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That was definitely a bump.

For some time now, Aziraphale had caught bits and pieces of something: unclear noises with unclear origins, all distant enough to be possibly coming from outside or vague enough to perhaps be the building simply settling.  

But no, that was a bump.  An irrefutable bump.  

And it came from downstairs.  

What made it all the more concerning was that he’d heard this bump through the closed bedroom door.  Whatever it was, it was making quite the ruckus.  This wouldn’t be the first time some ne'er-do-wells had attempted a robbery, and while on the whole Aziraphale was a pacifist, he did have his precious books to protect.  He would err on the side of grace but certainly wasn’t above light violence if the situation called for it.  

Aziraphale set down his sketchbook, grabbed the poker from the fireplace, shut off the lights, and quietly opened the door.  He could see a dim glow coming from the lobby.  

Oh, yes.  The bookshop had been infiltrated.

Aziraphale knew the building well and treaded carefully down the hall, making sure to avoid all the usual loose floorboards.  The distinct sound of moving furniture echoed from beyond the corner, followed closely by a disgruntled huff.  Immediately, the angel froze.  

He knew that disgruntled huff.  

Still, he chose caution and continued on as silently as possible.  Upon reaching the end of the hallway, he poked his head out and surveyed the lobby below.  

This was no robber.  Just a demon.  Rudely and quite noisily rearranging furniture but a harmless demon nonetheless.  The angel stepped fully out from the hallway and chuckled softly.

“Can I help you with something?” he sang.

Crowley flinched and then cautiously looked over his left shoulder.  He had just finished pushing an overstuffed armchair up against a chaise lounge, as though to make a bed out of the two pieces.  

He promptly turned back to his work and huffed, “Sorry.  Thought I was being quiet.  Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Aziraphale couldn’t quite make out what the demon was doing; from this angle it looked like he was simply rearranging and fluffing pillows.  All the mirth in the angel dried up; something was wrong.  

Of course, his natural instinct was to assist; he was an angel, afterall: a harbinger of peace.  When it came to demons, however – and especially this particular demon– there were certain rules.  Indeed, after eons of knowing one another – and even liking one another – Aziraphale and Crowley had slowly and silently developed a dance of sorts, played out whenever they were in each other’s company.  Both knew the steps and were excellent partners.

With this in mind, Aziraphale laughed, “Well, you weren’t being quiet.”  He gestured at his outfit and added, “But I wasn’t sleeping.  I’m hardly dressed for bed.”

“I don’t know what you wear to bed!”

Crowley was still turned away from the angel and still needlessly fluffing pillows.  Aziraphale had to think quickly; he crossed towards the spiral staircase, hoping that this movement would give Crowley an opportunity to adjust; whatever the demon was doing, he didn’t want his companion to see it.  Once on the lower level, Aziraphale remained at a distance, giving Crowley plenty of space.  He had moved and was now situated near one of the windows, its curtains drawn.  Only one lamp was on and its light did not stretch that far; thus, Crowley was able to conceal himself in relative darkness.  What’s more, he was holding a tea towel, most likely taken from the kitchen, and was busy scrubbing his face with it.  

Again, Aziraphale considered his next move.  This wouldn’t be the first time Crowley had snuck into the bookshop, but those visits were usually out of boredom.  Tonight Crowley was clearly in need of something, and while it was most likely a place to lay low for a bit, Aziraphale felt that old familiar tug.  He’d always assumed – pretended to assume – that this tug was out of pity or even a desire to save Crowley, but deep within his very soul, the angel knew pity was hardly the word to use with Crowley.  Anything other than pity, however, was not part of their dance.  There were rules and Aziraphale had to adhere to them.

He took one step closer to the demon and said, “I assume there is a good reason why you’re feng shui-ing my home.”

Still concealing his face behind the towel, Crowley replied, “Yeah.  There is.”

The angel waited for more of an answer but none came.  

Turning away from Aziraphale and continuing to scrub his face, Crowley snapped, “I’ll be gone in an hour!  Just leave me alone!”

Aziraphale faltered.  The signs were all there: that amount of ire was a clear indication of distress.  Crowley was hurting.  How?  He couldn’t say, but he knew the demon well enough to understand the masks he used and when he used them.  The typical response to this, especially when the anger was so extreme, was to concede.  He should turn around and he should go back upstairs.  He should stay in his room and pretend that he never saw Crowley.  Indeed, Aziraphale was just about to turn away when he saw the wound.

Perhaps assuming that the angel had left, Crowley pulled the towel from his face and glanced around the lobby.  Upon seeing Aziraphale, he promptly replaced the towel and spun away but even the dim light couldn’t hide the massive black eye and gnarly cut across his forehead.  

Aziraphale audibly gasped, “Crowley!  You’re bleeding!”

“Oh, really?!  I hadn’t noticed!  Thank goodness you’re here to tell me these things!  I thought the blood in my eye was just a lovely summer rain!” 

Before he could stop himself, Aziraphale was rushing towards Crowley and in response Crowley was rushing away.

“Fuck, I’m fine!” he snarled.

Fed up with this darkness, Aziraphale crossed to the nearby light switch and turned on the overhead lamp.  Like some troll caught in the sun’s rays, Crowley growled in some absurd attempt to hide his wincing from the pain.

“I.  Am.  Fine.  I just need to rest for a while.  Nothing happened!  Go back to bed.”

“I wasn’t in bed.”

“Whatever you were doing, go back to it!  I’m perfectly fine!”

In the light, Aziraphale could see that Crowley was limping.  The demon tried valiantly to cross to the front doors, but his hurried pace proved too much; he gasped in agony and stumbled forward, slamming against the floor.  Immediately, Aziraphale was kneeling beside him.  

“Don’t tell me that nothing has happened!  My god, look at you!” 

Aziraphale studied the thick and deep cut that stretched from Crowley’s eyebrow up to his hairline. 

“You’re so dramatic,” Crowley cried, still trying to rise, “It’s not that bad.”

“Stop moving!  Just sit still!”

“Ugh!  This is exactly why I didn’t want to wake you.  I knew you’d go off the handle.”

“I wasn’t asleep!”

“I don’t care!  Just leave me alone!”  

He maneuvered himself onto his hands and knees and pushed himself up, screaming in pain but moving nonetheless.  Crowley was barely standing upright before his legs gave out from under him.  This time, however, Aziraphale caught him and held him erect. 

“Oh, for goodness sakes, Crowley!  You’re bleeding!  You’re here!  Let me help you!”

“Don’t need your help.  I don’t need fussing!  The stupid cut will heal on its own!” 

Aziraphale, now more or less in control of Crowley’s movements, escorted him back to his makeshift bed and forced him to sit.  The angel quickly found his spectacles and then leaned in towards his patient, studying the wound.  This lingering silence mixed with Aziraphale’s looming face put Crowley on edge and his whole body went strangely rigid.

This was not part of the dance. 

Not only did angel and demon know their respective steps well, but they also trusted the other to take the lead should one of them falter.  A stare that lingered too long was quickly met with an agitated snap.  Playful banter that ended in genuine compliments was immediately aborted.  Excuses were made.  One or both of them made their exits.  And then they’d meet again and repeat their movements.  It was by no means a perfect setup; certainly, it would be better if they simply avoided all banter and never complimented each other.  Better yet, this whole ordeal could be solved if they never resolved to never see one another again.  After all, the earth was quite large and, logically, the pair could spend the rest of their lives simply avoiding each other…if they wanted to.  But that was also part of the dance: never admitting that they wanted to.  

The dance and its rules were not completely absent from Aziraphale’s mind, but he had also never seen wounds like this on Crowley.  The demon’s constant flinching suggested that there were other injuries.  This was decidedly not pity within Aziraphale; it was something dangerously close to despair at seeing his companion so hurt.

Crowley, however, was still determined to play his part.

“It’s just a cut,” he hissed, “I had a run-in with – well, it doesn’t matter.  Knives came out.  I tried to get out of there.  I got out of there.  End of story.”

To Crowley’s horror, Aziraphale began unbuttoning his waistcoat.

“What are you doing?!”

The angel answered by pulling the item fully off and then pressing it against the demon’s head.

“Hold this,” he said.  When Crowley failed to move, Aziraphale was forced to take his hand and place it on top of the folder waistcoat.  

“You…blood…I’m going to get blood all over your clothes,” Crowley heard himself mumbling.

“Your little towel is already soaked.  I needed something.” Aziraphale removed his spectacles and repeated his earlier question, “What happened to you?”

“Nothing!  Nothing happened!”

“Oh, for goodness sake!”

“Don’t get so worked up!”  

“Fine!  Alright!  I won’t get worked up!  I promise not to get so worked up if you promise not to be so goddamn stubborn!  Sit there!  Don’t move!  I will be right back!” 

Aziraphale took off at a breakneck speed toward the kitchen, disappearing from sight.  In his absence, Crowley found himself smiling; he liked the way the angel swore, and he did it so rarely.  Upon Aziraphale’s return, however, Crowley was quick to revert back to his usual sullenness.  

Of course, Aziraphale came back with practically an entire hospital wing: plasters of various sizes, wound dressing, medical tape, scissors, clean cloths, an ice pack, a bowl of warm water, and more, all laid out on a serving tray.   

“I don’t need all this stuff!” Crowley whined, “That’s for humans!  Just give me time.  My skin will regenerate.”  

But Aziraphale would hear none of it.  

“Shush,” he ordered, sitting on the sofa next to Crowley, “It hurts, doesn’t it?  This will make it feel better.” 

He pulled the soiled waistcoat from the demon’s head.

“Still bleeding,” he sighed, “Head wounds are troublesome like that.” He dipped a cloth in the warm water, and handed it back to the demon. “Hold this against your head.”

Begrudgingly, Crowley pressed the cloth to his right temple, thankful that all the blinds were pulled.  The last thing he needed right now was someone bearing witness to the angel fussing over him.

“You don’t have to tell me what happened,” Aziraphale asserted.

“I told you what happened.”

“Yes.  Fine.  You don’t have to tell me anymore, but please tell me if there are any more wounds.” 

Crowley went quiet for several seconds and then replied, “I think it’s just the cut and the eye.”

Unconvinced, Aziraphale asked, “You won’t mind if I have a look around then?”

“Have a look around what?”

“Your body.”

“What do you mean you’re going to have a look around my body?!?”

“Shush!  I just want to palpate your arms, your legs.  See if it hurts anywhere else.  May I do that?” 

Crowley did his best to glare with his one good eye but agreed.  

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said with a smile, “I’ll begin with your left arm.  Your right one seems to be busy at the moment.”

He moved slowly, gently holding Crowley by the wrist with one hand while the other gingerly climbed his arm, patting here and there until he reached the shoulder.  His hand slid across the shoulder blade and then smoothly slid back.  All the while, Crowley seemed to have forgotten how to breathe.

“Anything?” Aziraphale asked, “Any pain or tenderness?”

Unable to speak, the demon simply shook his head.  Aziraphale pulled away from Crowley’s back and then surveyed his hand.  The palpations continued here: down the pinkie, up the pinkie, down the ring finger, up the ring finger, and so on.  It was almost as though they were holding hands.  That thought alone made Crowley tremble and Aziraphale glanced up at him.

“Pain?”

It took a moment for Crowley to fully understand what he was saying and for the first time during the whole experiment, the demon breathed.  

“Wha…no.”

“You’re shaking.”

“No. I’m not.”

The two glanced at Crowley’s clearly trembling hand.  

“I, uh, don’t know why I’m shaking.”  

Aziraphale released his patient’s hand; he was blushing a vibrant red, and Crowley could feel his own face burning as well.  He glanced downwards, silently begging Aziraphale to play by the rules, and, indeed, the angel wished he could.  He himself was praying to whatever god was listening to take this distress away from him.  Aziraphale had never wanted something so much as he currently wanted indifference.  But colour was quickly draining from Crowley’s face and the thought of simply leaving him to suffer in solitude was unbearable.  He was here now.  Why shouldn’t he help Crowley?  For the first time in their storied association Aziraphale’s distress greatly outweighed any wellworn rules and so he continued to push boundaries…boundaries that seemed downright careless to the demon.  

“I’m going to palpate your torso now,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley cringed, “Can you stop using that word?  Palpate.  It sounds so…wrong.”

“What’s a better word?” the angel’s question was genuine which made the following suggestions all the more unnerving, “I’m going to feel your torso?  Paw?  Fondle?” 

Forgetting himself, Crowley laughed before quickly turning the sound into something closer to a groan.

“Just do what you need to do!” he roared, “I don’t know why you feel the need to palpate me at all.  I already told you: it’s just the eye and the cut.”

“Suffice it to say,” Aziraphale stated, sitting down next to Crowley, “I don’t believe you.”

He cautiously placed a hand on the demon’s left flank.  It was hardly more than a caress, but this small amount of contact made both freeze momentarily.  

At last finding himself, Aziraphale asked, “Any pain?”

Crowley shook his head and the angel pressed a little harder.  He moved his hand along Crowley’s waist, pressing cautiously at various points.

“Anything?”

This continued on with Aziraphale moving his hand to the demon’s front.  His fingers rested just above the belt buckle, and Crowley felt the entire universe freeze in time and space.  Something was rising within him, something he had tried tirelessly to keep down but with Aziraphale’s fingers so perilously close, the feelings and rising action had a mind of their own and would not be stifled.  It was all Crowley could do to keep his mouth shut and avoid saying something untoward.  Thankfully, Aziraphale’s palpations continued around his other side and eventually finished.  By the time he pulled his hand away and stood up, Crowley was sweating.

“My goodness,” Aziraphale said, looking him over again, “You don’t look well.  Lie down.”

Now this was too far!  Crowley tasted the objection at the back of his throat.  He felt it forming and his teeth even parted, ready to fight and shout, but try as he may, the halfhearted protest simply wouldn’t manifest.  With the towel still against his head, Crowley obediently laid backwards onto the chaise lounge.  He’d been right to add the chair at the end for one piece of furniture was simply not long enough for his lanky form.  Fearing that Aziraphale might do something truly outlandish and stay on the sofa with him, Crowley spread his legs and tried to take up as much space as possible.  

Luckily, Aziraphale was already grabbing an ottoman.  He situated it near the demon’s head and planted himself there.  

“Would you like some water?” 

Crowley shook his head.

“Let me know if you change your mind.  Now, let’s have a look at that cut.”

He didn’t wait for a response and removed the towel before leaning in close yet again and inspecting his patient’s wound. 

“Is it still bleeding?” Crowley heard himself asking, his eyes fixed on Aziraphale’s collar.  

The angel may not have been dressed for bed, but he was certainly more casual than usual. No bowtie.  A few of the top buttons on his dress shirt were undone, and Crowley could clearly see the crewneck of his undershirt.  There was one tiny stain: a brown dot.  Probably tea or cocoa.  Aziraphale most likely had no idea that it was there or he certainly would have changed.  For reasons he couldn’t articulate, Crowley stayed focused on the stain.  Staring there meant he wasn’t staring at the angel’s neck which was so close to him now.  He could still catch whiffs of Aziraphale’s aftershave.  Once again, Crowley ceased breathing.

“It doesn’t appear so,” the angel answered, now lightly patting the demon’s skull, “You said there were knives?

“Yeah.  But I think it was the lead pipe that hit me.”

Aziraphale sat up straight, “Oh dear.  You need better friends.”

“I’m a demon,” Crowley responded, “I don’t have friends.” 

“Yes.  That’s right.  Of course.”  Aziraphale gave a weak smile before dipping a fresh towel into the water and then dabbing Crowley’s head with it.

“You do look very pale.”

“Got hit on the head with a lead pipe,” Crowley grinned, “Forgive me for looking a bit peaky.”

Aziraphale bent in close again and Crowley’s senses filled with the scent of vetiver and sandalwood.  It was a new aroma, not the angel’s usual lighter fare but something a little earthier and darker.  

“I’m just checking for any trauma debris,” Aziraphale explained, “I’m not seeing anything.” 

He sat back and resumed his gentle dabbing.

“I’ll get you some ice for that black eye.  How are you feeling?”

Crowley didn’t respond.  His eyes fixed on Aziraphale, he felt that old familiar rising sensation in him again.  He could still make out the tiny speck on the angel’s undershirt and even catch passing whiffs of that new aftershave.  And then Aziraphale’s hand was on his face.  His touch was so soft that it didn’t register with Crowley right away.  Like the palpations, this was little more than a graze, a small push to keep Crowley’s facing the correction direction.  It wasn’t meant to be tender and on a logical level he knew this, but it was just one more imprudent step into dangerous territory.  Aziraphale had crossed so many boundaries tonight in such little time, and this brazen disregard for established rules left Crowley wondering why there were rules in the first place.  What was even the point of this asinine dance?  They both knew it, didn’t they?  They both felt it.  Crowley tried to think about all the terrible things that hell might do to him, to remember the feeling of humiliation of past punishments.  He tried to recall the scent of sulphur but all he could smell was the angel’s aftershave and all he could see was the angel’s knitted brow, bunched up in worry.

Before he could stop himself, Crowley was saying something untoward.

“I love you.”

To his credit, Aziraphale’s shock only lasted a millisecond.  He met Crowley’s gaze and shook his head, almost disappointed.

“Oh dear,” he giggled, “You must have really hit your head.”

He’d done Crowley a favour; he’d given him an out.  It wasn’t much of an out, but it was enough to safely escape this minefield that Crowley had led them to.  The demon was even grateful and went silent.  But then he started thinking again.  He hadn’t taken them to the minefield: Aziraphale had.  Aziraphale had been the one to insist on him staying and offer his help.  Aziraphale had been the one to initiate touching.  Why was he allowed to invent new steps but Crowley was not?  He had put his hands on Crowley’s body – openly caring about him – and nothing awful had happened.  For all their talk of Heaven and Hell, neither side was particularly present.  

The fact of the matter is that Crowley’s life was not made up of joyful moments within the confines of Hell.  Looking back at the whole of his existence, Satan, Hell, and all of its demons were not clear images in his memory.  He had very few, if any, happy memories with them.  Crowley’s life consisted mainly of Aziraphale: dinners, lunches, countless silly conversations, and a million happenstance encounters.  When Crowley was honest with himself – genuinely honest – he knew that those encounters were never by chance.  He sought Aziraphale out.  And Aziraphale did the same.  They wanted each other.  So why were they pretending they didn’t?

“No, no,” Crowley urged, “I mean it.”

Aziraphale laughed, but it was hollow.  He turned away, dipped the bloody towel into the water again, and wrung it out with more vigor than seemed necessary.  He retrieved a large plaster from his collection and un wrapped it.

“Haha.  Very funny.  You’re hilarious.”

Crowley batted the angel’s hand away, “I’m serious.  I’m not being funny,” he said defiantly, “I love you.”  

Aziraphale was still trying to salvage the conversation, still trying to keep face.  He shook his head and sighed, “Crowley, please, you really shouldn’t joke about these kinds of things.”  

Before more could be said, the angel slapped the plaster on Crowley’s head.  It didn’t cover the cut entirely but suddenly Aziraphale didn’t care.  He promptly rose, taking the tray of medical supplies with him, and in response Crowley sat up, fighting against the dizzy feelings from his blood loss.  He reached for Aziraphale but the angel proved quicker.  

Speeding off towards the kitchen again, the angel didn’t even look back as he said, “Lie down.  Get some rest.  You’re being ridiculous.”  

His tone was harsh, and Crowley knew what that meant.  The signs were all there: Aziraphale was hurting. 

In the relative safety of the kitchen, Aziraphale got to work replacing and cleaning items.  The towels would probably need to be destroyed as it would be difficult to justify the presence of demon blood in his bookshop.  Perhaps he could make up some story about battling Crowley, but that seemed more trouble than it was worth.  Aziraphale knelt before the hearth, threw in some firewood and kindling, and lit a match.  As he stoked the tiny fire, he endeavored to think only about the tasks at hand: dishes to wash, towels to burn, and a thorough scrubbing of any surfaces Crowley may have touched.  He would remove all the evidence that the demon was ever here.  Heaven would never have to know.  It would be as though this night had never happened.  None of it happened…

Still stoking the fire, Aziraphale suddenly realised that he was crying.  

No, he wasn’t crying.  He was stupidly standing directly in front of the now roaring flames and smoke was getting in his eyes.  

Of course.  That was it.  He had smoke in his eyes.  

Standing up straight and blinking rapidly, Aziraphale crossed back to the counter where the bloodied towels and waistcoat sat.  He carefully picked up all three items.

“Why did you help me?”

Spooked by the sudden new voice, Aziraphale spun towards the kitchen door.  Crowley was leaning against the frame, looking ragged but upright all the same.  Still, the angel gave a scolding look and wagged his finger.

“You should be lying down,” he asserted, “You’re not well.  Come on now.  Go lie down.”

It was another attempt at levity, but Crowley wasn’t having it.

“Why did you help me?” he repeated himself, “My body works just like yours does.  It’s not as if these wounds would actually kill me.  I was never in danger.  Still, you insisted on taking care of me.  Why?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Just tell me why, Aziraphale!  Tell me why you helped me!”

“Well, what was I supposed to do?” Aziraphale finally yelled, tossing the bloodied towels and waistcoat back onto the counter, “Was I just supposed to let you bleed out?”

“You could have, yeah.  Hereditary enemies and all that,” Crowley stated, “I shouldn’t even be in your bookshop right now.  You should have forced me out the moment you saw me.”

Aziraphale gave a smug smile, “What can I say?  I’m an angel.  I’m very kind.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes, “I once saw you throw a man off the side of a ship because he ate the last crème brûlée.”

“Not this story again!”

“You are not kind.  Not to everyone.  And you certainly shouldn’t be kind to me.  But you are.  You are inexcusably kind to me!  The one person in this whole world that you should hate.  But you don’t.  You don’t hate me.  You’re kind to me.  Why?”

That damn smoke was getting in Aziraphale’s eyes again and he blinked at an even more frantic pace, but the tears would not stop welling.  He stared at the ceiling, hoping gravity would keep the dam from breaking, but it was not to be.  A single drop escaped and trickled down the angel’s face, and he felt all resolve evaporate. 

With his attention still fixed on the ceiling, Aziraphale whispered, “Crowley, please.  Don’t – don’t do this.”

“Don’t do what?”

Infuriated, Aziraphale glared at the demon, “Don’t.  Just don’t.  I am begging you not to do this.”

“I don’t even know what this is!” Crowley bellowed, taking a few uneasy steps into the kitchen, “We’re doing something, but we never talk about it!  I’m just trying to have a conversation!”

“No, you’re trying to ruin everything!” 

Incensed, Aziraphale retrieved the bloody clothes and promptly threw them in the fireplace.  For a few seconds, the flames turned an inky black colour before burning hot blue and then fizzling back to orange and yellow. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Crowley said, watching as the fabric disintegrated into ash, “You could have miracled the blood stains out–”

“No,” Aziraphale said defiantly, still blinking and unwilling to meet Crowley’s gaze, “I’ve been reprimanded too often over frivolous miracles.” 

“I would have done it.”

But Aziraphale shook his head, “No.  I don’t want anything more from you.  Besides, I have other waistcoats.”   

Crowley studied the angel, “What does that mean?  I’m trying to ruin everything?  What am I trying to ruin?” 

The angel at last turned away from the hearth and retreated towards the stove, trying to put some more distance between himself and the demon.

“Do you know what we are?” he asked, “We’re small and unremarkable.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Come now, Crowley.  If we were any better at our jobs, I’d be an Archangel and you’d be a Duke of Hell or something.  We probably could get those sorts of promotions if we wanted them.  Instead, we are here on Earth where we can remain small, unremarkable…safe.” 

With his back to Crowley, Aziraphale opened the tap and plugged the sink.

“We get away with so much because we walk a fine line of getting tasks done but being neither amazing nor terrible at it.  We don’t attract attention.  We’re only allowed to be associated with one another because we don’t attract attention.  It really is a precarious situation, and if we stray too far one way or the other, it’s over.  I do what I can to keep it small and safe.  I keep it safe by keeping it at arms length.  It’s the only way.” 

Crowley’s exhaustion forced him to sit at the table.  Panting slightly, he asked, “But what is it?  What are you protecting?” 

Aziraphale continued readying the sink for dishes but gave no answer.  Crowley let out an exasperated groan:

“What is it, angel?  What are we?  What are you protecting?” 

Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to needlessly futz, pushing and rearranging sponges and dishes, all in some forlorn attempt to appear busy.  However, his shoulders were nearly up to his ears, and every so often, a small gasp escaped his lips.  Crowley knew that the dam had broken, and his angel was crying.  When several seconds passed and still Aziraphale gave no response, Crowley pushed himself up again.

Upon hearing the chair scrape against the floor, the angel flinched, “Don’t –” He cried before immediately stopping himself.  

Crowley braced himself against the table but remained standing, “Don’t do what?”

Aziraphale gasped again and then found some resolve, “Don’t…just don’t…don’t touch me.”

“I won’t.  I promise.  I won’t touch you.  But you’re crying.”

“No, I’m not –”

“Yes, you are.”

“I tell you: I am not!”

“Then why aren’t you looking at me?!”

Aziraphale surveyed the soapy sink before him, “I’m very busy.”

“Too busy to look at me?”

Again, there was no response from the angel.

Crowley put his face in his hands, “Hell, we can’t even say it?  Everything is so precarious that we can’t even acknowledge it?!  Angel, I am not –”

“Would you please stop calling me by that infernal little nickname!  I hate it!  I always have!  Will you please just go away?!  You ruin everything!”

A thick and uncomfortable silence hung between them.  Aziraphale still would not look at Crowley, and Crowley, for his part, stayed planted, unsure what to say next.  Of course, this wasn’t the first time he’d heard Aziraphale speak so pointedly, but never before had it been directed at him, at least not this genuinely.  The pair were very good at pulling arguments out of thin air, often for the sake of optics, but this snap had no purpose other than to hurt.  And hurt, it did.  Aziraphale was drawing a line, and Crowley was not allowed anywhere near it.  

If they were returning to their usual dance, this would have been the moment for Crowley to cackle.  Feign disinterest.  Call it a joke.  Taunt Aziraphale for taking the jest so seriously and then throw in a good dig at The Almighty.  

Tonight, however, Crowley had no energy for the dance.  If he had a heart, it was broken.  He headed towards the door, but he would not make it that far because Aziraphale’s gasps were turning into whimpers which themselves were growing into something else.

Pressed against the sink, the angel held his face and openly sobbed.  Perhaps he’d figured that Crowley had left by then or perhaps he simply lacked the strength to hold it back anymore.  He cried.  Properly cried.  He wailed.  He swore.  He leaned over the sink.  And then his strength gave out and he slid to the floor, still crying.  Immediately Crowley was on the floor as well, hellbent on keeping his promise not to touch Aziraphale but unwilling to leave.

“Hey, hey, hey…” he whispered, sitting a yard or so away from the angel, “You’re alright.  You’re okay.  You need to breathe.”

“Go…away…” Aziraphale gasped, “Leave me alone!”

Ignoring this, Crowley repeated himself, “You need to breathe.  Breathe.  Like this: in and out.  In and out.”

He tried demonstrating but, still, Aziraphale was fighting.  He pushed himself up against the counter even more, shielding his form as though the demon might contaminate him.

“Leave me…alone!  Don’t come…Don’t come near me!  You’re making…You’re making…You make everything worse!”

Crowley hid his sadness well, “You couldn’t sit by and let me bleed out.  I can’t sit by and let you cry alone.  Just breathe.  As soon as you’re stable, I’ll go.  I promise.  I’ll even call someone else to come and sit with you, but I’m not leaving you alone.  Breathe, Aziraphale.  Just breathe.”

He demonstrated again.  It was difficult to maintain any sense of tranquility with the angel’s frenzied cries and shallow huffing and, indeed, after several deep breaths, Crowley wondered if he was doing more harm than good, but he stayed the course.  He kept breathing slowly: in and out, in and out.  He locked eyes with Aziraphale, wordlessly letting him know that he wasn’t alone.  The two of them breathed together until eventually, Aziraphale’s body began to relax, their breathing became less pronounced, and some form of calmness returned to the kitchen.

Yet again they sat in silence: Aziraphale leaning against the counter and Crowley propped up against a kitchen table.  They dared not look at one another but their breathing remained synchronized, inadvertently or otherwise.  

Only when he was absolutely sure that he could form words did Aziraphale speak:

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean it…I didn’t mean it when I said that you ruin everything.  Crowley, I’m so sorry.”

The demon shrugged which only forced the angel to speak more.

“And don’t act as though I didn’t hurt you.  I did.  I’m sorry.”

Crowley studied the floor, “I’ll leave now if you want me to.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Aziraphale muttered, “Of course I don’t want you to leave.”

The smallest of smirks spread across Crowley’s face, “You’re giving me a terrible case of emotional whiplash, you know.”

Aziraphale returned the smirk but only slightly, “I know.  I apologise for that as well.”

Another bout of stillness took over before Crowley asked:

“Do you actually hate it when I call you angel?”

Aziraphale shook his head, “No.  I don’t hate it.  I don’t hate it at all.  I used to hate it, but I’ve…I’ve grown quite accustomed to it.”

He smiled and that made Crowley smile.  

More silence, peppered by stolen glances and brief smiles. 

Eventually, though, the demon’s head began to feel dizzy again and he asserted that he needed to lie down.  Unsure if he’d be able to make it to the lobby, he simply pushed the chair away and reclined on the kitchen floor.

“Crowley, no,” Aziraphale protested, “I’ll help you back to the sofa.  You don’t have to lie on the floor.”

Lying on his back, Crowley answered with, “Honestly, the floor is nice.  It’s cool.  It feels nice.”

Feeling rather silly at the prospect of watching the demon just lie there, Aziraphale scooted away from the counter and laid himself out on the floor, a foot or so away from Crowley.  They stared at the ceiling, their breaths even now in time with one another.

“I get it,” the demon then whispered, “It’s terrifying.  Everything.  Your side.  My side.  Just…everything.  I know that there are rules, but I guess every now and then, I just need a reminder.  Ya know?  It’s easy to forget what’s real and what’s not when you’re playacting all the time.  I just need to know that I’m not crazy.  Or, I guess, I just need to know that we’re both thinking the same thing.  That we’re both fighting for the same thing.” 

The facet had started to drip, and the dull plopping sound of water hitting water echoed off the hard kitchen walls.  

“Crowley, look at me…”

The demon tensed slightly but turned his head.  Blue met yellow and the two stared at one another.

“I love you,” Aziraphale whispered, “No playacting.  Just...I love you.” 

Crowley’s brain did not fully compute just what was happening.  He heard the words.  He recognized Aziraphale’s voice.  He even clocked that Aziraphale was looking directly at him.  Even so, none of it made sense.  After several seconds of this blank staring, the angel grew concerned.

“Crowley?  Are you alright?”

The demon’s mind snapped back into place.

“Yeah.  Yeah.  Good.  Great.  Grand.”

His gaze shifted from the ceiling to the far wall and then back to Aziraphale.

“Say it again.”

Aziraphale beamed, “I love you.”

Crowley thought that he might cry, but, instead, he laughed.  He cackled, put his face in his hands, and turned a bright red.  He laughed until tears streamed down his face and then he rotated his whole body to its side just so he could gaze at Aziraphale better.  The angel mirrored this movement, grinning.

“I like the way you say it,” Crowley said once he’d caught his breath.

“Do I say it in a funny way?”

“No.  Not funny.  Just…nice.” 

Not content with the boundaries he’d already pushed that night, Aziraphale had one more to try.  He slid his hand across the stone floor towards Crowley who did the same.  Their pinkies brushed against each other and the senseless giggles began again.  The pinkies interlocked, followed by all the other fingers.  By the end of the evening, the gap between them would close even more.  

They were going to have to learn a new dance.