Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

TW: dubious/implied lack of consent (in the third flashback)

Aziraphale Fell lived a fairly comfortable life. He had his bookshop where he occasionally sold a book, along with his book refurbishment and rebinding trade. He had book dealers he corresponded with as well as students from all of the universities all across London (and sometimes beyond) who came to access his rare book collection as part of their studies.

Time passed and the students evolved from excitable undergrads to more serious masters and doctoral students. He watched them grow older, fall in and out of love and move on to the next stages of their lives; love, marriage, children.

Recently, Anathema, one of the graduate students who had been perusing his rare book selections on alchemy and witchcraft, had come the closest to finding him out; peeling back the layers of his fussy clothing and finding out his true self, his secrets and his scars. He was quite fond of the dear girl and enjoyed her company. This was the closest he had allowed himself to anyone else in nearly twenty years.

It was a cold day in February, and he watched two students, deep in love, leave the bookshop hand in hand. There was a flash of memory that took him by surprise. Long red hair and pale, freckled skin. His soft lips pressed against the constellation of freckles and those long fiery curls between his fingers as they came together, hot and slick with sweat.

He shook himself out of his reverie, blushing and frowning at himself.

“You could have that too, you know. It’s not too late,” Anathema said, coming up behind him. She knew there was no Mr or Mrs Aziraphale and that the book seller had been alone as long as the bookshop had been open; students were terrible gossips.

Aziraphale smiled wryly. “Oh, my dear, that ship sailed long ago, I’m afraid.”

Anathema raised both eyebrows. “You’re not that old.”

Chuckling despite himself, Aziraphale shook his head. “It’s not about age. And besides, I’m perfectly content with what I have here.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” she said with a knowing look. She gathered her bag and coat, before heading out the door with a wave.

Aziraphale watched her go. He watched as people passed on the pavement outside the shop, some hand in hand. He was content with what he had. He had the shop and those he corresponded with. He had the students who came by frequently. He had the ducks in St. James’s Park. He had his books!

Oh, who was he kidding, he thought to himself. Resigned, he turned the sign on the door to ‘closed,’ locking it as well before making his way up the stairs to the small flat above the shop.

He went into the kitchen and flicked the kettle on. He took out a tin of cocoa and a mug and went through the ritual of making a cup of cocoa. Then, carefully carrying the beverage to his sitting room, he sat down in his comfortable, tartan armchair and picked up his book.

This was enough. It had to be.

~~~~~~

A week after his conversation with Anathema, Aziraphale was unable to sleep. This was not the first sleepless night he had had recently. He kept thinking about what she had said, that he didn’t have to be alone. It was Sunday, and as it was the one day a week that his shop was not open; there was nothing for him to do with his time in the early morning.

He waited until after dawn, and then bundled up in his heavy wool coat, tartan (What? It’s stylish!) scarf, hat and gloves to protect against the cold, he made his way to St. James’s Park. He walked around the park slowly and steadily, watching the runners as they got their exercise out of the way for the day. He stopped to occasionally feed the ducks.

Finally, he sat down on a bench and stared out into the distance, looking out across the pond and the park. All of the feelings that had been dredged up by that one conversation with Anathema threatened to drown him. He was terribly lonely and had been for a very long time.

The bookseller had no close friendships, nor did he have any romantic ones, and had not for a very long time. He had had relationships before and the last one that he had been in, had been beyond horrible, possibly worse than Armageddon itself. It had destroyed him, the little self-esteem he had, and he had lost everything he had held dear; the one friendship that had mattered the most in the world.

He met Crowley in primary school, and they became fast friends, nearly inseparable. They celebrated milestones, birthdays and holidays together. And as they grew older, that friendship deepened into something beyond his wildest dreams. It was. . . ineffable. It went deeper than he had ever imagined. It became a love that knew no bounds. Then they went off to university together.

Aziraphale struggled at first in university; it took him some time to get a foothold, while Crowley shone. By his third year, he finally settled in. And then, he met Gabriel. That was when everything changed.

Despite the fact that it had been nearly twenty years ago, it still disturbed him. He hated what he had done and who he had become when he had been with Gabriel. He now understood that it was an abusive relationship. He had not realised this while he was in it or even once it had ended.

He didn’t know that emotional abuse counted as abuse. He had not realised that he had been manipulated into doing things he would have never done otherwise, until it was too late. He hated himself for who he had become during those few years, for what he had said and done, and for ruining the best friendship he had ever had. Gabriel had never been physical with him; well not really. There had been a few times where he had been afraid, but he had been convinced that everything was ok. He couldn’t help his mind going back to one specific moment, still wondering after all this time how he could have been so foolish as to not walk away after that night, let alone all the things that had come before and that had come after.

Holding him down against the sheets with one arm, Gabriel pressed his hardness into Aziraphale with nary a warning and only pre-come as lubricant. He tried to pull away and not tense up at the same time. Gabriel’s violet eyes looking down at him, cold as ice. Unable to move, he stopped resisting. Gabriel’s tight smile and his voice telling him, reminding him how no one would ever love him like he did, no one would ever touch him or fuck him if they were ever to part. Aziraphale nodding in acceptance and fear. The pain that had ensued from intercourse. The pain of his heart being torn apart.

The bookseller came to himself, unaware as to how much time had passed while he was lost in his thoughts, and he was chilled to the bone. He realised with horror that there were tears on his face. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, trying to will away the panic and shame that came with those memories.

His therapist (when he had been in therapy) said that he isolated himself and kept himself away from the world to protect himself from being hurt again. He had laughed at that, actually. In reality, he thought it was quite the opposite. He kept himself at arm’s length from everyone because he did not trust himself to not make the same mistakes twice; either in picking a partner who would be like Gabriel, so ruthless and emotionally manipulative (not to mention hateful and abusive), or he would once again become a monster, someone he couldn’t recognise in the mirror, so easily manipulated. He hated himself enough already, he didn’t need to add to that weight on his shoulders.

This way was better, he had concluded. This was his penance for what he did. For who he had become for that short period of time. He remained alone. Alone protected him.

Aziraphale took another deep breath and wiped the remains of his tears from his face. What he needed now, was a fortifying cup of tea. Thinking that the café in the park should be open, he got to his feet and made his way to the warm oasis.

He was standing in the queue in the café trying to decide between a scone and a toasted tea cake, when there was a sharp intake of breath behind him. He turned, concerned about the wellbeing of the person standing there. His head swam and he had to grab onto the counter to keep himself upright from the shock of seeing his former friend and one-time lover in front of him. The love of his life. The one who got away, and all the other romantic tropes and clichés in between, Anthony J. Crowley.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale stammered out, shocked. This couldn’t be happening. He must be having some sort of hallucination brought on by sitting in the cold.

“Ang-Aziraphale?”

Chapter Text

(There are no content warnings for this chapter.)

The two stared, gaping at each other, until the woman behind the counter spoke and got their attention. Aziraphale apologised profusely for his inattention and ordered his tea and toasted tea cake. He then looked questioningly at Crowley. “Would you care to join me?” His question was asked hesitantly, his voice wavering anxiously.

Crowley, at a loss for words, nodded his head, jamming his hands into the pockets of his tight, black denim jeans. Then he turned his attention to the barista to place his order. Aziraphale must have thought the same thing.

“Long black, one sugar,” they both said at the same time.

The barista smiled at them and the pair laughed, the tension broken for the moment.

The pair found a table at the back, away from the door. They made small talk about the weather, the park, the ducks. Aziraphale discovered that Crowley too enjoyed feeding the ducks, and he wondered how they had missed passing each other over the years.

Once their refreshments had been brought over, and Aziraphale had buttered his teacake, Crowley asked what he had been up to over all the years.

“Well, I taught for a bit after I got my Masters.”

“Just like you always wanted to.” There was a faint, fond smile on Crowley’s face and Aziraphale had to look back down at his breakfast. He couldn’t handle seeing that look; it threatened to break his heart in two. It was familiar and foreign at the same time.

“Yes.” Aziraphale stopped and took a breath, fighting the distress that overcame him in remembering his teaching time, being told that he couldn’t counsel his students, that it was improper. All he was doing was giving them friendly guidance, offering a kind ear when they were sad or stressed or had relationship problems. They had no one else to turn to. His ears burned crimson with shame.

“However, it wasn’t for me,” he said sadly. He didn’t elaborate. There was no point in delving into that time in his life. It was long past and he had mostly moved on.

“I know it was your dream, well one of them anyways. Too bad it didn’t work out.”

“Yes, well, I own a bookshop now. In Soho. The previous owner was elderly and selling the place, books and all. It was remarkable that it happened at all. Perhaps someone was looking out for me,” he said, glancing briefly upwards.

Crowley perked up a bit at that, smiling. “That’s great Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale frowned. While the bookshop was his oasis, his solace from the world, it too had come at a great cost. “Yes, well the inheritance paved the way for it,” he said, his voice becoming thick with emotion. He looked away, staring outside at the park as he tried to keep himself from breaking down.

“Inheritance?” Crowley inquired. The bookseller’s face twisted with grief at the word. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I know how close you were with your mum.”

Aziraphale sniffed, willing away the tears that threatened. “After teaching didn’t work out, I entered a doctoral program, thinking that perhaps teaching at the university level would be something that I was better suited to. Unfortunately, during that time, my mother became ill and passed away quite quickly and then just a few years later, so did my father. Neither Michael nor I had any use for the house, and I could hardly spend more than a few hours there without becoming hysterical, so we sold it and split the proceeds between us.”

The blonde picked up his teacup and drank from it, trying to quell the cacophony of emotions swirling in his mind and the tears still threatening to escape. “In the end, I didn’t get my doctorate, but I do have the bookshop and students come from all over London to use my rare book section to further their studies. I do restorations from time to time as well. It’s very fulfilling,” he said, and hoped that he sounded as if he meant it.

While this was true, having the bookshop had come at quite a cost; the near breakdown he suffered in the wake the loss of his parents as well as his doctoral aspirations. These things he left unsaid as there was no need to say them. He would never see Crowley again after today and he would rather that his former friend not feel sorry for him; not after what had happened between them. He would rather Crowley hated him, when all was said and done. It was what he deserved.

He took a breath. “But enough about me. What have you been up to? Did you continue on in computing?”

If Crowley was taken aback by the evident emotions in what Aziraphale had said before changing the conversation, he did not let it on. He stretched out more comfortably in his chair, long legs crossed at the ankle. “Yeah, I did actually. Made a mint before the dot com bubble burst and then went on into app development after web 2.0. It got all a bit too competitive, so I sold up. Bought a flat in Mayfair and do the occasional consultancy when it strikes my fancy.”

If Aziraphale’s head hadn’t been spinning before, it certainly was now. “Web 2.0,” he murmured to himself. “I’m terribly sorry, Crowley, but I have no idea what any of that means.”

Crowley couldn’t help himself and threw his head back, laughing. “You always were such a luddite, Angel.”

They both froze at the nickname. “Shit, fuck,” Crowley said, hissing through his teeth.

“No, it’s fine. It’s just been a long time since anyone called me that.” It was only you, only ever you, my dear boy. Nineteen years, 6 months, and fourteen days, Aziraphale thought to himself.

There was a bought of prolonged silence between the two of them. Finally, Aziraphale spoke, leaning forward as if he were conspiring. “I only have a flip phone.”

Crowley raised both eyebrows over his sunglasses. “You are joking.”

Aziraphale reached into his pocket and pulled out an ancient, battered flip phone. “I purchased this under duress. I was almost mugged one evening, and some of the students at the shop refused to come back until I had a way of being contacted other than the phone in the shop.”

“Mugged?” Crowley asked with slight alarm.

“It was nothing,” Aziraphale stated sternly, and Crowley held up his hands in surrender.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. It was nothing. A misunderstanding, really.” Aziraphale twisted his hands together in his lap and hoped that Crowley didn’t notice his increased bout of nerves.

Their beverages long finished and the conversation at an end, they rose from the table and put their winter garments back on. If either of them noticed that they did this by an unspoken understanding that it was time to depart, it was not commented on.

As they vacated the café, Aziraphale had no expectations as to anything further occurring. They were just two people who once knew each other, having a drink and then moving on with their lives. That didn’t stop him from saying, “Goodbye, Crowley. Mind how you go,” as he had used to do all those years ago. He watched as Crowley’s face briefly wrench in anguish, before he turned and quickly walked away without a word in return.

Sinking down onto a nearby bench, Aziraphale put his head in his hands. “Oh fuck,” he murmured to himself.

Chapter Text

(CW: Gabriel. Gabriel being a dick. Gabriel mistreating books. Dubious/implied lack of consent)

Aziraphale sat there for a very long time. Finally, chilled to the bone for the second time that day, he got to his feet and slowly made his way back to Soho. He had often wondered how he would feel if he ever saw Crowley again. And now he knew.

He felt confused, nervous, and just a little bit nostalgic. He was glad to see that his friend, his former best friend and lover had done so well for himself. And he looked like he hadn’t aged much either. The only thing that was noticeably different to him was Crowley’s hair. It was much, much shorter than he had ever worn it when they had been friends. It used to cascade down his back, long crimson ringlets that he never tired of playing with or plaiting. It was calming for them both, if he recalled correctly. But that is the problem with memories and revisionist history; you never remember things just right.

Finally, he reached his shop and the small flat above. He let himself in, hung his coat up and removed his shoes. He knew he probably should be hungry, but his nerves were still highly strung, leaving him feeling slightly nauseous. Instead, he made a cup of cocoa, with a liberal amount of whiskey added and sank down in his armchair. He didn’t pick up his book, he merely sat there, lost in all the old memories that had resurfaced as he sipped his drink.

“Did you tell him?” Gabriel asked as he changed for bed.

Aziraphale looked up from the book he was reading, trying to ignore his stomach churning. “Yes. It’s done. He won’t be contacting me again.” He bit down hard on his lower lip to keep it from trembling. He wanted to cry. He wanted to be sick. Writing that letter to Crowley had been one of the worst things he had ever done; no it was the worst thing he had ever done full stop and he hated himself for it.

Gabriel slid into bed beside him, plucking the book out of his hand and tossing it carelessly to the floor as if it were yesterday’s newspaper. There was no point in chastising him; he never listened.

“Good,” Gabriel whispered into his ear, sliding his hand down towards Aziraphale’s crotch. He began to nibble the tender skin behind his ear, his hand shoving down the blonde’s pyjama bottoms. “No one will ever love you the way I do, Aziraphale. Remember that. No one else would want you looking this way, all this extra flesh.” Gabriel pinched the flesh on Aziraphale’s hips, and he fought to keep from wincing in pain.

“No Gabriel, of course not.” Aziraphale could feel himself getting hard, despite the fact he was most certainly not in the mood for sex. He resigned himself to going through the motions.

After, once they were done, they had both got up to use the bathroom and clean up. Aziraphale was standing in front of the mirror in their bedroom, looking at himself, wondering who he had become. Gabriel came in behind him, his arms wrapping around him momentarily and then looked at them both in the mirror. “Lose the gut, Aziraphale,” he said coldly, slapping him on the stomach. He turned, moved and got into bed, turning out the light, leaving Aziraphale standing in the dark.

Aziraphale hated that he could remember all of this in such vivid detail. He hated that he still dwelled on this, on Gabriel after all this time. It hadn’t gotten him anywhere. All it had ever gotten him was further away from the one person he had ever, truly loved.

He took a sip of his cocoa and found that it had grown cold. Grimacing, he rose from his armchair and took his mug through to the kitchen and dumped the remains in the sink before washing it out. He walked back into his sitting room and looked around at the detritus of his sad, pathetic existence of his own making before retiring for the evening.

Chapter Text

(CW: background Gabriel; the bandstand scene; implied/referenced hate speech)

Crowley stalked quickly through the park, his head spinning. Aziraphale, after all this time, had been living what may as well have been a stone’s throw away in Soho. He didn’t know what to think about all of this; seeing the other man again had thrown him into a spiralling tailspin. What he did know was that he was going to need alcohol, quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol to cope.

He quickly walked back to his flat, removed his coat, tossed his keys and sunglasses on the counter, and headed for his drinks cabinet. He pulled out a bottle of whiskey and a glass and then threw himself onto his leather sofa. He poured two fingers of the liquid to start and tossed back half of it, letting the burn of it down his throat take some of the edge off. A moment later, he drained the glass and set it down on the table in front of him. Then he put his head in his hands and sighed heavily, the memories of the last time he had seen Aziraphale racing through his mind.

It was a cold day and the trees were bare. The sky was slate grey, the atmosphere oppressive. They had agreed to meet for a walk, something that they had often done before Aziraphale had got himself involved with that hateful tosser of a boyfriend. Crowley knew that this was probably his last chance to get Aziraphale to see the light, to break free from whatever hold Gabriel held over him.

They met at the bandstand, and slowly began to walk around the park. There were hardly any other pedestrians about on that chilly day.

Aziraphale had been so nervous, fidgeting with his hands, wringing and twisting them constantly. After some time, Crowley realised that his friend was wearing a ring, a ring on his left hand, and that was what he had been twisting around and around.

“Something you want to tell me, Angel?” He finally asked, gesturing to Aziraphale’s hand. He felt sick to his stomach, his heart in his throat.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, almost sadly. “Gabriel has asked me to marry him. I said yes.”

“Congratulations,” the redhead said, not sounding happy.

Aziraphale huffed. “You don’t sound as if you mean it, Crowley.”

“You don’t look particularly happy about it, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale didn’t reply.

A fine drizzle had begun to fall as they walked. They had come back to the bandstand and were standing inside of it, trying to stay warm and dry. Normally, Crowley would have wrapped himself around his friend, leeching his warmth. Today, he stood apart from him. He felt like he no longer knew Aziraphale; he had become someone foreign, someone he no longer understood, and it was terrifying.

Crowley sighed. “You know what? I don’t understand what you see in that wanker.” He threw his hands up in the air in frustration. What does he have that I don’t, he thought? I’d give you the moon and the sun and the stars if you asked for them. Go all the way to Alpha Centauri if you wanted.

“I know you don’t like him. But he has been so good to me, taking care of me, and the things he has shown me! Crowley, I explained to you,” Aziraphale began.

“No! I’m not listening to that again!” Crowley shouted. He was angry now. “I told you how I feel about it and he’s wrong! You’re wrong! How has he polluted your mind? For someone so smart, you can be so stupid, Aziraphale!”

Crowley knew, deep down, that Aziraphale didn’t believe any of these things that he had said recently. It was like he was regurgitating something that he had been taught in primary school, only learned so that he could pass a test. He knew his angel, how kind and tender-hearted he was; he would never hurt a fly. But Gabriel had polluted his mind with hate, manipulating him and brainwashing him into someone he was not. And it looked like there was nothing he could say or do. But he had to try, one last time.

Crowley moved closer to his friend, pleading. “Angel. Aziraphale. Stop. Just think about it for a minute. Do you really believe this shit he has been telling you? I don’t think you do. I know you, and I know you don’t harbour any hate in your heart. All those times we celebrated together with my family. All those holidays we spent together; I know they meant something to you! Please, let me help. Let me take you away from him, we could go off together, anywhere you want to go.”

“Go off together? Listen to yourself.” Aziraphale looked pained and confused; conflicted even as tears welled up in his eyes. Almost like he had been expecting this. Perhaps Gabriel had told him that Crowley would try to tempt him away.

“How long have we been friends? Six thousand years?” Crowley was prone to a bit of hyperbole now and then, and well, he had to try, to plead, to beg. Anything to keep Aziraphale, his angel here with him.

“Friends?” Aziraphale scoffed. We aren’t friends.”

Crowley felt like he had been stabbed in the heart and he knew then that he had lost. He had lost his best friend.

“We’re on our side,” Crowley pleaded, close to sobbing.

“There isn’t an ‘our side’, Crowley. Not any more. It’s over.”

Crowley felt his heart wrench into two at Aziraphale’s words. He took a deep breath.

“Right. Well, then. Have a nice doomsday,” he hissed, before turning and walking away.

A day later, he received a handwritten letter from Aziraphale. It stated that they were on opposite sides now, and that it would be for the best if they no longer had any contact. There were other things written too, things that he couldn’t believe Aziraphale could pen, and if he hadn’t been familiar with his handwriting, he would have believed it to come from Gabriel. He wouldn’t have been surprised if he had dictated the bloody thing for Aziraphale to write.

What only Crowley knew, was that he tried one last time to contact Aziraphale. He called and found that his number had been disconnected. He sent an email, but it was returned undeliverable. There was no return address on the letter; he knew his friend had moved in with Gabriel, but he didn’t know where, as Aziraphale had been cagey about it since it had happened.

So that was it. The best friendship he ever had, gone in an instant. The only person he had ever truly loved, was gone from his life.

Crowley refilled his glass and drank it down immediately. He had no idea what to think. Aziraphale wore no ring, so he presumed that he was no longer with Gabriel. He hoped that he no longer held the viewpoints that that horrid prick had subjugated Aziraphale with.

He pulled out his mobile phone and googled Aziraphale’s name. It had been a few years since he had done so, usually while he was maudlin and drunk. This time there was a profile written on a Soho blog about the bookshop. It didn’t tell Crowley anything he hadn’t discerned from their chance meeting today; that Aziraphale lived and worked in Soho. Most of the story was about the novelty of the rare bookshop and how students came from all over London to access his collection. There was nothing about any partners, pets, likes or dislikes.

Crowley drank more whiskey and pondered. It wasn’t as if he needed Aziraphale back in his life. He had done alright for himself, like he had told his former friend earlier. Made a mint, lived off his investments now for the most part, and worked when he wanted to, not because he had to. He had had some serious relationships in the past, but they had never lasted. It wasn’t that he feared commitment, there was just always something about the other person that never quite clicked with him. They weren’t Aziraphale, his brain unhelpfully reminded him. He poured another drink so he could forget.

He had his flat, his plants, his consultancy business. What else could he possibly want?

Chapter Text

(No content warnings for this chapter.)

Two days later Aziraphale found himself in a small coffee shop with Anathema. He had been dragged there nearly against his will after she caught him snapping at another grad student for the second time, which was terribly unlike him and they both knew it.

The bookseller sulked into his tea for several minutes. Anathema bided her time, waiting for Aziraphale to speak.

Finally, he took a deep breath and sighed heavily. “I am terribly sorry, Anathema. I’ve been out of sorts the past few days.”

Anathema rolled her eyes. That was the understatement of the millennium. She regarded the man in front of her carefully. Despite his fastidious appearance, she could see dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn’t been sleeping well. He looked pale and tired. She didn’t speak, just nodded for him to continue.

“I ran into a friend, well someone who used to be a friend, over the weekend. It’s brought back some troubling memories, I suppose.” Aziraphale paused and sipped his tea.

“A friend? Or a friend?” Anathema asked.

Aziraphale sat up more primly, but she knew her words had hit the mark. He was silent for several moments, twisting his fingers anxiously. Finally, he spoke.

“He was both. More than. He was the one that got away,” Aziraphale said, his voice cracking slightly.

“Well, if he was that special, maybe you could try again, rekindle things, so to speak.”

Aziraphale huffed out a miserable laugh. “There’s no forgiving the unforgivable, my dear girl.” He then turned the conversation away from his lack of a personal life and on to the topic of her thesis.

Chapter Text

CW: consensual foreplay, implied referenced hate speech, anxiety/panic attacks, self-harm (this is at the very end of the chapter)

A week after their accidental meeting in the park, Aziraphale heard the door open to his shop. It was just about closing time; he’d just got the last of the students out the door a few moments ago. He was about to call out that he was most certainly closed, when he heard a sneeze come from the direction of the front of the store, followed closely by a second and a third. He immediately recognised the sound and he froze momentarily, a memory coming into to his mind.

They were in the library, in the far stacks on the uppermost floor. Crowley had backed Aziraphale into a shelf and was pressing his iron-hard cock into his own. There were hushed moans and broken sobs as they kissed and explored each other’s bodies, and soon Crowley had his hand on Aziraphale’s length, stroking him through his trousers. Aziraphale threw his head back and the movement knocked a precarious stack of old, dusty books to the floor. The blonde pressed his head to Crowley’s shoulder, laughing. His face soon changed when Crowley turned away, sneezing violently over and over in the dust cloud that had arose. “Oh, bless you, my dear!” He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed it into Crowley’s hand. “Here.”

Crowley nodded and then sneezed again before wiping and blowing his nose. “Only you would carry a handkerchief,” he finally said, with a damp sniffle. His face went hazy for a moment before he hurriedly ducked down into the cloth once again, letting out a final harsh sneeze.

“Bless you again,” Aziraphale said. “And while I do normally carry one, I did have a different motivation for making sure I had one this evening,” he continued, blushing.

Crowley raised an eyebrow, smirking at the flush that had spread down Aziraphale’s face and neck. “Angel,” he whispered before he resumed his ministrations, his fingers traveling down eagerly towards Aziraphahle’s cock.  

Crowley’s continued sneezing broke him out of his trance, and he hurried towards the front of the store. “Oh, dear me. Bless you, Crowley!” And like he had all those years ago, he quickly pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and offered it over to the other man. He wondered if Crowley was thinking of that night when they were in university too. If he hadn’t been wearing his sunglasses, he might have been able to tell.

Crowley accepted it with a nod and hastily pressed it to his damp nose as he let out another sneeze. He removed his sunglasses with his other hand and wiped his streaming eyes.

“Bless you,” Aziraphale said softly. “I’m terribly sorry about the dust, I haven’t had a chance to finish cleaning today.” He hurried towards the door and turned the sign to closed, locking the door as well. “If you’d like, you can come up to my flat. Much less dust up there,” he continued, wringing his hands nervously. He hadn’t expected to see Crowley again after their chance meeting a week ago, yet here he was inviting him into his living space. Granted, he didn’t want Crowley to have a further allergic reaction while standing in his shop.

Crowley finished tending to his nose and nodded his agreement. “Lead the way, Ang- er-Aziraphale,” he said, looking like he was fighting back a wince. Pretending that Crowley was just staving off another sneeze, Aziraphale led them up the stairs.

Aziraphale bit his lip; this was the third time that Crowley had started to call him by the only nickname anyone had ever given to him. It was like a slap across the face and a stab in the heart to hear it again after all these years. He knew he should have just told Crowley to leave, as nothing good could come of their spending any time together or talking again, no matter how seemingly easily it had come to them the previous week. In fact, he was surprised that Crowley had sought him out at all. He could feel his anxiety ratcheting up; his heart began hammering in his chest, his vision was tunnelling, and a cold sweat had broken out across his forehead. What on earth did he think he was doing?

The bookseller took a deep breath and opened the door to his flat and led Crowley into his sitting room. “Would you like something to drink? Tea, coffee, wine?” His hands fluttered nervously in front of his stomach. He briefly wondered if Crowley knew how nervous he was; back when they had been friends he could always tell when he was starting to panic. He was sure it was more evident now as his anxiety had increased tenfold since his relationship with Gabriel.

“D’you have anything stronger?” Crowley asked with a sniff, rubbing his nose.

Aziraphale made a face as if he had just made a ribald joke in a nunnery. “Of course I do, my dear fellow,” he said and hurried out of the room to fetch his bottle of Lagavulin and two glasses.

Aziraphale was grateful for the few moments it took to gather up what he needed. He took several deep, calming breaths as he tried to centre himself. After a minute, his vision returned to normal. When he returned with the bottle and glasses, an awkward silence descended, tension evident, and the pair each drank down the first mouthfuls without speaking.

Crowley broke first. “After I saw you last week, I couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened. I never understood why. I got that letter and it crushed me, Aziraphale. It took me a long time to move on because I never understood. Can you explain it to me?”

Aziraphale’s face fell and his vision blurred fully. He could feel the all-consuming panic returning and he knew he wouldn’t get through saying what need to be said unless he could calm himself. He placed his glass down on the coffee table with a shaky hand, and placed his trembling hands on his knees, his feet flat on the floor. He closed his eyes.

As Aziraphale closed his eyes, Crowley lowered his sunglasses to fully take in the other without being watched. He frowned, as he really looked at this man, his former friend and lover as Aziraphale began to go through a breathing ritual of some sort that Crowley finally recognised as box breathing. He instinctively wanted to help, the way he used to; funny how quickly old habits returned, and he was reminded of the first time he saw Aziraphale suffering like this.

Crowley and Aziraphale were sharing a hotel room. They were on a school trip and it was Aziraphale’s first trip away from home without his parents. He was excited, but Crowley had picked up an undercurrent of nervousness rolling off his best friend for a good part of the day. He didn’t say anything; he didn’t want to make him any more stressed.

They’d fallen asleep, but at some point in the night Crowley woke to soft sobbing coming from the other bed in the room.

“Angel, what’s wrong?” Crowley whispered.

“I feel sick, Crowley,” Aziraphale whimpered between sobs.

Crowley climbed out of bed and went over to his friend. Aziraphale was laying on his back, the duvet clutched in both hands. He was trembling violently.

Aziraphale had confided in Crowley, telling him about these episodes he would have in the middle of the night. He’d wake feeling sick and would spend hours shaking and sobbing. He was never physically ill, but he always felt he would be, which added to his fear of these episodes occurring.

“Here, budge up, Angel.” Crowley waited for Aziraphale to move over, and then he climbed into bed next to him. “S’alright. Just take a nice deep breath, ok?”

Crowley felt Aziraphale nod and heard him breathe deep and exhale. He reached over and found his angel’s hand and placed his own comfortingly over it. He could feel Aziraphale’s entire body trembling as he lay there in the dark next to him. “Just keep breathing Angel, that’s it.”

As Aziraphale breathed, Crowley began to speak softly to him, asking him to remember things they had done together over the years. As he spoke, he could feel Aziraphale start to relax; the shaking decreased, and he released the tight grip he had on the duvet. Slowly but surely, Aziraphale’s breathing became even as he surrendered to slumber. Only then did Crowley allow himself to sleep.

It wasn’t until they were in university that they both really understood what Aziraphale was experiencing.

Shaking himself out of the memory, he knew he had to guard his heart first and foremost. He was patient and waited for Aziraphale to pull himself together. He didn’t think this conversation was going to be easy for either of them.

After a few minutes, Aziraphale apologised for the breathing. He then poured two fingers of whiskey into his glass and drank it down in one go. He took a final deep breath before he began to speak.

“I really am so terribly sorry. The last thing I ever wanted to do was hurt you. But you must understand Crowley, that I had to protect you. I had to tell you we could no longer be friends, because I was scared. I didn’t know what else to do. I was so emotionally manipulated at that point, that I did not know if what I was thinking were my own thoughts or what Gabriel told me was true. I know it is a poor excuse, if one at all.” Aziraphale rubbed his forehead, as if he were trying to alleviate a headache.

Crowley looked at him, still not fully understanding, but starting to see the picture. “What do you mean you had to protect me?”

Aziraphale looked pained at the question. “I was afraid that Gabriel and that idiot friend of his, oh what was his name, Sandalphon, would come after you. He used to get very angry when he found out we had spent any time together, and I feared for your safety, especially once he found out we had once been intimate. I was terrified that he would go and get drunk with Sandalphon, then find you and hurt you. When Gabriel finally gave me an ultimatum, I chose him, partially to keep you safe. I had to keep you safe, Crowley.”

Crowley hissed out a breath. He had no idea.

“Did he hurt you?” Crowley asked, his voice low.

Aziraphale poured himself another drink before answering, although this time he sipped it slowly. “Not really,” he mumbled, exhaling heavily before continuing. He evaded saying anything else about that. He didn’t want to talk about it, not now, not ever. That was a Pandora’s box that had to remain closed.

“Most of the hurt was emotional. I was not aware until years after that I had been in what was considered an emotionally abusive relationship.”

“What happened after?” Crowley asked.

“After?”

“After the letter.”

Aziraphale’s face fell. He had cried every day after he sent the letter, in secret of course. He looked down into the amber liquid at the bottom of his glass.

“I’m ashamed to say that it took about another year for me to work up the courage to leave him. I did move out of his house and moved back home a few months later. I was confused and I needed to sort out my thoughts. The distance gave me a bit of perspective and I finally realised that I was not going to be able to change him. I had hoped that I could get him to see the light, but he was too far beyond that and always had been. He had been raised that way, indoctrinated into hating. There was no way I could do anything, no matter how hard I tried. I was a fool.”

He paused for a moment, sipped his drink, and risked a glance at Crowley. His sunglasses were on, protecting him, so Aziraphale was unable to read him very well. But from the stiffness in his posture, he presumed that this wasn’t easy for him to hear. It wasn’t easy for him to say. This time in his life filled him with shame and he felt sick even thinking about it.

He really had been such a fool. He should have walked away the first time Gabriel told him what he thought of Crowley’s kind. He should have never stayed once Gabriel showed him the underground websites and videos. He was so convinced that he could fix Gabriel, show him that he was wrong, but no matter what he said or did, it didn’t change a damn thing.

Aziraphale continued, his voice lower, as if he were ashamed as to what he was going to say, which he was. “He kept telling me no one would ever love me the way he did, that I would never find anyone else if I left. I was afraid and I didn’t have anyone to talk to about it really. I tried to end it, several times in fact, but always went crawling back, like he knew I would.”

Aziraphale sighed heavily before continuing. “And then my grandmother died. That was the proverbial straw. At the funeral, he was rude and treated me poorly, and then abandoned me at the cemetery so he could go to work. I had to find my own way back, begging a ride with an uncle I hadn’t seen in years. It was embarrassing. And to top it off, Michael’s partner at the time, who is a proper arsehole, was a knight in shining armour to her the entire time, making me look the fool. That was when I realised it was over.”

“Aziraphale, why didn’t you contact me after that?” The ‘did I not mean anything to you’ was left unsaid.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and bit down heavily on his lip. When he opened his eyes again, they were filled with tears. He swiped them away with the back of his hand.

“I wasn’t very well after everything that happened. The anxiety got worse than it ever had been before. I was also terribly depressed, and I had a hard time getting out of bed for several months. But mostly I was ashamed. I was ashamed of all of the things that I said to you Crowley. I never meant any of it. I’m so, so sorry,” he cried, his voice breaking. The dam had burst, and his heart was shattering all over again.

Aziraphale was now full on sobbing, bordering on hysterical, and he had to stop speaking for a few minutes in order to pull himself together. He reached for the box of tissues on the table and grabbed one, wiping his eyes.

“By the time I pulled myself out of that hole, years had gone by. I didn’t know how to contact you, and after the way we had left things, I didn’t expect you to welcome any contact from me,” he sniffled, dabbing at his nose with the crumpled tissue.

Crowley didn’t counter that statement. Aziraphale felt he needed to keep talking, to fill the space somehow. He carried on, close to babbling.

“I went to confession, face to face confession,” Aziraphale said, and he saw Crowley wince at those words. “The priest said that God forgave me.” The bookseller laughed ruefully.

“I told the priest that was fine and good, but I would never be able to forgive myself, nor would I ever be able to ask forgiveness from the one I had wronged. So, so how could God forgive me?” Aziraphale looked down at the floor and he felt very, very small. Tears coursed down his face, dripping down onto his trousers.

“The priest never gave me an answer I could accept,” he concluded. “Since then, I’ve had a series of jobs I failed at and no relationships to speak of. So, Gabriel was right about one thing in the end.” Aziraphale ran a hand across his face and sighed. He felt like he had aged six thousand years.

“I am terribly, terribly sorry for everything I put you through. Words cannot express how profoundly sorry I am. I don’t expect you to forgive me, Crowley. But now you know the truth. I wish I had been stronger. You deserved so much better,” he said softly.

Aziraphale was caught between wanting to throw himself at Crowley’s feet and sob and beg forgiveness and getting up and running out of the room and hiding. Instead, he did neither, sitting there frozen, giving Crowley time to process all that had been said.

“I. . .. I don’t know what to say, Aziraphale. That’s a lot to take in.” Crowley finally said with a sigh.

“I know. I’m sorry,” Aziraphale whispered.

“I’m sorry you’ve been alone,” Crowley said, and was surprised that he meant it.

“I’m afraid I do deserve that, my dear. Penance for my misdeeds,” Aziraphale replied.

Aziraphale watched as Crowley exhaled deeply. He knew this was a lot after so much time had passed. He wasn’t surprised when Crowley got to his feet, making his excuses to leave.

Silently, they vacated the flat and headed back down the stairs. Before they reached the door, Crowley looked at Aziraphale. His eyes were red rimmed and his he looked haggard and haunted. Part of him wanted to reach out and offer comfort, and a smaller, primal part of him wanted to relish the hurt clearly evident there. Instead he did not say anything but hurried away without looking back.

Aziraphale watched as Crowley left, walking quickly down the street. He locked the door and rested his forehead against it for a moment before returning upstairs to his flat.

Aziraphale didn’t think that anything had been solved after talking, if anything he felt even worse about everything that had happened, all the things that he had done wrong; how he had really done the wrong thing. If he had just been stronger, stood up to Gabriel, and did what he knew was right, he wouldn’t be in this place. He wouldn’t be begging for Crowley’s forgiveness, which he didn’t deserve. He was horrible and a waste of space. He deserved all of the things that had happened to him and most of all, he deserved to be alone. He wasn’t sure what was worse, seeing Crowley again and stirring up all those old feelings, or the thought of never seeing the other man again.

He put the bottle of whiskey away and washed out the glasses in the kitchen. He paced his flat, like a cat on the prowl; he wanted to crawl out of his skin. He wanted to scream and cry and rend his garments.

Hating himself even more, he went into the bathroom and undressed for bed, despite the early hour. Before putting his pyjama trousers on, he opened up a drawer and removed a small box. After cleaning the top part of his thigh with antibacterial gel, he removed the blade. He made eight cuts in the skin, mirroring the numerous white scars already there. He watched the blood run down his pale skin and sobbed.

Once the blood clotted, Aziraphale cleaned up his leg, bandaging it. He finished getting into his pyjamas and made his way into the bedroom. He sat down on the bed and picked up the small stuffed bunny that was sitting on top of the duvet. He curled onto his side with the bunny and cried himself to sleep, lost in the memories before everything had gone horribly wrong.

“I got you something, Angel,” Crowley said, waving a small parcel, crinkling tissue paper peeking out over the top of the giftbag.

“Oh, Crowley. You didn’t have to get me anything, there really was no need.”

“I like spoiling you.”

  Aziraphale flushed pink at the words as he accepted the small parcel. He put his hand inside the giftbag, and it met something soft and plush. He pulled out a black, stuffed bunny wearing a tartan bowtie.  

“Oh, he’s lovely, my dear. Thank you.” Eyes sparkling with happiness. Aziraphale leaned over and gently kissed his best friend and lover. 

He could feel Crowley relaxing into the kiss, and he pulled away for the moment. There would be time for anything intimate later. “He needs a name,” Aziraphale murmured.

“Huh?” Crowley looked at him, confused.

“The rabbit, dear.”

“Oh. Hmmm. What about Harry?”

“Harry the rabbit?” Aziraphale inquired with a grin.

“S’nice. For a rabbit.” Crowley took Harry the rabbit from Aziraphale’s hands and placed him down on the nearby table before pulling him into a kiss. This time he didn’t pull away.

Chapter Text

(CW: general anxiety, otherwise no specific warnings)

The storefront of Aziraphale’s bookshop was deserted. Anathema had knocked and banged and yelled on more than one occasion. She called both the shop landline and Aziraphale’s mobile but there was no answer. She asked other shop owners and students if they had seen him recently, but no one had. This wasn’t the first time that Anathema had found the shop closed for a few days. Aziraphale always turned up a few days later, claiming that he’d been out of town visiting a rare book dealer. She had never quite believed him but gave him the benefit of the doubt each time.

-----

Crowley was unsettled and had been since he left Aziraphale’s flat. He took a consulting job for the distraction, but he was finished in a matter of hours. He yelled at his plants and drove his car at speed through central London, but nothing made the uneasy feeling he had go away. All he thought about was the look on Aziraphale’s face as he walked out the door.

After all this time and all these years apart, two meetings shouldn’t have left him feeling like this. He shouldn’t be worried about the man who broke his heart, but he was. Something about the way Aziraphale had been, something in his eyes gnawed at him.

He spent days overanalysing what Aziraphale said. The book seller mentioned going to confession but was he still a practicing Catholic or indoctrinated in what Gabriel had tried to involve him in? Crowley thought about it, trying to build a picture of what Aziraphale was like now; there was no evidence that he was still involved in religion in any form in his flat or store from what he had briefly seen, apart from a section in the book store of old bibles, but he’d always been a collector of ephemera.

Crowley had been absolutely devastated when Aziraphale said he was converting to Catholicism for Gabriel. Crowley believed for years that he’d be the one converted for, especially after everything they had experienced together. All the times they’d gone to services together and all the meals they had shared while growing up; Aziraphale being included in all of the holiday meals with his family and Crowley’s own dad calling him his adopted son.

He thought back to a number of things: When Aziraphale questioned everything and was so filled with curiosity and read every book in both libraries in the town they grew up in. When they took the train to London to seek out new reading material. The pair of them laughing like loons while they searched tipsily for the afikomen. Being woken up by loud Klezmer music on a hot summer morning, after they’d been up half the night talking and giggling. When Aziraphale’s father gave him a pendant, accepting his choice. Crowley knew his angel had spoken about conversion to someone; Aziraphale didn’t know that, he had never told him. Crowley had hoped. Waited. Hoped some more.

And with Gabriel he just gave it all away; all the books and the pendant and with it a piece of Crowley’s heart.

Crowley found himself walking around St James’s Park, partially hoping that he would run into Aziraphale again. As he walked, it hit him. The look on Aziraphale’s face reminded him of when they last spoke twenty years ago at the bandstand.

Something instinctive took over in his brain and he found himself all but running towards Soho and Aziraphale’s shop. Finding it closed, he banged on the door, shouting, “Angel! Aziraphale! Where the heaven are you?”

He stood there in front of the shop, staring up at where he assumed the flat was, but there was nothing; no movement at all.

Crowley had no idea how long he stood there outside the shop, until suddenly he was joined by a woman in an eclectic outfit. She had long, curly hair and had a bag over her shoulder and an armful of books. He assumed that she must be one of the students that Aziraphale had mentioned, trying to gain access to the shop for her studies. She introduced herself as Anathema, student and friend of Aziraphale’s.

“You don’t look like a student,” Anathema said.

Crowley snorted. “Not bloody likely, book girl.”

It was Anathema’s turn to make a derisive sound before speaking. “No one has seen Aziraphale in a few days.” She paused a moment, looking at him carefully and then she knew exactly who he was, confirmed when she read his aura. It was a dusky pinkish red; she could read concern, confusion and an undercurrent of love mixed with pain.

“You’re the one.” Her eyes were wide, almost in awe, but there was also a glimmer of confusion.

“Sorry?” Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“It’s not my place to say, nor is it my story to tell. But I think that you need to know before you go any further that your presence has affected Aziraphale.”

Crowley sighed. Aziraphale clearly trusted this girl. “Aziraphale was my best friend. We. . . well we fell out a while back and recently ran into each other; which I am assuming you know.”

Anathema nodded and indicated for Crowley to continue.

“We talked a few days ago about what happened back then and from what you said, he hasn’t been seen since.”

Crowley had begun pacing back and forth while speaking, running his hands through his now mussed red hair.

“You don’t think . . .” Anathema began, now uneasy that she had not checked on Aziraphale sooner.

Crowley did not know what to think. From what he had seen, Aziraphale was still terribly anxious, even more so from when they had been growing up. He had isolated himself from most of the world. Crowley’s own sense of unease was reaching a crescendo; something he used to feel quite strongly when he and Aziraphale were growing up and the blonde was unwell or stressed.

“Listen, book girl, I’m sure he just has flu or something.” He smiled, but it was forced.

Anathema was not convinced, but something in his aura told her she could trust him. She pulled a key from her skirt pocket and handed it over. She had debated with herself for the past few days about checking on Aziraphale, but she knew how fiercely private he was, and she didn’t want to overstep her bounds, despite her worry.

“I normally wouldn’t betray his trust like this, but I have class in thirty minutes, otherwise I’d check on him myself.”

Before she left, they exchanged numbers. Crowley watched her stride quickly down the street.

Crowley looked at the key for a long moment before placing it into the lock and stepping inside the shop. It was chilly inside, dust motes floating about. Ignoring the dust, he retraced his steps from the other evening and headed upstairs. When he got to the door, he called out Aziraphale’s name. Nothing.

He turned the handle of the door, and it opened easily. He ventured into the silent flat. It was colder upstairs, a far cry from the warm, inviting space he had been in a few days ago.

Quietly, he entered the sitting room and found it empty. He crept into the kitchen and found nothing amiss. The glasses they had drunk from were still on the draining board.

The flat was as still as a graveyard, and Crowley was beginning to wonder if Aziraphale was even here. It smelled like old books and cocoa; it reminded Crowley of university and the times he had spent in Aziraphale’s tiny rooms which were absolutely teeming with books. Deciding not to dwell on that, he headed down the hallway and came to a partially closed door. Heart hammering in his chest, he pushed it open.

Chapter Text

CW: past Gabriel being a dick, past Gabriel vague fat-shaming Aziraphale, the author's terrible descriptions of dreams, and incorrect appropriation of TV!Omens quotes to the wrong character

Aziraphale had been in bed for several days, unaware of how much time had slipped by. He barely bothered to get up; only for water and the toilet. He slept fitfully off and on with nightmares taunting him at regular intervals. He heard his phone ring out several times and once or twice he thought he could hear banging on the shop door. He ignored it all.

He was somewhat aware that he was dreaming and that it felt reminiscent of times long since passed; when he was a child, he would have recurrent dreams when ill or stressed. This was similar but different all the same.

The dreams started like they always did, with Gabriel shouting at him about his relationship with Crowley, angry that Aziraphale had intercourse with someone like him. The nightmare switched from that to Gabriel forcing him to watch videos of unspeakable acts, always with Aziraphale trying to explain to him how he believed this was wrong, but two wrongs didn’t make a right. Gabriel always ignored that, saying that they were killing kids, innocent kids. You can’t kill kids. The dreams took a strange turn after those heart-wrenching ones. All these images rapidly cycling through in his dream, as if he was watching his life in fast forward.

He was in church, a heavy robe weighing him down. He was hot, but water was poured over his head and dripped down his back, icy cold. Gabriel and Sandalphon were there, watching with sinister grins. Gabriel had forgot the camera. Aziraphale had done what he was told and ‘lost the gut,’ but there was no photographic evidence to prove it. He was wearing purple that day, to match Gabriel’s eyes, not his own cerulean blue ones. He stood on the altar and looked out at the people in the pews. No vibrant red hair called to him like a siren. He wanted Crowley to be there, his heart wrenching that his best friend wasn’t there, that he couldn’t be there for him. Aziraphale went home alone and ate the chocolate covered strawberries he had hid from Gabriel and cried for all that he lost that day.

Aziraphale woke from his dream state, finding his face damp with tears. He wiped them away with the back of his hand. His bedroom was dim; he was unsure if it was night or day. Not caring, he pulled the duvet up and over his head and fell back into slumber, the weight of his emotions burying him back under.

Aziraphale normally dreamt in colour, but this dream was dark and shadowy. It was cold and grey and there were bare trees surrounding him. He knew this place; the bandstand.

Was he doomed to relive that day in his dreams forever? He heard Crowley shouting his name, but it sounded like he was very far away. In the dream, he looked around, but there was no one else there. Just the trees and the cold.

He heard Crowley calling his name again, but he couldn’t see him. It suddenly became foggy and he couldn’t see a hand in front of his face. He heard a sound like thunder, and he bolted upright in bed.

“Crowley!” He gasped out.

“Aziraphale?” The voice was close by.

He blinked rapidly, confused. His eyes were uncomfortable and gritty from crying. They felt tacky, like when he was in the throes of hay fever. They were probably red sore and irritated as if it were spring, rather than the dank chill of February.

Crowley. Why was Crowley in his bedroom? He’d been dreaming of him. Maybe this was still a dream, he thought.

“Crowley?” He blinked his sore eyes again.

“Aziraphale, are you ok? Have you been unwell?” Crowley stood there, his sunglasses pushed up into his hair, which was wild and untamed, a frightful look on his face.

Why was Crowley asking him these questions? Why did he look frightened? Aziraphale was still in that liminal space between dreaming and consciousness and he rubbed at his face as if to rouse himself.

Crowley saw the confusion on his face. “Do you know what day it is?”

“Monday?”

“Aziraphale, it’s Wednesday.” His voice was strained and taut, like a violin string at its breaking point.

Oh. Fuck. Aziraphale’s face fell. He’d lost several days. He turned and found there was a glass of water beside him. He drank some, realising how parched he was.

Finally, it dawned on him that this was not a dream and Crowley was really there. “How did you get inside?” His voice was rough from lack of use, and he cleared his throat before draining the remainder of the water.

“Met one of your grad students outside. She was worried about you.”

“Ah. Anathema.” He had given her a key in case he had lost his or accidentally locked himself out. He didn’t know what else to say.

Crowley was looking at him the way he used to before he met Gabriel. Before everything changed and it was painful to see. Aziraphale averted his and stared down at the rumpled duvet. He couldn’t bear to see the look on Crowley’s face.

Crowley didn’t know what to think. He wanted to guard his heart but seeing Aziraphale so broken, he just wanted to reach out and fix it all, to repair what had been broken. Aziraphale had paid too heavy a price for what had happened. He’d been emotionally manipulated and abused. He’d been alone for two decades trying to atone.

“Angel,” Crowley said softly.

This time the use of the nickname tore Aziraphale’s heart open. He began to sob, rocking back and forth as he clutched the duvet in his hands. Hot, salty tears coursed down his face.

Crowley sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled Aziraphale into his arms. The bookseller sobbed even harder at the touch; he couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched him, let alone hugged him.

Crowley let Aziraphale cry. He rocked him and let him weep, his shirt quickly becoming damp, none of which mattered. His own eyes weren’t dry either. They stayed that way, embraced, for a few minutes; the only sounds were Aziraphale’s quiet sobs.

Breaking the silence, Crowley whispered into Aziraphale’s white-blonde curls. “It’s alright Aziraphale. It’s alright, I’m here. I forgive you,” And as he spoke, he realised he meant it.

Those three words made Aziraphale’s sobs go from wrenching to heaving. He began to tremble, overwrought. He felt like he might shake apart in Crowley’s arms.

“You can’t mean that.” He croaked out brokenly. “I did the unforgivable.”

Crowley pulled back so he could see Aziraphale and looked directly into his tear-filled eyes, keeping his hands on the blonde’s arms to reassure him. “Aziraphale, you never meant what you said. I know that now. Yeah, you should have come to me. I would have helped. I should have seen what was happening, but I let my anger and jealousy get in the way. It was twenty years ago. You broke free and left him. You were strong enough to do that and carry on. And you did it alone, didn’t you?”

Sniffling damply, Aziraphale nodded. He’d had some support, but he had no friends at the time. He had been so alone. He’d been alone for so long.

Could this be real? Was Crowley really here forgiving him? Or was he having some psychotic break? Afraid that this might be his last chance to touch Crowley again, he leaned his head down onto Crowley’s shoulder, setting off another wave of tears.

Crowley wrapped his arms back around Aziraphale. “It’s ok Angel, it’s going to be ok,” he whispered.

When they finally broke apart, a red-eyed, Aziraphale looked at him as if he expected Crowley to disappear. They looked at each other awkwardly, with half-shy glances.

“Aziraphale, you don’t have to be alone anymore,” Crowley said, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. He wasn’t sure if this was the best idea he had ever had, but after seeing Aziraphale again, he realised how much he had missed his friend. Finding him alone in his flat distraught had cemented that feeling. And, he had missed the closeness that they once had, all of which he had been reminded of as they had been embracing.

Blinking in confusion, Aziraphale gaped at the other man. He was overwhelmed and sagged against the headboard. He wiped a hand across his damp eyes and made a face. He realised he must look like a rumpled disaster, and he tried to smooth down his hair; he was certain it must be sticking up in all sorts of ways. He was also fairly sure he didn’t smell all that great after spending the past few days in bed.

Crowley couldn’t help himself and he chuckled softly. He could see Aziraphale was finally fully aware and noticing that he was not as put together as he normally would have been. Crowley was just glad that he had been sleeping rather than what he had secretly feared when he arrived at Aziraphale’s book shop. He also didn’t want to overwhelm the other man any more than he already was. “Why don’t you have a shower? I’ll make you a cup of tea and we can talk some more if you’d like.”

Aziraphale nodded and Crowley got to his feet and sauntered into the kitchen, giving Aziraphale a chance to gather his thoughts as well as what he needed to clean himself up in private. Aziraphale couldn’t help but find a hint of a smile spreading across his face as he got out of bed, feeling slightly more positive than he had in some time.

Chapter Text

CW: past Gabriel being a dick, the author's terrible descriptions of dreams, mention of blood at the end of the chapter

While Aziraphale was in the shower, Crowley put the kettle on. Aziraphale had always been a creature of habit and he found it easy to find the tea and mugs. There was even some bread in date, and he put two slices into the toaster while he waited for the kettle to boil. Opening the fridge, he was relieved to see that the milk had not expired.

Crowley fretted. He was grateful that Aziraphale was safe from harm. The emotional toil would take longer to heal from; for both of them, but he knew he was at least somewhat in a better place than Aziraphale was.

Aziraphale had been alone for so long and that was a lot for someone to take on. There was a lot of history here between them both and Crowley did not think he could walk away again, especially knowing what he knew now. The kettle clicked off startling him out of his thoughts. He made two cups of tea, hoping Aziraphale still took it the same way- milk and one sugar.

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Aziraphale showered off the grime of the past few days. He was glad to see his leg was mostly scabbed over; that was something he was not yet ready to explain to anyone, let alone Crowley.

He didn’t linger in the shower, despite relishing the warmth of the water. He had still yet to discover what Crowley had been doing in his flat, apart from the fact that both he and Anathema had been concerned about him. Puzzling that over in his mind, that anyone might have noticed he wasn’t open and actually cared, he finished washing his hair and turned the water off.

By the time Aziraphale made his way into the kitchen, his hair in damp curls, Crowley had set the table with tea and toast. He stopped short and stared at the scene. It felt like coming home. Overwhelmed, tears welled up in his eyes and coursed down his face. He clamped a hand over his mouth, a broken sob echoing in the otherwise quiet room.

Unsure what to do, Crowley slowly walked over to Aziraphale and carefully led him to a chair. Aziraphale nodded his thanks as he tried to pull himself together, wiping ineffectively at his face. Noticing Aziraphale’s tears, Crowley wriggled his hand into his jeans and pulled a cloth from his pocket; the handkerchief Aziraphale had given him the last time he had seen him.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale whispered, wiping his eyes. He blew his nose and made a face. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Crowley said. He nudged the glass of water towards Aziraphale. “Drink up, you must be dehydrated by now.”

With a shaking hand, the bookseller sipped at his water and then picked up a slice of toast and began to slowly eat. He felt weak, lightheaded and overwhelmed.

Crowley sat down and sipped his tea. He watched Aziraphale eat while he considered what to do. Of all the possibilities he had for today, seeing Aziraphale hadn’t been one of them.

After Aziraphale finished a slice of toast and some tea, he felt more aware and in control of his faculties. “Thank you, Crowley.”

Crowley shrugged. He didn’t know what to say exactly, so he settled on something safe. “Feeling better?”

Aziraphale nodded and picked up his tea, cradling it in his hands. It helped ground him, the warmth of the mug seeping into his hands. This was uncharted territory, for him- for them both. He knew he needed to try to be brave.

“Crowley, why are you here? How did you come to meet Anathema?”

Crowley ran a hand across his face. “I was taking a walk. I had been feeling unsettled and wanted to make sure that you were ok.” He decided to avoid mentioning the bandstand for now, and how Aziraphale looked that same way when he had seen him the other day.

“I ran into book girl outside. She had to get to class, so she gave me the key so I could check on you. She was worried about you too, you know.”

“Oh, I see.” Aziraphale looked down at his lap, blushing. He was terribly embarrassed that people had been worried about him. He wasn’t worth it or the trouble. He placed his mug down on the table and fought the urge to run and hide under the duvet.

“Listen Angel, it’s ok to not be ok. It’s been hard for me too. It was hard seeing you again.”

Aziraphale looked up at that, a pained look on his face. His hands began to tremble, and he moved to put them in his lap.

“No, no, not like that,” Crowley explained. He moved his seat a bit closer to Aziraphale, so he could take his hand, in hopes of comforting them both.

“All this, has dragged up old memories, right?”

Aziraphale nodded, looking down where Crowley had put his hand over his own. “Yes, yes it has.”

“Not all of the memories have been bad. I’ve spent time thinking about all the good times we had, growing up together. And I missed you, you know, over the years. And I can’t help but wish I had tried harder, especially now,” Crowley said. He had never wanted Aziraphale to be alone; that was the last thing he ever wanted.

Aziraphale began to softly cry again, his hand still held by Crowley, shaking.

“I was dreaming about you, right before I woke up,” Aziraphale said softly.

Crowley quirked an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Oh, not like that, you fiend!”

Crowley couldn’t help but grin and Aziraphale managed a smile through his tears. He took a deep breath before speaking.

“The dreams always begin the same way- with Gabriel yelling at me and berating me,” Aziraphale shuddered. He didn’t want to talk about the ins and outs of that, not yet. He deliberately avoided looking at Crowley, afraid to see the disgust on his face.

“And then time has passed, like it does in dreams, you know how time shifts? It’s suddenly the day I finished RCIA, you know received into the Church?” Aziraphale looked up to make sure Crowley understood. Crowley nodded.

“Gabriel forgot the camera and I had put so much effort into my appearance that day and there was no evidence of it at all. How shallow that sounds,” Aziraphale said, shaking his head. “That entire day, I kept looking for you, for your red hair. Even in the dream I’m disappointed and sad that you’re not there.” Aziraphale sighed sadly before continuing.

“And then I’m standing at the bandstand. It’s cold and grey and I’m alone but then I heard your voice. I couldn’t see you, but I heard you. And that’s when I woke up. That’s not how the dream usually goes. I must have heard you when you came in.”

“What usually happens in the dream?” Crowley asked hesitantly.

Aziraphale trembled and worried at his lower lip. How could he explain how he revisited that day over and over again in his dreams? He looked down at the table, avoiding Crowley’s eyes.

Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hand, offering him reassurance. “You don’t have to tell me, Aziraphale. It’s ok.”

Silence filled the room for a moment.

“It’s always that day at the bandstand, over and over again,” Aziraphale finally whispered out. “I always stand there, frozen, and watch you leave.”

“Oh Angel,” Crowley said, before pulling Aziraphale into a hug. He could smell the light scent of his shampoo, something light that reminded him of a mixture of an ocean breeze and petrichor.

When they finally separated, Crowley sighed heavily. “I dream about it too, Angel.”

Aziraphale looked at him, puzzled. “You do?”

Crowley ran the hand that wasn’t still holding Aziraphale’s through his hair. “Yeah. It was an awful day and we both said a lot of things that we didn’t mean. And if we’re being honest, I had been thinking about that day today, myself. That’s the real reason why I came by. The look on your face the other day, when I left. . ..” Crowley paused a moment and took a deep breath. “It reminded me of how you looked at the bandstand. It had been nagging at me, in the back of my mind. I decided that I needed to see you and make sure you were ok.”

Guilt rested heavily on Aziraphale. Now he felt awful that Crowley had wasted part of his day to come over and ensure he was alright. He wasn’t worthy of his time and attention. He could feel the tears starting to well up again and he fought against the rising anxiety ratcheting up through his body. He unconsciously dug his free hand into where he had cut himself the other day, wanting to feel anything but the overwhelming emotions he was battling. He let the pain ground him for a moment.

“I’m sorry you had to take time away from your day because of me, Crowley.” Aziraphale frowned and went to take a sip of his tea, finding the mug empty.

“Another cup of tea?” Aziraphale asked, pulling away from Crowley, and rising to his feet. He didn’t look at Crowley; he was afraid to see what he would see written across his face.

Crowley frowned. He hadn’t lost anything because he was with Aziraphale and he needed to make that clear. “Aziraphale,” he began, but his train of thought was lost when he saw blood seeping through Aziraphale’s trousers.

“Angel, you’re bleeding.” Crowley’s eyes were frantic with worry and Aziraphale suddenly realised that he had kept his sunglasses off this entire time.

Aziraphale looked down at his light camel coloured trousers. There was a line of blood seeping through. He should have bandaged his thigh after he had gotten out of the shower. Or owned darker coloured trousers.

“Oh, fuck,” Aziraphale said eloquently.

Chapter Text

Fuck.

Aziraphale leapt from the table, but Crowley was faster, and he grabbed his hand. “Angel. Please,” he pleaded. The anguish was written across both their faces.

“Please, let me help you.”

“I. . .. I . . ..” Aziraphale looked down at the ground, shoulders slumping.

After a moment, he nodded, and they walked down the hall to the bathroom. When they got there, Aziraphale finally spoke. “Give me a moment?”

Crowley nodded and let Aziraphale go.

Aziraphale went into the bathroom and removed his trousers. He would have to remember to remove the bloodstain later. He wrapped a towel around his torso, hiding himself, as if that could protect him. While Crowley had seen him naked, it had been twenty years since he’d done so. He knew he didn’t look the same. Before he could lose himself in the cycle of torment of Gabriel’s words about his unsightly appearance, he opened the door and let Crowley in.

Aziraphale sank down onto the closed toilet lid, his entire body shaking. Crowley crouched down and placed a hand on Aziraphale’s uninjured leg. “I’m not going to hurt you, Aziraphale. You know that.”

“I . . . I know,” Aziraphale said, and began to softly cry, tears streaking down his face. The gentle touch was overwhelming for him. It had been so long since he had been touched, really touched and he knew he was terribly touch starved. Even if Crowley was only trying to tend to his wounds, it was something. And it was terribly overwhelming to be touched right now, especially in this situation. He wanted to stay and be tended to, but also run away and hide at the same time. He took a breath and bit down on his lower lip in order to keep from sobbing.

Crowley regarded Aziraphale’s soft thigh, lightly dusted with platinum coloured hair. A few of the cuts he’d made had re-opened and were bleeding slightly.. Those would easily be tended to. What Crowley was more concerned about, were the numerous white scars that littered the top of Aziraphale’s thigh.

“Oh, Aziraphale,” he breathed. Crowley bowed his head for a moment. He pulled himself together before he too began to cry.

“Do you have something to clean them?”

Aziraphale nodded. “In the cabinet,” he gestured.

Crowley found cotton wool, antiseptic and plasters- all neatly displayed in the cabinet. He took the supplies out and began to carefully tend to the cuts. He wiped away the blood first, gently pressing down on the cuts until they stopped bleeding. He then applied ointment and waited for it to dry before applying the plasters. He did this without commentary, and as tenderly as possible.

“There now,” Crowley said softly. “Those will heal on their own soon. Just don’t go touching them again.”

Crowley got to his feet. “I’ll let you get dressed,” he said leaving the bathroom. Aziraphale merely nodded.

It took a few minutes for Aziraphale to move. He wrapped the towel around him and headed for his bedroom in order to put on a different pair of trousers. He didn’t bother with his normal attire and found a pair of old joggers he wore when he went for brisk walks; contrary to popular belief he wasn’t always dressed like an Edwardian relic.

Aziraphale headed back into the kitchen and found that Crowley had made them each another cup of tea. He nearly began crying again at the simple, kind gesture. It had been so long since anyone had done anything for him, out of kindness or otherwise.

Instead of sitting back at the table, he led the way into his book lined sitting room. He was afraid that Crowley would have more questions, and if he was going to have to answer them, he would rather be comfortable and surrounded by his beloved books; a place where he felt safe.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, the only sound was the sipping of tea. The silence was heavy and oppressive, neither of them knowing what to say. It almost seemed inevitable that they would start speaking at the same time.

They both laughed and it lightened the mood somewhat. Aziraphale gestured towards Crowley. “Please, you first.”

If Aziraphale was honest with himself, he’d prefer that neither of them spoke of this ever again. He wasn’t ready to talk about this; he wasn’t sure if he’d ever be.

Crowley took a deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts. It had been quite a few days. And somewhere along the line, he’d decided that he had just found Aziraphale again and he wasn’t going to lose him (again) without a fight. Now that he had admitted this to himself, maybe, just maybe it would all be ok.

“Listen, Aziraphale . . . . you don’t need to tell me about this, now or ever if you don’t want to. You don’t owe me an explanation. Just, if you ever feel like that again. . . . please call me. You don’t even need to say why. We can just talk . . . about anything you want.”

Aziraphale felt like he was suddenly under water; overwhelmed and confused. All competing emotions and feelings simultaneously. He felt his eyes well up with tears again.

“You, you still want to talk to me?” Aziraphale’s voice sounded very small. He blinked owlishly at Crowley, a few tears escaping. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

Not for the first time, Crowley wanted to rip Gabriel limb from limb. He had really done a number on Aziraphale’s sense of self worth.

“Angel,” Crowley began, trying to put what he was feeling into words. “Of course I do! Just found you again . . ..” He paused a moment.

“Look, what happened back then can’t be changed. But we’re both here now, and I’d like to . . ..” Crowley paused again, his emotions getting the better of him. He blinked rapidly, trying to keep from crying.

“You were my best friend,” Crowley said hoarsely. “And I missed you. So much.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I don’t want to lose you again.”

Once again, Aziraphale couldn’t believe what Crowley was saying. He never thought in a million years that he would ever have this chance again. “I missed you as well. Terribly so,” he whispered. “I never thought I would see you again.”

The bookseller sighed heavily. “After we ran into each other, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. It brought back so many memories, so many feelings. And then I was just so angry- at him. But mostly at myself for not trying harder, for not being braver. And I was so angry at how much time had passed.” Aziraphale looked down into his tea, as if it held the answers.

“I was too,” Crowley said. “Twenty years is a long time.” He took a sip of his now cold tea and grimaced.

“I used to wonder what it would be like,” Aziraphale whispered.

“What what would be like?” Crowley asked.

“Seeing you again. And it doesn’t compare to how I am feeling right now.” Aziraphale had begun to tremble, shaking slightly, and placed his cup down on the coffee table. He fidgeted with the hem on his shirt, trying to keep himself in control.

“How do you feel?”

“Scared. And a little bit sad. But mostly grateful, that maybe, I have a chance to make things right, if you’ll let me.” Aziraphale had knotted his fingers together and was twisting them, his hands still trembling.

Crowley reached over and took Aziraphale trembling hands in his. “Only if you let me make things right too.”

Chapter Text

TW: No real content warnings for this chapter that haven't already been covered. Background Gabriel being an arsehole, but in the past

2 months later

Aziraphale was early for his meeting with Crowley in the park. In hindsight, he should have picked somewhere else, given how itchy and uncomfortable he was feeling at that moment. But the park was a safe place, a neutral place for them to meet, even if they did end up at his flat above the shop more often than he had expected. Not that he had any expectations at all; he was just glad that he was getting the chance to right his wrongs.

He honestly couldn’t believe the past few months had gone so well. He and Crowley had spent increasing amounts of time together. They had dinners and had done other simple, everyday things like walking around the park together, or feeding the ducks, like they had planned to do today. While he was happy, happier than he could remember being (if he was honest), he was terrified that this relationship was a finite and fickle thing and would surely not last. No matter how much he wanted this to last forever, he was sure that Crowley would never love him the way he used to.

As he sat waiting, he vaguely people watched without really seeing the people passing by. He could feel his anxiety ratcheting up a bit, as he fretted. He was excited and anxious to see his friend, and worried that he would react poorly to his current state. He knew that when they were younger, Crowley had never been bothered about his anxiety or anything else that afflicted him. If anything, he had always been kind and accommodating. However, after his disastrous relationship with Gabriel, he didn’t want to come across as bothersome and needy to anyone, especially while he and Crowley worked to rebuild their relationship. He was still reeling from Crowley knowing about his self-harming and had gone out of his way to avoid any discussions about that or his health, mental or otherwise.

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Crowley was running a bit late and had texted Aziraphale to let him know. He had received a message back saying not to rush; it was fine. Always happy to be obliging- Aziraphale was.

Despite the fact he was running late, Crowley stopped to get a coffee for himself and a tea for Aziraphale. As he hurried toward their bench, he saw Aziraphale quickly curl in on himself and shudder. He picked up the pace to ensure that his friend was alright.

“Morning Angel,” Crowley called out as he arrived.

“Good morning, Crowley.” Aziraphale grinned.

“Here, for you.” Crowley handed him the takeaway cup.

“Oh! Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale said, sniffling softly.

“S’nothing angel,” Crowley shrugged.

They sat in quiet companionship, watching the ducks as they sipped their beverages. The quiet did not last as long as normal. Aziraphale suddenly turned away, gasping out a pair of sneezes.

“Oh. Sorry,” Aziraphale sniffed.

“Bless,” Crowley said, eyebrows raised over his sunglasses.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale replied. Crowley thought he sounded surprised, which was a bit strange.

“How was your week?” Aziraphale asked.

“Was alright,” Crowley said. “Ended up taking on an easy job,” he continued but was interrupted by Aziraphale’s breath hitching, his hands fluttering, searching his pockets.

Crowley reached over to steady Aziraphale’s tea before it toppled to the ground, while Aziraphale finally located his handkerchief within the confines of his pocket and sneezed harshly.

“Bless,” Crowley said again and waited for Aziraphale to lower the cloth.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said. “I am sorry, Crowley.” His ocean blue eyes were damp and irritated, and the tip of his nose was tinged pink.

Oh Angel, Crowley thought. He looked miserable. He would have met anywhere; there was no need for them to meet in the park when it was plainly clear that Aziraphale was not feeling well. As if on cue, the breeze kicked up, scattering little bits of some sort of flora around them. The whiteness of the petals were a stark contrast to Crowley’s tight, black denim jeans.

“C’mon Angel.” Crowley held out the hand that was not holding his coffee. “Let’s go.”

Aziraphale looked confused. “I thought we were going to feed the ducks.”

“The ducks can wait. It’s obvious you’re suffering. Let’s go.”

Still looking bewildered, Aziraphale grabbed his tea, took Crowley’s hand and let himself be led out of the park.

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As they had been meeting up frequently, it was to no surprise to either of them that they ended up back at Aziraphale’s. They situated themselves in Aziraphale’s kitchen, and the blonde filled the kettle and clicked it on. Before he could fetch the mugs, he paused to sneeze violently.

“Bless you, Angel,” Crowley said worriedly. He wondered if Aziraphale had some medication he could take; he looked and sounded miserable.

“Oh! Thank you!”

“No need to sound surprised; not the first time I’ve ever said it to you,” Crowley teased.

Aziraphale blushed to the tips of his ears. “Well, it has just been a while.” He looked away, nose prickling again. He was never so relieved to have to sneeze, hopefully avoiding this line of questioning.

“Bless.” Crowley studied him carefully. “What were you saying?”

Aziraphale sighed. He really didn’t want to get into all of this again, but they’d agreed to be open and honest with each other over the past two months and not avoid or cover up things that had happened in the past. They’d both agreed to this- to rebuild their friendship and their trust in one another. They had been friends for a very long time before the break; the bond forged in childhood and beyond was still strong.

Aziraphale didn’t want to push it until it broke. Again.

“I’m just usually on my own,” Aziraphale said. “And,” he began, as he pulled the mugs out of the cupboard. “Well, he was very annoyed by my seasonal affliction, despite the fact that it obviously isn’t contagious.”

A hazy look crossed his face but passed quickly. Sniffling, Aziraphale rubbed at his nose with a sigh.

“I’ll get the tea. Do you have something that you can take?” Crowley reached over and squeezed Azirpahale’s hand gently.

Aziraphale nodded and left the room. He popped into his bedroom and retrieved an antihistamine. He didn’t particularly like doubling up on his medication, but there was not much else he could do. Otherwise, he’d end up sniffling and sneezing all day, especially after being outside this morning. Lost in thought, he wandered into the living room and sat down on the couch, listening to the comforting sounds of Crowley bustling around his kitchen.

He settled back and closed his eyes. He had not slept well the evening before, not that he ever slept well at this time of year. It was terribly hard to sleep when one was congested. He let his mind drift as he heard the kettle come to a boil and thought about helping Crowley in the kitchen. He’d get up in just a minute.

Crowley busied himself about the kitchen thinking about what Aziraphale had just said. He vaguely remembered Aziraphale saying something about Gabriel being a germaphobe, way back when they were at uni. He’d not paid it too much attention, given the fact that it was clear he was an absolute wanker. He had been so cruel; he wouldn’t be surprised if social niceties and general kindness had been just another thing Aziraphale had lost out on in that relationship.

Tea prepared, Crowley brought the two mugs out to where Aziraphale was sitting, his eyes closed. He stirred when Crowley sat down next to him. “Oh, thank you my dear.”

Crowley waited for Aziraphale to sip his tea for a moment before asking him to continue. Aziraphale grimaced but continued on.

“He was very put out by it all, despite the fact it had absolutely no bearing on his life whatsoever.”

Once again, Crowley wanted to commit murder. He cradled his mug in his hands and waited for Aziraphale to speak again.

Aziraphale took a fortifying sip of tea. “He would spend more time with Sandalphon then, which was fine by me, since I generally wasn’t feeling terribly well and didn’t need the added pressure of arguing on top of it. So, I would take extra antihistamines and then try to just be as quiet and unobtrusive as possible when he was around.”

“Oh, Angel,” Crowley began. He paused for a moment. “Oh! Fuck.” The tips of his ears burned red in embarrassment.

“I didn’t mean anything by what I said earlier about you taking something. I just thought you sounded miserable and I was trying to help. I’m so sorry, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Not to worry, my dear. I didn’t think anything of it. In fact, I’m glad you suggested it as I am feeling much better now. At least aging has alleviated this somewhat. I generally only feel a bit off for a couple of weeks rather than all spring and summer. Or, perhaps that is the marvel of modern medicine.”

You can tell me if you’re not up to something, or you need me to fetch you something from the chemist. I don’t want you to hide how you’re feeling,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale smiled. “I know, my dear. You've always done an excellent job of caring for me.” He patted Crowley’s knee.

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Later that day, after sharing dinner and the better parts of two bottles of wine, Crowley, walking back towards the sitting room after using the loo, noticed that Aziraphale’s bedroom door was ajar. Not intending to invade his friend’s privacy, he peeked around the door.

Aziraphale’s bedroom was just how he expected it to look; he hadn’t paid it much attention before when he had “broken” into the flat as there were more pressing things to worry about. Wall to wall bookshelves, all crammed with books. A small dresser also covered with books. A large bed, with a soft looking tartan duvet, with a small black object resting on top of the plush pillows.

Crowley was momentarily frozen. He knew exactly what that object was. He walked his way over and picked it up; it was still in the same perfect, pristine condition as it had been when he gave it to Aziraphale twenty-five years ago. He clamped his hand over his mouth to keep his sobs from being audible, as he broke down and wept.

A few moments later, Aziraphale came down the hall looking for him. “Crowley?” He asked worriedly. Hurrying down the hall, he stopped in front of his open bedroom door. “Are you alright?”

It took another moment for Crowley to stop sobbing. “Angel,” he managed to croak. He stepped closer to Aziraphale and reached out, stroking his cheek gently, as if he were afraid he would shatter and disappear. “You kept him all this time?”

Aziraphale looked confused for a second and then he realised what Crowley was still holding. “Yes, Harry’s always been there for me.”

This must have been the right thing to say, because then Crowley closed the remaining distance between them and kissed him. It was like the first time they had kissed, perfect and never-ending.

Chapter Text

TW: None apart from the author's inability to use google prior to drafting a chapter

Four months later
September

Crowley had invited Aziraphale for dinner. He knew what this dinner meant. He knew Aziraphale knew what this dinner meant. And he knew Aziraphale knew that he knew what this dinner meant. It wasn’t a test, Crowley thought to himself. It was hopefully something far different. Tonight, tonight felt like coming home.

Aziraphale fretted all week about the dinner. He knew exactly why Crowley had invited him and the significance of this particular date. He picked out the best wine in all of London as well as the finest and crispest apples. He also was able to locate (with considerable effort and expense on his part) [1] acquire something that he hoped would show Crowley how he felt about this particular day, this dinner they were about to share.

He also went through about a dozen cards, trying to come up with words to express how he felt. He was good with words, especially those that were written. He owned a bookshop, for Heaven’s sake. Yet this time, he was unable to find the words and all he had been able to come up with was fairly nonsensical and repetitive.

It’s the new year
I regret everything that happened
I need you to know this
It’s why I brought the wine
I remember- I didn’t forget- I never forgot
and I’m so so sorry for everything

In the end, Aziraphale did not bother with a card. He knew that he was just rehashing old wounds and that it wouldn’t change anything or make anything better. He had to hope that Crowley knew by now how sorry he was for everything all those years ago, and how much he regretted the majority of the decisions he made back then.

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The afternoon of the dinner plans, Aziraphale took deliberate pains in getting ready. He had purchased a new bowtie for the occasion; gold, red and cream. The red matched the apples he had purchased for the occasion. He fidgeted and fretted with it, his waistcoat and anything else that was near his hands while he anxiously paced the bookshop floor. He finally decided to leave before he did the new bowtie any damage. He gathered up the wine and apples and headed for Crowley’s.

Crowley was just as anxious as Aziraphale. He triple-checked the roasting chicken- it would be ready right on time. The kugel, his mother’s recipe, was ready and chilled [2] to just the right temperature. The table was set with crimson and white candles. Crisp apples were ready to be sliced and dipped into the most golden of honey; the challah was the best he had baked in years, so everything was in order. Yet, Crowley was ready to crawl out of his skin. He adjusted his dark crimson tie for the umpteenth time. He hadn’t bothered with his sunglasses; it would be dusk soon enough.

And then the door buzzed.

Crowley glanced one final time in the mirror and went to let his Angel inside.

Aziraphale grinned broadly at Crowley as he was led inside. “Oh, my dear, you look lovely. And is that roast chicken? It smells divine,” the bookseller gushed enthusiastically.

Crowley blushed. “Thanks, Angel.”

Aziraphale was led into the kitchen where he handed over one of the three bags he was holding. “This one first, dear.”

“Aziraphale, you didn’t have to bring anything.”

“I know you said you had everything, but I couldn’t resist.”

Crowley opened the bag and laughed.

“You can’t have enough apples this time of year,” Aziraphale remarked, smiling.

Crowley felt overwhelmed with love for his angel. He wanted to take Aziraphale into his arms and never let him go.

“Now the second,” Aziraphale said, handing over a second bag that was suspiciously shaped like a bottle of wine.

Crowley opened the bag, which contained a chilled bottle of white wine, which would most definitely compliment the chicken currently roasting in his oven. He wondered if Aziraphale remembered that they always had chicken on this particular holiday. He was sure that he did.

“Thanks,” he said, turning and placing the bottle down next to the waiting wine glasses. When he turned back around, he found Aziraphale fidgeting with the handle of the remaining bag.

“I hope I didn’t do the wrong thing,” Aziraphale murmured. He then quickly handed over the bag to Crowley before he lost his nerve.

“Oh, Angel. You could never do the wrong thing.”

“But, my dear, we both know I have.”

Unsure what to say to that, Crowley opened the final bag. He pulled out the bottle of wine and stared at it in surprise.

“I can’t remember the last time I saw a bottle of this,” Crowley exclaimed. “I honestly don’t know what to say.” He put the bottle down.

“Just please tell me you have some ginger ale, if you plan on opening that,” Aziraphale quipped.

Crowley began to laugh, otherwise he would cry. Memories of previous holidays flashed through his mind.

The pair of them laughing like loons, drunk on Manischewitz and ginger ale
The delight on Aziraphale’s face the first time they successfully baked challah
Crowley tripping over his own feet in his haste to beat Aziraphale in finding the afikomen
Aziraphale’s look of pride when reading the four questions every spring

“I never forgot,” Aziraphale began, breaking into Crowley’s thoughts, almost as if they were both sharing the same memories at that very moment. “Not one thing.” He stepped forward and squeezed Crowley’s hands. His blue eyes were shimmering with unshed tears.

“I know, Aziraphale. I know. It’s all behind us now, alright?” Crowley brushed away a tear that had escaped and made its way down Aziraphale’s face.

Crowley took a deep breath. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink.” He reached for the white wine that Aziraphale brought, uncorked it, and poured them each a glass.

Before they drank, Aziraphale reached out, taking Crowley’s free hand in his.

“Happy New Year, my dear. To new beginnings.”

“Happy New Year, Angel. To the world.”

[1]The author didn’t realise when she was drafting this that you could buy this particular wine on bloody Amazon. So let’s just pretend, shall we?
[2] This being nicely chilled, as he remembered that both his mother and Aziraphale liked it that way