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It was a long time now since Crowley had found the sound or smell of waves calming.
There had been a time, some centuries gone by, when he did. When the steady, ever-swelling song of the ocean, mingling in the air with salt and mist and foam, had been a song of peace; of refreshment; perhaps, even, during one stint on an island amid the Atlantic, of home.
Then the water turned to holy poison, and any positive associations with the sea were quickly relegated to the impossible: drowned (if the word was not too aptly chosen) by the far more imminent prospects of agony and destruction. There was no room left to harbor dangerous delusions of security when it came to the ocean. And so Crowley pushed any such thoughts out of mind and, to the best of his ability, out of memory as well.
That, too, had been a long time ago.
But now…
A summer. A beach. A dolphin-patterned towel, a loved one affixing a large umbrella in the sand above it, and the continual splash of waves on the shore nearby.
It was some years after the meddling touch of an antichrist’s will, deliberate or inadvertent, had reverted the waters to their former state, the boiling seas doing the opposite of purification… and, in the process, rendering that which remained… safe. Or, at least, dangerous only in the ways in which any massive, mighty, untameable, perpetually moving body of water will by nature always carry the potential for danger.
Crowley breathed deep, inhaling salt that stung and did not burn, hearing the waves break and break again, and wondered at the fact that he felt no need to flinch or flee.
It was not always the case. Some days, the terror crashed back over him, more powerful and inescapable than any tide, and through the ache of phantom pain in his left arm he could think little else beyond Away, away, get away or die.
Today was not a day of terror. Those days were becoming rarer and rarer, though they still happened from time to time. Far more frequent were the days when he could stay on the beach, could manage to enjoy himself to a certain extent, could even go swimming… yet could never truly relax through the edge of anxiety, the unneeded yet unshakeable refrain of Are you sure this is a good idea? echoing in his head with persistence that even the loudest thundering waves could never muffle.
Today was not one of those days, either.
Satisfied with the placement of the umbrella, Aziraphale sank down beside him, nudging Crowley over to make room on the towel. An arm came around his waist as the angel settled down; the pressure slight, the love the pressure spoke of not slight at all.
“Are you comfortable, dear?”
“Yes,” said Crowley, smiling. He marveled, quietly, that it was true.
They sat back, together in the calm of the beach, and listened to the sea sing.