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Last visit to Hell didn't go that good for Crowley. Well, a visit to Hell isn't supposed to go good anyway. Would it be right to say it didn't go bad? Anyway, Hastur got a word that someone saw Crowley with a certain angel. Eventually Crowley managed to convince him he wasn't even there, and if he was, he obviously was up to no good. But before Hastur believed him... yeah, that wasn't pleasant at all.
Hell was busy and chaotic. Crowley's flat was perfectly clean. Nothing was getting in the way or disturbing him, and there was a big comfy bed where he stayed for a few days, recovering and trying to get some sleep. Sleep has always been his favorite way to pass time that he didn't enjoy. He even slept through a whole century once. A very boring century, if you ask him. Sleeping was nice, and now he didn't really want to be awake and conscious, and the visit to Hell has left him drained, but sleep just wouldn't come.
That pissed Crowley off, and he resorted to another favorite of his coping mechanisms: alcohol. Not that it really ever helped him, but that was just something he does. One bottle of wine didn't do much. Second got him thinking of how he didn't even mean to fall. Third bottle almost made him feel emotions he wasn't fucking going to feel right now. Fourth bottle flew into the wall and so did the three empty ones. Crowley went back to bed to sleep it all off and stared at the wall until he sobered up.
Hell was full of stuff. Full of noise. Full of voices, screams, demons, smells, fucking things always in the way, full of reasons to stay alert at all times. Hell was so full of all this that it couldn't fit down there and started leaking into Crowley's head, occupying all the space with its smells and noise and memories. Memories have always been the worst.
Crowley's flat was the exact opposite of Hell, and still he felt like he never left. Instead of peacefully quiet and spacey it was just cold. And so empty he had nothing to do but remember things he'd rather forget.
Maybe he was just thinking too much. Maybe he just needed to clear his mind. That's when Crowley turned to probably the healthiest way to deal with stuff: driving. No harm for him, as healthy for the others as they can be when choosing to get on the road. It was raining almost as if the Flood was happening again. Crowley tried not to think of all the questions he had as he drove through the streets of London. Also he tried not to think about why would Bentley decide to play Under Pressure on repeat.
Crowley couldn't see shit in all this rain, and so it was purely an accident that he ended up in Soho. And since he was here anyway, he might as well go and check on Aziraphale. Just to make sure Heaven didn't get to him the way Hell got to Crowley about this spotting them together thing.
Even when he got out of the car, the rain was pouring so heavy he still couldn't see too far. But the bookshop was right here, and he could see the light inside.
"Sorry, we're closed!" Aziraphale shouted as Crowley got inside. "I closed the door, didn't I?" he added, talking to himself this time.
"It's me!" Crowley walked further into the shop to find Aziraphale at his desk. "Hello, angel."
"I didn't expect you in such weather," Aziraphale looked him up from under his reading glasses which he clearly didn't need. "It's like the Flood all over again."
"That's what I was thinking," Crowley sat on the couch and kicked his shoes away. He took off the sunglasses that he, unlike Aziraphale, clearly needed even when it was dark outside. "I was just driving and thought I'd stop by."
"And where were you driving in this rain?'
"Around." Crowley lifted his feet on the couch, making himself somewhat comfortable. He listened.
Here it was nothing like his flat, where the only sound was the wine bottles smashing at the wall, Crowley screaming at them and at the plants and then at nothing. Nor it was anything close to Hell and its noise. Crowley listened to the rain. It didn't remind him of the Flood that much now that he was inside — it rather made him feel something he couldn't name. He just sat there on the couch and listened to Aziraphale muttering something as he worked, flipping pages and writing something down; walking around the bookshop, returning some books to places, putting a kettle on; almost tripping over Crowley's shoe and letting out what was not a curse but something so ridiculous it made Crowley snort. Crowley didn't fall asleep, he was certain he didn't and wouldn't in a while, and yet he woke up at a touch and nearly jumped up.
"It's me. It's okay," Aziraphale said, pushing Crowley back on the couch. Crowley realized the touch he woke up to was a blanket put on his lap, a blanket big enough for them to share without being awkwardly close to each other.
"Angel, are you putting a blanket on me? For Hell's sake, do I look like I need a blanket to you?" Crowley was intending to say. Or snap. Or even hiss.
"A blanket?" he said instead, rubbing a blanket like he's never seen one before. A little bit pricky, but in a good way.
"It certainly is," Aziraphale replied, using the other side of the blanket to cover his lap. Crowley wanted to respond with something sarcastic, something to remind Aziraphale that he's sharing his blanket with a demon, but he just couldn't think of anything. Was his mind just relaxed for once? This thought didn't feel right, so Crowley instead watched Aziraphale making himself comfortable and opening a book.
"What are you reading, angel?"
"Jane Eyre."
"And what's it about?"
Before that Crowley's voice sounded sharpier than usual — that's probably from all the screaming at the wine bottles. Now he realized he just sounded tired. He didn't need to raise his voice, because the only person he wanted to talk to was right near him.
Aziraphale thought about his question a bit. "It's about not being at home in a place where you're supposed to belong. And then finding your own home where you can be who you really are. That if you put it shortly."
Crowley turned his head and met Aziraphale's gaze. After a few moments of eye contact he almost tried to say something, but couldn't and turned to his book. Crowley studied the checkered fabric of the blanket. Thoughts came on his mind now, but the kind of thoughts he couldn't even let himself think, let alone say out loud. Just like Aziraphale couldn't say whatever he wanted to say.
Hell, Heaven, God, his recent experience, everything that made Crowley lose his sleep and smash the bottles and scream was now finally dissappearing in the back of his mind, instead letting in the sound of raindrops hitting the window, soft light that didn't hurt his eyes while he tried to keep them open, pages being turned once in a while, the smell of books, tea and Aziraphale's cologne, him breathing steadily, his warm presence... and an overwhelming stupid desire to almost fully hide under the blanket. That would mean getting closer to Aziraphale than he should be, and Crowley protested, but his eyelids were growing heavy.
The last thing Crowley remembered before falling asleep for good was the blanket appearing above his shoulders and something warm and soft against his head.