Chapter Text
It takes them a long time to walk around the house. Crowley surveys it with the carefully considering stroll of property developers everywhere, envisioning the laundry list of tasks to accomplish with a leisurely detachment. There is a churning sensation tumbling like an enraged washing machine in his stomach, almost identical to a swarm of nerves if not for the bold patina of delight that rewrites it as a giddy excitement. He looks at the splintered back window that could catch the morning sunlight, the lush and verdant garden it could look out on, the window sill that will be wide enough for the both of them to sit at. The key is still held firmly in his grip, imprinting against his palm.
He permits himself an allotted time of exactly one minute in which he's allowed to despairingly regret that he never kept the place up – dust hangs suspended in rooms that have lain empty, the winters that have sidled past like afternoon shadows have been unkind to the paint and the pipes and the walls. He doesn't get through his quota. It's difficult when the sunshine is so genial, when he is so boisterously happy. He watches Aziraphale's face instead. Aziraphale, whose expression is radiant with joy even if his smile is only a sapling thing, his eyes damp and brimming. Who is looking around, his focus narrowing with a rose-coloured lens; it's like he can't see any of the peeling plaster or the cracks beginning to splinter over the ceiling or the flags of spiderwebs that wave in the corners of empty rooms.
At some point, he leaned in, and self-consciously took Crowley's hand. He hasn't let go since. His palm dry, his hold gentle. He doesn't speak except for short interludes, looking rather overcome by the whole business, so Crowley fills in the silences sporadically, the could bes and might bes of this home of theirs, the blueprint he's been revising in his head for half a century on a fool's dream, shaken free of dust and finally seeing daylight.
The day is still warm, although it's been cut with some of the encroaching evening chill. They've found themselves in the space that one day might be a front garden. Aziraphale steps over cracked flagstones, holds a hand out to brush the heads of unruly weeds, the sticky chickweed that attaches weakly to the fabric of his trousers. There are bottles and cans and the evidence of old rubbish that's been chucked over the wall by passing litterbugs, but Crowley looks instead at the stiff leaves of nutsedge that have already started to flower, listens to the high-pitched cheeping of the swifts that have nested under the eaves somewhere.
Aziraphale finally sits down on the rotting bench that slouches against the wall of the house. Crowley joins him, but a little more cautiously, doubting it'll take their weight. There are some ominous cracking noises, but it seems to hold.
They watch a flock of starlings circle and swoop in the middle distance, a swarm breaking up the purpling sky. The sound is disorderly, scissors through the air with the insistence of a tantrum, and it takes a moment for it to subside entirely. Aziraphale sits demurely, straight-backed, one hand on his lap and the other warm in Crowley's. The onset of evening graces his face with the low light of sundown. Crowley observes him, reading the dark circles that have taken up lodgings under his eyes, the tension he hasn't quite shaken in his shoulders. He looks off at something Crowley can't be privy to. After a moment, he returns from wherever he's been, and meets his gaze with a small smile.
Crowley thinks, with a grim brooding more suited to night-time, of the man-shaped being next to him, that he both knows entirely and doesn't know at all. Of the weeks they've had each other back, the wearied rebuilding of something like it was before, compared to the decades they've been apart. They've barely spoken about it, those rasping years without each other, both of them sewn into their own private tapestries of doubt and hurt. Aziraphale sleeps nightly, the bedside light always on, turned onto his side but holding himself with crossed arms like a carefully laid corpse, his fingers dug into the skin of his shoulders. Crowley always knows when he wakes up, because he makes a mousy gasping noise, his face splashed with a dulled panic, and he suspects, although he can't confirm, that Aziraphale opens his eyes with every certainty that one day he'll be back in that place. Crowley still isn't sleeping apart from fitful little naps when Aziraphale's dozing, and there's a lining of paranoia in his waking hours that didn't use to be there, that he isn't dealing with as well as he should, a bone-scraping terror that he'll turn around and and Aziraphale will be gone again. He suspects that Aziraphale knows about this too. At some point they might talk about these things, but not yet.
At their back is a stalwart, half-crumbling monument to the future they could have, waiting for them to take it up.
The house isn't going anywhere, Crowley finds himself thinking, as he rubs his thumb over Aziraphale's knuckles. Surely there's no use rushing into things. They have time now, time they're slowly coming to terms with the fact they have.
Maybe they need a little time to themselves, after everything.
“What do you think about a road trip?” he asks to the raucous, over-grown garden, the flushed hum of the evening from birds and bees. Aziraphale doesn't move, but he knows he's heard.
“Where would we go?” he finally replies.
“Anywhere we want to,” Crowley says, warming to the idea. “Not forever. Just for a bit. Have a bit of a holiday together, before we settle down.”
“Like a honeymoon?” Aziraphale says. His cheeks burst into a bright red as soon as he says it, but he doesn't take it back, just straightens his back a little more and clears his throat.
“Yeah,” Crowley croaks, feeling a bit hot and bothered at the idea himself. “Yeah, something like that.”
Aziraphale considers for a moment. Crowley watches the side of his face, the way his lips curl up in a pleased expression, feels the hold on his hand tighten gently.
“I'd like that,” he says, and Crowley grins.
It's only a few hours from their village to the capital – because Crowley is quite firm on the fact that, if they're going to be driving all over the place, he wants to do so in his Bentley – but it's gone dark and there's been a brief flutter on rainfall by the time they arrive in London. Crowley had forgotten, after his years on the continents, about things like traffic build-up, always some roadworks or another bottle-necking the roads, even about congestion charges, so he takes the same approach he's always taken, which is to diligently ignore the facts of the road and do what he wants.
Aziraphale snuffles and blinks slowly into consciousness with a sharp breath. His eyelashes flutter in a sleep-stunned stupor, and Crowley doesn't have the heart to tell him that the seatbelt has left a wrinkled imprint on his face. He stares out of the window at the traffic lights, the signs for shops and restaurants, the gaudy window displays, the illuminations blurred and softened by the aftermath of rain on the car window.
“We're just passing the Barbican,” Crowley says in answer to Aziraphale's unspoken question. He turned the radio down when Aziraphale dropped off, and there's the muffled beeping of the ten o'clock news filtering through the speakers. “Remember when we last went there? When we went to go see... oh,what was it, the one with the... the one that was in The History Boys, and we got ice cream and they only had strawberry left and you ended up eating mine anyway...”
Aziraphale's hard lines have gone soft in remembering. “One Man, Two Guvnors,” he says after a moment of pondering. “We went to dinner afterwards. Some new place, just opened, I seem to remember it was very much your scene.” He makes a noise like an aborted chuckle, like he's recalling something amusing. “You liked the silverware so much you pocketed it.”
“No! I would never have...”
“The one with the silver gilt patterning,” Aziraphale continues. “Look at this marvellous style, angel, you said. I simply must have them, they're positively antique. Reminds me of my old townhouse, back when the mad king was around. You keep an eye out for the wait staff, and I'll just conjure up some copies, they'll never know the difference.”
“I wouldn't have...” Crowley insists again, but with a little less certainty. He has a faint recollection of those exact implements gathering dust in his old flat before he packed it all up and moved it into storage. He also has the rather confident memory of wanting to knick something just to see the slightly impressed, mostly horrified look on Aziraphale's face.
“Whatever you say, dear,” Aziraphale replies fondly, clearly not believing a word of it.
Crowley parks the car on some double yellow lines near Chancery Lane station, and they both step out and shiver at the nip in the air. Crowley immediately gestures his coat thicker, a red woollen scarf knotted neatly around his neck. Aziraphale shivers again and rubs his hands together, and doesn't make any effort at all.
“Give yourself a coat, angel,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale nods, and screws up his face, and there's the sound of air being shunted aside by something large and furry, like a suddenly displaced Saint Bernard.
Aziraphale's attempt at a coat could be called successful only if his aim had been to replicate the density and width of mammoth fur. As it is, his fledging attempt has caused his his whole body to look like he's trapped inside a furry brown bowling ball.
Crowley can't help but laugh. Aziraphale waves it away irritably, and looks defensive, his jaw tightening.
Crowley stops laughing. It's difficult, because he had looked ridiculous, but Aziraphale looks more annoyed with himself than Crowley, looking down at his hands with a hurt expression, like he expected better from his still clearly rusty powers.
He'll get trapped thinking about that sort of thing if Crowley lets it continue.
Crowley grabs his hand in his own gloved one, and pulls him along.
“Come on,” he says.
Things are a little more twenty-four hours than they used to be since they last walked these streets together. It strikes Crowley with an unsettling thump that it really has been a long time. Since before the Apocalypse. Before their stint at the Dowling residence. The fashions have changed and the great mass of humanity moves in greater variety, more colours, more differences. There is the chatter of at least ten languages he can hear at once. And here both of them still are, both of them looking a little out of time, people moving out of their way like a wordlessly parting tide. It's clear to both of them that they don't exactly fit here, not now, not like they used to, not yet.
The first thing Crowley does is pull a grumpy and ruffled Aziraphale, who is now resolutely not shivering only out of pride, to a little out-of-the-way shop claiming – in that gold lettered, upper class pedigree sort of way – to only sell the finest English heritage clothing. The shelves are carefully stacked with exactly what he expects; a variety of crisp muted colour shirts displaying a three figure price tag, a prim looking sales assistant giving them the side eye in the corner, a selection of Harris Tweed and Barbour and Hunters and all those other sorts of brands that appeal to the sort of people who either will never approach mother nature in her natural habitat, or the sort of people who need hard-wearing, but pricey outerwear so they can wander their estate suitably protected.
Aziraphale looks around with distaste, and appears to be about to snappishly complain, so Crowley acts quickly, and shoves an egg-white ribbed beanie on his head over his travel-rumpled curls, tugging it down over his ears beginning to redden with the chill.
“It's cold, angel,” he says in a no-nonsense way, already casting a judgemental eye over the other products nearby. For good measure, he grabs a merino scarf, a stately patchwork of cream, beige and grey-ish blocks topped off with a few refined tassels at the end. Satisfied, he crowds in, folding the scarf lengthways and wrapping it around Aziraphale's neck, putting the ends through the loop and pulling it snug around his throat to stave off the worst of the night-time weather. “So you don't complain all evening.”
Aziraphale doesn't look like he's about to complain. He fingers the soft wool gently, adjusts the hat further down over his curls.
“The hat's got a bobble on it,” he says nonsensically.
“They're in fashion now,” Crowley says. He's currently fighting a turf war with an overwhelming urge to buy Aziraphale a coat to go with it, wrap him so he's warm and comfortable and protected, and he's losing ground rapidly, the sensation blind-siding him. He doesn't want to admit to losing, so he doesn't meet Aziraphale's eyes as he pulls him over to the coats section. Aziraphale follows docile and unquestioning, and Crowley gets assaulted with a knock of comprehension that Aziraphale would probably let him pick out a whole assortment of clothes for him.
The idea makes him feel a little light-headed with power, and he restrains himself, asking Aziraphale if any of them take his fancy. Aziraphale makes a token fuss, 'gosh, my dear, they're all very expensive, aren't they', still rubbing the merino wool between his fingers, and Crowley waves those away with a reminder that money has never meant much to them anyway.
Aziraphale was always the one who wore clothes. Who collected them and loved them and wore them till they were decades out of style, fraying slightly, the colour dulling with use. And since he's gotten out, he's been wearing clothes like Crowley does, by thoughtlessly imagining them into being. And they're similar to what he used to wear, a good approximation, but they don't have the weight that they used to have, don't look comfortable like an old shirt really would, don't have the reality of sensation that a well-loved coat would. Aziraphale wears his imagined clothes out of necessity, not comfort, and Crowley wants to change that, reintroduce him with a few small reminders of his old pleasures.
Aziraphale's eyes stray on a particular item and Crowley takes it off the hanger before Aziraphale can change his mind.
He helps Aziraphale take his non-existent coat off even though he could in all rights vanish it away – the shopping assistant is rather beadily staring at them, making sure they don't pocket any of the cufflinks. He slots the coat over Aziraphale's shoulders – it's a few sizes less than he used to take, and there's a momentary pang of loss there – but Crowley comes back round to the front and brushes an errant piece of lint from the lapels. The overcoat is a tasteful oatmeal, co-ordinates nicely with the hat and scarf, and the buttons are an understated golden gilt that Crowley helps do up, before he steps back, surveying the finished piece.
Aziraphale has gone very quietly. He's looking right at Crowley with something thick in his expression, and there's a pink streak across his face like he's been scratched.
Crowley feels like he's being expected to speak.
“Looks good,” he says, even though that doesn't really cover it, not really.
He clears his throat, and adjusts the scarf around Aziraphale's neck. It's a more modern look than he would have worn, but there will be time enough for Aziraphale to wear these things out with use, to darn them when they fray and fuss when they get spotted with dirt.
“We best... best pay for these,” Crowley says, feeling one of them has to say something, and Aziraphale nods and rubs his fingers over the scarf again.
Crowley buys the things from the carefully disinterested shop assistant before he's overtaken by the urge to deck Aziraphale in anything else. He takes a bag for Aziraphale's old coat, knowing that it'll disappear once they leave the air-conditioned warmth of the shop but not wanting to explain. As they walk out, Crowley sees a black leather jacket that's sporting the sort of price tag that could buy him a whole herd of cows, and he makes sure to mimic it on the way out, pleased with himself.
They stroll for a few minutes aimlessly taking in the changed scenery. After a few moments, Crowley gestures at the long street of Tottenham Court Road.
“Do you want to go to the bookshop?” he asks. Aziraphale gives a discomfited glance, something like surprise in his face, like he hadn't even remembered that.
“I...” he starts, and he looks down, before sniffing and straightening his shoulders with a certainty. “I... no. Best not.”
Crowley doesn't understand, but he doesn't ask.
“Let's just take in the sights then, angel,” he says.
It's going well. Really well in fact. Crowley's not been back to London for years, and he soaks in the changes and the lack of changes, the heady crowds, the tourists, the babble of chatter in a hundred different languages, the rowdy students. He adjusts his clothes as he walks, picking and choosing the best of the fashions that he observes, shortening his hair to follow the current trend, and garnering the interested glances of a number of people passing by or standing outside drinking. Aziraphale has moved to take his arm, and Crowley feels oddly puffed up, proud, like he's showing Aziraphale off.
London is not a quiet city. It's not the small Welsh market town they've been hiding out in, it's not the cocoon of the hotel they've been sequestered in for weeks. And Crowley doesn't think, he doesn't think, but after a while of walking, chatting only to himself, he hears it. Harsh breathing, panicky like a moth under glass.
He looks, and Aziraphale has his eyes closed. Screwed shut, a grimace on his face that's tugging all the lines in to centre around his eyes, his mouth. His walking has become leaden, mechanical. He's pulling at the scarf like he's irritating the skin.
“Aziraphale?” Crowley asks uneasily, and there's a fraught shake of the head in response. His mouth tries to move but no words come out.
Crowley does the only thing he can think to do. He pulls them both off the main street, away from the noise and the crowds and the roads, ducks down side streets and along graffitied alleyways until they reach a residential street, a few bicycles tied against railings and a scooter parked up against a bollard. Curtains are closed at all of the houses with lights on, a sure sign of the national decline of the curtain-twitcher, and there are flickers of TVs and computers inside, but there's no people walking down the roads and that's exactly what they need right now.
“Hey,” Crowley says, and he does, he tries hard to keep the panic out. “It's alright... Aziraphale?” He feels awkward, his words unwieldy, and he doesn't know what to say because that would make this whole thing too bloody easy wouldn't it, that would be too much to ask of the universe.
Aziraphale still has his eyes closed tight like he's caught in the throes of a headache. He's pulled away from Crowley and has pulled his hat down to cover his ears, has cemented the job by keeping his hands there, pressing down. And Crowley starts to get it.
Carefully, he wraps his arms tightly around Aziraphale, rocking him slightly. Aziraphale pants and hiccups and tries to calm down, and Crowley murmurs sounds that Aziraphale can't process right now, hoping that this will be enough.
It takes several long moments for the outburst to recede. Aziraphale moves his hands away from his ears, opens his eyes and suddenly looks mortified with embarrassment, realising what just happened.
“You forget how in-your-face this city is, don't you?” Crowley remarks softly, as though he hasn't just watched Aziraphale have some sort of breakdown in the middle of the street. “It's a lot to take in, after everything. It's a bit much.”
After a beat, Aziraphale nods miserably. He leans his head against Crowley's shoulder as though the weight's too much for him right now, and Crowley continues to hold them together, hoping that this helps.
“You ok?” he says after a while.
Aziraphale doesn't say yes, but he doesn't say no either. Crowley can work with that.
“I think there's a little pub round here,” he ventures. “Out of the way, pretty quiet. Doesn't even have a TV. It might even still be there. Want to check it out?”
A nod.
The pub is miraculously still there. The door's been repainted, and the place has clearly changed names and ownership judging by the sign, but the carpet's still scuffed and worn as they push the door open.
They sit down at a corner table even though they have their pick in the mostly empty place. Crowley gets himself something stronger than his usual, and Aziraphale shakily downs his water so fast he almost spills it down himself.
A closed off look is beginning to migrate onto his face. It's a familiar look, and Aziraphale has ever been a creature of habit. If there was anything uncomfortable that he didn't want to talk about it, he'd follow the grand old tradition of pretending that it didn't exist, stiff upper lip and bullishly ignoring it in a carefully layered series of mental repressions. Crowley gets it, he does. He can't help feeling a little disappointed that Aziraphale doesn't trust him more, but this isn't about his fragile ego, not really. It's about Aziraphale being able to confront reality, and maybe he's not ready to talk about what just happened.
Crowley is shocked then, when Aziraphale finally mumbles out a “I'm terribly sorry about that, my dear.” He stares at the icebergs at the bottom of his glass, at his nails, fiddles with the cardboard coaster advertising a local brewery and rips little bits out of it. “I don't quite know what came over me.”
They both know exactly what it was. Aziraphale had spent decades, trapped and alone. In a space barely three strides across. There was no light, no sound but the curse of his own breathing, and now, coming back to a city like London... it'd be enough to overwhelm anyone.
“No worries,” Crowley says. “My feet were getting a bit tired anyway.”
And it's another lie, easily spoken, too easily, and maybe how that's how they're going to play this, bricking up their unspoken terrors and shames with bold falsities in the hopes that they won't be called out on it.
Crowley doesn't want to do that.
“It will likely happen again,” he says, matter of factly. He takes a large mouthful from his glass, and looks at Aziraphale. “We'll deal with it. You don't have to be... I don't know... embarrassed or something, angel. You aren't doing this alone.”
“But I should be...” Aziraphale starts, frustration lacing his words, and Crowley can see the whole pathway of this conversation before they even set foot on it. I should be over this, he'll say. I should be stronger, I should be better, I should, I should...
“There's no timeline for this, Aziraphale,” he says, not unkindly. “We've... we've both been through a lot. And that's not just going to go away because we're back together. So there will be bad days. But I think... it's best we're honest. And we weren't always great with that sort of thing, but I want... I want us to try.”
“OK,” Aziraphale says. “We'll try.”
His hand is on the table and Crowley takes it.
Aziraphale looks at him, and he doesn't know what he's looking for, but he must find it, because a smile grows on his face. Crowley told him it would be OK, and he trusts him wholeheartedly, so he believes him. It's as simple as that to him, in a way few things are. He glances at their glasses, and Crowley's drink becomes a well-aged red, with Aziraphale's glass filling up and following suit. It's the first thing he's drank that hasn't been water and tea.
He holds out the glass with the hand that's not in Crowley's.
“To our road trip,” he says.
Crowley chinks their glasses together and wonders what he did to ever deserve this.