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“Crowley?”
Crowley looked up immediately, almost scared to look and see nothing again. That this was just another drunken illusion made up by his brain (probably to cope with how things went down) but this one… this one sounded so real.
Crowley blinked. Blinked again. Nope, Aziraphale was still there. Still standing here in this dirty, dingy alleyway. His grace should not be tainted by where Crowley had made his bed.
Crowley frowned and promptly laid back down, pushing up his glasses as he did so.
“Go away,” he mumbled, curling up further in on himself and pulling his sleeping back a little higher, fiddling with the edges, if only so he had something to fiddle with. Keep his hands occupied and all that.
Aziraphale frowned, wringing his hands together as he looked upon the scene before him. His heart ached, and it really was such a dreadful feeling to have again after all these years of living in heaven and not having a proper, corporate body.
“Crowley I really think you should—“ and he stopped, his tongue twisting itself into knots “—I mean you can’t possibly—“ he steeled a breath and then said, more softly, “—have you really been here all this time?”
Crowley grumbled something unintelligible and curled up further in on himself. Snake-like limbs folding over themselves underneath the thin blanket.
Aziraphale swallowed shakily. Looking around the area again. In all honesty he didn’t even know all of this was back here. Leave it to Crowley to find the most awful place to— Aziraphale looked down again.
He sighed a short breath and walked forward, kneeling beside Crowley’s curled body.
“Crowley, my dear, why did you stay here?” Crowley didn't shift and Aziraphale pursed his lips, “really my boy there is nothing worse than the silent treat—“
Crowley shot up, his hair framed his face— curling strands floating out of their (usually) styled coif.
“No! No, you don’t get to come down here after all this time, and start with your “my dear” bullshit again,” he growled, pushing away as far as the small alleyway could take him.
“Not when you chose—“ his voice shook, “you chose them.”
A chill blew through the alleyway and he tucked the blanket closer to himself, “not when you chose them,” he whispered, barely audible, and looked away. Moving his slightly shaking limbs to curl around himself.
Aziraphale opened his mouth, closed it and opened it again only for nothing to come out. He looked down and immediately regretted it as he was affronted with what was currently dirtying his trousers. He decided not to think about what was on the floor and instead looked up again to what was right in front of him.
Crowley was shaking slightly, from the cold or from the shock of seeing him again Aziraphale didn’t know, but he desperately hoped it wasn’t the latter.
It could have been from something else though, who knows what Crowley’s put in his body all these years? Usually— or well… before, they had quite a lovely little routine. They would have cafe dat— uh… dinners at the Ritz and hot cocoa. Usually Crowley wouldn't eat much unless it was spoon fed by Aziraphale himself because ‘oh Crowley this is absolutely scrumptious you simply have to try it’.
“Crowley—?”
A grumble. Aziraphale sighed softly, “do you want me to do the dance?” He didn’t regret the question but he certainly regretted what they implied. He thought he could make a difference— still could! But.. he started to think that maybe he doesn’t know anymore.
Crowley shook his head, “we’re past dances by now Aziraphale.”
Oh, how Azirphale desperately missed being called ‘angel’. He'd probably do anything to get Crowley to say it again.
Aziraphale looked at Crowley, bundled up and shaking and he frowned, “Surely you can’t be warm enough with just that.”
Years of being in heaven didn’t erase his memories of warm nights, wine bottles filled and a book open in his lap. Heating on at full blasts during the winters and the random days in May in which the temperature dropped. Crowley thrived on warmth. Needed it, craved it. So why was he–
Aziraphale sat down properly, legs crossed over each other with a small huff. Summoning a small portable heater (making sure that it didn’t run on electricity since there were no plug sockets around) and positioning it in front of the demon.
He saw the way that Crowley tensed for a short moment before melting, slithering further towards where the heat was billowing from. Closer to Aziraphale. The angel bit back a pained noise as he saw the state that the demon was in, what he’d let himself become. Hair astray, clothes dirtied and– Aziraphale bit his tongue– his glasses were cracked. Crowley always had a spare if his glasses got damaged. Always.
“Oh Crowley…”
“Don’t–” Crowley whispered, inching closer and closer, almost to the point that Aziraphale was worried his hair would catch fire, “just don't Aziraphale.”
Oh how Aziraphale hated having a heart now that it ached so horridly.
Aziraphale reached out a hand, and before he could second guess himself, or leave (again) he plunged his fingers into Crowley’s hair. It was tangled and slightly more greasy, but it was still as soft and fluffy as he remembered.
Crowley let out a soft groan at the contact, leaning heavily into the soft hand scritching along the crown of his head. After months– years– of not having any contact. Aziraphale’s fingers burned.
It felt like fire, spreading through his veins. Tingling down his spine and settling at the base of it with a pleasant buzz. He felt drunk, yet he knew that he hadn’t had any alcohol— this afternoon.
Crowley pushed further against that hand and the warmth accompanying it and was rewarded with a second hand. He grumbled out his appreciation as the other hand moved to the nape of his neck. The cold that had been seeping through his bones was slowly dissipating, being replaced with such an overwhelming warmth it was almost scary.
“Oh my dear…” Crowley heard Aziraphale whisper and he swallowed against the whine that wanted to curl up his throat.
He crawled forwards, inch by inch, encouraged by the gentle hands in his hair and the comforting warmth that seemed to envelop him.
Crowley felt a whimper pass through his teeth as he fell forwards into the soft, comforting, familiar feeling of Aziraphale's suit.
Hadn't changed in almost— gosh what was it? Hadn't changed in almost a hundred years at least.
The one thing— Crowley swallowed shakily as one of Aziraphale's hands helped him crawl into his lap— the one thing that had changed was how he smelt.
Before it was like old books and the cologne that his barber suggested and something that was so distinctively Aziraphale. Something that hasn't changed in… ever.
Crowley shook as he settled himself against Aziraphale's chest, now more so that he was exhausted rather than from the cold.
The hands carding through his hair did not cease. They continued sending pleasant tingles down his spine as Aziraphale manoeuvred his body against the angels. Crowley heaved out a shaking breath that was just a bit too close to a sob for his liking.
Aziraphale hummed softly as he gently stroked up and down Crowley’s spine. The humming of the heater and the distant bustling of Wickerber street all joined to create a small harmony. Aziraphale knows that much has changed since he left for heaven. Much has changed.
But Crowley?
Crowley hasn’t changed much. Not really.
Not when Aziraphale knows that when he curls his fingers at the bottom of Crowley’s nape— just so— he can send a full body shiver down the demon. And when he slowly strokes upwards through the baby hairs at the back of his head, he can make Crowley melt against him with a small whine of appreciation.
Crowley’s arm wrapped around his torso— and how could Aziraphale have missed that feeling so much?— his fingers curling protectively, desperately against his jacket.
“Oh Crowley, I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale whispered softly, pushing his face into Crowley’s hair.
There was a quiet sniffle and the tightening of limbs before a small voice uttered, “I missed you.”
Aziraphale felt his lips twitch in a sad— almost pathetic smile— and he felt his eyes start to water.
“I missed you too.”