Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“When a man is in despair, it means that he still believes in something.” -Dmitri Shostakovich

What determines guilt? Simply doing something couldn’t be the qualifier. Everyone did things all the time. The guilt came after, in the judgement, the assumptions. Some party decided they were the one to determine what was right and was wrong and everyone else was trampled underfoot.

Trampled. It’s a good description for the way Crowley feels now. Aches in places he didn’t know he had, a steady hammering inside of his head. Turns out, he’d never understood what nausea truly was until he had a stomach, heavy and full of acid and writhing inside of him. The only thing worse is the breathing. He’s painfully aware of the pressure on his chest and how much effort it takes to fight against and suck in a few precious seconds of oxygen. He hasn’t been able to peel himself from the pavement yet and he can feel tiny rocks digging into his cheek. There’s some stupidly optimistic whisper in the back of his mind that once whatever he’d been forced to ingest finished working through his body things would ease up, but if he had the energy to really think about that he would know he’s wrong.

He hears the raindrops first, pattering quietly as they fall around him. This is the first time Crowley had ever been envious of raindrops. How lucky they were to meet the end of their descent with their own destruction, rather than being faced with whatever this is. He can’t quite track the feeling of any individual droplets, but within a few minutes his clothes cling wetly to him and there is a horrific chill digging down to his bones. Perhaps he should be thankful that it finally motivates him to move. It's almost as if he can feel every single muscle activate as he calls them to action, each making their complaints known. By the time he’s made it to his feet, he has to stagger to the nearby wall for support to keep himself upright.

Something about the way the world is swimming around Crowley is off, too. He blinks hard, as if squeezing his eyes shut tightly enough would reset something. Predictably, it doesn’t help. The first shiver that wracks Crowley startles him and he has to wonder for a moment if he’s actually, truly dying. Blinking hard again, he pushes himself from the wall, keeping one hand out in case his legs decide they can’t hold him any longer.

Where is he supposed to go? More importantly, where is he now? It’s not like they sent him back up from hell with a map in hand. ‘You are a traitor and your final punishment is dragging a weak and useless human body across the Earth until you meet your demise and are erased from the annals of time. Also, here’s two pounds for bus fare and a hotel room for the night.’ Perhaps he would lay back down in this alley and his last sentence would be short and sweet.

Unfortunately, there’s already fuzzy looking humans throwing glances at him as they pass. Most had their heads tucked under umbrellas and scurried by without notice but he’s been standing here long enough now that he’s attracting attention. The last thing he wants is to get picked up by bobbies and carted in somewhere that they’ll pry.

With great effort, Crowley removes his hand from the wall and forces his leg forward. One step at a time is the only way he’s going to be able to do this. He does his best to avoid looking like he has to think so hard about walking, but it’s difficult when his whole body radiates pain and he has to keep blinking raindrops out of his eyes. His toe catches on an uneven bit of pavement and sends him stumbling, cursing under his breath and scattering the humans – the other humans, now – away from him. He places a hand on the flat of his back and straightens up, ready to spew another scramble of vile words about the brand-new ache down the back of his leg when his fingertips brush against something hard and cool.

His mobile. If it worked he could at least figure out where he is. Look for somewhere to go. Call whatever contact will listen and crawl to them, begging for help now that he could nothing on his own. Did he ever set it properly? Surely, he had to at some point for all the messing about he did with the networks. He couldn’t test how terrible it was if he was just using his powers to get through.

There’s a large awning jutting from a shop just up the road, and Crowley makes this his new goal. Just stopping and leaning against the wall is a relief. How are humans meant to do this all day? The weight of his body is unbearable. Tugging his mobile from his pocket, he has just enough time to worry that it might have been broken during all the transportation. There is a large, ugly crack down the screen that spiderwebs in the corner, and a chunk of glass missing there, but the screen lights under it when he presses the button. He could almost call it a miracle if he didn’t know that there was no one looking out for him any longer.

He pulls up the map, holding his breath while he waits to see if it will load. That’s not a great idea as the next breath he pulls in is panicky and unsatisfying as a result. It takes several more to ease the tension in his chest and still, now all Crowley can think about is the in and out of each breath. His eyes are unfocused and phone screen fuzzy, but this time blinking does seem to help and reveals to him a map with that ridiculous red pin piercing the spot where he stood.

Hyde Park. That’s where they’d grabbed him. The bug flying next to his ear had been a mild annoyance at worst, and expected when he was crouching at the edge of the water trying to lure out the one duck that Aziraphale always insisted on visiting before they were able to move on. What wasn’t expected was the roiling of the water under him, the hand that emerged and Shax’s face grinning up at him. When he’d tried to straighten up, Beelzebub revealed themselves and wrapped something that burned tight around his wrists and they were dragging him down into the mud. At the very least, when they’d dropped his body in a careless heap near a dumpster, it was a dumpster on the edge of the park. It was most likely out of convenience rather than any kindness, but it didn’t really matter why.

Everything still hurts and is too heavy, but a couple little wins in a row help Crowley feel like he has a fighting chance. Maybe this is God’s way of giving him one last little wink before she puts him out to dry, but he still has just enough loaded on the silly little metro card app to catch a bus to Soho. The only reason there had ever been money on it at all was the fragile, flighty looking girl who he always used to see literally scrounging for coins to make her fare. He’d offered to buy her a card, but the man in the station insisted that he could only purchase with his own account. It was easier just to do what he said and now, perhaps, there was a pinch of good favor for him as a result.

His legs are shaky once again as he pulls away from the wall and he’s suddenly struck by the image of a colt, floundering across a field while it tries to find its footing and coordinate all these new pieces to move as one. Crowley makes his own clumsy way towards the nearest bus stop, stuffing his hands as deep into his front pockets as they’ll go in hopes he’ll find some warmth despite still being sopping wet. It’s mostly unsuccessful, and the setting sun does little to help. While he is stepping onto the bus he struggles with his mobile, tips of fingers numb and even more uncoordinated than his legs and he damn near drops it again.

The moment Crowley’s ass touches the seat, his muscles melt and he is suddenly aware of just how heavy his eyelids are. He’s making a mess, dripping a puddle onto the floor by his feet. There’s a vent blowing hot air across his ankles. He doesn’t think twice in hunching over, holding his fingers in front of the vent. The movements of the bus jostle him, knocking his shoulder against the hard metal of the siding, but the motion is soothing in its own way. The outline of his fingers become less and less clear in front of him, each blink a little slower than the last. It would have been easy to fall unconscious again, were it not for the light the bus driver approaches too fast before slamming on the brake. Crowley’s forehead whacks the seat in front of him hard enough it makes his mouth taste funny, uncurling from his position and rubbing at it gently while looking out the window and trying to track things he thinks will keep him awake.

Satisfied with massaging his little injury, Crowley starts to lower his hand before suddenly freezing. His glasses. Where were they? Did he have them at all today? He’d hardly been able to focus on a single face today, had they been staring? He blinks rapidly a few times, twisting to face his reflection in the window. It’s not clear, not by any means, but it’s enough. The drop of his stomach is an entirely unpleasant sensation, causing a pull in the back of his throat he’s never felt before and nearly makes him wretch.

It shouldn’t be a surprise. They’d told him, right to his face, words hissed so close spittle had rained on his cheeks. He’s human. There is nothing of him left, celestial or demonic, that separates him any longer. The dark, beady eyes staring back at him confirm it. Swallowing thickly, Crowley takes one more moment to examine himself until the image is distorted by a passing streetlamp.

The shock serves as at least enough to stop him from drifting off again before the bus pulls up to his stop. His legs are still so wobbly as he drags himself out of his seat, practically tipping over before pouring himself out the door and into the rain, cheeks unpleasantly warm. Everyone must think he’s a drunk. What he wouldn’t give to simply be a drunk. He’s not sure there’s enough booze on this planet to soothe his woes today. It takes another moment to orient himself, but he knows where he’s going now. He only hopes Aziraphale is in his shop. They were supposed to meet earlier, if it was even the same day, and there is a good chance that Crowley’s no-show left the other out looking for him. There were many unspeakable acts Crowley committed, but standing up Aziraphale was never one of them.

Belatedly, he realizes he could have called first. Surely Aziraphale’s number was in his phone, somewhere. Then again, he never typed it in to call, it was thought more than anything else. It seems not to matter, since as he rounds the corner there are warm lights pouring through the windows of Aziraphale’s shop. The relief is so palpable, so freeing, that Crowley doesn’t stop to think that it’s too many lights for this time of night. A steady glow from one window, the single lamp Aziraphale would crowd by with his cocoa and his books and his blankets, that’s all it should have been, but Crowley forges forward deliriously. Not even the door of the shop standing ajar really sets off the alarm bells that it should.

His slick shoe slips on the hardwood and the lights are too bright after coming in from the dark of the street. Flailing slightly, Crowley reaches out towards a table he knows is always placed next to the counter (he usually bangs his knee on it), but it’s not there and instead Crowley finds himself on the floor.

The table is close to its home, tipped on its side, the same dusty pile of books that had sat there for decades scattered across the floor. “Aziraphale?” Crowley croaks out, slow to push himself up on his hands. Again, his useless little human eyes take too long to focus and once they do he wishes the didn’t.

‘Signs of a struggle.’ They always said that on crime shows Crowley skimmed by when he felt like browsing the telly. Never had he put much thought into it, but this must be what they meant. Books and trinkets ripped and broken, strewn all over the floor. Furniture knocked askew. Shards of Aziraphale’s favorite mug laying in a dark puddle that spreads a little too far until it starts to get lighter and – oh.

Bile hits the back of Crowley’s teeth before he knows what to do. He hunches, vomiting on the floor in front of him, a watery and yellow and bitter substance. Can he actually feel his stomach contracting? It’s in his nose, his eyes are watering, and his entire body feels like it’s trying to turn inside out. When he shifts and plants his hand directly in the mess it makes him heave again.

He allows himself one simple moment to imagine that this is the worst of his problems and that he wasn’t going to have to sit back up and look at the blood streaked across the floor.

Crowley considers staying here longer. Dropping next to his own pile of sick and just waiting for his useless body to give out. A few hours as a human had stretched out longer and more painfully than the majority of the centuries he’d lived. Arms shaking, he’s ready to give in and collapse when he hears a moan coming from across the room. Could he just ignore it? Is he hallucinating. It certainly wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility. If he wasn’t so painfully aware of every single bit of his body, he’d think perhaps he’d never gotten up in the alley and having some sort of horrific nightmare.

The sound comes again, snapping something in Crowley’s mind. He can’t ignore it if it’s Aziraphale. A selfish, unfair thought to anyone else it could be, but there’s only so much he can take. Rising to his feet and wiping his dirtied hand on his pants, trying to ignore the rotten smell, Crowley picks his way around the fallen furniture. Looking at the mess on the floor confirms that it is, in fact, blood. Crowley’s stomach clenches so tightly it makes him gag but there’s nothing to come up.

The blood is creating a trail. There’s a clear imprint of a foot like someone had slipped in it on the way, a spray across the side of a shelf. Aziraphale’s favorite jacket lays in shreds, stained such a bright red it looks fake. Crowley has seen ruthless, intentional executions, decapitations and hangings, and somehow, this is worse. The groan comes again, this time louder. At least the gore is leading to the sound. “Aziraphale?” Crowley’s voice barely crawls from his burning throat.

Rounding the corner, Crowley’s vision swims violently. Luckily the wall that is there wasn’t moved during whatever happened, so he can sag against it. When his vision returns, it’s in pieces. The tuft of white hair that can only belong to one person. The phone, laying just centimeters away from outstretched fingers. Scorch marks up the wall. One book, still smoldering dangerously and half hanging from a shelf. Pale skin, paler than it should ever be and rudely contrasted by the blood that is everywhere.

“Aziraphale…” It’s all Crowley has said since he entered the shop, but he doesn’t think he has any other words at his disposal. He pushes away from the shelf only to drop to his knees near the other’s crumpled body. Where is he supposed to begin? What is he supposed to do? He has nothing now, no powers, no one to pray to, and the last 6,000 years suddenly feel useless.

Useless, much like his human body he finds is trembling all over. Blurry vision, again, but this time it’s caused by hot tears building in his eyes. He reaches out for Aziraphale, shaking hands hesitating over his naked skin, not sure what to touch, if he should touch. Aziraphale is laying on his side, mostly, facing towards Crowley. Now that he’s closer, he can tell most of the blood is dried to Aziraphale’s skin, crusting and cracking. There’s still fresh blood, though, on the floor, seeping out under Aziraphale. Crowley can’t tell where it’s coming from, and if he can’t tell where it’s coming from, he can’t stop it, and if he can’t stop it, there’s nothing he can do. Of course, now that he’s panicking, his chest has seized and throat constricted and this stupid, ridiculous breathing that he suddenly has to participate in isn’t working.

“Cr…Crow…” Aziraphale’s lips are pale to match the rest of him, dry and sticking together when he tries to speak. His eyes are cracked open, but Crowley doesn’t know that he can actually see anything, the dazed way they skim over their surroundings. Crowley stubbornly forces himself to take in a deep breath that burns all the way down to his lungs, but it works, sort of.

“What-” The entire supply of air he’d managed to gather is exhausted with that one word and he has to try again. “Where-“ It’s not much more successful this time. The tears that have been brimming in Crowley’s eyes make their grand escape and cascade down his cheeks.

“My… w-wings…” It’s barely more than a breath escaping Aziraphale, but it’s enough. Crowley shifts a little closer, one hand finally coming to rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder to tilt him forward enough that he can see. Foolishly, Crowley had thought his stomach had done as much as it would, but the gaping, angry wounds marring Aziraphale’s back get him and he barely turns in time not to deliver the pathetic yellow froth climbing out of his mouth onto the other. His body isn’t happy with what it’s produced either, trying again, sending waves through Crowley that make him shudder and gag out a cough that rattles his lungs against his ribs.

It wasn’t a thought that had crossed his mind for a single moment. There wasn’t a lot of time for clear-headed thinking, but why would they go after Aziraphale too? The very fact that his own torturers hadn’t tried to rub a second attack in his face brings about the realization that it wasn’t just Hell. Heaven. Angels, creatures who had proved themselves time and time again to be vitriolic and cruel and self-righteous, this time they’d turned on one of their own with more malice and hatred than anyone could ever deserve, let alone Aziraphale.

Falling was a betrayal. It scorched Crowley to his very soul. He was angry, so angry, for a long time, but there was always something in the back of his mind chanting that it was his fault. Who was he to question God? Look to the creator of everything and say that She was wrong and that Crowley, tiny, insignificant, weak Crowley was the one who had the answer. So he swallowed what was left of his pride and accepted his fate, keeping his head down and his mouth shut.

Aziraphale had always, always been treated unfairly. Maybe it was hypocritical, but where Crowley knew he had no business asking the questions he did, he just knew that Aziraphale was in the right. When it came down to it, Aziraphale had more insight than every other vapid drone in Heaven put together. They didn’t like being questioned, of course Crowley knew that, but some desperate bit of him hoped that they would at least see that Aziraphale was good. Not just good, but that the constant outpouring of pure joy and love that Aziraphale spouted was critical to keeping the threads of existence sewn together. He was so much better than any of them, but they didn’t have to recognize that, they just had to see a fraction of what Crowley saw.

Obviously, he had proven himself to be naïve. Stupid, blind, childish. The proof is laying in front of Crowley. Here lies the most beautiful and pure being he’d ever encountered, reduced a moaning lump of flesh. Crowley can make his assumptions from here. They interfered one too many times, pushed their luck passed running out. Aziraphale’s punishment would be the same as Crowley’s, if he lived long enough to have any semblance of the mundane human life they were meant to be exiled to.

Squeezing his eyes shut and trying to suck in a few more breaths, Crowley straightens up again. He clears his throat, making it burn, but at least this time when he cracks his eyes open and peers over the other’s figure, the wounds only make him feel like throwing up rather than driving him to the physical act.  Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean he has a single idea what he’s supposed to do. He stares for a long moment, mind spinning in circles around no particular thought. Aziraphale makes another pained noise and shifts, causing a fresh rivulet of blood to seep from one of the wounds.

A low growl emanates from Crowley’s throat. He has to stop his fingers from clawing into Aziraphale, but finally he’s starting to put a few thoughts together. A brief stint as a Civil War nurse (Crowley’s first and last trip to America) means that even though he had been pulling miracles left and right, he has a cursory understanding of human wound care. That’s what this is. He can’t look at it as Aziraphale, can’t think about who did this to him, can’t think about how unfair it is.

“It w-was…my…” Aziraphale coughs weakly. Crowley has just enough presence of mind to look away from the wound for the moment lest he start spitting up again. “S-sword…my sword…” Another wave of blinding rage washes over Crowley. It was cruel no matter what, but turning Aziraphale’s own sword against him was diabolical. He’d tried to do so much good with that item alone and it very damn near literally stabbed him in the back.

 “I’m going to help you.” Crowley’s voice sounds like it’s coming out raked across sandpaper. “I’m going to help you,” he repeats. It doesn’t sound any more convincing the second time around.

Chapter Text

Again, Crowley sways and staggers as he gets to his feet. How did humans do anything like this? His window for personal moping is closed for the time being. Some kind of alcohol, he needed to find that. Not to be the drunk he so desires right now, but maybe he’ll find enough he can accomplish that too. He starts towards Aziraphale’s liquor cabinet, eyes sweeping the shop trying to find anything else he might be able to use.

It's lucky that Aziraphale likes to hoard booze but drinks primarily wine. That means the hard stuff, the stuff Crowley actually needs, is still nestled safely in the back corner of the bottom shelf. Vodka bottle clutched in hand, Crowley surveys the room again, racking his brain at the same time. There’s a scarf lying on the floor that is otherwise untouched that Crowley wonders if he might be able to use for some kind of bandaging.

Crowley gave Aziraphale a hard time for many of his hobbies. Some were genuinely ridiculous, and sometimes that was the only way Crowley knew how to prove he was listening. The latest obsession had been embroidery, which fell under the former category in Crowley’s opinion. That never seemed to deter Aziraphale in the slightest. Crowley has never been more grateful for the other’s bullheaded determination to do as he pleased than when he can push into the back room and grab his little case of needles and the least tangled bundle of embroidery floss he sees.

Not a single item is something Crowley should be using to patch Aziraphale up, not even if they were in 1863 and in an overheated tent in the middle of a field. What other choice does he have, though? There’s emergency services, but he can’t explain Aziraphale’s wounds. Neither of them have any form of paperwork, not even identification, always just sliding past it with a little wiggle of the fingers. He feels human down to his bones, but he doesn’t know that medically speaking they’re the same. The last thing he wants to do is allow either of them to end up in the hands of a mad scientist who experiments on whatever fucking monstrosities they are now.

Crowley lands on his knees a little too hard, pain zinging up his thighs. The vodka bottle nearly slaps the ground just as hard but Crowley manages to catch it before it does. “I’m going to have to move you,” he says softly, dropping the rest of the supplies. It’s not moving so much as rolling, slow and without much grace, and Aziraphale lets out a few whimpers in the process. He ends on his stomach, putting the full severity of his wounds on display.

Even though he knows the gist of what he needs to do, Crowley still feels like he doesn’t know where to start. It’s a mess, that much he knows, so he grabs the scarf and starts to dab, trying to clear away what he can. It works for a moment, but the fabric is too rough. It catches on a ragged flap of skin and Aziraphale yelps.

“Sorry,” Crowley says, quick to pull the scarf back. He’s being stupid anyway. The vodka should have been first. Somewhere he thinks he knows that it’s going to hurt and he was trying to put off adding to Aziraphale’s burden, but that was pointless. It takes him several tries to wrench the vodka bottle open, his hands slippery with blood and vomit, and his shirt is still slick with rain when he tries to use it to grip.

The smell smacks him the face hard enough that any half-hearted plans of drinking the vodka are immediately laid to rest. There’s no way it would go down and if it did, it wouldn’t be for long. “This is going to hurt,” he warns. Aziraphale makes a sound of acknowledgement – or another sound of pain, Crowley honestly can’t tell. The sound that forces it’s way from between Aziraphale’s teeth the moment the vodka hits his raw flesh, that is undoubtedly pain. “I’m sorry,” Crowley repeats, swallowing thickly and proceeding to splash it across the other wound. One of Aziraphale’s hand claws into the wood, body writhing.

They’ve seen so much of each other. Since the beginning of time, during all manner of tragedies. They stopped the bloody apocalypse, braved Heaven and Hell in disguises for one another. Never has Crowley seen Aziraphale like this, nothing even remotely close. Celestial beings didn’t experience illness, they didn’t want for much. Crowley always found something to complain about, but he’d needed so little.  The worst they’d weathered together physically was drinking a case of wine together or a human poison that rearranged the atoms for a moment or two.

Crowley splashes the vodka over his hands as well, briefly reconsidering taking a drink before setting the bottle aside. Next is the thread and the box of needles. He pulls out what he thinks is the sturdiest needle. It’s not until his tremoring hands are struggling to thread the blasted thing that he really notices this thread is a neon orange. A laugh bubbles in his throat, hysterical, but he swallows it down before it can escape, worried that if he lets it out he’s not going to be able to stop. “This is going to hurt.” He’s not even certain Aziraphale is really hearing him, but it gives him another moment to hesitate, staring at the needle in hand.

With what’s meant to be a steadying breath, Crowley’s hands descend. The first puncture, Aziraphale hardly moves. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all. The second seems to go okay, and the third garners a hiss but not much more. Crowley should know better than to let himself believe any of this is going to be that easy, because Aziraphale flinches hard at the next one and the tip of the needle burrows deep into the open wound. He lets out a howl that fights to echo off the soft clutter on the walls and shelves. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Crowley chokes out, and his weak and nearly unusable hands are doing little more than digging the instrument in deeper.

He finally yanks it out, the needle clattering softly onto the ground. There’s a long moment of only Aziraphale’s haggard breathing and hot tears burning down Crowley’s face. “K-k-keep… keep going,” Aziraphale wheezes. With what looks like great effort he drags his arm under his head. “Please.” Crowley wants to refuse, he wants to give up. Maybe he should call someone. Maybe he could find a way to knock the two of them out and give up their time right now. Unfortunately, no matter how weak he is feeling, he can’t bring himself to ignore Aziraphale’s soft plea.

It takes another few long seconds to thread the needle again. He offers a soft warning before diving back in. It’s hard to hold himself steady when Aziraphale lurches under a painful touch, but he grits his teeth and perseveres. Aziraphale muffles his own cries of pain, biting into his forearm. It’s a long, difficult process. These aren’t the right tools, and it’s messy and slippery and the neon orange soaks up the blood and blends in too well, making it hard to follow where exactly he is. At one point the needle snaps in half in his fingers and Crowley has to pause and again consider just quitting before digging a different one from the box and soldiering on.  He stitches as much as he thinks is helpful and finishes off by emptying the remains of the vodka bottle over Aziraphale’s back, wincing at the tortured sound the other makes.

He doesn’t feel like he has a right, but Crowley is exhausted. He moves over just enough to slump against the nearest shelf, letting his tired and itchy eyes fall closed. The wounds should probably be bandaged but the scarf is half soaked in vodka and blood and he can’t fathom how the hell he’d wrap it around Aziraphale anyway. When he cracks his eyes open again, Aziraphale’s moved only enough to release the grip he had on his arm, indents of his teeth carved deep into the skin, rusty red in the spots he had punctured.

“Angel?” Aziraphale doesn’t move, but he provides a sound. Crowley hesitates, wondering why he even posed it like a question. Did he have something else to ask? Was there anything else he could do? His limbs feel like blocks of lead hanging from him. When he leans his head against the shelf and closes his eyes, he still doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but when he catches it overtaking him he certainly doesn’t fight it.

Chapter Text

There’s no temporary reprieve once Crowley is conscious. He is awake, and he hurts. A deep ache, down to his bones and an unfamiliar emptiness in his gut. His head takes a moment to catch on to this game, but once it does it’s absolutely throbbing. Crowley can actually feel each heartbeat pulse inside his head, like something had been mixed up and his heart was housed in his skull while his brain leaked between his ribs. Peeling his eyelids apart feels like an insurmountable task on its own, and once he does he has to deal with remembering where he is and why everything feels like absolute shit. Self-pity is blessedly fleeting once Crowley’s weary eyes focus on Aziraphale.

Slow and stiff, Crowley unlocks his joints one by one and starts a clumsy crawl towards the other. He can see Aziraphale’s back rising and falling from the start so he can assume that he lived through the night. Actually, Crowley hasn’t a clue how long he was out. It’s so hard reactivating his muscles he could easily be convinced he’d slept there a week. When he opens his mouth to try to speak, it comes out gunky and hoarse and clearing his throat releases a fresh taste of bile. “Aziraphale?” he manages, wincing when his teeth catch a crack in his dry lips.

“You’re awake.” Aziraphale sounds in no better shape. He’s still lying face down in what is now a tarry and foul-smelling pool of blood. He shifts his head, pillowed against his arm, so he can look at Crowley.

“Has it-“ Crowley has to clear his throat again, frustrated that it can feel so parched and yet still manage to have whatever kind of mucus is choking him. “Has it been long?”

“I don’t know. I was in and out.” There’s light filtering in the windows. It’s daytime, some time. Some day. This kind of loss of time never phased him in the slightest before. Why would it matter when he had an endless supply stretched out in front of him? His newfound awareness of time as a finite resource makes each passing second a dagger. “Will you help me? I think I want to… I’ll try sitting up.”

“Of course.” Crowley glances over Aziraphale’s back. The wounds look… well, they certainly don’t look good. Puffy and an angry red, bruising poisoning the skin around them, and Crowley’s messy attempt at stitches are uneven and doing absolutely nothing to make the outline of the wound look any less jagged. “It’s-“

“Going to hurt?” Aziraphale interrupts. “Don’t worry. It already does.” Crowley doesn’t think it’s meant as jab, but it hits him regardless. Rather than saying anything else stupid, he just moves. Aziraphale is already pulling his arms back, planting his hands on the floor. The angle is awkward, but Crowley gets an arm under Aziraphale’s, palm flat against his chest. It’s hard to hoist him up without touching or pulling at his back, but Aziraphale only makes one quiet noise of complaint before he somewhat upright. It’s another awkward sideways scoot across the floor before Crowley can prop Aziraphale up against the same bookshelf he’d used as a bed.

Aziraphale is panting softly by the time he settles, tipped sideways against the shelf in a position that doesn’t look like it’ll be remotely comfortable for more than a few minutes. Then what are they supposed to do? Crowley needs to get up and take inventory of the shop, what furniture isn’t broken, what supplies they have. There won’t be much. Even Aziraphale, with his love of all things tasty, didn’t keep a fully stocked kitchen around him when eating wasn’t a necessity. It was unlikely there were any medications here, certainly no ointments or salves or disinfectants. Food, water, first-aid, these were the bare minimum, and they all require something Crowley knows he doesn’t have: Money.

Why did he insist on always taking care of things as he went along? Would it have killed him to have something tucked away? He wanted to act like he clicked into the human world so well, yet he was above even keeping up with the currency. It’s again looking more than likely that whatever time he and Aziraphale are supposed to have left could be snuffed out before it really begins.

Crowley is half worked into a panic when Aziraphale’s hand lands on his cheek, making him flinch. “Crowley, my dear,” Aziraphale says softly, brows furrowing furiously as he studies Crowley’s face. “Your eyes.” His tone is heavy and mournful, corners of his mouth pulled down.

Crowley’s first instinct is to close his eyes and turn his head away, flooded with a shame he doesn’t understand. “Yeah,” he mutters, swallowing around a painful lump in his throat.

“Your wings?” Aziraphale questions. Guilt is layered onto the shame, as if Crowley was the one who decided he’d get out with the better end of the deal not being physically mutilated.

“They gave me some… I don’t know what it was. Special super-Hell poison. They’re not there anymore, but it’s not…” He gestures up and down Aziraphale’s body. “This.” Aziraphale swallows thickly, scanning over Crowley slowly as if he’s looking for any hidden injuries.

“I’m glad. You wouldn’t deserve this.” It’s an outrageous thing to say, made even more so by the earnest look on Aziraphale’s face.

“And you did?” Crowley scoffs, reaching out to grasp Aziraphale’s shoulders. He has half a mind to shake him, see if it fixes whatever’s been knocked lose in his head to say something like that. If Crowley had an ounce of power left in him, he’d use it to track down whoever had held Aziraphale down and spit such abhorrent garbage that it would make Aziraphale think for even a second he deserved any part of what happened. Aziraphale’s hand falls into his lap, gaze skittering to the side.

“I’ve been disobeying for a long time. They warned me.” Crowley had never had the pleasure of detaching and angel’s head from their body with his bare hands, an opportunity he now realizes was sorely missed. The question of their identities is on the tip of his tongue when Crowley thinks better of it. There’s nothing he can do, knowing the faces behind the attackers didn’t change what they did or why they did it. He knows enough.

“We need to get supplies,” Crowley says after a long moment, hoping to talk himself out of the dark pit his mind has become. As if personally called to attention, Aziraphale’s stomach growls so loudly it sounds fake. “I don’t have any money. I’m assuming your till is empty considering the last sale you made was in 1931.”

“I have cash.” Crowley meets Aziraphale’s eyes, an eyebrow lifted. “Not in the till. There’s a trinket box on my desk.” The desk chair is half across the room and missing a leg, but the desk is still standing. Slowly, always painfully, Crowley pulls himself to his feet and starts his stilted trek across the room. One side of the desk has been wiped clear, making the bloody handprint on it that much more obvious.

The extent of destruction in the shop boggles Crowley’s mind. What had they done? Chased Aziraphale around, slicing off his feathers one by one? Had he pleaded with them to stop? Bargained and begged for his life, for his grace? How many of them were there? A small army stampeding through or one lone angel who stalked around the shop taking cheap hits until he could corner Aziraphale and finish him off? The increasingly familiar taste of bile crawls up the back of Crowley’s throat. He swallows around it, tearing his gaze from the handprint to look at what else remained on the desk.

“There’s four trinket boxes over here, you’re going to have to be more specific, Angel,” Crowley calls out, dragging one across the top shelf of the desk and peaking inside. It’s full of rings, a few shining with jewels but the majority either plainly engraved or intricately designed bands. Crowley has always thought if Aziraphale could have been something other than an angel, it would’ve been a dragon. He can gather himself a hoard faster than any other being Crowley’s ever known.

“It’s got the Wales flag painted on the top,” Aziraphale answers, and it’s the first thing since this disaster started to make the corner of Crowley’s lip twitch up. He can just see the tip of the dragon’s tail peeking out from a pile of papers. The box he uncovers is larger, but Crowley is absolutely not prepared for the amount of money it holds. Just cracking the lid, it’s spilling out, as if the banknotes inside were waiting desperately for their chance to escape.  

“Why do you have all of this?” Pulling the lid all the way open makes Crowley suspect the last time it was closed a solid miracle guided the latch. “Where did you get it?”

“My tenants. I like to save their rent because…” A long enough pause Crowley turns around and stretches to try and look past the shelf. “Hm. I don’t actually know why.”

“Whatever the reason, it’ll be useful now,” Crowley says. He doesn’t have a clue how much he needs. Again, why would he bother to pay much attention to the price of food he didn’t need to eat and services he didn’t need to use? Considering the box is somehow continuously spilling over onto the desk, Crowley simply grabs at a wad being held together with an elastic band. Loose notes all over the desk obviously isn’t a permanent storage solution but it currently falls low on the list of things Crowley needs to take care of now.

It's only been a handful of seconds but rounding the corner, Crowley’s still not prepared to see Aziraphale again. His brain seems to have sloughed off all the horrid details and it’s like a fist to the gut to remember how awful Aziraphale looks. “Found it,” he says around the lump in his throat, giving a little wave of his hand before he stuffs the money into his pocket. “Should we… “ He hesitates, looking around again. Crowley knows there’s dusty furniture tucked away in the rooms upstairs, but Aziraphale isn’t really in any condition to be traipsing up and down the stairs and Crowley can say with some confidence he’s not going to be able to move anything down himself.

Suddenly, Crowley remembers the fainting couch. Months ago they’d passed it sitting out in front of an antique shop while on their way to tea. The moment Aziraphale spotted it, Crowley recognized the sparkle in his eye that meant they wouldn’t be walking away from it. The only problem was that it was hideous. Crowley didn’t much care for fainting couches as a whole. They were so often gaudy, plush and unnecessary velvet, or some crowded floral pattern that Crowley is pretty sure has a musty smell built in. This eyesore before them had taken the floral theme to a new extreme, at least five types of flowers all warring for the primary spot among the chaos with bushy leaves between them. If that wasn’t enough, the background color that did happen to peek through was a bright, mustardy yellow. You could achieve the same effect piling some weeds in a bowl of pea soup.

It was pointless to argue, but that had not stopped Crowley from standing there and doing precisely that. The look on Aziraphale’s face the moment the first argument shot out of Crowley’s mouth had confirmed his fate was sealed. Not only that, but the longer he stood there and tried to convince Aziraphale that this creation should not be allowed indoors, the more determined Aziraphale was to place it somewhere Crowley would have to see it every time he visited. The very worst part of it all was that once it was placed inside, the one time Crowley forgot to avoid the wretched thing he’d happily dropped himself on it in a drunken haze and found it to be rather comfortable. Aziraphale never said ‘I told you so,’ with his words but there was a particular smirk he wore where his lips puckered slightly and his right eyebrow pulled up that got the point across just as clearly.

The fainting couch now lived tucked in the nook nearest the kitchenette that Crowley gathered Aziraphale thought of as his living space. It might’ve been odd that it wasn’t more separated from the shop if the shop ever functioned as a shop. Said nook looks relatively untouched, a small comfort to Crowley and, he hoped, a bigger one to Aziraphale. He does have to disturb he space though, grasping the arm of the fainting couch and starting to drag it. It squeals terribly against the floor in protest, but once Crowley gets going he’s able to move it, even managing to navigate the single step down he wanted pass with minimum thudding and no breakage.

He finds the clearest spot near Aziraphale he can to park it, straightening with a wince. It’s no surprise that he’s practically panting at this point. Crowley had never appreciated how much work breathing could be.  “Do you think you can make it over here?” he questions, turning to Aziraphale.

“I’ll try.” It’s an honest answer. Crowley doesn’t think either of them really know where their limits currently lie. He comes to Aziraphale’s side, crouching next to him. He almost says it again – it’s going to hurt – but manages to bite his tongue in time.

“Put your arm here,” Crowley mutters, taking Aziraphale’s wrist and guiding his arm over his shoulder. He gets is own arm around the other’s waist, gripping him as tightly to his side as he can manage. “Ready?” The curt nod of Aziraphale’s head is about all the answer Crowley expects to get. He counts off and they attempt rise together. He thinks they have it for a moment despite the agonized noise grinding out of Aziraphale, but then Aziraphale’s legs just sort of crumple under him and they’re pulled back down.

His gasping breaths press his ribcage out against Crowley’s fingers in an unsteady rhythm. Crowley becomes aware of just how hot Aziraphale’s skin is, radiating far more warmth than it should be. Close like this, Crowley can see sweat beading down Aziraphale’s neck, notices the red of his cheeks. If he has a fever like this already, there’s no doubt there’s infection festering. “Angel, maybe we should… I don’t know. Call someone. Try to go to hospital.”

“We can’t,” Aziraphale grits out. He doesn’t have to explain. Crowley turned over these same arguments in his head already. Even if they do happen to know someone they might be able to convince to come in and help them, they’d likely be decent enough to take one look at the shop and call emergency services themselves. “Try again.” It’s a quiet order that Crowley doesn’t challenge. He readjusts his grip around Aziraphale, counts off again, and they begin the next attempt. This time, while Aziraphale’s legs are trembling hard enough Crowley can feel it up his side, they manage to stay standing. Crowley gives them both a second to steady themselves before they start the slow shuffle over to the fainting couch.

Sitting Aziraphale down is easier. He’s slow and tentative in his movements as he lies down and Crowley hovers uncertainly, looking for opportunity to help. It comes once Aziraphale has his torso situated as comfortably as he is going to be and Crowley can gently grab his legs and help lift them up to lay on the cushions, hesitating just a moment looking at Aziraphale’s Oxfords. Aziraphale had scolded him time and time again for putting his shoes on the upholstery, but it’s a trivial thought when Crowley’s almost positive they will mar the fabric with blood before Aziraphale is better.

Aziraphale is winded, understandably, a light tremor working over his body even as he lies still. Crowley settles on the end near Aziraphale’s feet, studying his shoes another moment simply because it is less painful than most other places he can look. “Want these off?” he questions after a moment, tugging on one of the laces. “Might be more comfortable.” Not that Aziraphale’s shoes are the primary cause of discomfort right now, but it wouldn’t make things any worse. Once Aziraphale gives a small nod, Crowley sets to work undoing the laces and carefully pulling the shoes off, dropping them on the floor.

Sitting here feels like he can get away with procrastinating, acting like he’s planning. Aziraphale seems content enough with him there, shifting so his shins are resting against Crowley’s hips. It would be so easy to lay down here next to Aziraphale. Crowley doesn’t need much room, and he could close his eyes and let some of the weariness in his muscles melt away. He has half a mind to do just that, but then Aziraphale shivers and Crowley remembers he has something much more important to do than mope. “I’ll find you a blanket,” he says softly, pushing himself up. At least that was a human comfort Aziraphale had plenty of around here. Crowley wanders until he finds an upright chair (one of his personal favorites, hidden between two shelves that were really too close together to use properly), tugging off the blanket that’s draped over the back. He makes a detour to the kitchenette, scrounging up a glass he fills with water and tops off with a straw.

Aziraphale surprises him by speaking first when he comes back into the room. “You look terrible.”

“Thanks, Angel, you’re looking great too,” Crowley answers sarcastically, sitting the glass on one of the shelves he’s standing near. Normally he wouldn’t, but he knows it annoys Aziraphale. The rest of his mind catches up and he nearly laughs. With the state of the shop, the glass of water was nothing.

“Ha,” Aziraphale says dryly, eyes tracking Crowley as he approaches to drape the blanket over him, tucking it up around his feet. “I meant that if you’re planning on going out like that, people might be concerned.”

“Maybe I’m just all partied out. Came from a real rager,” Crowley replies, retrieving the glass of water and crouching next to the side of the sofa, looking into Aziraphale’s face.

“Might I suggest washing the blood from your hands and face at the very least?” Aziraphale challenges, eyebrow quirked up just slightly.

“You can be a prude sometimes, you know that?” Crowley grumbles, holding the glass up and guiding the straw to Aziraphale’s lips. “Drink.” He realizes he should probably have some too before he leaves, tongue darting out over the metallic tasting split in his lip that pulls open every time he speaks. Aziraphale’s lips close around the straw, taking a sip that quickly turns into greedy gulps. “Not too much at once,” Crowley cautions, pulling the straw away. Aziraphale makes a displeased noise. He has this expression Crowley has always thought of as a frown that’s only in his eyebrows, and he’s wearing it now. “You’ll get sick!”

“I know, but I’m so thirsty…” It’s something they never would have had to say before. Never had to experience before. Real, actual thirst.

“Look, I’m going to top off the glass and I’ll leave it here where you can reach if you promise not to drink it all at once.”

“Promise,” Aziraphale answers, but his eyes track the glass so intensely Crowley’s not sure he believes him. At the sink, Crowley looks over his hands, shaking his head. There is still a lot of blood, and even when he runs the water warm and scrubs them together it is still settled in the beds of his nails. At least that’s not so noticeable. He uses a nearby washtowel to give his face a quick once over as well. The nice thing about all his clothing being black was that even though they were coated and crusty with mess, it wasn’t immediately apparent. He knows that there’s a trench coat hanging in a back closet that Aziraphale hadn’t liked but didn’t want to part with.  With that, Crowley just might be able to get away with sneaking in and out of a few shops without attracting attention.

On his way back to Aziraphale, Crowley picks up a small table that was lying near the stairs, setting it up next to the fainting couch and placing the refreshed glass of water on it. “There, can you reach?” Aziraphale winces horribly when he stretches his arm out, but he can touch the glass.  “Right then. I’m going to head out,” Crowley says. If he doesn’t do it now, he might never convince himself to leave.

For how slow and measured Aziraphale had reached for the glass, his arm moves remarkably quickly to shoot back out, fingers closing around Crowley’s wrist. His eyes are searching Crowley’s face as he looks back at him with a sharp arch to his brow. Aziraphale’s mouth fumbles around words he can’t seem to find. “What?” Crowley prompts, moving a step closer.

“Just… be careful. And come back,” Aziraphale finally settles on, squeezing at Crowley’s wrist before he lets go.

“Don’t worry Angel, I’ll be back soon.” Crowley says this with much more nonchalance than he actually feels, turning towards the door and shrugging on his borrowed jacket. Of course he’s coming back. There would be no point in going anywhere else.

Chapter Text

“Alright, breakfast is served. Do you want toast with it?” Crowley is far from good at cooking, but he was doing as much as he could. Their funds looked temptingly endless right now but he already knew they’d get themselves into trouble if they ordered takeout every day, and he doesn’t really trust anyone not to get too nosey. “Aziraphale?” The other was still spending most of his days lying on the fainting couch. It’d been mutually uncomfortable to realize that other human needs were going to come up as well, and half-carrying Aziraphale to the bathroom and back was really the only time he moved.

Aziraphale is, understandably, sullen, simply silent most of the time and short when he does speak. This morning Crowley hardly got a grunt out of him as he passed on the way to the kitchenette. There was a full kitchen upstairs and it was nearly functional again, but Crowley really didn’t need it when most of what he prepared was some variation on boiled water. Still, it’s unlike Aziraphale not to reply at all. Maybe he’d fallen back asleep?

That is the more innocent assumption. Something always sits heavy in the back of Crowley’s mind, the idea that despite everything Heaven and Hell put them through they’d decide it still wasn’t enough and come back. Forgetting the plates, Crowley heads out towards the area where the fainting sofa was. Their living area, for now.

Even before laying eyes on Aziraphale, Crowley suspects things are not going well. The rattling noise his lungs are making with each breath is disconcerting, and once Crowley rounds the corner it’s plain to see that Aziraphale’s healing is not going well. He’s ghastly pale, apart from two bright red circles on his cheeks. When Crowley lays a gentle hand on Aziraphale’s forehead, already damp with sweat, it’s so hot that he nearly jerks back.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says softly, patting the other’s cheek lightly, hoping to rouse him. “Aziraphale, wake up.” There’s not even the slightest flutter of his eyelids and Crowley can feel his throat constricting with panic. He pats his cheek a little harder before taking his shoulder and giving him a small shake. He usually avoided grabbing Aziraphale all together to avoid irritating his wounds, but when the other’s face remains lifeless Crowley shakes him a little harder.  

Nothing, not even the pained noises Crowley typically hears from Aziraphale any time he moves. If it wasn’t for his noisy breathing, Crowley wouldn’t be able to tell he was alive at all. “Angel, come on,” Crowley mutters desperately, one more pointless shake before he’s straightening up, pressing the heels of his palms to his forehead and starting to pace.  “Come on,” Crowley repeats, though this time to himself or Aziraphale he doesn’t know. 

Crowley would have to be an idiot to be surprised that the rushed, messy, poorly executed hack job he did on Aziraphale’s back could be infected. He doesn’t really want to see, but he steels himself and moves around Aziraphale anyway.

The wounds are raging red, pus oozing out from under a scab on one side. Crowley’s certain if he poked around he’d find more. He’s been doing the best he can with what he has. Every medication he could get his hands on in the pharmacy, salves and balms and sprays and bandages, but none of them were the antibiotic he knew deep down that they really needed.

Infection is bad. Human bodies, now their bodies, have a hard time getting rid of it without medicine. Crowley just doesn’t know how to get his hands on any. All the rules he could have skipped around before are a much bigger problem when the only tool of persuasion he has is an attempt at a charming smile.

The same problems they faced from the start remain stubbornly in the way. The worse off Aziraphale is, the more questions they’ll have to answer. On the other hand, Crowley can’t sit here next to Aziraphale and watch him die. He wonders if there’s a part of Aziraphale ready to give up. Crowley knows he’s tortured himself going over the thought again and again. What were they really living for? A few more short decades, a blip in their existence. It’s the type of pessimistic thought Aziraphale could usually banish from Crowley’s mind with a mere word or two, but without Aziraphale’s words Crowley is struggling to find the same path through.

Crowley’s choices are limited. There is no way around needing medicine, if Aziraphale is going to survive.  He’s already aware that he needs a prescription in order to procure them in a legal way. There is surely a black market, but Crowley doesn’t know how to find it, and worse, he doesn’t really know what he needs. ‘An antibiotic’ was far too vague, and he wouldn’t know if they were giving him something legitimate or a piece of candy.

Despite his demonic ways and shady dealings, Crowley didn’t spend a lot of time interacting with the black market. He was usually more adjacent, influencing supply or demand, perhaps, but not participating. A few nights stalking grungy bars Crowley could probably find something, but he doesn’t have that kind of time.

Breaking in would be an option, except it would bring round the same attention they’re trying to avoid by not calling the doctor. Crowley doesn’t think that he could successfully get in and out undetected with his clumsy human body. There’s cameras everywhere, all the time, cameras he used to be able to short out with the smallest flick of his finger that now he hasn’t the slightest clue how to get around.

What would be really great is if he could find a corrupt-but-also-trustworthy-enough doctor to come in and accept a handful of cash to treat Aziraphale. Crowley’s pretty sure he’s heard stories about doctors who work for the mafia operating like that, but again, he hasn’t the slightest idea how to find them. Crowley is still pacing when a memory hits him, sending him tripping over his own feet.

There was a crowd of extreme body modders who frequented an abandoned warehouse that Crowley used to store pieces he’d steal off phone and power wires to interrupt service in the city and then delight when he dropped them in the middle of a field and another alien conspiracy arose. They were eclectic, but kind enough, and Crowley could take his glasses off around them and they’d all gush about how cool his eyes were and accept that he couldn’t tell them who did it for the sake of whoever had done it.

Many of the things these people wanted weren’t quite legal.  There was one doctor in particular who became very popular in the community. Crowley had seen some of his work, fascinated by the lengths to which people would go for aesthetic. Full amputations, things implanted under the skin, cutting and folding and shaping of skin that could all go very wrong without a skillful surgeon at hand. As long as they had the cash, he’d work with them. People always came out alright, he never tried to take more than had been agreed upon. Crowley suspected he genuinely just thought that people should be able to choose what they did to their own bodies and wanted to stop them getting hurt.

What was his name? Crowley never was any good with names and he didn’t care to try too hard. If he just forgot everyone’s names, it wasn’t particularly damning no matter whether he was supposed to know them or not. Crowley’s pretty certain it’d started with a ‘th,’ since there was a big crew from Essex that everyone else gave a hard time for the way they pronounced it. Thrackton? No, that was, surprisingly, the garbage man who came down the alley behind Aziraphale’s shop.

Crowley had finally gotten around to putting up the small mountain of money Aziraphale had. He doesn’t know what the running charge is for a black market doctor, but they’re not asking for much of his time. Get them antibiotics, don’t ask questions, and go. Surely they had enough money for that.

Crowley resumes his pacing, reaching up to rub his temples. Maybe he could massage the memory out. “Thacker!” he exclaims suddenly, slapping his hands together. It takes about four loops round the room to locate where Crowley left his mobile (nestled between two books on a shelf, sticking half out, for some reason Crowley can’t remember now). He doesn’t even want to entertain the idea of not having a phone number for the doctor, and he could cry with relief when he scrolls down to see it.  

With no subtly whatsoever, Crowley dials up Dr. Thacker and confirms he will still do work under the table. Fortunately, Crowley’s eyes were enough to keep him in the doctor’s memory, so he can request that perhaps, Dr. Thacker could help out an injured friend. No questions, no hospital, and Crowley has plenty of money. There is an almost imperceptible hesitation before Dr. Thacker agrees and Crowley gives him directions to the shop. True to his word, once he arrives, the only questions the doctor asks are about Aziraphale himself, the wounds, not a thing breathed about how they got there or why Crowley was so adverse to contacting anyone else.

Crowley does much better as an assistant than trying to fix Aziraphale up himself. The large black bag Dr. Thacker had brought in alongside him had all kinds of tools, including things like anesthetic so when he digs out the embroidery thread Crowley left behind Aziraphale only whimpers softly. Crowley crouches in front of him, clutching one of Aziraphale’s hands between his own even though his friend isn’t conscious or aware enough that it makes a difference. It soothes Crowley. Dr. Thacker is remarkably efficient. Aziraphale has an IV in, things are drained, stitches pulled out, new ones in, and everything bandaged within an hour.

Dr. Thacker leaves Crowley with extra bandages, pain medication, antibiotics, and a stern reminder to finish the course even when Aziraphale starts to feel better. Crowley gives him double what he asked for and sees him out with the most grateful smile the thinks he’s ever worn.

It’s two full days Aziraphale doesn’t wake up. Crowley spends damn near every minute sitting by the other, wiping the sweat from his brow with a damp washcloth, using ice chips to moisten his lips. Aziraphale goes from a day of fitful twisting and turning to so still Crowley had to lay a hand on his chest to feel he was breathing. The first time he cracks an eye open, Crowley thinks he is dreaming.

Of course, Aziraphale isn’t instantly better. It is slow, days of laying creeping into days where he can sit for a few minutes and finally evolving into days where he can push himself up and walk to the toilet or the fridge on his own. Crowley doesn’t have a higher power to thank for this recovery, so he settles for doting on Aziraphale instead.

It had taken time, but the shop was starting to look closer to normal. Crowley quite honestly does not know how to get blood stains off the floor, so he’s covered as many of them with rugs as he could. Some things were broken beyond repair, but some Crowley could try to piece back together, a good project for the times he was sitting at Aziraphale’s side with nothing else to do but worry.

Upstairs Crowley had managed to make one room look… well, like a room. He’d been baffled by how many more books Aziraphale was hiding up there, but he did have an antique bed buried under a few boxes. Crowley wasn’t entirely sold on sleeping on it until he did and realized how much more comfortable it was than propping himself up in one of the chairs and waking with a crick in his neck. Once Aziraphale was well enough to take the stairs, Crowley relinquished the bed to him and spent most nights lying on one of the sofas and thinking about it longingly.

Crowley’s not sure when exactly Aziraphale had procured two shops down the road, but he did remember something about letting one of the tenants pay him with a plate of brownies rather than money. That level of forgiveness might have to be reined in, considering they will genuinely need income now, but overall it alleviated a looming horror in trying to figure out how to support two humans.

A tentative schedule starts to fall into place. Crowley is usually up first, pretending he doesn’t know it’s because he sleeps so poorly. He starts tea and toast, and the smell is usually enough to rouse Aziraphale. They eat, they clean up, they wander around straightening up the shop and sorting out the rooms, eat again, Aziraphale naps, Crowley goes for a brisk walk to burn off the energy he’s inevitably built up being inside all day, they eat again, sleep, and avoid talking about what happened. It’s not engaging or rousing by any stretch of the imagination, but Crowley thinks it’s about all either of them can handle.

***

“Ow!”

“Well what do you expect? I told you to stop moving, you jabbed yourself.” For the mess they were to start with, Aziraphale’s wounds have healed over better than Crowley expected. Dr. Thacker had called to check back in, make sure they were okay, and to tell Crowley he had to take the stitches out himself. They haven’t even really gotten to that bit, Crowley’s just trying to get positioned behind Aziraphale, kneeling on the bed. Aziraphale is the one who’d flinched when one of Crowley’s hands came to his shoulder and the tiny scissors he had in the other nicked Aziraphale’s skin.

“You ought to be more careful waving those things around,” Aziraphale huffs, hugging his shirt tighter to his chest where it was bundled in his arms.

“I can make you do it on your own if you’d like.” An empty threat, as are most that Crowley serves Aziraphale. “Now hold still.” Compared to sewing up the wounds in the first place, this is a piece of cake. Once they start it’s easy – snip and pull, snip and pull. Every once a while the pull bit makes Aziraphale squirm but otherwise it’s painless. It’s bringing Crowley a great deal of peace, actually, because it’s a symbol that Aziraphale is actually healing and Crowley doesn’t have to tiptoe by him at night to make sure he’s still breathing. “Finished.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale replies softly, rolling his shoulders a little. “You don’t have to keep helping me with the creams any longer. You’re off duty, as they say.”

“Nah, I’ve got it. I’m already back here.” Crowley grabs the small tube off the bed next, clicking the lid open and depositing and generous dollop into his palm.  He does want to be helpful, and if he particularly enjoys a few uninterrupted minutes of his hands on Aziraphale’s skin that’s his own business. Aziraphale certainly doesn’t discourage him with the soft noise he makes in the back of his throat once Crowley makes contact. The scars are thick and bumpy. They still get red and swollen in spots and one of the books Crowley thumbed through (just for fun, not because he was trying to do any research) said wounds like this would take months to heal enough they weren’t a bother, and years to really be done.

Strictly speaking, the cream is just meant to go on the scars themselves, but Aziraphale had yet to argue when Crowley took a few extra moments to massage around his shoulder blades. Every time, Crowley considered asking him. Did it still hurt? Who was it, which angels? What exactly did Aziraphale want to do for the rest of whatever time they have together? He never does, though, and today is no different.

There is another quite noise from Aziraphale when Crowley presses his fingers gently into what he knows is a tender spot. He usually drops his hands by now but Aziraphale is leaning back into his touch so heavily that he decides to stay where he is for a little longer. He’s learning Aziraphale’s body, the places where tension hides, where he most needs a little extra attention. Crowley takes his time in working out a small knot and stops by a spot near the base of Aziraphale’s neck that usually gets another noise when he pushes his thumb in just right. The noise is louder than Crowley expects, but even more surprising is the way Aziraphale lurches off the bed.

“That’s quite enough.” Crowley swallows thickly, pit forming in his stomach.

“I’m sorry, I just-“

“No, I’m not- I’m not trying to get after you,” Aziraphale says with a huff, keeping his back to Crowley. “I simply… I think I need more rest. I’m feeling…” He trails off, head tilting back slightly as if he’s going to find the right answer written on the ceiling.

“Right.” Crowley climbs off the bed, gathering the used sutures and scissors. “You should rest. Need anything? I can bring you some cocoa.” Aziraphale shakes his head and though he doesn’t say anything, Crowley can practically hear him pursing his lips. Deciding he’s done enough embarrassing himself today, Crowley turns for the door.

“Shut that behind you, if you would?” Aziraphale still hasn’t turned around, not even a glance over his shoulder. There could be any number of reasons, but Crowley can’t help but take it personally. It takes effort not to slam the door, and even then it’s a little too loud.

Emotions are not new to Crowley. What is new is the way they sit heavy on his chest, suffocating him. Wrapping around his throat and constricting. Crowley’s always had a slender vessel, but he sees it getting smaller every day because too often he’s turned away from eating by another feeling sneaking up on him, wriggling around in his stomach. His footsteps are probably too heavy on the stairs but Crowley’s never been one to walk delicately.

At the bottom of the stairs, Crowley pauses, trying to give himself a moment to calm down and think. All these human needs played into the emotions as well. A number of times he found himself irritated with everything around him only to have the feeling soothed when he ate.

There have been lots of tiffs with Aziraphale over the centuries. Arguments over serious things, arguments over silly things. Some that they resolved within seconds, others that drove Crowley into conveniently not seeing Aziraphale for decades. Of course Crowley never enjoyed them, but every tiny disagreement now eats into him. They don’t have decades for Crowley to pout. This isn’t even a disagreement, necessarily, but it still feels bad.

Maybe he could simply bribe Aziraphale into a better mood. Food always brought him a joy Crowley didn’t quite understand but appreciated. This is even more true now that Aziraphale actually needs it. Before he eats, Aziraphale can get downright grumpy, but a few bites in and he’s smiling and laughing as if he wasn’t just ready to rip Crowley’s head off.

The sushi shop just down the road was a longtime favorite. So much so that Crowley strongly suspected Aziraphale had something to do with the longevity of the shop in its location, regardless of the flow of customers. An easy win would be to bring a small feast for dinner. Crowley glances up at the ceiling, staring for a long moment, wondering if he could force some kind of information about Aziraphale’s thoughts to rain down upon him. Obviously not, so Crowley settles for finding the wallet he now has to carry with him and heading out the door.

When he returns, Aziraphale is bustling around in the kitchen, face going red once he sees Crowley. There’s a beat of uncomfortable silence, but all Crowley has to do is lift the bag up in offering and Aziraphale seems to relax. An hour later, Aziraphale is smiling warmly, looking comfy and pleased with the table littered with empty containers in front of him, and Crowley can almost forget there was a problem at all.

Chapter Text

Everything is going fine, except when it isn’t.

Crowley can’t blame Aziraphale for being moody. His betrayal feels so much sharper. Physically, yes, but angels weren’t supposed to do this. Aziraphale still had so much faith in them, it’s not like Crowley ever trusted Hell.

The fact Crowley struggles to pinpoint what flips Aziraphale’s mood is what bothers him the most. Just a few days ago, they’d been sitting at the table together with a glass of wine, and Crowley cracked a joke about the shop owner across the street that made Aziraphale laugh so hard tears leaked from the corner of his eyes. Then, not even 15 seconds later, his expression went stormy and he excused himself and disappeared into his room for the rest of the night. Or the next morning, when Aziraphale stepped off the step ladder wrong and toppled over. He was flustered and embarrassed as Crowley came to fuss over him, checking him over for injuries and offering to bandage the tiny cut he found on his forehead. Aziraphale had gone all soft and pliant under Crowley’s hands when he did come back with a plaster. He had even offered a soft laugh when Crowley suggested they splurge on the ones with designs next time. When Crowley’s hands had come to Aziraphale’s jaw, though, tilting his head up so he could inspect his handiwork, Aziraphale all but shoved him away and hardly spoke a word for the rest of the day.

It doesn’t help that Crowley feels just as volatile. Sometimes, being around Aziraphale soothes him, but sometimes it keys him up. The ache that had smoldered away in Crowley’s chest for millennia is burning at full force, and he doesn’t have a clue what to do with it. It’s hard to ignore the desperation that claws at him, reminding him time is closing in.

It makes moments like now, his elbow resting against Aziraphale’s while they stand at a shelf together, harder to ignore. There were boxes upon boxes of books in the rooms upstairs that they’ve been slowly clearing out to make the space more livable.

“Angel, why on Earth do you have seven copies of The Picture of Dorian Gray?” Crowley picks up the most recent one he’s discovered, thumbing through the pages briefly.

“They’re all different,” Aziraphale answers, leaning into Crowley’s side. “Look, this one is a first edition.” He reaches over to flip back to the front cover, pointing at a small line of text. “And Wilde signed it.”

“Yeah, but isn’t this one also a signed first edition?” Crowley questions, reaching up to poke at the spine of one of the copies on the shelf.

“Ah, but this one is no run of the mill first edition,” Aziraphale explains, fingers performing a nimble little dance on the page. “This is from a limited batch printed on handmade Van Gelder paper. Only 250 were ever made and far less survive to this day.”

“So why do you need the run of the mill first edition then?” Crowley questions, bumping Aziraphale’s shoulder with his own.

“Because they’re different, Crowley, do keep up.” Crowley bites back a smile, snapping the book closed and adding it to its brethren on the shelf.

“You were all buddy-buddy with Wilde anyway, weren’t you?” Crowley questions, turning to grab the next book from the box. This one has multiples on the shelf somewhere around here too. Crowley specifically remembers shelving them the other day because he had found a single singed feather on the shelf. Crowley wasn’t sure what to do with it but throwing it out was certainly wrong. He’d hate to upset Aziraphale with it though, so he’d hid it away in his room, tucked safely in the back of a drawer.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” Aziraphale answers from the other side of the shelf.

“Seemed to me you two spent plenty of time together.” Crowley had been wildly jealous at the time, not only because it ate into his own time with Aziraphale, but he’d seen the way Wilde looked at him. It was the same sickeningly wanton way Crowley was more aware to hide from his own expression going forward.

“As friends do,” Aziraphale replies calmly.

“Buddy-buddy,” Crowley answers. He finds the other copies of Decamerone, all in the original Italian, slotting this one in next to an outrageously bright orange copy. “You know, if things get desperate we might have to actually start selling some of these.”

“Might as well scrap out the Bentley while we’re at it.” Aziraphale is frowning at Crowley when he comes around the shelf.

“I only have one Bentley,” Crowley argues, folding his arms and leaning a shoulder against the shelf he’s nearest, watching the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth twitch up.

“Surely there’s redundancy. Why do you need four seats when the two of us are all that ever rides in it?” Aziraphale plucks the book from the top of the pile in his arms, leaning down to house it on one of the lower shelves.

“Four seats is what the car is meant to have!” Aziraphale straightens, doing an absolutely terrible job of hiding the little smile tugging at his lips as he comes towards Crowley.

“If they’re superfluous, it doesn’t really matter whether they’re meant to be there or not, does it?” He stands close, reaching around Crowley to shelve a book behind him.

“Keep threatening the car and I’ll sell your seat too,” Crowley answers, giving Aziraphale a cheerful smile.

“You wouldn’t.”

“I absolutely would.” Aziraphale thinks this over for a moment.

“Perhaps you would, and then it would cost us twice as much to buy it back when you decided you were lonely.” Crowley rolls his eyes, head moving along with it even though that’s not so necessary now that his eyes aren’t always hidden behind sunglasses.

“Look, all I’m saying is you aren’t going to have enough time to read all of these again, might as well get some use of them while you’re here.” As soon as he’s said it, Crowley wants to snatch the words right back out of the air. Aziraphale’s face shows raw pain for only a second before his features are arranged into something excessively neutral.

“Yes. I suppose I don’t need much of anything anymore.” Crowley doesn’t stop Aziraphale from turning away, cursing himself silently. The silence that falls between them is thick with tension, but it doesn’t last too long before Aziraphale mutters something about getting a drink and disappears up the stairs.

Crowley is vaguely aware he can hear Aziraphale moving around upstairs, cabinets thumping closed, water running. How does he manage to keep putting his foot in his mouth like this? It’s so frustrating, and the more desperate he is to do better the worse it seems to get. A bang that sounds like something trying to burst through the ceiling makes Crowley jump, effectively snapping him out of any moping he was prepared to do.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley hurries towards the stairs, pushed forward when he hears a loud shattering noise. Damn it, this was it, wasn’t it? Their momentary peace, or meager attempt at it, being ripped into by the beings that just couldn’t seem to leave them be. He’s moving up the stairs quickly, but there’s another shattering sound before he even makes it to the top, and this time he can hear Aziraphale letting out a raw scream.

Crowley is trying his best to stop from imagining what’s awaiting him. He doesn’t have the capacity to worry about it right now if he’s going to be of any use. Images of bloody, beaten Aziraphale crowd into his mind despite his efforts to keep them at bay. When Crowley comes through the door it is a shock to see Aziraphale standing upright and uninjured. Crowley had been certain that the primal noise the other had made had to be the result of something horrific.

There’s not long to focus on that, though, because suddenly a plate is bursting against the wall next to Crowley. He staggers back, staring with wide eyes first at the spot where the plate hit and then back to Aziraphale, who already has another in his hand. “What’s going on?!”

“We don’t need all these plates, do we, since we’re going to die soon anyway,” Aziraphale says, chucking this plate directly onto the floor in front of him.

“Whoa, whoa, hold on now, that’s not-“

“Not what, Crowley?” Aziraphale is brandishing a new plate in his direction. “Not what you said? Not what you meant? It doesn’t matter either way, because it’s true.” There’s a small part of Crowley, currently cowering the back of his mind, that is relieved to see Aziraphale talking about it, violent as it is.

“We will need plates.” Aziraphale does not seem to care for this answer, not based on the crash as this plate joins its fallen brothers in shards on the floor.

“What does it matter? What does any of this matter?” Emotion cracks Aziraphale’s voice, his face scrunching up in such a devastated expression Crowley thinks he can actually feel his heart breaking in his chest.

“Maybe it’s time we talk about what happened,” Crowley suggests gently. Aziraphale blinks frantically, eyes bright with tears.

“What is talking about it going to do?” Crowley doesn’t actually know the answer to that himself. He’s in no way qualified to offer any kind of advice or talk Aziraphale through anything. The hold he has on his own emotions is tenuous at best.

“I’m not really sure, Angel, but if-“ Crowley cuts off when there is suddenly a mug hurtling towards his face, ducking just in time. It shatters noisily on the wall behind him.

“Stop calling me that!” Aziraphale practically shrieks.

“Angel?” It’s not a well thought out move, proven by the plate that clips Crowley’s shoulder because he’s too slow in moving out of the way.

“I’m not an angel! I’m not anything anymore!” With a roar, Aziraphale sweeps his hands arms across the counter, creating a tremendous explosion of noise as ceramic hits the wood. “Why did you even save me?”

“What?” Crowley’s hands are trembling so he curls them into fists, trying to breathe evenly. He’d never seen Aziraphale like this. So angry, so desperate.

“Why did you keep me alive? Were you working with them? Is this part of the plan? To make sure it’s as awful as possible?” Aziraphale is gesturing wildly, chest heaving under his sweater.

“Working with them? By them I assume you mean Heaven,” Crowley replies, his own voice starting to rise. His anger is rearing it’s head, even though he knows that Aziraphale isn’t really the object of his fury. “Let me ask you, Aziraphale, why would I do that?”

“You’re a demon, isn’t that what you’re meant to do? Maybe this has been your plan the whole time.” Crowley suddenly wishes he had something to throw, simultaneously grateful that he doesn’t.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he says through gritted teeth, shaking his head. He feels nauseous, as usual, and his head is throbbing, but none of it touches how he aches to see Aziraphale hurting so.

“Ridiculous? Ridiculous?” Aziraphale’s voice goes shrill. “They’ve taken everything from me. My grace, my future, my peace. What do I have left? What kind of life is this to live?” It hurts to hear Aziraphale say, and hurts even more that it inspires a twinge of guilt to hear the same questions he’d been mulling thrown back into his face.

“Nothing?” Crowley challenges. “Nothing at all? I’m still here, doesn’t that count for anything?” It’s a pathetic question to pose, and it sounds even worse wavering as Crowley shouts. He doesn’t expect the way Aziraphale’s eyes narrow in response.

“You?” he spits, glass crunching under his feet as he takes a step forward. “You’re the worst part of it all.”

Oh. Crowley flinches back like Aziraphale has slapped him, suddenly having to swallow around a huge and painful lump in his throat, choking out the force in his words. “The worst part of it all?” he echoes. It’s an invitation for Aziraphale to continue, but Crowley thinks if he hears any more it might shake him so hard he’ll never recover.

“The worst,” Aziraphale repeats, another noisy step and he’s in Crowley’s space. “You are going to destroy me.” He punctuates it by shoving at Crowley’s chest, sending him tumbling back into the wall, too shocked to give any resistance.

“I- I-“ Crowley has to gasp in a breath, shaking his head furiously.  He wants to push back, but something inside him feels like it’s snapped, leaving him with nothing to lean on. “I can leave. I can go. Is that what you’re telling me?” He won’t survive, but if it will at least let Aziraphale have a shot at enjoying the next years, that’d be worth it.

“You idiot,” Aziraphale hisses, crowding Crowley up against the wall, a hand fisted in the front of his shirt. “The one thing I know I’m not going to be able to survive is losing you.” Aziraphale doesn’t give him a chance to process that, yanking down on Crowley’s shirt and crushing their lips together. It’s messy, a little painful, their teeth clacking together, and it sets Crowley on fire.

He’s dazed when Aziraphale pulls back. He hadn’t expected any of this. He’d never seen Aziraphale break something on purpose, never been yelled at by him, and he’d never allowed himself to imagine that Aziraphale would want to kiss him, no matter how Crowley himself felt. “I can’t survive losing you,” Aziraphale repeats, much more quietly this time, looking up at Crowley. His expression, so twisted and guarded the whole time he’d been shouting, has now cracked open, eyes big and pleading.

It's Crowley’s turn to move in. It’s not quite so reckless this time, but just as fierce. Aziraphale makes a low noise in the back of his throat and tugs down on Crowley’s shirt again, pressing himself flush at the same time. Crowley’s hand comes to cup the back of Aziraphale’s head, holding him there while he kisses him like his very life depends on it. At this point he’s pretty sure it does.

Chapter Text

Crowley’s shoulder slams into the door frame hard, making him stumble, but somehow doesn’t dislodge his lips from Aziraphale’s. He fumbles over his feet again when Aziraphale surges forward, pushing him back and trying to stay on top of him all at once. His hands feel like they’re everywhere, under Crowley’s shirt, grabbing at his ass, tugging his hair. The most intoxicating thing is the little sounds Aziraphale keeps making, desperate and hungry, matching the fact that he keeps kissing Crowley so feverishly he thinks his lips are bruising.

Aziraphale continues to herd him down the hall, though Crowley can’t really keep track of where they are. Aziraphale’s tongue drags wetly over his bottom lip, making Crowley grateful for the way he’s been shoved up against the wall again because his knees suddenly feel weak. He can’t help the noise he makes when Aziraphale pulls back, trying to chase his lips.

“Arms up.” It’s a command, soft but unquestionable. Crowley obeys, arms up, taking this opportunity to try and catch his breath. It’s not working well, especially not the way his breath catches in his throat when Aziraphale pulls his shirt up over his head. He drops it carelessly on the floor next to them, taking only a brief moment to look over the freshly exposed skin before he’s on Crowley again. The leverage he’d had pulling at Crowley’s shirt is gone but Aziraphale makes up for it hooking an arm around his neck.

Their journey continues as clumsily as it had begun, remarkably inefficient. Crowley has a vague idea of where they’re headed – or, rather, he would if he had the capacity to have a single thought right now. It’s taken this long for his mind to really, truly process what Aziraphale had said to him and that he hadn’t said anything back. They’re half across the threshold to the bedroom when Crowley breaks away, face feeling flushed. “It’s- Me too,” he says, voice rasping slightly.

“What?” Aziraphale frowns slightly, brows pulling together, lips looking irresistibly red. It’s nearly enough for Crowley to lose the thread of his thought.

“Me too. I couldn’t- I could never survive losing you.” Crowley’s hands come to frame Aziraphale’s face. They’d come too close too many times. Something inside Crowley is already fractured. Every time he has to spend another hour imagining going on without the one being he’s ever truly loved, he gets closer to simply falling apart. Aziraphale meets his gaze, eyebrows sill pinched but the corners of his lips aren’t pointed down anymore. Much like his own confession, he meets Crowley’s with a fiery kiss, both hands fisted so tightly in his hair that it stings.

He is even more insistent in moving Crowley, his entire body roiling against him in to propel him where he wants. The back of Crowley’s knees hit the bed and he topples back, Aziraphale moving over him. Crowley wonders somewhere in a far-off corner of his mind if there’s ever been someone who was kissed to death. His hands find their way to Aziraphale’s sweater, gripping and tugging. It ends up bunched under Aziraphale’s arms for a long moment because neither of them is willing to break the kiss. Finally, Aziraphale pulls back, leaving just enough space for Crowley to yank his sweater off before he descends on Crowley again.

Aziraphale is a warm, heavy weight over Crowley, caging him against the bed. He’s pressing them together nearly head-to-toe, so there’s no avoiding feeling how hard he is against Crowley’s hip. It’s answered by Crowley’s body, cock throbbing trapped between them. Crowley’s hands move slow down Aziraphale’s back, from just under his shoulder blades all the way down to his hips, where he encourages the other to roll down against him.

Crowley is suddenly very aware of the clothing they still have on, how constraining it feels. It’s making him a little too warm and the friction against him the next time Aziraphale rolls his hips makes the edges of his vision go fuzzy. He hands move, pushing at Aziraphale now rather than pulling. Aziraphale sits back, the furthest away he’s been since they were in the kitchen, apparently on the same page when his fingers go to Crowley’s jeans without pause. Crowley has to fumble with a thin leather belt before he can get Aziraphale’s trousers undone. He shoves them down as far as he can manage before Aziraphale is climbing off the bed and dragging Crowley’s jeans with him.

They catch on his shoes, and Aziraphale is doing a bit of an awkward dance trying to work his own off. Any other time, Crowley would laugh, but he just watches dumbstruck, heart pounding in his throat. His body cools without the other on top of him, giving him just enough space to try and think. Aziraphale has managed to rid them of all impeding clothing and climbs right back over Crowley. “Wait.” It comes out dry, like the word itself is wondering why the hell Crowley is interrupting.

“Why?” Aziraphale demands, hands planted on either side of Crowley’s head, body close and bringing heat right back with him.

“Wh-what if this is- If it’s too fast?” Aziraphale had, after all, been having a complete meltdown in the kitchen merely minutes before.

“We’ve already missed out on so much time, do you really want to wait any longer?” There’s a measured expression on Aziraphale’s face, one that Crowley knows means he’s waiting for a challenge to be answered. The thought curls around itself in Crowley’s mind, the finite time they have left pressing down on him.

Aziraphale moves easily when Crowley tugs him back down, his own answer. As wonderful as it had been to be pressed together before, Crowley’s skin is singing with Aziraphale touching him everywhere.  The kiss they’re sharing is messy, Aziraphale’s tongue pressed into Crowley’s mouth, moving just as frantically as every other touch so far tonight, trying to make up for years of lost time. When his hips move down this time, it brushes their cocks together, and Crowley can’t help the noise that he loses into Aziraphale’s mouth.

Every time Aziraphale pulls back, Crowley feels more impatient. The longer he spends kissing Aziraphale, the more certain he is that it is the only thing he wants to do for the rest of his days. “Have you touched yourself since we became human?” Aziraphale asks, voice pitched lower than normal, lower than Crowley’s ever heard it. The tone alone sends gooseflesh down his arms, while the words make heat rush to his face. He nods, short and stiff. “It’s good, isn’t it?” Aziraphale continues. “Hard to stop. Especially when I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” He punctuates it with another roll of his hips and without Aziraphale to muffle him, the sound Crowley makes could easily be considered desperate.

He'd thought of Aziraphale too. Who else would he think of? The act of masturbating alone fostered a seed of abashment, but he was absolutely riddled with shame by the time he was fucking into his own hand, trying to bury Aziraphale’s name in his pillow. The guilt never seemed to stop him from doing it again though, always telling himself it was the last time and knowing that it was a lie.

“Are you gonna touch me?” Crowley questions, the words tilting against each other and half delirious.

“I would like nothing more, my dear.” It’s Aziraphale’s words, his inflection, Crowley is just having a hell of a time reconciling what exactly they’re telling him. Aziraphale pulls back again, for what Crowley very much hopes is the last time, rooting around in the drawer of his bedside table. He returns with a small bottle. Crowley could try to work out what it is, or he could just wait and see.

He doesn’t have to wait long. Almost immediately, Aziraphale is clicking the cap open. Crowley is ready to protest him moving back until he nudges Crowley’s legs apart and his mind, slow as it is right now, manages to fit this piece into place. Almost immediately, Aziraphale has a slick finger pressed into Crowley, capturing the moan Crowley lets out with a hungry kiss. Crowley moves his hands into Aziraphale’s hair, longer than he’d ever seen it, which worked perfectly for the moment because it gave him something to grab. The skin around his lips feels raw already, the new stubble Aziraphale is sporting rubbing rough against him.

It's too many sensations to catalogue at once. Crowley bounces between them, grounding himself where he can. A second finger joins the first, drawing attention for a few moments until Aziraphale is biting down on his bottom lip. It feels so good that the moment he lets up, Crowley tugs Aziraphale’s head back just a little and returns the favor, thrilling at the way Aziraphale groans and presses his fingers deeper.

Aziraphale pulls back for a breath before he’s pushing in the third finger, watching Crowley’s face intently. “I want to take my time,” he mutters, shaking his head softly. “But I don’t think that I can.”

“Then don’t,” Crowley answers, canting his hips up. Maybe they’d get to try again, or maybe this would be a glorious one-time thing that absolutely wrecked Crowley, but either way Crowley plans on enjoying it. Aziraphale hums lowly, tugging his fingers out. Crowley feels wretchedly empty for that moment, but he barely has time to register it before Aziraphale is pressing against him.

Aziraphale does take his time sinking in, keeping his eyes trained on Crowley’s face. The usual sparkling blue has been blown out by his pupils, giving him a dark look that makes Crowley feel like squirming under him. He stops once he’s bottomed out and stays that way for a long, long moment.

“Well, come on then,” Crowley finally goads. His voice is too wispy to be convincing, but it’s enough for Aziraphale, who drags his hips back slowly before pressing all the way back in with one sharp thrust. Crowley’s back arches off the bed, a soft cry falling from his lips. There’s another too-long pause when he pulls back and Crowley considers saying something with more conviction but it turns out he didn’t need to worry.

A few thrusts and Aziraphale has found a frantic pace, snapping into Crowley over and over again. Crowley is hiccupping in breaths where he can but they’re used up almost immediately by the needy groans he can’t stop making. Aziraphale’s cheeks are rosy red, a dark blush spreading down over his shoulders and chest.  His mouth hangs open slightly, bottom lip swollen from the assault of their kisses. Crowley has never seen anything like it. Aziraphale’s rhythm is interrupted when he drops to his elbows, but he has no trouble finding it again, sealing his lips to Crowley’s.

Heat washes over Crowley’s body, unlike anything he’s ever felt. The lonely, desperate nights in his room couldn’t compare to this, they shouldn’t even be allowed to be in the same category. His hands are tangled in Aziraphale’s hair, holding on like it’s a lifeline. Crowley’s legs come up, hooking loosely over Aziraphale’s hips. It restricts his movements, but Aziraphale isn’t one to be easily deterred, making up for his loss in speed by thrusting into Crowley so hard every time that it tries to drive him further up the mattress and the bedframe slams loudly against the wall.

The kiss has become messy, uncoordinated, mostly hot breath and needy noises. Aziraphale has progressed from a low moan to a breathy sort of whimper, and Crowley has an almost constant stream of sounds, some punched out with each thrust and others fighting to be a plea for more in the short moments that Aziraphale pulls back. Crowley’s legs are trembling around Aziraphale, though it’s hard to really tell if it’s him or the other at this point. Pleasure is curling warm and hot low in Crowley’s stomach. He doesn’t know how much longer he can take this before his shakes apart completely.

Aziraphale lets his lips slip from Crowley’s to suck in a few desperate breaths, getting one hand into Crowley’s hair to angle his head back, managing to meet Crowley’s gaze even through his lidded eyes. “Please,” Crowley gasps. “Please, Aziraphale.” He doesn’t know what he’s asking for, he just know that he needs and the only one that can help him is Aziraphale.

“I know,” Aziraphale soothes, and even though Crowley is at a loss he believes him completely, trusts him to hold him through this. He pulls Aziraphale down a little too hard and fast, whimpering against his lips. The tremor that works through Crowley’s body makes his back arch sharply off the bed, toes curling behind Aziraphale’s back. He’s rendered silent for half a second, and then he’s crying out helplessly, spilling hot and sticky between them. It's enough to drive Aziraphale over the edge as well, a final thrust and a squirming roll of his hips and he’s making an absolutely ravaged sound, pulled in a tight line over Crowley, hips jerking as he orgasms.

Crowley is flying so high, it’s no wonder it feels like it’s taking hours to come back down. His body is buzzing all over, even as he starts to find his breath and his limbs melt from their hold around Aziraphale. For the first time in what feels like forever now, there is no rush. It’s just the two of them. He realizes Aziraphale’s hand is stroking through his hair, slowly, rhythmically, and his own hands have found their way walking up and down Aziraphale’s back. It’s absolutely blissful.

Some of Crowley’s more human complaints start to creep up as he settles back into his body. One of his legs is half numb, his shoulder is smarting the way it’s wedged under him, and he’s sure Aziraphale isn’t the most comfortable where he is. Aziraphale must be having the same thought because he’s pushing himself up slowly, pulling out and maneuvering to drop on the bed next to Crowley. Warmth seeps out of Crowley, a new and not entirely unpleasant sensation. He shifts, stretching out the leg that needs circulation restored, before shifting onto his side to look at Aziraphale.

The bubble around them feels fragile, especially as Aziraphale’s gaze goes unfocused while he stares up at the ceiling. Crowley reaches out slowly, laying a gentle hand on Aziraphale’s cheek to tilt his head. There probably is something he should say, especially the searching way Aziraphale is looking at him, but terror at the thought of saying the wrong thing chokes him. Even worse, laying here looking at Aziraphale so tenderly, Crowley can feel tears burning in his eyes.

He's not fast enough to blink them away. The one slipping down his cheek seems to disrupt whatever reverie Aziraphale was in. “Oh, dear. What’s wrong?” His voice is soft and familiar and makes more tears well up in Crowley’s eyes. It’s Aziraphale’s turn to shift and reach for him, brushing his thumb gently against Crowley’s cheek. There’s so much emotion Crowley has no idea how to put it into words. After 6,000 years of thinking he had to settle to just be Aziraphale’s friend, riding out an apocalypse together, building their own secret, special little life between heaven and hell, thinking they had eternity laid in front of them, having it all ripped away and now, just now, getting the tiniest taste of what he’d longed for when he knew it was going to be taken from him.

Crowley sniffles softly, giving his head a small shake. “It’s just… we- we wasted so much time.” It’s not enough, but his voice cracks desperately around the words.

“Crowley. My Crowley. I have never wasted a moment with you.” Aziraphale brushes away another escaped tear. Crowley tries to scoff, but it’s all caught up in his throat and comes out as nothing more than a quiet whine. “Never,” Aziraphale insists.

“Why did it have to take us so long?” Crowley questions mournfully. “We’re so… so stupid.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale agrees readily. “We don’t have a lot of time for regrets, though, do we?” His thumb is brushing against Crowley’s cheek again, light and gentle.

“I love you.” It hasn’t been said yet, but if it’s taken poorly at this point Crowley should probably just give up because he’s never going to learn how to read these situations.

“I love you too.” Just like that, the thing that’s been hanging over them silently for most of their existence is out in the open. They love each other. Even if it took too long to admit it, it’s true. Crowley studies Aziraphale’s face for a moment, drinking in the features he’s come to know so well. He moves closer, brushing their lips together in a soft approximation of a kiss. Aziraphale lets him stay there, lets him take his time in another brush of their lips. He’s patient while Crowley crowds closer, and he lets Crowley lead the kiss once they press their lips together properly. Aziraphale places a hand flat against the small of Crowley’s back, making room for Crowley to tangle their legs together.

They chip away at the rest of the night tangled in the sheets, seeking out all the things in each other they hadn’t been brave enough to before. If their time really is going to be cut short, they have no choice but to make the most of every single second of it.