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"How about... A little treat, something of a gift. A thank you, if you wish. From me. For what you did earlier."
Crowley had come back from Hell and walked through the door to slump over his usual sofa. Nothing off, at first glance. Just your good ol' Crowley. Smug, irritated, and with as neutral a demeanor as an overcooked noodle. For someone who didn't know Crowley well enough, that is. And that someone was not the Angel.
As a matter of fact, Aziraphale knew Crowley quite bloody well. He knew when he was putting on a façade. He knew when he was being brave. He knew what he smelled like. And right now, he smelled of fear, of Hell, and of burning sulfur.
Nonetheless, he sprawled and threw his head behind and spoke in a voice that fancied itself steady:
"I don't want a treat, Angel. I don't want anything, actually." And at Aziraphale's distraught expression, he added. "’I was high on laudanum. 'tis all."
As if that made any sense. As if Aziraphale couldn’t perceive the slight trembling of Crowley’s fingers. As if Aziraphale hadn’t noticed the swollen lips and the torn patch of hair. Crowley, who never left the house with a hair in the wrong place. Crowley, who always looked so fabulous with his pale skin, and fiery hair. Crowley, who was always so perfect, and who never shamed from using his powers to look perfect. Crowley…How many bruises did he have to heal for those remaining to not matter ?
Aziraphale couldn’t stop them; tears wetted his lovely white skin. "But they hurt you, Crowley !"
His voice broke, and that broke something in Crowley. He shifted in his chair. His eyes crossed the Angel’s. He wanted them steady. He wanted them sincere.
He wanted them sincere when he lied: "No, they didn't."
Angel. It was nothing. Please don’t cry. I’ve seen worse. It’s no-
"They did !" Aziraphale spit that last bit like burning holy water. Crowley knew who it was aimed at, Aziraphale’s righteous anger. Aziraphale’s burning sword. Not at him. Never at him. Aziraphale’s sword was Crowley’s shield. And surrounded by its holy flames, Crowley, the demon, felt warm.
He stayed silent, looking away. Neither confirming nor denying. What would be the point anyway. He was burned and tired. He had gone against his better judgement, against his most ingrained fears, and he paid for it. Mistake and retribution. A story as old as time. He should know, he was there when it started.
He knew what was coming for him. (So really, Angel, please, you don’t have work yourself up like that.) And for what? A human? What was one tiny little human in the grand scheme of things anyway? With their tiny little, short lives and their tiny, small miracles. With their little problems and their big questions. What should have yet another doomed human life mattered for? Crowley was an idiot. He was an idiot because he knew… He’d do it again. And when he inevitably will, Aziraphale’s burning sword won’t be there to save him.
High on Laudanum. Keep telling yourself that.
The thing is, though. Aziraphale knew Crowley. He knew his lies. He knew his deflections. And he knew the little dither in the demon’s breathe. Aziraphale was taking none of it.
"Enough, Crowley !" The angel was staring at him, his eyes a brewing anger that Crowley knew wasn't for him. "Enough pretending. Not with me. They hurt you. They shouldn't have. But they did. And I wasn't there to stop it."
"There was nothing you could-"
"I know." There was a distinct pain in the angel's voice. Crowley wished he could ignore it, but Aziraphale refused to let him. The angel, who until then was standing at a distance, closed it to slowly kneel next to his demon's knees.
A manicured hand reached his, and Crowley looked away when their fingers interlaced. And then Aziraphale's soft lips hovered in a kiss at the back of his hand, and Crowley's heart melted. He wished he could feel more of those lips.
"Allow me to do something for you, Crowley." The angel's voice was almost pleading, and his eyes spoke a thousand words. Crowley could only nod, and a sad smile appeared on the angel's lips.
"Alright then." He squeezed Crowley's hand in a way that said I am here. "Where does it hurt ?"
And Crowley was an unlovable demon who had seen the horrors of Hell. He was unarmed against so much- so much-
"Everywhere." He blurted before his mind could catch up, and his heart sank at Aziraphale's heartbreak. But the angel was still firmly holding his hand, and he was going through with this till the bitter end. "What can I do to stop the pain?"
“Nothing.”
There is nothing you can do. Nothing whatsoever. Just leave me be. All I do is cause you pain. Please stop looking at me like that, Angel. Plea-
Aziraphale’s lips rested on Crowley’s hand again, and it brushed all Crowley’s sorrows away. He blamed his earthly constitution. He blamed all those silly hormones that for some reason came with it. He hated it. He hated how Aziraphale’s touch made him warm. How it made him feel loved. How he wanted to melt into it. To turn into his smallest, most vulnerable self, and to hide in Aziraphale’s palm just to feel his gentle warmth all over him. A warmth to drown the scorching fires of hell. Warmth that made him feel safe. Loved. Forgiven for all his mistakes. Were they really mistakes? He was too tired to know. Too hurt to think. Too much of too much. Exhausted. That’s what he was. And Hell’s brightest mind. The Snake from the Garden of Eden. And he was weak. Weak for the angel’s eyes. Weak for the angel’s touch. Weak for the angel’s words.
“Tell me what you need.” The Angel had whispered.
“Kiss me”, the demon had answered.
---
On that night in Eidenburg, two angels sat in a candle lit room. One of them had wings of the darkest gray. They called him a Fallen Angel.
He was. He had.
He had fallen.
He had fallen in love.
---
On that night in Edinburgh, two angels sat in a candle lit room. One of them had wings of the brightest white. He, too, was a fallen angel.
And he, too, had fallen in love.
When the time would be right, a few hundred years after that night, Aziraphale would admit: he had always been in love with Crowley.
Since before the Beginning. Since before the Fall.
For all intents and purposes, Crowley’s Fall from Heaven did nothing to stop it. Rather the opposite, really. For, every day, Aziraphale gave in a little deeper to the temptation that was Crowley.
Could you blame him though? He was a being of Love after all. And the demon was lovely.
The demon made him feel seen. The demon made him feel loved.
And on that night in Edinburgh, he was determined to make Crowley feel the same.
So, when Crowley asked “Kiss me”, Aziraphale did.
He kissed Crowley’s fingers, one by one, from knuckles to fingertips. He traced their shape with his lips, committed it to memory. He basked in their touch and indulged in their warmth. And above it all, on his knees, he prayed, to Her, that in all her Grace, she keeps Crowley safe.
Almost. Angels didn’t pray. And demons didn’t shiver, vulnerable, in an angel’s arms. Aziraphale decided that none of those negations were true, as he was an agent to one, and witness to another.
Vulnerable. Afraid.
Crowley, his strong, confident- Crowley.
He held Crowley’s other hand and covered it in slow intimate kisses, tracing his way up the demon’s arm. From the tip of his finger to the crease of his elbow. He let his nose brush the soft skin of the demon’s wrists, and inhaled the sent that emanated from it, filled his lungs.
There was pain in it. But he’ll take it all.
Aziraphale would take it all if it meant Crowley wouldn’t suffer.