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The first flash split the London sky open.
The thunder came a heartbeat later—deep, rolling, alive.
Inside the bookshop, the lamps barely flickered, but Aziraphale did.
Crowley looked up from his glass of wine.
The angel stood by the window, staring at the rain as if it might swallow him.
Droplets ran down the glass, warping his reflection. When another thunderclap shook the air, Aziraphale flinched, wings trembling under the surface of his human shape.
Crowley rose slowly.
“Still afraid of thunder, huh?” he said gently.
Aziraphale tried to smile, but it fell apart before reaching his eyes.
“It’s not the sound,” he murmured. “It’s what it brings back.”
Crowley understood. He’d seen that look before—when they spoke of the Fall, when silence weighed heavier than sin.
Outside, another thunder roared, and Aziraphale covered his ears, eyes squeezed shut.
Crowley crossed the room quietly, no words this time.
He stopped beside him and unfolded one long, black wing—soft, steady, and warm—covering the trembling angel.
Aziraphale inhaled, feeling the weight of feathers, the scent of rain, and the familiar warmth of the one who had never truly left his side.
“You’re not alone anymore, angel,” Crowley whispered near his ear.
Aziraphale trembled again, but this time with relief.
“You always say that.”
“And it’s always true,” Crowley replied, voice low and certain.
For a moment, they weren’t angel and demon, Heaven and Hell.
They were just two souls, ancient and tired, sheltering together from a storm.
Time slowed. The thunder faded into background hum, and Aziraphale no longer flinched.
Crowley kept his wing around him until the last rumble died away.
When Aziraphale finally looked out again, the clouds were breaking apart, spilling a thread of sunlight through the drizzle.
“See?” Crowley murmured. “Even the sky gets tired of screaming.”
Aziraphale smiled, soft and weary.
“And you’re still here.”
“Of course I am. Someone has to look after the angel who’s scared of thunder.”
“And someone,” Aziraphale said, resting his head lightly against him, “has to look after the demon who pretends he’s not.”
Crowley huffed, amused but silent.
Outside, the rain quieted to a whisper.
Inside, there was only their breathing—and the slow, rhythmic brush of black feathers over white cloth.
Maybe the thunder would come again someday.
But that night, Aziraphale slept in peace.
And Crowley, without saying it aloud, swore that no echo of thunder would ever find him alone again.