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He's tired. It's as if exhaustion had taken permanent residence somewhere deep in his bones, following him on every step. He doesn't remember the last time he didn't feel completely and utterly worn out.
It's not because of work, not necessarily. Being a demon on Earth isn't hard. As he often repeats—humans tend to do most of his job themselves, they barely even need a push. In the past few centuries he's been getting a commendation after a commendation, Hell happy with 'his' results. No, his work is fine.
It's not because of sickness—not physical, anyway—demons can't get sick.
It's not because of the lack or excess of human (and divine) contact. He sees Aziraphale quite often, a great improvement in comparison to the past, and he doesn't have much of a need for companionship besides that.
It's not because of anything else he can think of. He's just tired, for no apparent reason.
Aziraphale seems to notice, and starts to take him out more frequently. It's overly nice, but isn't that what angels are supposed to be?
He may have just been bored, he realises when Hell sends him an actually interesting job for the first time in a century, if not more. There's only so much tiny pranks on humans one can do before losing their sanity.
The job isn't particularly complicated—he's done things like that thousands of times over the years—but it still seems more fun than anything he's done in a long while. It involves setting fire to some rich man's house—apparently it'll set him on a villainous path. Crowley doesn't think about the sense of it much. Hell knows what they're doing, especially when they have a special mission just for him.
It's incredibly simple—getting onto the property, preparing some flammable materials in a few different places around the place, throwing a match, leaving—and that must be why he's so angry when he manages to fuck it up.
It seems like everything that could've gone wrong, has indeed gone wrong. Had Crowley not known Aziraphale better, he'd think it was some divine protection placed on the man, the number of miraculous mistakes definitely too high for a professional like himself, who's been in the field for almost six thousand years. But the angel wouldn't have thwarted him like that, not with the Arrangement, and Crowley seriously doubts anyone else from Heaven would be bothered enough to go down to Earth and do anything themselves.
No, this failure was completely on Crowley's part. And that's what makes it so much worse.
Not only is the house still intact, he somehow managed to set himself on fire. The man came out to help him—who wouldn't be surprised, seeing a man on fire on their porch in the middle of the night?—and Crowley has never been this embarrassed. He didn't even come back for the Bentley, running on foot somewhere very far away.
In fact, he barely managed to get out of the neighbourhood before stopping. The fire from his jacket spread to his fucking hair, which he has been growing out for the past decade. He snapped his fingers to extinguish it, but it was already too late.
Now, he sits on the curb, breathing heavily. He's tired, he's in pain, he's failed the job, and, worst of all, half of his hair has burnt away in a matter of seconds.
He wants to cry.
He doesn't, obviously, and after a few minutes gets up like nothing ever happened, hoping to find the Bentley as fast as possible and just go home. He takes the burnt jacket off—or rather, what's left of it—and throws it to the nearest bin. The first touch of cold air on the burns on the back makes him hiss, but the stinging feeling is not unbearable, and frankly, he isn't in the right mental state to worry about some minor injuries right now.
When he finally gets back to his apartment, he deliberately avoids the mirror in the hall, and heads straight for the bed. He'll sleep for as long as he needs to forget about this incident.
He doesn't.
He's woken up by Aziraphale knocking at his door first thing in the morning.
"What are you doing here, angel?" Crowley asks, not opening the door. He doesn't need Aziraphale to see him in this state.
"Do I really need an excuse to visit my friend?" answers the voice from the other side.
"At this hour?" Crowley snorts. "Yes. What is it?"
"Oh, I just had a hunch, I suppose. Open the door, Crowley," he demands.
"A hunch," Crowley echoes.
"A hunch, a premonition, whatever you wish to call it." Aziraphale sounds almost as worn out as Crowley feels. "Is there something wrong with the door?"
"There's nothing wrong with the door," Crowley snaps. "I just don't feel like opening it. What's the premonition about?"
Aziraphale doesn't respond for a while. There's a sound of shuffling, as if he was fighting himself whether to say something or not.
"Go on, angel, spit it out. Was it something like 'Crowley's in grave danger and I have to check up on him immediately?' Because if yes, then you've got nothing to worry about. I'm completely fine. 's just taking a nap when you knocked."
Silence.
"No, it wasn't necessarily like that," Aziraphale finally says. "More like 'Crowley's not been doing very well recently and I'd like to help him.' And it was clearly right, because why won't you just open the door?"
"I'm fine, you stubborn angel. Go back to your books, I'll go back to sleep, and we'll see each other next week. Or next month," he adds after a short pause.
"Can I at least see your face? To know that you're really alright, and that I'm not leaving my only friend to die slowly in his apartment?"
It's a reasonable request, Crowley thinks. There's nothing wrong with his face, per se. If that's what makes Aziraphale finally leave? He could open the door just a little, show that he's alive, and go back to bed.
"Ngk," he says instead, hoping that it'll convey his message well enough.
"Hmm?"
"Fine." He grabs the handle, having second thoughts. He shakes them off, and opens the door just a bit, enough to stick his head out through the opening. "See? Everything's fine. Goodbye angel."
He tries to slam the door, but Aziraphale's foot blocks the way.
"What has happened to your shirt?" he asks sharply. "What has happened to your hair?
"'s nothing angel," Crowley pleads. "Just go, please."
"There's no way I'm leaving now." Aziraphale says, as if it were the most obvious thing in the entire universe. He pushes the door, and Crowley cedes.
The angel enters the flat and Crowley takes a few steps back instinctively. He still doesn't dare to look into a mirror. He must be looking terrible, and Aziraphale's seeing him like this.
He swallows nervously. He doesn't like the silence that fills the room.
"What happened to you?" Aziraphale repeats, and his voice is gentle. None of the previous playfulness is visible in his eyes right now. He looks worried. Worried about Crowley.
"A job didn't go quite the way I wanted it to. But I'm handling it," Crowley lies smoothly, but he knows Aziraphale won't fall for it.
"Handling? You call that," Aziraphale gestures at him in shock. "You call that handling? You'd go to sleep for years if they let you to, just not to have to handle anything."
Oh, great. Not only is he worried, he's also angry.
"I just—" Aziraphale stops, seeing Crowley's expression. "I just don't understand. You've been acting incredibly strangely lately. You've failed jobs before, it happens. I have failed your jobs before. It has never seemed like much of an issue. And now? You lock yourself here, barely even willing to show your face to me. So, what happened?"
Crowley doesn't want to talk about it, he really doesn't. But the angel is already here, standing in his hallway, looking at Crowley with those eyes that don't take no for an answer.
"Can we at least go to the living room?" he asks. "I don't want to do this standing." He turns to leave, and hears Aziraphale intake air sharply. "What is it?" he frowns, looking back at the angel.
"Your back," Aziraphale stares at him in terror. "I supposed something serious must have happened judging by the state of your shirt, but burns? Oh, Crowley…" he moves forward, grabbing Crowley by his lower back and leading him into the living room. He miracles a soft pillow on the floor by the couch, and gestures for the demon to sit on it. Crowley obeys, too confused to do anything else.
He hears Aziraphale sit on the couch right behind him, and turns his head to look the angel in the eyes. "What are you doing?"
"I'm going to treat your back while you tell me what exactly happened last night." Aziraphale declares. There's a tube of some anti-burn lotion already in his hand. Crowley turns back with a sigh.
He stares into the distance for a while before starting. Aziraphale doesn't rush him.
"I was supposed to set some man's house on fire. Hell said it'd make him go crazy, that it was necessary in order to get hundreds of other people in the future. I've done my fair share of fires, you know it. So I went there, prepared the kindling, everything was perfect. Then something weird happened, and it wasn't the house that caught fire—it was me. The man came out, screaming something about trying to help me, and I just ran from there as fast as I could. When I remembered to put out the fire, almost my whole jacket was gone, the back of the shirt, and—" he pauses. His hair has always been his favourite part of his human body.
Aziraphale knows that, of course he does, because he finishes for him: "—and your hair," he says softly. His warm hands coated in cream land gently on Crowley's back, covering it in medicine. It stings a bit, but the relief that comes after is indescribable. "I'm sorry."
He's genuine, so genuine that it hurts Crowley just to think about it. That pain is worse than anything he's felt physically during the whole accident.
He doesn't say anything in return. What could he say? Thank you? No, that was crossing a boundary. Silence is enough of an answer, and Crowley just lets the angel massage the lotion into his burns.
"I always make things worse," he says quietly after a few minutes of thinking. "I couldn't keep myself from asking questions as an angel—I Fell. I can't work properly as a demon, either. I don't tempt humans, I don't spend days devising evil plans—I pretend to cause the catastrophes they cause themselves and cut the telephone wire every once in a while. I'd probably be better off as just one of them," he finishes bitterly. Aziraphale's hands on his back have stopped moving.
"You can't possibly mean it. You're the best demon I've ever met, and while I admit, I haven't come to know many of your kind, I can see the immeasurable value in you."
"You're an angel, I'm a bad demon—of course you're going to think I'm nicer than the rest."
"You know very well that's not the value I'm talking about." Aziraphale sounds as he had just rolled his eyes. He probably has. "I have no intention of bringing you back to Heaven. You're my friend. I know that you're different from me, and I'm so glad for it. Could you imagine me, genuine friends with another angel? Of course you can't, I'm not a good angel, either. That's why we suit each other."
Crowley sighs, a sound that turns into more of a hiss at the end. "Maybe."
"I'm not telling you to think about it," Aziraphale says. "But I am. The next time you have a thought of that sort. I'm sure you can get that man's soul some other way."
"Very reassuring, coming from an angel," Crowley huffs, but there's a hint of humour in his voice. Maybe Aziraphale is right. They wouldn't have become friends, had he not been such a terrible demon, and had Aziraphale not been such a bad angel. He'd very much rather have this, than whatever else it is that Hell can give him for loyalty.
The hands return to his back, and he relaxes into the touch. They don't speak for another long while.
"Do you think—" Aziraphale starts, then stops himself, apparently deciding not to continue.
"What?" Crowley asks, curious.
"Oh, nothing, it was just a stupid idea. You wouldn't like it anyway," Aziraphale brushes him off.
"Try me," Crowley dares. He turns around to look the angel in the eyes. "What is it?"
"Do you think I could maybe cut your hair?"
The request hangs in the air, as Crowley stares at him in genuine shock.
"I mean, like I said, we don't have to if you don't want to." Aziraphale leans backwards into the couch, trying to increase the distance between them. He raises his hands into the air defensively. "But most of it has been ruined by the fire, and I thought you might want me to clean it up," he pauses. "It sounds stupid, I know. I'm sorry for suggesting anything. Please forget about this."
"I don't want to forget about this," Crowley says, and he instantly realises it may have been the wrong thing to say. Aziraphale blushes. "I mean— you offered to cut my hair. Why would I ever want to forget about this?"
"Because it's a stupid idea of a tired old fool?" Aziraphale suggests helpfully, the tips of his ears red.
"Please." Crowley rolls his eyes. "I'd very much…um…like it, if you cut my hair for me, that is."
It is now Aziraphale's turn to stare speechlessly. Crowley waits patiently.
"If you really think so." He finally says, reaching his hand out to Crowley's hair cautiously. "How long would you like it to be?"
"I guess shoulder length is going to be fine," Crowley shrugs. He's not really sure how far the fire got. He's heard it burns hair incredibly fast.
"The shortest strand ends somewhere in the middle of your neck," Aziraphale says after a quick inspection. "Would that be okay?"
"Listen, angel, do whatever you want. I trust you to do what's best." He means it.
Aziraphale chuckles, running his fingers gently through Crowley's hair. "Had you ever thought we'd end up like that? It didn't seem like a possibility, all those years ago, in the Garden. No one could've foreseen me, almost six thousand years later, sitting in your living room, cutting your hair, for Heaven's sake! We've come so far, don't you think? Angel and demon, hereditary enemies."
Crowley laughs, for the first time in days. It's as if a heavy weight had been taken off his back. "No, I suppose not. Heaven and Hell would lose their minds if they found out."
Angel and demon, hereditary enemies, and here they were—laughing and talking, the angel cutting the demon's hair with focus reserved for only the most important tasks. He hasn't felt this happy in a really, really long time.
The burns on his back feel much better by the time they're done. Crowley's sitting on the floor, surrounded by locks of hair. Aziraphale circles around him, admiring his work.
"Not to brag," he starts, and Crowley already knows that he is, indeed, going to brag. "But I think you look incredible."
It doesn't sounds as much of a brag, and more like a compliment, but Crowley has learned not to search for a second meaning.
"I mean it." The angel grabs his hand for a split second, before letting go. "Go, see yourself in the mirror. I'll wait here."
"Thank you," Crowley says, and he means it with his whole soul—if demons even possess such thing.
Don't bother, should come an answer, but it doesn't.
Aziraphale just nods, then points towards the hall. "Come on."
Crowley smiles at him, and goes, even though he doesn't care that much about the hair anymore.