotion to go. Stopping it was futile, he could only ever delay it until he got somewhere nobody would rip out his throat for the weakness. 

Something caught between a laugh and a sob leaves his throat when he hears the tap-tap-tap of his dog approaching. Through watery eyes he watched Bowie nose open the door and hop onto the bed. 

Bowie laid down beside him, licking Crowley’s tear-stained cheeks which pulled a startled laugh from him. His ears were pinned back, whining softly in concern as he pressed his cold nose to Crowley’s face. 

“I’m okay,” he whispered, fingers aching as he detached them from the bookshop key to pet Bowie’s head. Neither of them believed it. “I’m like you, sorta. You got the happy ending, though, I’m heading straight for the tires,” Crowley said, voice thick and shaky with tears. 

Bowie nudged at him, shuffling until Crowley lifted the blankets. Bowie resettled next to him under the covers, licking Crowley’s tears again with a forlorn expression. 

Crowley rolled over, pulling his dog to his chest and pressing his face against his soft fur. Tears continued to slip down his face as he sobbed, holding his dog. The sobs were painful, always painful, as he shook. The dam had fully broken, his sternum had split, spilling out his heart and arteries across the bed. 

Even then, even as he choked on the sickening love in his throat, the softness of Bowie’s fur against his face was unbearably comforting. He felt just a bit better now that Bowie was here, because then he wasn’t alone. 

Eventually, Crowley falls asleep, eyes red-rimmed and fully yellow, holding onto his dog. 

Chapter Text

January fizzled out with flurries of snow and a few more sobbing sessions. 

February began with annoying bursts of pink and paper hearts, and Crowley wished Valentine's Day was never invented. Everyone made such a big deal about it even though it was only February 3rd. 

He’d never really celebrated Valentine’s Day, though almost every year since its creation he’d gifted Aziraphale some form of chocolate. Aziraphale would happily accept his gift, going on a minor spiel about “silly holidays,” and then hand Crowley a vintage bottle of wine topped with a bow. 

He guessed that counted as celebrating Valentine’s Day in hindsight. 

Anyway, February was cold and he hated it. 

Crowley was bundled up in his bed, Bowie sleeping across his lap, as he watched season two of Golden Girls for the four-hundredth time. His hair was pulled back loosely and his outfit consisted of an ancient Queen jumper, socks, and pajama pants. A fluffy red blanket was wrapped around his shoulders. 

The city was asleep outside the window, snow fluttering silently down, blanketing the streets in a glistening glow. By the morning it will be black, corrupted with dirt and footsteps, but right now it’s perfect. 

Crowley idly pet Bowie’s head as he watched the television, nearing sleep. 

His eyes were just beginning to shut when he heard knocking on his front door. Bowie’s ears perked up, but Crowley just patted his back to settle him. He was not getting the door at midnight. 

It was probably just some university student that got lost on the way to their friend’s flat or, worse, a drunk. 

Knock, knock, knock. 

Crowley huffed, throwing his head back against the headboard. For Hell’s sake, it was the middle of the night. 

Knock, knock, knock, knock, reached his ears, more insistent this time. 

“Fine! I’m coming!” he yelled, hoping whoever was at the door could hear. He paused the television and Bowie hopped off the bed, following along at his side. 

Crowley shoved on his glasses and walked towards the front door, heart beginning to beat forebodingly in his chest. Hell didn’t know where he lived and he couldn’t sense another demon, but still, the thought crept into his mind. There was something familiar about the being behind the door, making his skin crawl. 

Bowie followed along slowly, the hair on his back beginning to rise.  

Knock, knock, knock.

Crowley took a deep breath as he undid the latch and unlocked the deadbolt. He pulled open the door. 

His heart pounded viciously, a gasp escaping his lips before he could pull it back in. Aziraphale, dressed in all white, with tousled hair and fidgeting fingers and worried blue eyes, stood before him. 

Crowley’s mouth went dry, hands tightening on the door until the wood began to shift under his fingertips. His ribs squeezed together so tightly he couldn’t breathe. A tidal wave of emotions swept over him—shock, joy, longing, despair—before settling on a cool ocean of fury. 

“Crowley—” the angel began. 

Crowley slammed the door. 

He redid the locks and stepped back, nearly stumbling over his own feet. His hands were shaking— he was shaking. The ache in his chest made itself known, cracking open like a chasm, and the urge to rip open the door was as overwhelming as it was revolting. 

“Crowley, please open the door,” Aziraphale’s voice said, muffled by the wood. It was a twist of the dagger Aziraphale had plunged into him. 

“Why should I?” he yelled back, forcing his voice steady. 

There was a pause, then Aziraphale replied, “I need to speak with you.”

“I don’t want to talk to you.” 

Bowie swirled at his feet, nosing his shaking hand. Crowley put his hand on his dog’s back—it was the only thing that felt real. 

“Crowley, please open the door. I’ll explain everything, I just need to see you,” Aziraphale pleaded, voice teetering on the edge of true begging. “I’m not leaving,” he added stubbornly. 

Crowley felt a bit of his resolve chip away, and he creeped back to the door. He placed his hand against the dark wood. “Tell me something first. Was that you on the street—about a week ago?” 

Aziraphale sighed. “Yes, I’ve been trying to find you. The warding around your flat is quite impressive.” Aziraphale brought his hand to the door and Crowley could feel its warmth seeping through the wood, tantalizingly brushing against his palm. That familiar warmth nearly ripped tears from him, but he blinked them away. “Please, Crowley.” 

Crowley slowly opened the door, bracing against the sight of Aziraphale. Even after thousands of years, it nearly took his breath. All of the things he’d thought about saying, should he ever see Aziraphale again, died on his tongue when those blue eyes looked up. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, giving a wobbly smile. His gaze drifted down to Crowley’s feet, eyes landing on the large Doberman eyeing him warily, and his brows furrowed. 

“What do you want?” Crowley huffed.

Their eyes met through his glasses and for a moment it felt like they were the only two beings in the world. “May I come in?” Aziraphale asked and the illusion dropped. 

Crowley inhaled shallowly, shifting on his feet. Crowley knows he shouldn’t but oh, how hard it was to resist. The story was an old one, a timeless one. Crowley was betrayed, unfathomably betrayed, but still he longed for his traitor. 

Aziraphale moved closer and instantly, Bowie was growling, stepping protectively in front of Crowley. He barked loudly, just once, and the sound echoed down the hall. 

Aziraphale stepped back in surprise. “Is that your dog?” he asked, voice coated in equal surprise and worry as he addressed one of the many elephants in the room. 

The tension in the air doubled tenfold as Bowie growled louder, gnashing his sharp teeth. 

“Obviously,” Crowley snapped. He clicked his tongue and Bowie stopped growling, stepping back to his side but still baring his teeth. “Come in. I’m guessing you wouldn’t have left until I said yes,” he sighed. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said as Crowley opened the door wider. He peeked around the corner, making sure no angels had followed, then slammed the door behind them. 

Aziraphale tentatively wandered further into the flat, looking painfully both out of place and exactly where he should be. 

“You’re wearing white,” Crowley commented, unable to keep the bite out of voice. It looked so wrong, seeing him without his tan and blue and tartan bow tie. He looked like a stranger, like something from Crowley’s nightmares. 

At least his eyes were still blue, Crowley thought. He wouldn’t be able to take it if they were replaced by cold violet. 

Crowley sits down on the couch, slightly unsure if his legs can hold him any longer. Aziraphale follows, sitting on the edge of the other end. He radiated discomfort. The distance between them was tangible. He wanted Aziraphale to move closer and leave his flat all at once. He might be sick, fury and longing churning in his stomach. 

“You have a dog,” Aziraphale countered, folding his hands nervously. 

“Those are very different things,” Crowley replied. Bowie hopped onto the couch, laying across Crowley’s lap and eyeing Aziraphale. He petted down his head and the length of his spine, repeating the process until his hand felt numb from the texture of fur. 

Aziraphale sadly looked at them. Like always, Aziraphale’s emotions were scribbled all over his face, vibrant as a van Gogh painting. “He’s not wearing a collar,” Aziraphale noticed, voice forcibly light—putting off the real conversation. 

“He doesn’t like to be collared,” Crowley replied pointedly, the words settling between them. 

Aziraphale’s lips pressed into a thin line as he nodded, defeat pushing down his shoulders. 

Crowley huffed, pulling his eyes away. “Why are you here, Aziraphale? Honestly?”

Aziraphale sighed, fidgeting with his fingers. “To speak bluntly, Crowley, the world’s ending. The Metatron—he’s trying to restart Armageddon.” 

Crowley nodded. “Okay.” 

“I’m going to stop him, but I need your help,” Aziraphale finished. “I can’t—I can’t do it without you.” 

There it was, the truth. The honest truth. Aziraphale was back because he needed his help, not because he wanted him, just because he needed something. It was a rejection, a silent one, but it hurt all the same. 

Needed, but never wanted. 

Crowley nodded again, a brick settling in his throat. He closed his eyes, turning his head away from Aziraphale. “No,” he said, though it pained him to say. 

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale replied, voice growing high, panicky. 

“I mean ‘no,’ Aziraphale,” Crowley repeated. His heart was racing. 

Aziraphale shifted, eyes flitting around Crowley’s face. “Crowley, please, the world can’t end. You don’t want it to end—” Aziraphale began. 

“You don’t know a single thing about what I want!” Crowley snapped, anger flooding his chest. “You just assume. You can’t just come waltzing back and expect me to answer your every beck and call. I’m not your pet— you can’t just, just, throw me out when I don’t do what you want.” 

Crowley stood, taking an airless breath. Bowie slinked around his feet, breathing a low warning growl. 

Tears threatened to fall and he turned his back to the angel, unable to face him. Electricity tingled under his skin, itchy and insatiable and bouncing up the walls of the chasm in his chest. He needed to scream, to run, to turn around and hug Aziraphale so tightly their ribs locked. He couldn’t breathe.

Crowley heard the brushing of fabric as Aziraphale stood. Aziraphale’s presence was a flame against his back and he the moth, fighting every instinct he had that said turn around. “Then tell me what you want,” Aziraphale said, voice shaking yet as serious as ever. “I can tell you what I want.”

“Oh, yeah, Supreme Archangel? You just want my help right?” Crowley scoffed. The words bit his lips as they exited his mouth, like a double edged sword. 

He jumped when Aziraphale’s hand touched his arm, but couldn’t bring himself to pull away. The warmth of his fingers bled through his sweater, seeping into his skin and bone, addictive as any drug. “No. I want,” Aziraphale said, voice impossibly quiet, “you to turn around.” 

Crowley turned around, feeling like the dog he swore he’d never be again. 

Aziraphale stood before him, eyes glassy with unshed tears and more striking than the Northern Star. Despair was etched into every line of his face, tugging his lips down and furrowing his brows. “I want you to listen to me when I say this,” Aziraphale said, dragging his hand up Crowley’s arm, across his shoulder, up his neck. 

His hand stilled on Crowley’s cheek, thumb tracing the edge of his sunglasses. “Crowley, all I want is you.” 

The end of the world is coming, but Crowley’s biggest concern was his dog. 

He sat on the floor of Nina’s apartment’s kitchen, petting his whimpering dog’s ears. The kitchen had a vintage aesthetic, with an ugly oak table and patterned tiles. The white of the refrigerator was hidden behind a tidal wave of magnets and photographs and grocery lists. The walls were a happy shade of clementine, littered with framed prints and mounted dishware. 

Aziraphale was with Nina and Maggie somewhere behind him, telling them some bullshit story about where they’d been the past six months. Apparently Muriel, when asked, had ominously said, “They’ve gone away for a while,” and everyone was starting to think they’d died. 

“It’s okay,” Crowley soothed, trying to calm Bowie’s shaking. When he first tried to leave, Bowie had started wildly barking. He was too clever for his own good. 

Bowie whined, shoving his nose against Crowley’s palm. Despite being an animal, Crowley could sense Bowie’s distress—it dripped off of him, practically forming a puddle on the floor. “I’m sorry, but you can’t come with me,” Crowley said, softly petting Bowie’s head. 

They had to save the world, again, and the battlefield that awaited was no place for a dog. 

He kept petting Bowie, humiliating tears threatening to build in his eyes. He didn’t want to leave him with Nina—he barely knew her—and the thought of leaving his dog for so long made his skin crawl. 

Crowley pressed his lips firmly together. Bowie keened, licking Crowley’s fingers and shaking pitifully. 

A warm hand brushed his shoulder and Crowley fleetingly looked up, eyes meeting Aziraphale’s eyes through his glasses. “We need to go,” the angel said, dismayed. 

Crowley nodded, turning his attention back to Bowie. He gently grabbed his dog’s head, pressing their foreheads together. “I’m coming back,” Crowley said fiercely. “I won’t leave you.”

Crowley stood, feeling Aziraphale’s hand trail down to the small of his back. It was the only thing keeping him moving forward as he walked away from his dog.

Crowley blinked awake, eyes stinging and heart racing from a half-remembered dream. 

The bed was empty, his body cold from where he’d kicked off the blankets in sleep. The ceiling that stared back at him was unfamiliar, but also not. He thinks it shouldn’t be. He moved his hand across the bed until it hit something. 

Crowley turned his head to see Bowie blinking at him. Upon seeing he was awake, Bowie stood, hopping off the bed and prancing excitedly. 

Crowley followed, tentatively stepping out of bed, and jolted at the freezing cold that met his feet. He felt shaky, still coated with sleep. Rain pelted against the window, winding up his already tense muscles. 

There was something wrong, he was sure of it, but what it could possibly be danced away from him. He walked slowly through the dark room, opening the door and blinking harshly against the golden light that spilled through. 

“Aziraphale?” he called. 

They’d talked, kind of, after saving the world for the second time. They worked out some feelings, pointedly did not talk about the Kiss Incident, but altogether Crowley couldn’t complain. He’d take what Aziraphale would give. Living with Aziraphale was more than he could’ve hoped for. 

They’d only been here a few weeks and Crowley still felt like he was waiting to wake up. 

“I’m just in here,” was the answering call. 

Bowie raced ahead, Crowley shuffling slowly behind his dog. He stopped when he appeared in the kitchen, the smell of tomato soup permeating the room. 

At the stove, stirring the pot, was Aziraphale. He turned at the sound of Bowie’s nails on the floor, brightening when he saw Crowley. 

Crowley’s mouth dried instantly. No.

“Good morning, dearest,” Aziraphale hummed happily. He was in blue and white striped pajamas, looking straight from the early twentieth century, and his hair was ruffled and messy. This had happened before, down to the pink across Aziraphale’s cheeks. 

“Morning,” Crowley forced himself to say, nails digging into his palm. A jolt traveled up his arm and a fleshy crunch burst in his ears as his fingernails broke skin, blood pooling under them. 

Real, this is real, he thought to himself, over and over and over.

Aziraphale’s brows furrowed. “Dear, are you alright? You look rather pale.” 

Bowie swirled at his feet, brushing his cold nose against his clenched fist. Crowley jumped, bringing his hand to his chest. He miracled the blood away and healed his hand, hoping Aziraphale didn’t notice. “Fine, fine. What are you doing?” he asked, voice thick. 

He sat down at the table, feeling ready to crawl out of his own skin. This is real, he’s actually here. 

The smell of tomato soup was nauseating. Aziraphale turned off the burner, the click oddly loud, eyes full of worry. 

Then he was moving forward, closer, leaning over the table and Crowley slammed his eyes shut. His heart skipped a beat. “Don’t touch me,” he snapped. “Just stay back.” 

If Crowley’s eyes had been open, he would’ve seen the surprise that flickered over Aziraphale’s face and the sadness that settled. “Of course, dear, I won’t touch you,” Aziraphale softly said. The rattle of a chair being pulled back filled the kitchen, followed by the creeeak of wood as Aziraphale sat. “Do you know where you are?” 

“Of course I know where I am,” he snapped, forcing his eyes open but looking everywhere but Aziraphale. “I’m not stupid.”

“I never said you were,” Aziraphale countered, not unkindly. 

“We’re in the South Downs,” he said after a moment, forcing his eyes to see the hardwood, the vines curling around the window, the Edison light bulbs. He took a steadying breath that carried the scent of tomato soup, Aziraphale, and chamomile candles. 

“Precisely,” Aziraphale hummed, drumming his fingers on the table.  

Crowley looked down and Bowie’s head dropped in his lap. Big brown eyes stared up at him, watery with concern, and he brought a hand up to pet him. Bowie tilted his head into Crowley’s hand, tiny tail wiggling happily. 

His old dog, the dog he saw too much of himself in. 

Crowley pet Bowie’s head, up and down and up and down, until the skin he was in stopped crawling. 

“What happened, dear?” Aziraphale asked after some time. 

Crowley sighed. “I had a dream like this,” he began, keeping his eyes on Bowie. “Months ago. You were making soup in the kitchen, then you kissed me, and we ate together. It was just like this.” 

Aziraphale was silent for a moment, then softly said, “That sounds lovely.” 

“It was awful,” Crowley admitted, the words tumbling from his lips. 

Aziraphale’s head tilted. “Why?” A flash of hurt was in his words, barely noticeable. 

Crowley huffed, looking back down. Guilt and embarrassment and shame coiled under his sternum, staining his cheeks a deep red. “Because I woke up and you weren’t there.” 

Some sad sound, something between a gasp and an exhale, left Aziraphale in a rush. “Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured, pain littering his features. “All the time in the world isn’t enough to say how sorry I am.” 

Aziraphale stood, moving to the seat beside Crowley. He watched his movements like a skittish animal. Bowie turned and walked off, disappearing into the living room, leaving Crowley on his own. Traitor. 

Aziraphale’s hand creeped across the table, drawing so close that Crowley could feel its warmth. “May I?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, and that soft hand found his cheek, cupping his face. He leaned into the touch, Aziraphale’s thumb tracing stars under his eye. 

A tantalizing gap that Crowley wanted nothing more than to close opened between them. Just a hair's breadth away, but still too far. Crowley longed to feel Aziraphale’s touch, feel the way his hands pulled him back together, but his lips refused to form the words. The idea of voicing his want, even though they were supposed to do that now, made him itch. He’d always been so good at denying it, at biting the hand that fed, and found himself not knowing how to accept it.

“Angel,” he choked out, voice ragged and tortured. “Can you just—” Crowley’s voice broke and it let it hang off his lips like the shards of a mirror. 

Aziraphale’s stardust eyes nearly glowed in the golden light. His hand was warm and soft and so gentle, Crowley nearly drowned in the affection swelling inside of him. “Crowley, what do you want? Just tell me,” he nearly pleaded, brushing stray curls away from Crowley’s yellow eyes. 

Crowley’s breath shuddered as hot tears began falling. They slipped over his lashes, dripping onto Aziraphale’s hand. What did every stray, beaten dog want?

“I want you to love me.”

It was whispered like a prayer, shaky and pleading and drowning in despair. 

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, tears gathering in his eyes. He cupped Crowley’s face, guiding his yellow eyes to meet his blue. “Don’t you know? Of course I love you. I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you, even if I didn’t realize till much later. I’m sorry for ever making you think otherwise.”

Crowley broke beneath the words, sobbing painfully. “I love you too, I love you so much,” he forced out, shuddering from the force of his tears. 

Aziraphale combed his fingers through Crowley’s hair, the touch burning and calming all at once. Crowley was shaking apart. “I know,” Aziraphale whispered. 

“Can I try again?” Crowley said, hands shaking as he brought them to Aziraphale’s face. 

Aziraphale responded by surging closer, closer, closer, until their lips slammed together. Their tears mingled on their lips and Aziraphale’s hand threaded through Crowley’s hair, pulling him even closer. 

Warmth blossomed in Crowley’s chest, impossible, flaming warmth, brought to life by Aziraphale’s lips against his. The faint taste of sugar and vanilla danced on his lips and Crowley drank him in, fingers running through his soft hair. 

They nearly tumbled from their chairs, desperate to be as close as possible. Their chests pressed together, ribs interlacing. 

They broke apart after a too short moment of eternity, gasping for air they didn’t need, staring into each other's eyes. 

Crowley’s not sure who moved first, but they fell into each other, arms wrapping around each other in an impossibly tight embrace. They became tangled, hips digging into each other's hips. 

“All I ever wanted was you,” he whispered, fingers tentatively trailing across Aziraphale’s back. 

“And I, you. It was always you,” Aziraphale swore, like an oath. They still weren’t close enough, maybe they never could be. Crowley wondered if Aziraphale could feel his thunderous heart. 

Crowley buries his face in the cook of Aziraphale’s neck, soaking in the warmth he radiated. He’s not really sure where he ends and Aziraphale begins, but still he pulls closer. 

Aziraphale’s hands comb through his hair, map the expanse of his spine, dance across his shoulder blades. The chasm, the ache, that he lived with for so long was finally satisfied, giving away at Aziraphale’s touch. 

“I love you,” Crowley says again and again and again and again. 

What did every dog want? 

Aziraphale smiles against the curve where Crowley’s vulnerable neck met his shoulder. “I love you too.”