Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Six thousand years was a long time to spend on a planet alone.

Well, Crowley wasn’t technically alone. But the angel adversary he’d known since the dawn of time was such an unmitigated bore that he hardly counted as company. Over six millennia, they moved in separate circles, periodically catching glimpses of each other whilst out on a job but remaining firmly locked in mutual disinterest. 

Six thousand years of maintaining no relationship whatsoever.

It hadn't always been this way. Back in the beginning, when the world was strange and new and no one had invented Wi-Fi yet, Crowley (still going by Crawly in those days) had considered the possibility of making contact with Heaven’s representative on Earth. After all, if this angel was to be the only other immortal being permanently stationed on the planet, why shouldn’t Crowley at least try to be civil?

The Eastern Gate had seemed as good a place as any to start. He'd slithered up the wall, ready with some casual remark about the new humans or the perfect weather they’d been having…

…and then he'd met Sandalphon.

“Be gone, foul serpent,” the bald, squat angel had snapped, not even bothering to look alarmed or righteous. He'd just seemed annoyed at the interruption, as if Crowley had disturbed his important work of staring out across the unmarred terrain surrounding Eden, clearly bored out of his mind.

Crowley had tried again a few decades later, running into Sandalphon in a primitive gambling den where humans wagered with shells and coloured stones. The angel was hunched over the game, locked in concentration, apparently unbothered by the fact that one of God’s soldiers shouldn’t be so invested in early humanity’s attempts to separate each other from their possessions.

“Bit of a grey area for your lot, isn't it?” Crowley had ventured.

Sandalphon had barely glanced up. “I'm observing human behaviour. For the records.” His eyes had flicked back to the game. “Now go away. You're putting me off my…observations.”

And that had been that.

Over the centuries, Crowley came to realise how much of a bullet he’d dodged, not forming any kind of camaraderie with Sandalphon. The angel carried out his heavenly duties with minimal effort and spent far more time indulging in human pastimes. He performed blessings only when absolutely required, and delivered divine messages with the enthusiasm of someone reading the ingredients off a cereal box. But he’d light up at the mention of a new gambling house or fighting pit.

Any notion of an Arrangement died a quick death. What would be the point? Sandalphon wasn't interested in Hell, or Heaven for that matter, just his own petty amusements. So Crowley simply stopped noticing him.

They settled into an unspoken agreement that suited them both: complete and total indifference.

Hell occasionally required reports, which was the only reason Crowley bothered to keep minimal tabs on the angel. Every century or so, he'd pay some human – a street urchin, a servant, whoever was desperate for money – to follow Sandalphon around for a day and report back. The information was always the same: cursory blessings followed by extended visits to whatever passed for entertainment in that era. Dice games in ancient civilisations. Card games and dog tracks in more recent centuries.

During the fourteenth century, which Crowley had despised every plague-ridden moment of, he hadn't even bothered to check if Sandalphon was still around. When he finally sent someone looking, he discovered that the angel had spent decades accumulating wealth by blessing merchant ships, which mysteriously always found the best trade winds. Heaven apparently didn't audit very closely.

In 1793, Crowley ran into him in a Parisian gambling den. Their eyes met briefly across a room thick with tobacco smoke and conspiratorial whispers. Sanalphon had turned back to his cards, and Crowley had drained his wine and sauntered out without a second thought.

Their last non-interaction was during the London Blitz. Crowley had been navigating the darkened streets, still elated by the recent praise from Hell for his part in starting the war (he’d had none, but he wasn’t going to pass up the chance to take credit), when he spotted Sandalphon emerging from an underground establishment that had somehow remained open despite the bombings. The angel had been pocketing what looked like winnings, a satisfied smile revealing the ridiculous gold cross attached to his front teeth.

Crowley hadn't even slowed his pace. Whatever Sandalphon did with his time was his business. Though why a being who could conjure any currency in any amount was so enamoured with gambling was beyond him. Heaven's standards had clearly slipped, but that wasn't Crowley's problem.

It was better this way, Crowley knew as the centuries rolled by. No complications. No expectations. No tedious philosophical debates about good and evil that would inevitably lead nowhere.

Because that was the thing about angels, wasn't it? Just celestial bureaucrats as susceptible to human vices as humans themselves. Nothing interesting there. Nothing worth a demon's time or attention.

Crowley had his own things going on. He'd never needed an angelic counterpart to define himself against. The very idea was laughable.

Six thousand years is a long time to share a planet with someone. But it was easy when you genuinely couldn't care less about their existence.

***

London, present day

The Bentley roared through central London, weaving through traffic at a speed that should have been impossible for the congested streets. Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now” blasted from the speakers; Crowley had long since given up trying to get the infernal thing to play any other band.

Crowley had placed a very specific miracle on the Bentley years ago: a collision-avoidance system. No matter how fast or recklessly he drove, the car would always narrowly miss hitting other vehicles or pedestrians. It was partly self-interest (paperwork from Hell was a nightmare if you killed a human ahead of schedule), and partly because, well, he wasn’t that sort of demon. Traffic chaos and causing near heart attacks were one thing; actual death by his hand (or car) was quite another.

What Crowley hadn’t accounted for, because why would he, was that his miracle was specifically calibrated for humans. It never occurred to him to adjust the parameters to include other celestial beings. 

He was doing a solid ninety miles per hour down Oxford Street, swerving around buses with millimetres to spare, when he glimpsed a flash of tan coat stepping off the pavement.

The Bentley, traitorously obeying the laws of physics rather than Crowley's miracle for once, made contact with a solid, angelic body.

There was a dull thud, a brief, startled expression on a face Crowley hadn't seen in decades but instantly recognised, and then Sandalphon was gone. Not just knocked down, but completely gone. Discorporated. Sent back to Heaven in a puff of celestial particles.

“Shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! ” Crowley slammed on the brakes, and the Bentley screeched to a halt halfway down the road.

A small crowd was already gathering at the spot where Sandalphon had been. Some were pointing. Others had their phones out.

Crowley wasn't concerned about the angel. Discorporation was inconvenient, but not fatal. Sandalphon would return eventually, after filling out mountains of paperwork and enduring the celestial equivalent of a trip to HMRC.

No, what concerned Crowley was the delicate balance he’d just obliterated. Six thousand years of mutually ignoring each other, and now he’d gone and literally hit Sandalphon with his car. It sent a rather blunt, violent message, however unintentional. 

“Right. Damage control,” Crowley muttered, making a quick gesture with his fingers.

The crowd of witnesses blinked as their memories rewrote themselves. In their newly adjusted recollections, it hadn’t been a vintage, very conspicuous Bentley that had hit the man in the tan coat. It had been a red Toyota that had fled the scene when the struck-down man had mysteriously vanished. Tragic hit-and-run. Nothing to do with any demons whatsoever.

Crowley drove off, scowling behind his sunglasses. This was exactly what he didn’t need. Their mutual disregard had worked for six millennia. Now, Crowley had gone and created a situation.

“For fuck’s sake,” he hissed to himself as he navigated towards his flat in Mayfair. He’d need to come up with a plan. Perhaps he’d lie low for a while. No, he’d definitely lie low. The last thing he wanted was for Sandalphon to think Crowley was suddenly interested in their non-relationship.

As he parked the Bentley, Crowley wondered how long it would take Sandalphon to get a new body. Heaven's bureaucracy was notoriously slow. With any luck, the angel would be stuck up there for months, possibly years.

Plenty of time for this whole incident to blow over. By the time Sandalphon returned, Crowley would be long gone. Perhaps a decade in America, or Australia, or the South Pole. Anywhere but London.

Because while Crowley truly didn't care about Sandalphon, he cared very much about maintaining the perfect absence of care that had defined their non-relationship since Eden.

And he wasn't about to let one little discorporation ruin that.

***

The summons came three days after the incident.

Crowley was at home, misting his plants and contemplating a trip to Alpha Centauri, when his television switched itself on. The hissing drawl of a demon came through the static, distorted and hollow.

“Crowley. Your presence is required below. Immediately.”

The screen went black before he could respond. Crowley stared at it for a long moment, then sighed dramatically to the nearest fiddle-leaf fig.

“Well, that’s not good.”

Hell hadn’t bothered him in ages. They’d mostly left him alone, content with his occasional reports and minor temptations. The last time he’d had a summons was to give a presentation on his work on the M25, and he’d left rather deflated when no one had grasped the true genius of his traffic-based torment.

He plucked his jacket from the back of a chair and reluctantly made his way to the nearest entrance to Hell: a particularly dingy public toilet in a tube station that smelt just as one would expect a portal to the infernal realms to smell.

Hell hadn’t changed in all the time he’d been away. The same perpetually damp surfaces and flickering fluorescent lights lined the endless maze of grimy corridors crowded with shambling demons. Contrary to popular belief, Hell was actually uncomfortably cold rather than the fiery inferno it was famed for. The air hummed with a thousand unanswered phones and the persistent drip of pipes that had been leaking since The Fall.

Crowley sauntered through, ignoring the stares and whispers that followed him. He’d always been something of an oddity down here; too stylish, too confident, too…Earth-touched. 

Lord Beelzebub’s office was a dark, dripping chamber dominated by an elevated throne. Flies buzzed around the space, crawling up the walls and streaming through cracks in the masonry like writhing, living curtains.

Beelzebub lounged in their throne, one leg casually thrown up over the armrest as they stared appraisingly at Crowley with dark, black-rimmed eyes. Dagon stood beside them, clutching a mouldy clipboard, their scales shimmering wetly beneath the harsh fluorescent lights.

“Crowley,” Beelzebub droned, flies circling their head like a demented halo. “You’ve done well.”

Crowley blinked, shoving his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. “Have I?”

“The discorporation of the enemy agent Sandalphon. Most impressive.”

“Ah. That.” Crowley shifted his weight and flashed what he hoped was a confident grin. “Just doing my bit for the cause. You know, saw an opportunity and took it…yep.”

Beelzebub’s mouth twitched into something that was almost a smile. “About time, too. We’re pleased.”

Dagon’s own smile stretched to show far too many pointed teeth. “Very pleased indeed.”

“Great,” Crowley said, swinging his arms and already turning towards the door. “Well, if that’s everything—”

“In light of your achievement,” Beelzebub continued as if Crowley hadn’t spoken, “we have a gift for you.”

Crowley froze. A gift from Hell did not sound like good news. “A gift?” he said, trying to keep the cautiousness from his voice. “You shouldn’t have. Really.”

Beelzebub’s almost-smile morphed into something more predatory. “We’re giving you an angel.”

There was a long, stretching silence in the stale air.

Crowley blinked rapidly behind his sunglasses, certain he’d misheard. “I’m sorry, you’re…you’re what now?”

Dagon consulted her clipboard. “The demon Crowley, by order of Lord Beelzebub, we hereby allocate you one angel, captured, for your personal use and/or torment.”

Crowley stared at them both, stunned. His jaw worked overtime to form words. “You’re…hang on. Since when does Hell have angels to give away?”

Beelzebub cast a glance at Dagon. “Put it in an Earth time-frame he’ll understand.” The slight sneer on the word “Earth” wasn't lost on Crowley.

Dagon flicked a few pages back in her clipboard. “The angel was captured…” She scanned the mouldy paper. “One hundred and fifty-six years ago. Two of our field agents apprehended it when it foolishly attempted a diplomatic visit from Heaven.”

“One hundred and…” Crowley’s mind was reeling. He was certainly out of the loop when it came to the inner workings of Hell (hardly surprising when he spent so little time here), yet how he’d managed to miss the fact that Hell had acquired an angel of all things. “And Heaven just don’t care that you’ve got it, or…?”

“That’s the interesting part,” Beelzebub said, leaning forwards with obvious relish. “They’ve never acknowledged the loss. Not a single rescue attempt. Not one official inquiry.”

“We punished the idiots for capturing it in the first place,” Dagon clarified. “Could have caused a celestial incident. But then…” She shrugged. “Nothing happened.”

Crowley felt something cold settle in his stomach. “So you’ve had an angel locked up down here for over a century, and Heaven just, what? Forgot about it?”

“Precisely,” Beelzebub confirmed. “Most curious behaviour from the opposition.”

Crowley couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This wasn’t just curious, it was unprecedented. Unthinkable. If it were the other way around, Heaven holding a demon hostage, Hell would have waged a full-blown war within the hour. Not because Hell cared for its demons, but in response to the sheer insult of it. The fact that Heaven had seemingly abandoned an angel in Hell without so much as a strongly worded message…

“Hang on, and you’re…” Crowley suddenly recalled the other part of the news that he was still reeling from. “...giving it to me? Why?”

“As a reward,” Dagon said, as if it were obvious. “For your success with the angel Sandalphon.”

“But, uh, what exactly am I supposed to do with an angel?”

The look that passed between Beelzebub and Dagon made Crowley’s skin crawl.

“Surely you can use that famed imagination of yours, Crowley,” Beelzebub drawled flatly.

When Crowley continued to stare blankly, Dagon rolled her eyes. 

“It will serve you,” she pressed.

“Serve me?”

“In whatever capacity you desire,” Dagon elaborated with a leer that left no room for interpretation. 

Crowley’s stomach roiled in horror. “Oh. No. No, no, I don’t…I don’t need that.”

“You don’t need…” Beelzebub’s face hardened. “Crowley, tell me you’re not indulging in that sort of filth with humans.”

“No!” Crowley insisted quickly. “Definitely not, no.”

“Then what’s the issue?”

“I just don’t…” Crowley scrambled for words under the weight of Beelzebub's stare. “...that’s not something I…I don’t feel the need to—”

“Are you refusing a gift from our Dark Prince, Crowley?” Dagon said, their voice dangerously soft.

The temperature in the room seemed to plummet; Crowley could feel the threat mounting. 

“No,” he said carefully. “Absolutely not. Very generous. I’m just…overwhelmed with gratitude.”

“Excellent,” Beelzebub said, settling back in their throne, evidently satisfied. “The angel will be delivered to your quarters.”

“My quarters?” Crowley blinked. “Oh. My flat in Mayfair.”

“The angel cannot be allowed up to Earth, Crowley,” Dagon said with a painful roll of the eyes. “It’ll be delivered to your quarters down here. The ones you never use.”

“Ah. Those quarters.”

Crowley did indeed have an allocated living space in Hell, as all demons did. He’d visited it exactly once, found it to be every bit as depressing as expected, and promptly relocated to Earth permanently. 

“This concludes our business,” Beelzebub said with a dismissive wave. “Don’t make us regret bestowing such a prize on you, Crowley.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Crowley replied stiffly.

It had been so long since he'd been to his quarters that he needed an escort, a small demon covered in peeling scales who wheezed with every step. As Crowley followed, his mind buzzed with the implications of what was happening.

An angel. In Hell. Abandoned by Heaven. And now, apparently, his responsibility.

This was infinitely worse than hitting Sandalphon with the Bentley.

The corridors seemed even more of a labyrinth than he remembered as they descended to the residential level of Hell, a generous term for what amounted to a prison block with marginally more privacy.

“Here we are, sir,” the escort demon wheezed, gesturing to a nondescript door. “Your quarters. The, ah, gift will arrive shortly,” he said before scurrying away.

Crowley stared at the door for a long moment, then unlocked it with a reluctant miracle and stepped inside. The room beyond was exactly as he remembered: damp, dingy, with a single overturned chair in the corner. A bare bulb hung from the ceiling, emitting a depressing, flickering glow.

“Home sweet home,” he muttered.

Before he'd even had time to fully process his situation – what he was going to do, what he'd say, or how he was supposed to handle having a captive angel – there was a sharp rap on the door.

Crowley's hands tightened into fists at his sides. He took a deep breath, steeled himself for whatever fresh hell awaited him, and opened the door.

Chapter Text

The moment Crowley opened the door, two demons in charred suits flung the body they were holding upright by the armpits into the room. The figure hit the wall with a sickening thud, smearing a trail of blood as he slumped against the dark stone.

He was completely naked, save for a metal collar clamped around his throat.

That's what Crowley noticed first: not the nakedness, not the blood, but that collar. The implications made his stomach lurch. A brand of ownership. Only then did he take in the rest: the patchwork of bruises, grime, and dried blood, and a vivid mark across his ribs that looked disturbingly like a boot print. Fresh blood dripped from a newly split lip, likely courtesy of one of the ghouls sneering in Crowley's doorway.

“Enjoy your new pet,” barked the demon with bloodied knuckles.

They left after casting a final, cruel smirk at the angel curled against the wall, legs barely supporting him.

Crowley shut the door, feeling suddenly lightheaded. Christ. An angel. They'd actually given him an angel. His hands shook slightly as the full weight of the situation crashed down on him. What was he supposed to do now?

He remained frozen for a long moment, listening to the sound of shallow, ragged breathing behind him. Each breath sounded laboured, painful. Crowley was afraid to turn around, afraid to see the damage more clearly, afraid to meet whatever broken gaze awaited him.

When he finally looked, he took in the full scope of what he was dealing with. The angel was male-presenting, with a cloud of platinum blond hair scorched at the edges and matted with filth. His body was soft-looking and mildly plump beneath the visible claw marks raked across pale skin. There were other marks too: old scars, burn marks, things Crowley didn't want to think too hard about.

The angel steadied himself with visible effort, using the wall for support as he turned to face the room. When their eyes finally met, Crowley found himself staring into a pair that were blue, sharp, and terrifyingly aware. 

Crowley had expected vacant resignation, the blank stare of someone thoroughly broken. Instead, he found something closer to wounded dignity, courage reduced to tatters but still hanging on.

This angel wasn't broken. Hurt, yes. Battered, certainly, but not broken.

“Um,” Crowley winced at how his voice cracked in the near-empty room. The angel's entire body tensed at the sound, a full-body flinch indicative of terrible conditioning. “Hi.”

Silence stretched between them like a chasm. The angel watched him with the wariness of a creature that had learnt the hard way that every interaction brought pain. He was hunched defensively against the wall as if trying to make himself appear smaller, less of a target. His breathing was shallow, controlled.

Crowley felt sick. Whatever they'd done to this angel, it had been thorough.

“I'm not going to hurt you,” Crowley said quietly, though the words felt pathetically inadequate.

The angel's expression didn't change. Why would it? How many demons had said those exact words to him before doing exactly the opposite?

Crowley averted his gaze, fixing it somewhere on the wall behind the angel because looking directly at him felt like an invasion. “Do you…” He cleared his throat, gestured vaguely. “Do you mind if I just…?”

Alarm flashed across the angel’s face – expecting pain, probably – before a simple white robe materialised around his shoulders, covering his body. It was reminiscent of something worn in Eden, simple and clean. Crowley had considered providing modern human clothing for a moment, but that seemed somehow inappropriate.

He half-expected the angel to refuse it, perhaps preferring naked defiance to accepting charity from a demon. Instead, the angel clutched the fabric with shaking fingers, drawing it close around himself. His breathing slowed fractionally, though he continued to watch Crowley like a cornered animal.

Crowley’s hands fidgeted, unsure where to put them, where to look, how to stand in a way that didn't seem threatening. Everything about this situation felt wrong, impossible. “What’s your name?” he asked, deciding that was as good a place to start as any.

The angel took a long moment, just breathing as he studied Crowley's face with those sharp blue eyes. He was trying to read Crowley, trying to figure out what kind of monster he was dealing with. When he finally opened his mouth, he winced as the movement pulled at his split lip. “Aziraphale,” he answered in a soft croak.

The name hit Crowley strangely; such soft syllables. “Aziraphale,” he repeated, testing the shape of it. The angel's eyes widened slightly, as if he hadn't expected his name to be repeated with anything approaching respect.

“The demons who brought you here,” Crowley said carefully, “they tell you anything? About...this?”

Aziraphale visibly swallowed. “...they said I was to call you Master.”

“Fuck no.” The words exploded from Crowley before he could stop them, his entire body recoiling. The angel's hands clenched in his robe, his face going pale as he pressed himself harder against the wall.

Idiot, Crowley cursed himself. His outburst must have sounded like anger directed at Aziraphale rather than at the situation, at Hell, at the whole sick, twisted system that had led to this moment.

He carefully reset his agitated expression into something more neutral, though his hands were still shaking. “Don't call me that,” he said more quietly. “I don't want that. Ever.”

The angel seemed uncertain. “...then what would you prefer?”

“Crowley. Just Crowley.” 

Aziraphale tilted his head slightly, gaze flickering between Crowley's face and the floor as if making too much eye contact might be punished. He swallowed audibly, his throat working. “And…what exactly is expected of me here?”

There it was, the question Crowley had been dreading. The words were controlled, but Crowley could see the fear lurking behind Aziraphale’s body language. The way his hands had tightened in the folds of his robe. The slight tremor in his shoulders he was trying to suppress. The way he'd stopped breathing entirely, waiting for Crowley's answer.

He knew what his status as a gift to Crowley meant. They both knew.

“Nothing,” Crowley said quickly. “Nothing is expected of you.”

Aziraphale's brow furrowed just a little, confusion mixing with the fear. Crowley sighed internally. It didn't matter what he said, did it? This angel had been down here for over a century, no doubt subjected to some of the worst treatment Hell could devise. He had no reason to trust that Crowley wasn't exactly like the rest of them.

Crowley wanted to say more, to somehow convince this angel that he was safe now, but the words felt hollow. How did you prove you weren't a monster to someone who'd been surrounded by them for so long? How could he promise safety when his very presence was clearly terrifying this broken creature?

He had no idea what to do next. The collar was almost certainly a miracle suppressor, and without his powers, Aziraphale couldn't protect himself down here. Crowley couldn't let him wander Hell freely; he'd be torn apart within minutes. But he also had no intention of playing bodyguard to a captive angel. The plan had been simple: get back to Earth as quickly as possible and pretend this nightmare had never happened.

But you can't just leave him like this, a treacherous voice in his head whispered. Look at him.

Crowley glanced around at the pitiful state of the room and grimaced. One overturned chair, damp stone walls, a bare bulb casting harsh shadows. It was barely fit for storage, let alone housing a living being.

“I suppose you'll be staying here,” he said, then caught himself at how callous that sounded. Aziraphale's expression didn't change. “Let me just…”

With a few careful gestures, Crowley began transforming the space. The upturned chair vanished, replaced by a grey leather armchair and matching sofa he'd admired in a Mayfair furniture shop window recently. The angel's eyes tracked the furniture's appearance with something that might have been wonder that he quickly suppressed.

In the corner, a large bed materialised, courtesy of a high-end hotel Crowley had visited a month ago to cause havoc with the booking system. King-sized with plush pillows and clean linens that had never seen Hell’s filth. 

Did angels even sleep? They didn't need to, like demons, but Crowley did because he enjoyed it. He had no idea about this angel, but everyone deserved the option.

After watching Aziraphale follow his every movement with those wary eyes, cataloguing potential threats, Crowley hesitated, then built three walls around the bed area with a proper door. Privacy seemed important, seemed necessary for someone who'd had every dignity stripped away.

“Always hated studio flats,” Crowley muttered to Aziraphale's startled face, more to fill the silence than because he expected a response. 

He bit his lip, surveying the room with growing dissatisfaction. With another gesture, he brought in a stone table and a dining chair from his own flat. He could replace them later. The room was still depressing, but at least it was functional now.

“Right…” Crowley planted his hands on his hips, suddenly at a loss. Was he supposed to just leave? Forget about the angel trapped in Hell? That had been the plan, but now, looking at the room, even with his adjustments, it felt wrong. Incomplete.

The angel would need something to occupy his time down here. Crowley didn't know much about angelic pastimes (did they have hobbies? Interests beyond harps and hymns?), but he did know one thing about one particular angel...

A pack of playing cards appeared in Crowley’s hand, still sealed, lifted from the shelf of a London WHSmith. He held it up with a pathetic flourish, then dropped it on the table with an awkward thud.

“Thought you might…” He gestured helplessly at the cards. “Well, there are games you can play. Solitaire and...things.” The words sounded patronising even to his own ears, and he wanted to sink through the floor. “Though I suppose you wouldn't know the rules.”

Aziraphale's bewildered expression made Crowley's chest tighten with something uncomfortably close to shame. The angel was staring at the cards like they were some alien artefact, which they probably were to him.

Brilliant, Crowley. Give the traumatised angel a deck of cards. That'll fix everything.

He quickly conjured a book on card games from the same shop and dropped it beside the deck with a sharp smack that made them both flinch. Aziraphale's body stiffened at the sound, and Crowley cursed himself for the sudden noise.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “There'll be a section on games for one, probably. Single-player things.” He was babbling now, desperate to fill the awkward silence. “Something to...pass the time.”

The angel's eyes fixed on the book with sudden, intense focus, and there was something almost hungry in that gaze. 

“Right, so…” Crowley swung his arms awkwardly, already edging towards the door. “I'll be off then.”

Aziraphale tore his gaze from the book, and when he looked up, he still appeared startled, but not in the terrified way from before. “You're leaving?”

The question caught Crowley off guard.

"Yeah, I don't actually live down here. Hence the state of this place."

“...I hadn’t really expected anything different,” Aziraphale murmured, then he seemed to catch himself. His face shuttered closed, and he averted his gaze.

Despite everything, Crowley almost smiled. A little spirit was reassuring. “I’m going back up to Earth.”

Aziraphale’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “Earth? You’re Hell’s representative on Earth?”

“That’s me,” Crowley said, flashing him a grin. He dropped it quickly, unsure why he did that. “Uh, yeah, so…I can’t bring you up there, and I’m not staying here, so…”

He shifted towards the door, but hesitated when he noticed fresh blood welling on Aziraphale's split lip. It dripped onto the front of his robe, staining the pristine white with a red bloom; the sight made him wince.

“Let me just do one thing,” Crowley said, striding towards him without thinking.

Aziraphale immediately flattened against the wall, breathing sharp and shallow. His eyes went wide with unmistakable terror, his whole body rigid

Whatever fragile understanding had been building between them shattered instantly like a pane of glass against a concrete slab.

Fuck. Crowley froze mid-step, raising his hands slowly in what he hoped was a peaceful gesture, but the damage was done.

“Hey, it's all right,” he said softly, hating how the angel's breath hitched. “I just want to help.”

He approached at a glacial pace, every step carefully placed, eyes never leaving Aziraphale’s. The angel remained frozen against the wall, not even breathing. When Crowley finally reached out, his fingertips found Aziraphale's temples with the utmost gentleness, and he tried to ignore the way he could feel the angel trembling beneath his touch like a trapped bird.

“Let me,” he whispered, and closed his eyes.

Crowley had always been skilled at healing miracles, not exactly something any self-respecting demon would go around bragging about. But it came in handy when a bird hit the Bentley’s windscreen, or when his plants looked a bit droopy despite his threats.

What Crowley felt flowing through his connection to Aziraphale made his breath catch. The injuries went so much deeper than the recent surface wounds. Without his angelic powers, Aziraphale had been left to heal like a human, slowly, imperfectly, carrying the accumulated damage of decades. Crowley could feel the history written in bone and flesh: ribs broken and re-broken, joints dislocated and roughly reset, internal bleeding that had healed into scar tissue. Decades of accumulated trauma, layer upon layer of pain. 

The scope of it staggered him. How had this angel endured so much and still retained any essence of himself?

The healing miracle flowed through his fingers like warm honey, erasing bruises and cuts, setting bones that had healed crooked, washing away accumulated grime, purging the blood from his robe, leaving him new again. When Crowley opened his eyes, he was staring into the unmarred, heartbreakingly soft face of an angel, lips slightly parted in shock.

Crowley staggered backwards, his fingertips tingling with residual power and something unfamiliar that made his chest feel tight. The transformation was so complete it was disorienting, like looking at someone else entirely. Without the damage and grime, Aziraphale was...

Don't go there, Crowley warned himself, turning away quickly.

Aziraphale drew a shuddering breath, lifting trembling fingers to his face. He traced over unblemished lips, eyes wide with wonder.

“Okay, well,” Crowley bit out, reaching for the door with an unsteady hand.

“Crowley.”

His name sounded strange coming from this angel’s mouth, so soft and reverent, like a prayer. He froze with his hand on the door handle. “Yeah?”

Aziraphale was still touching his face with wondering fingers when Crowley glanced back. “You’re really leaving?”

“Yeah. I told you, I don’t live in Hell,” he said. “Got a life topside.”

“Then why am I here?”

Crowley sighed in exasperation, turning to face him properly. “Because I did something Hell considered impressive, and they gave you to me as a reward, alright? I didn’t ask for this. I don’t want this. But I can’t exactly say no to the boss, so…” He trailed off, aware of how callous it all sounded, like the angel was just an unwanted trinket.

Aziraphale was quiet for a long moment, still watching Crowley with those unnervingly perceptive eyes. “You could be lying,” he said finally, his tone sharper. “Make me believe I'm safe, lower my guard…”

“I could be, yeah,” Crowley agreed. “But I'm not.”

“How can I be certain of that?”

“You can't,” Crowley said simply. Honesty felt like the only gift he could offer.

Aziraphale seemed to consider this, drawing a careful breath. “The demons who delivered me seemed to think you had quite specific plans for my...services.” The last word dropped to barely a whisper.

Crowley's face flushed hot, and he felt his jaw clench. “Well, they were wrong. Spectacularly wrong,” he said firmly. “Look, I know you have no reason to believe me, but I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not going to...do anything to you. This whole situation is as unwelcome to me as it is to you.”

“Unwelcome,” Aziraphale repeated slowly.

“Very.”

Crowley’s hand still rested on the door handle, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to turn it. Something nagged at him, something he couldn’t ignore. His gaze darted to the band of metal encircling Aziraphale’s throat.

“The collar,” he said quietly. “Miracle suppressor?”

Aziraphale's hand moved instinctively to his neck. “Amongst other things,” he murmured, touching it with obvious discomfort.

“Other things?”

“Location tracking. Behavioural modification if I attempt to go somewhere I shouldn't, or…” Aziraphale's gaze dropped. “...resist too strenuously.”

The words made Crowley feel physically sick. “Christ,” he breathed, finally releasing the door handle. “Can I...?”

Aziraphale went very still but gave the barest nod.

Crowley approached as cautiously as before. When his fingertips made contact with the collar, Aziraphale’s breath hitched like he was fighting not to flinch away. The metal was warm from body heat, smooth on the surface but radiating strong demonic energy.

“I assume it can’t be removed,” Crowley said, tracing a finger along the band and feeling the deep, surging power within.

“Attempts to remove it would be…unpleasant. For both of us.”

Crowley jerked his hand back. “Right. Of course.” He ran both hands through his hair. “Bloody hell.”

He averted his gaze again, unable to bear the weight of that blue stare. The angel’s eyes were so intense, like they could see right to the heart of him. The only sounds were their combined breathing and the distant drip of water somewhere in Hell's depths. Finally, Aziraphale cleared his throat.

“Might I ask…” He paused, worrying his lower lip; the gesture seemed odd on his now-perfect face. “Am I to expect…visitors? While you’re gone?”

He asked it in a straight-forward way, but Crowley could hear the terror beneath it, saw Aziraphale's eyes dart towards the door like he was already calculating escape routes that didn't exist.

“No,” Crowley said immediately. “Absolutely not. This is my space. No one else has any business here.”

But even as he said it, Crowley realised how naïve that sounded. Hell wasn’t exactly in the business of respecting boundaries. The thought of other demons taking advantage of his absence, finding excuses to visit his “pet”...

“Hang on,” he muttered, turning towards the door.

Aziraphale watched with growing bewilderment as Crowley began tracing a complex pattern around the doorframe, his fingers leaving trails of energy that sank into the dark wood, forming glowing sigils.

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale asked softly.

“Protective wards,” Crowley explained, not looking up. “Anyone who tries to get in here uninvited will be in for a very bad time.” He glanced back. “Anyone except you, obviously. You can leave if you want to, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“I can leave?” Aziraphale's eyes widened. “You're not...locking me in?”

Crowley's hands stilled. “You’re not a prisoner, angel. Not mine, anyway.” He added another layer to his work for good measure, the sigils flaring brighter. “But like I said, I wouldn’t recommend wandering the halls. Most demons down here wouldn’t hesitate to…well, let’s just say it might not be a good idea.”

He drew his hands across the frame one final time. The wards snapped into place with a sound like breaking glass, humming with protective power.

“There,” he muttered, wiping his hands on his jeans and trying to ignore how much energy he'd just expended. “That should keep the riff-raff out.”

When he turned back, his heart did something complicated in his chest. Aziraphale was staring at him with such an open expression of complete bewilderment, but also cautious hope. Without the grime and blood, without the marks of violence, he really was quite...

Beautiful, Crowley's mind supplied unhelpfully. He's beautiful.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Aziraphale said quietly.

Crowley shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. “Can’t have other demons thinking they can just waltz in here whenever they want. Bad for my reputation.”

He looked away, not wanting Aziraphale to realise just how much he didn't mean those words. Or rather, how it was much more than reputation he was worried about. The thought of anyone else hurting this angel, touching him, using him...

You barely know him, Crowley reminded himself firmly. He's not your responsibility.

But the protective wards said otherwise.

“Right…bye, then,” he said, lunging for the door handle.

He left without looking back, hearing the wards lock into place behind him. In the dark corridor outside, Crowley sagged against the door and let out a long, shaky breath.

Time to get back to Earth. Back to his real life, where angels weren't his responsibility and situations like this didn't exist.

He’d stop thinking about the angel within a day or so, Crowley told himself. Soon it’d be nothing but a strange memory…

Chapter Text

Three days.

It had only been three bloody days, and already Crowley found himself standing outside the door to his quarters in Hell, trying to convince himself he had a perfectly reasonable explanation for being here.

He didn't.

He'd told himself he was just checking on his...what? Responsibility? Unwanted prize? The words felt wrong no matter how he arranged them. The truth was simpler and more uncomfortable: he couldn't stop thinking about blue eyes and that careful, measured way Aziraphale had said his name.

Try as he might to go about his usual business back on Earth (creating minor traffic chaos, messing with power grids), his concentration failed him. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that sparse room, that single pack of cards, an angel with nothing but a rule book for company.

This is ridiculous, he thought, staring at the door. He's probably fine. He's survived down here for over a century without your help. What could you possibly offer?

But even as he berated himself, Crowley placed his hand against the door and felt his protective wards recognise him, opening instantly. There had been at least one tampering attempt from the outside in his absence (he could sense the residual traces), and his jaw tightened. But the wards had held.

The room looked exactly as he'd left it. Furniture in place, playing cards still wrapped in cellophane, unmoved on the table.

At his entrance, Aziraphale shot up from the armchair so suddenly that the book in his hands fell to the floor with a sharp crack. He immediately pressed back against the chair, gripping the armrests as he stared at Crowley with wide, wary eyes.

“You’re back,” he said in a soft voice. The surprise was evident, as was the undertone of something that might have been dread.

The angel looked marginally better than when Crowley had left. His robe remained pristine, but his curls had softened into something almost rumpled, strangely comfortable. But the wariness in his posture was unchanged; if anything, he seemed more tense at Crowley's unexpected return.

“Yeah, just…checking in,” Crowley said, feeling stupid even as the words came out. “Make sure you hadn't, you know, died of boredom or anything.”

Aziraphale's lips pressed into a thin line. “I see.”

Awkward silence filled the room like fog. Crowley's gaze darted around, taking in the untouched cards, the book Aziraphale had dropped. He moved to pick it up, and Aziraphale tensed.

“Easy,” Crowley murmured, slowing his movements. “Just getting your book.”

When he lifted it, he noticed how thoroughly worn it was: the spine heavily creased, the pages well thumbed through.

“Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, no, you didn't,” Aziraphale replied quickly, though his white-knuckled grip on the chair suggested otherwise. “I simply wasn't…prepared for your return.”

“Yeah, well. Neither was I.” Crowley straightened and nodded to the table. “So. The cards. Not your thing, then?”

Aziraphale's eyes flicked to the untouched package. “Apologies for asking…but, may I inquire why you chose those specifically?”

“What d’you mean?”

“Playing cards,” Aziraphale clarified. “Of all the things you could have provided for...entertainment. Why cards?”

Crowley shifted uncomfortably. “I, uh, know an angel who’s into gambling. Sandalphon. Always hanging around casinos and betting shops. Figured it was an angel thing.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale murmured with a slight frown. “Sandalphon. His recreational preferences are…well-documented.”

“You know him?”

“I know of him. Different departments,” Aziraphale’s tone was laced with distaste. “I can’t say his pastimes represent typical angelic interests.”

“Right. So cards aren’t really…” Crowley gestured vaguely.

“No.” Aziraphale paused, then seemed to catch himself. “Not that I'm ungrateful,” he added quickly, a note of panic creeping into his voice. “I do appreciate the thought. Truly.”

There was something desperate in the way he spoke, as if he feared punishment for seeming unappreciative. Crowley looked down at the battered rule book, tracing a finger along a deep crease in the spine.

“You’ve really been through this thing.”

A faint flush crept up Aziraphale’s neck. “It's...comprehensive. The variations in rules are quite fascinating, actually.”

“You like reading,” Crowley said: a statement, not a question.

“I…” Aziraphale seemed caught off guard by the observation. “Yes. I do.”

“Did a lot of that up in Heaven, did you?”

“Yes.” For the first time, a hint of something warm flickered across Aziraphale's features. “I worked in the records department. Filing, cataloguing, reviewing documents…” He trailed off, the warmth fading as quickly as it had appeared. “Though I suppose that's irrelevant now.”

“Right.” Crowley glanced at the worn book in his hands, then back at Aziraphale's carefully guarded face. An idea was forming, reckless, probably stupid, but...

“What if I brought you books?” he said suddenly. “Proper ones.”

Aziraphale went very still. “What?”

“Books. Novels, poems, whatever you fancy. I mean, if you’re stuck down here, you might as well have something decent to read.”

The expression that crossed Aziraphale's face was one of such genuine shock that Crowley almost stepped back. But then his brow creased with suspicion. 

“...and what would you require in return?”

The question was asked so quietly, with such resignation, that it hit Crowley like a punch to the gut.

“Nothing,” he said immediately. 

Aziraphale's eyes narrowed. “Nothing?”

“Nothing at all. It's just books, angel.”

Aziraphale’s throat bobbed visibly beneath the metal collar. “In my experience, demons rarely give without expecting…something in return.”

The implication settled in Crowley’s chest like ice. He could see it in Aziraphale's posture – the way he'd tensed again, fingers clinging to the chair as all that careful wariness came flooding back.

“I’m not other demons,” Crowley said finally.

“So you say,” Aziraphale murmured. “But you're still a demon.”

“Yeah. I am.” Crowley set the book down and ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Look, I can't prove I'm not planning something. Can't make you trust me. But I'm telling you the truth, I just want to bring you some bloody books.”

Aziraphale studied his face for a long moment. Finally, his death grip on the chair loosened fractionally.

“Why?” he asked.

Crowley opened his mouth, then closed it again. How was he supposed to explain that seeing someone treat a rule book like precious literature made him want to provide actual literature? That the thought of this angel trapped in Hell with nothing but card game instructions was genuinely bothering him?

Crowley supposed it was impossible to explain, precisely because he hadn’t even explained it to himself yet. He didn’t know why he cared. Why he wanted to see Aziraphale smile, bring him joy in a place that had taken so much from him. 

“Because thinking of you down here with nothing but card game rules to read is doing my head in,” Crowley admitted. “Call it self-interest.”

Something shifted in Aziraphale's expression. Not trust, exactly, but something marginally less suspicious. 

“I...suppose that would be...acceptable,” he said carefully. “If you're certain you want nothing in return.”

“I'm certain.”

Aziraphale nodded slowly, though wariness still clung to him like armour. “Then...yes. I would appreciate that very much.”

“Good. Right. I'll…” Crowley turned towards the door, eager to escape the intensity of Aziraphale's scrutiny.

“Crowley.”

He paused. “Yeah?”

“Thank you, ” he said quietly, cautiously, as if he wasn't entirely sure gratitude was safe to express. “This...this is more kindness than I dared to expect.”

Crowley’s throat tightened. “Yeah, well. Don’t mention it.”

As he left, Crowley could feel Aziraphale's eyes following him to the door, watchful and uncertain. 

***

The first delivery was a small selection from a Mayfair bookshop later that afternoon. Poetry, a classic novel, and some history books about ancient Rome. Safe choices, Crowley reckoned. Enough variety without being overwhelming.

When he entered the room, Aziraphale was sitting rigidly in the armchair, hands folded in his lap. He looked up as Crowley approached, and though he didn't shrink back this time, his posture remained guarded.

“Books,” Crowley said simply, setting the small stack on the table. “As promised.”

Aziraphale stared at them for a long moment, as if they might vanish if he looked away. “You actually brought them,” he whispered.

“Said I would, didn't I?”

“Yes, but…” Aziraphale trailed off, then reached out with trembling fingers to touch the spine of the poetry collection. He pulled his hand back, looking up at Crowley uncertainly. “May I?”

The fact that he felt he needed to ask permission made Crowley's jaw clench. “They're yours, angel. Do what you like with them.”

Relief seemed to wash over the angel as he turned back to the small pile. “Keats,” he said softly, finally daring to touch the book properly. “I've heard of him, of course, but never had the opportunity to read his work.”

“Good choice, then?”

“I...yes, I should think so.” Aziraphale picked up the book like it was a holy relic. “I've always been curious about human poetry. The way they capture emotion in language...”

He stopped abruptly, as if realising he'd shown too much interest. His shoulders tensed again.

“Help yourself to whichever you want,” Crowley said gently, already backing away. The gratitude in Aziraphale's eyes was almost too much to bear, and he left in a hurry.

***

When Crowley returned three days later, he found Aziraphale absorbed in one of the history books, no longer sitting with that rigid, defensive posture. His legs were tucked beneath him in the chair, and he looked...comfortable. Almost relaxed. The poetry collection was set carefully aside, obviously finished, while the novel lay abandoned after what looked like only a few chapters.

Before announcing his presence, Crowley quietly miracled a small bookcase into the corner. It came from his own flat – sleek, well-made – but he could always find somewhere else for his potted plants.

Aziraphale startled at the sound of materialising furniture, immediately snapping to attention. The relaxed angel vanished, replaced by the wary creature Crowley had first met. 

“You're back.”

“Yeah. Brought you somewhere to put those.” Crowley nodded towards the bookcase.

Aziraphale's gaze moved between Crowley and the bookcase with something like unease. “You're improving the room again,” his tone was tinged with confusion.

“Is that a problem?”

“No, I just…” Aziraphale seemed to choose his words carefully. “I'm trying to understand why you would bother. Why you would care to make this place…better.”

Because the thought of you being miserable makes me feel sick, Crowley thought. 

“Because books need somewhere to live,” Crowley said with forced lightness. “Speaking of which,” he gestured to the history text still in Aziraphale's lap, “good book?”

“I…” Aziraphale glanced down at the volume, then back at Crowley. “Yes. It's quite fascinating, actually. The account of Pompeii is remarkably detailed...”

He trailed off, but the fact that he’d willingly shared something about what he was reading made Crowley feel a small spark of something that might have been pride.

“Sounds brilliant,” Crowley said, meaning it. “Not keen on Dickens, though?” He nodded towards the abandoned novel.

“It was rather bleak,” Aziraphale said cautiously, watching Crowley's face as if expecting criticism. “I hope that's...acceptable? I don't wish to seem ungrateful...”

The careful way he phrased it made Crowley want to find whoever had conditioned this angel to apologise for having opinions and introduce them to the business end of a tyre iron.

“Angel,” Crowley said firmly, “you can read or not read whatever you want. I'm not going to test you on them.”

Relief flickered across Aziraphale's features. “In that case...yes, I prefer stories that lift the spirits these days.”

Crowley made a mental note and started curating more carefully after that.

***

It took several more visits before Crowley noticed the first real crack in Aziraphale's defences.

He'd brought more poetry, travel memoirs, some lighter novels, and was arranging them on the growing bookshelf when he heard a soft sound behind him. Turning, he found Aziraphale completely absorbed in reading, unconsciously humming a melody under his breath as he turned the pages.

The moment he noticed Crowley watching, the humming stopped abruptly. Aziraphale's face went red.

“I'm sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn't realise I was—”

“Don't apologise,” Crowley said gently. “It was nice. You don't need to stop on my account.”

Aziraphale blinked, clearly taken aback. “You...don't mind?”

“Mind? Why would I mind?”

“I just…” Aziraphale looked down at his book, shoulders hunching. “I shouldn't be making unnecessary noise.”

The matter-of-fact way he said it made Crowley's stomach clench. “Angel, this is your space. You can hum, sing, tap dance if you want to. Nothing wrong with it.”

Something shifted in Aziraphale's eyes at that, surprise, maybe, that he was allowed to make sounds of contentment.

“Oh,” he said quietly.

The breakthrough with food came a week later. Crowley brought a scone from a bakery in Soho, telling himself it was just an experiment, to see if angels could enjoy food the way demons could, but really he wanted to see Aziraphale's reaction to something purely pleasurable. 

“What's this?” Aziraphale asked warily when Crowley produced the brown paper bag.

“Food. Scone. Thought you might want to try it.”

Aziraphale peered into the bag as if expecting a trap. “You consume food?”

“Don't make a habit of it, but it's one of the perks of living on Earth,” Crowley said with a shrug.

Neither demons nor angels required sustenance, but the option was there, should they wish to partake. Crowley didn’t as a general rule, but he had indulged from time to time, just to see what all the fuss was about whenever some newfangled culinary delight was all the rage amongst whatever society he was living in at the time: sugar sculptures in Renaissance Europe, fermented shark in Iceland, bubble tea in the nineties. Last year, he’d tried a cronut after being unable to escape the craze permeating every trendy coffee shop in London. It had been…overwhelmingly mediocre.

“But if you fancy giving it a go…” Crowley said, watching as Aziraphale hesitantly lifted the scone from the bag. It was already halved and reassembled with a thick layer of strawberry jam and a generous smear of clotted cream. “You might enjoy it.”

Aziraphale examined it carefully, then took a small, tentative bite, and chewed thoughtfully. His eyes widened instantly.

“Oh,” he breathed. “That's...that's actually lovely.”

Something warm unfurled in Crowley's chest at the genuine wonder in the angel's voice. “Yeah? Good?”

“Very good indeed.” Aziraphale took another bite, less cautious this time, and smiled. A real smile, not the careful, guarded expression Crowley had seen before. “I wasn't expecting…the mix of flavours. Sweet and tart and rich all at once.”

“Humans are good at food,” Crowley said, trying not to stare at the way Aziraphale's face softened with pleasure, how that tiny smile had transformed his entire face, like the sun breaking through a dark cloud.

But after a few more bites, Aziraphale's expression grew troubled; the walls went back up.

“...and you expect nothing in return for this?”

The words stung more than they should have. Crowley set the books he'd brought down on the table. 

“What kind of payment are you expecting me to ask for?” he asked quietly.

Aziraphale's face went pale, but his voice remained steady. “I think you know.”

Crowley felt a sharp pang in his stomach. Of course. Of course that's what Aziraphale would expect. One hundred and fifty years in Hell's custody, what else would he have learned to anticipate?

“Angel,” Crowley said carefully, “I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not going to...ask you for anything like that. Ever.”

Aziraphale searched his face with those impossibly blue eyes, looking for deception. “Then why?” he asked softly. “Why show me these kindnesses?”

That was the question Crowley had been avoiding, even in his own mind. Why did he care? Why did it matter if this angel was comfortable, entertained? Why did the thought of Aziraphale's pain make his chest ache?

“I don't know,” he admitted finally. “I honestly don't know.”

Aziraphale's gaze dropped to the half-eaten scone in his hands, watching cream ooze between his fingers. He gave a small nod of weary resignation, and Crowley knew he didn't believe him. Why would he? What evidence did Aziraphale have beyond his word? 

And why should a demon's word mean anything to someone who'd suffered as he had?

"I'll let you get back to your reading," Crowley said, noting how Aziraphale's shoulders relaxed as he stepped away.

***

A routine began to develop.

Crowley would spend a few days on Earth, maintaining his usual activities and keeping an ear out for any news about Sandalphon's return (none so far). Then he'd make his way back to Hell, to his transformed quarters where Aziraphale waited. Each journey down felt less like an obligation and more like...well, he wasn't quite ready to examine what it felt like.

As the weeks passed, Crowley grew attuned to Aziraphale’s preferences. Human history fascinated him, particularly accounts of human civilisation and achievement, so Crowley curated a collection accordingly. Poetry was well received; Aziraphale would murmur certain passages aloud to himself when he thought Crowley wasn’t listening. Travel writing made his eyes brighten with something like longing.

“You enjoy those,” Crowley observed one afternoon, noting how Aziraphale's fingers lingered on photographs of Venetian canals.

“They're...educational,” Aziraphale replied carefully. “I've always wondered what those places are actually like from ground level.”

“Never got to travel much in your old job?”

“Angels don't typically...wander.” His tone was wistful. “We observed from above, filed reports. But we didn't experience.”

Their loss, Crowley thought, watching the way Aziraphale's face lit up as he traced the outline of St. Mark's Square with one careful finger.

“What would you want to see?” Crowley found himself asking. “If you could go anywhere?”

Aziraphale looked up, startled by the question. For a moment, his face was completely open, unguarded. “Paris,” he said without hesitation. “The bookshops, the cafés. The architecture, the art…”

He trailed off; the light in his eyes dimmed as reality reasserted itself.

“Maybe someday,” Crowley said softly, and meant it.

Aziraphale gave him a look that was part gratitude, part heartbreak. “Perhaps.”

Something started to change. Over the following visits, the periods of tension grew shorter, the moments of genuine relaxation longer. Aziraphale began leaving books open at interesting passages, as if inviting comment. When Crowley brought him a particularly beautiful volume on Italian Renaissance art, Aziraphale spent nearly an hour looking at different paintings with Crowley, his voice soft with wonder.

“The colours,” he said, tracing his finger along a reproduction of a Botticelli. “The way the light falls across her face. It's extraordinary that humans can create such beauty.”

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed, but he wasn't looking at the book. He was watching Aziraphale's face, the way his eyes lit up with genuine enthusiasm, how his hands moved expressively as he spoke, the small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

When Aziraphale glanced up and caught him staring, instead of retreating into wariness as he might have done weeks ago, he held Crowley's gaze for a moment.

“Thank you for sharing this with me,” Aziraphale said quietly.

Food was another aspect of humanity that Aziraphale took to. After the success of the scone, Crowley began bringing more small offerings: biscuits, cakes, French pastries. Each time, Aziraphale approached them with the same cautious wonder, his eyes widening at the first bite before he devoured the entire thing in seconds flat.

But slowly, he began offering to share. Always hesitantly, as if expecting rejection, but with growing confidence when Crowley accepted.

“This is remarkable,” Aziraphale said one afternoon, extending half of a pain au chocolat. “The way the pastry just melts.”

“Croissant technique,” Crowley explained, accepting the offered piece. “Lots of butter, lots of folding. Makes all those layers.”

“You know quite a bit about human food.”

“Six thousand years on Earth. You pick things up.”

“And you enjoy it? The food, I mean.”

“Sometimes. When it's good. When there's someone to share it with.”

The words caught between them for a moment. Aziraphale's cheeks flushed pink, but he didn't look away.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I can understand that.”

Tea proved revolutionary. Crowley brought coffee varieties first, so Aziraphale could try lattes, cappuccinos, the works; the tea had been a complete afterthought. The way Aziraphale's face had lit up when he took that first sip, though...

“Oh my,” he'd breathed, cradling the cup like it contained liquid gold. “This is...this is perfect.”

He'd declared it far superior to any of the coffee Crowley had brought. Crowley disagreed completely but figured everyone was entitled to their wrong opinion.

So Aziraphale could make his own, Crowley visited a shop for teabags. He even inquired about which was the best brand to get – inadvertently starting a heated debate between a shop worker and an eavesdropping pensioner as to whether the superior tea was Yorkshire or PG Tips. He went with Yorkshire in the end, because the old woman was terrifyingly insistent.

This necessitated a small kitchenette, which Crowley added to his quarters. Cupboards for treats, a toaster, a microwave, and a kettle with a collection of mugs and teacups. Somewhere Aziraphale could potter about, make things comfortable.

The first time Crowley arrived to find tea already prepared and waiting for him, he nearly dropped the books he'd brought.

“I hope that's all right,” Aziraphale said anxiously, wringing his hands. “I thought you might be thirsty after your journey, but if you'd prefer I didn't presume—”

“It's perfect,” Crowley said quickly, and watched the tension drain out of Aziraphale's shoulders.

They sat together in companionable silence, sipping their tea and reading. It felt...domestic. Natural. Like something they'd been doing for years rather than weeks.

“May I ask,” Aziraphale said one evening, watching Crowley conjure more teaspoons into a drawer (they kept somehow running out), “why you bring certain things personally, like the books, whilst others you simply materialise?”

Aziraphale had been asking more questions, showing more curiosity. Each inquiry felt like a small victory.

Crowley scratched his neck, oddly pleased by the question. “Books need browsing, don't they? Can't curate properly unless I know exactly what I'm after. If I try to miracle too many at once…”

With a small gesture, an entire shelf worth of books from a Waterstones dropped onto the table, some spilling over onto the floor with a cacophony of thuds. They both stared at the collection of romance novels, complete with glossy covers featuring couples in passionate embraces.

“Ngk.” Crowley cleared his throat, his face warming. “You don’t need to read those.”

Aziraphale's lips twitched as he plucked a paperback from the floor and cracked it open. “Don't I? They look rather...educational.”

The teasing note in his voice was so unexpected that Crowley nearly choked.

With a resigned sigh, Crowley gestured again, bringing another bookcase to fit beside the first, courtesy of an Ikea showroom. “Might as well have somewhere to put them,” he muttered, then caught Aziraphale's expression. “What?”

“Nothing,” Aziraphale said, but his smile had grown just a fraction wider as he hid his face behind the pages of the book. “Just...thank you.”

And for the first time, the gratitude didn't sound desperate or fearful. It sounded almost...fond.

Chapter Text

By the seventh week, something fundamental had shifted. Aziraphale was more inquisitive, more at ease with Crowley, asking questions and expressing preferences. The walls he'd built around himself weren't gone (perhaps they never would be), but they were definitely lower. 

It was during one such visit that Crowley spotted the playing cards had moved from their original spot on the table. The cellophane wrapper lay beside them, and the cards themselves were arranged in neat little piles.

“Finally opened them, then?” Crowley asked, settling into his usual chair.

Aziraphale looked up from his book a little bashfully. “Yes, well…I thought I might as well learn.” He set the book down and reached for the cards. “Did you know that book had an entire section devoted to sleight of hand techniques?”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been teaching yourself magic tricks?”

“Just simple ones,” Aziraphale said, though there was obvious pride in his voice. “Would you...would you like to see?”

The shy hopefulness in his tone made something warm settle in Crowley's chest. He settled back with a grin. “Go on then, angel. Dazzle me.”

Aziraphale's face lit up. He shuffled the deck with surprising skill, then spread them face down on the coffee table Crowley had conjured the previous week. “Pick a card. Any card. Don't let me see it.”

Crowley selected one from the middle and glanced at it (the seven of hearts) before sliding it back into the deck at Aziraphale’s instruction.

“Now,” Aziraphale said, his fingers moving quickly as he reshuffled them. There was something mesmerising about his concentration, the way his tongue darted out slightly as he focused. “I believe your card was…” He flipped the top card with a flourish. “The seven of hearts?”

“Bloody hell,” Crowley said, genuinely impressed. “How'd you manage that?”

“A magician never reveals his secrets,” Aziraphale said with a small, pleased smile that transformed his entire face. 

It was the first time Crowley had heard him sound genuinely playful, and the effect was rather devastating.

The following week, Crowley brought a new game: an elegant wooden chess set, the smooth pieces carved from light and dark wood. 

“It’s a strategy game,” Crowley explained as he started setting up a game on the table. “Each piece moves differently…”

He explained the rules exactly once, and Aziraphale listened with the rapt attention and bright eyes he brought to everything that genuinely interested him…then proceeded to thrash Crowley at the game four consecutive times in a row.

“Checkmate,” Aziraphale announced, moving his queen into position with a small, satisfied smile.

“Are you sure you’ve never played before?” Crowley asked incredulously.

“Quite certain,” Aziraphale said, already moving the pieces back into their starting positions. “Though I must ask, are you certain you're not simply letting me win?”

The gentle teasing in his voice was almost too much. 

“Trust me,” Crowley muttered, leaning forward to study the board. “I'm trying my absolute best.”

“How fortunate for me that your best appears to be somewhat lacking,” Aziraphale replied with such innocent sweetness that Crowley nearly choked on his own laughter. 

***

As Aziraphale had become so enamoured with food, Crowley had begun bringing him books about culinary history and food preparation. But in one of those hauls, a proper cookbook had somehow slipped in amongst the historical texts, and Crowley arrived one afternoon to find Aziraphale curled on the sofa, eyes flitting across the recipes spread before him.

“It’s extraordinary,” he said when he noticed Crowley’s arrival. “The way humans work out how to create these things from raw ingredients, and then write it all down to teach others.”

Crowley smiled softly; he was growing to adore the way Aziraphale saw the world. “They are nothing if not persistent.”

“I’d love to try it sometime…” Aziraphale murmured, tracing a finger longingly down a glossy photograph of a Victoria sponge. He glanced up at Crowley with bright, hopeful eyes before his gaze darted away, as if his words had been too bold.

Which was how Crowley found himself returning later that day with flour, eggs, sugar, and every ingredient the recipe demanded. He perched on one of the barstools he'd added to the kitchenette island and watched Aziraphale painstakingly measure each component out into a bowl, tongue poking out slightly in concentration.

It was, Crowley had to admit, rather adorable.

“Does that look smooth?” Aziraphale asked, holding out the bowl he'd been beating for nearly ten minutes solid.

“Angel, I don't think it could get any smoother,” Crowley said with a slight grin.

Aziraphale carefully divided the batter between two tins, then paused, consulting the book with a small frown.

“Oh. It says bake for twenty minutes at one-eighty,” he murmured, glancing around the small space with confusion.

“I’d struggle to get an oven in here,” Crowley clarified, extending his hands across the counter. “Doesn’t matter. Pass them over.”

Aziraphale looked puzzled but obligingly slid the tins across, one settling against each of Crowley's palms. Crowley closed his eyes and concentrated until a baking heat radiated from his hands. The tins grew hot, and within minutes the batter was bubbling and rising into perfect golden domes.

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed, pure delight written across his face. "That's brilliant!”

They played chess whilst waiting for the cakes to cool (Aziraphale won again, naturally) before Aziraphale carefully sandwiched them with jam and buttercream. A small smear of icing sugar dusted his cheek, and Crowley found himself fighting the strangest urge to lean across and brush it away with his thumb.

They settled at the table with slices before them. Well, Crowley had a slice he wasn't touching whilst Aziraphale savoured every bite with small, pleased sounds that were doing absolutely nothing for Crowley's sanity. But then Crowley noticed Aziraphale’s gaze repeatedly drifting over to him with obvious curiosity.

“Something on my face?” he asked, wondering if the icing sugar had somehow gotten him as well.

“No, I just…” Aziraphale hesitated. “I was wondering about your sunglasses. Do you always wear them?”

“Pretty much.”

“But why? There’s hardly any bright light to speak of down here.”

“It’s not about the light,” Crowley said carefully. “More about not frightening people topside. My eyes aren't exactly...human standard.”

“Frightening?” Aziraphale sounded genuinely puzzled. “How could they be frightening?”

Crowley hesitated. Everyone, all the other demons, and the humans, just accepted the sunglasses as part of his image, his mystique. But Aziraphale was looking at him with such genuine curiosity, such absence of judgment.

“Want to see?” he asked, his hand hovering over the frames.

Aziraphale nodded eagerly.

Slowly, Crowley removed the sunglasses, revealing bright yellow serpentine eyes; the pupils contracted to vertical slits in the lamplight.

Aziraphale went completely still, his breath audibly catching. For a moment, Crowley braced himself for the usual reaction whenever a human inadvertently caught a glimpse of his eyes: fear, revulsion, or at best, polite discomfort. 

Instead, Aziraphale leant forward, his eyes wide with wonder.

“Oh,” he breathed. “They’re beautiful.”

“Beautiful?” Crowley nearly dropped the glasses in his untouched sponge. “They’re snake eyes, angel.”

“They're extraordinary,” Aziraphale said with quiet conviction. “Like molten gold, the way they catch the light…” He seemed to realise how intently he was staring and flushed crimson. “Forgive me. It's just…I've never seen anything quite like them.”

Heat crept up Crowley's neck, but instead of replacing the glasses, he set them deliberately on the table. “Right, well. Now you know why I keep them covered.”

“Because they’re beautiful?” Aziraphale asked, and there was something almost teasing that made Crowley’s stomach do an odd little somersault. 

“Because they mark me as what I am.”

“And what you are,” Aziraphale said softly, holding Crowley's gaze without flinching, “is nothing like what I expected a demon to be.”

The air was suddenly warm, and Crowley felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with his uncovered eyes and everything to do with the gentle understanding in Aziraphale's voice.

***

More weeks passed, and things began to shift in ways that left Crowley feeling distinctly off-balance.

It started small. Instead of sitting upright when Crowley arrived, Aziraphale was often curled on the sofa with a book, tucked beneath the soft blanket Crowley had brought weeks ago. He'd stopped flinching at sudden movements, and the cautious pauses before accepting gifts had all but disappeared.

“Brought you something different today,” Crowley announced during one visit, producing a record player and a small stack of albums. His sunglasses went automatically into his pocket, a habit that had developed without conscious thought.

Aziraphale looked up from his Jane Austen with curious eyes rather than wary ones. “What is it?”

“Music. Thought you might like to hear something that isn’t just celestial harmonies.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “I can hear it? Not just read about it?”

“That's generally how music works, yeah.”

For the first time since Crowley had known him, Aziraphale laughed. A soft, genuine sound that reminded Crowley of the petals of a flower opening to sunlight. “I suppose that was rather obvious, wasn't it?”

Crowley set up the record player on the table and put on Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 21. He had a hunch Aziraphale would appreciate something classical over anything modern, though he had included a Lady Gaga album too, just in case. As the first notes filled the room, Aziraphale went completely still, his book forgotten in his lap.

“Oh,” he breathed, eyes wide with wonder. “Oh my.”

“Good?”

“It's extraordinary.” Aziraphale closed his eyes, and a smile pulled at his lips. “The emotions...I can hear them.”

Crowley found himself staying longer during that visit…and the next, and the one after. He’d long stopped rushing off the moment he'd delivered something, lingering instead for tea and whatever treat he'd brought. Aziraphale didn’t question Crowley's motives anymore and asked more questions, particularly about food. 

“How do humans discover these flavour combinations?” Aziraphale wondered, biting into a lemon tart. “The sweet and sharp together. It’s perfect.”

“Trial and error, mostly. Humans are persistent like that.” Crowley watched Aziraphale's tongue dart out to catch a drop of lemon curd, and something twisted pleasantly in his stomach. “They never give up on making things better, more beautiful, more delicious.”

“Rather like you,” Aziraphale said quietly, then seemed startled by his own words. “I mean…with the room. The way you keep improving things.”

The room had indeed continued evolving. The harsh fluorescent bulb had been replaced with something warmer, accompanied by a shade overhead, a standing lamp by the sofa, and a bedside light in the sleeping area. Rich Persian rugs now covered the stone floor, soft throws draped the furniture, and books lined the walls. The underlying sulphur smell that permeated Hell had been replaced by the comforting scents of tea and biscuits.

“You’re spoiling me,” Aziraphale said one evening, settling onto the sofa with a new poetry collection and a slice of chocolate fondant.

“Am I?”

“Dreadfully.” But he was smiling as he said it, and there was no fear in his eyes. “I'm becoming quite comfortable down here.”

“Good. That's..." Crowley paused, realising how much he meant it. “That's good, angel.”

Their conversations had grown longer, more natural. Aziraphale continued asking about Earth, about Crowley's experiences amongst humans. In return, he shared stories about Heaven, the bureaucracy, the endless filing, and the way angels were expected to observe rather than participate.

“I always wondered what rain felt like,” Aziraphale admitted one afternoon. “We could see it, of course, observe its effects, but we never experienced it directly.”

“It's nice,” Crowley said. “Peaceful. Sometimes I just stand in it.”

Aziraphale’s smile was wistful. “That sounds lovely.”

The longing in his tone made Crowley want to take him topside immediately, to show him rain and sunshine and all the small wonders he'd been denied. But the collar caught the lamplight as Aziraphale shifted on the sofa, and Crowley knew he wanted the impossible.

“Do you ever develop relationships with them?” Aziraphale asked suddenly. “The humans, I mean. Do you befriend them?”

Crowley exhaled and tapped the tops of his knees. “Friends might be overstating it. There are some I've gotten to know better than others, I suppose. But...well, humans don't last very long, do they? Not much point getting too attached.” He shrugged with forced casualness. “I'm fine on my own.”

Aziraphale studied him with those perceptive blue eyes. “That sounds rather lonely.”

For the first time in weeks, Crowley wished his sunglasses were in place. “Yeah, well…not much to be done about that, is there?”

Except there was, he knew. Because he hadn’t felt lonely for quite some time now.

“What about Sandalphon?” Aziraphale asked, mercifully changing the subject.

Crowley pulled a face. “What about him?”

“What's your relationship like?”

“Non-existent,” Crowley said firmly. “I mean, I was potentially open to being civil when we first ended up stationed together on Earth. But he made it very clear he wasn't interested.”

“That's a shame,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully. “Given that he's the one being who's been a constant in your existence.”

“More like a constant pain in my arse,” Crowley muttered. “Going to be even worse when he finally gets back to Earth, I expect.”

“Gets back? Where has he been?”

“Heaven, I suspect. I, uh…” Crowley shifted in his armchair. “I kind of discorporated him.”

“You discorporated Sandalphon?” Aziraphale's eyebrows shot up.

“Completely by accident. Hit him with my car.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said with remarkably little sympathy. In fact, Crowley was fairly certain the angel was fighting a smirk.

“That's actually why I was given you,” Crowley said quietly, watching Aziraphale's face carefully. “The discorporation. Hell was rather pleased about it, especially since I'd never managed it before. Though I'm hoping this doesn't start some ridiculous back-and-forth with Sandalphon wanting revenge.”

“You think he might try to discorporate you?”

Crowley shrugged. “He’s never tried before. We've both just ignored each other since the dawn of creation. But now…” He trailed off, suddenly weary at the thought of potential upcoming celestial pettiness.

Aziraphale was quiet for a long moment, fingers tracing the edge of his teacup. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, almost shy.

“If you hadn't discorporated Sandalphon,” he said carefully, not quite meeting Crowley's eyes, “then you and I would never have met.”

Crowley went very still. “No,” he said slowly. “I suppose we wouldn't have.”

“So perhaps…” Aziraphale glanced up, his cheeks flushed pink. “Perhaps it wasn't such a terrible thing after all?”

Crowley swallowed, letting Aziraphale’s words sink in for a moment. He could see his own reflection in the angel’s eyes, and almost had to look away.

“No,” he said softly. “I don't suppose it was.”

Aziraphale's smile was radiant, and Crowley felt something shift irrevocably in his chest – a door opening that he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to close again.

The conversation seemed to change something between them. In the days that followed, Aziraphale’s guardedness was completely gone, his smiles reaching his eyes in a way that made Crowley feel things he didn’t want to examine too closely. It was as if their confession had given them permission to enjoy their time together without guilt.

It was a week later that Aziraphale looked up from a travel memoir about Scotland with an expression of quiet curiosity.

“Crowley,” he said, setting the book carefully aside. “Why do you keep coming back?”

Crowley paused in arranging new novels on the bookshelf. “What d'you mean?”

“You could simply leave me here with the books and food and forget about me entirely. You've made it clear this situation wasn't your choice.” Aziraphale's fingers traced the cover of his book. “Yet you return every few days with new gifts and…” He gestured helplessly. “Kindness. Conversation. Your time.”

Crowley shifted uncomfortably, struck by how much had changed since Aziraphale had first asked him why with such desperate suspicion. Now there was genuine curiosity in his voice, perhaps even hope. 

The honest answer was that he'd started craving these visits, looking forward to Aziraphale's shy smiles and burning questions, the way his face lit up over the smallest discoveries. But admitting that felt like crossing a line he shouldn’t.

“Maybe I just like the company,” Crowley said finally.

“Do you?”

“Yeah,” Crowley admitted, surprising himself. “Yeah, I do.”

He was enjoying this. Enjoying making Aziraphale happy, enjoying their conversations, enjoying the way the angel's entire demeanour had brightened since they’d met. What had started as a reluctant obligation had become something Crowley genuinely looked forward to.

That, he realised, might be the most dangerous development of all.

Because somewhere between the books and the tea and the soft laughter, Crowley had stopped thinking of Aziraphale as his unwanted responsibility and started thinking of him as...

Well. That was a thought he wasn't quite ready to finish.

***

Crowley was barely letting two days go by before returning to Hell these days. His work on Earth had grown lax, but no one seemed to care, so long as his occasional reports kept coming. The truth was, he'd started planning his days around these visits, finding excuses to postpone temptations that could wait another day...or week.

He picked up a thick volume of Shakespeare's complete works and several classical records on his way to the tube station. Passing a chocolate shop, he realised that whilst Aziraphale enjoyed chocolate biscuits and desserts, he'd never actually tried proper chocolate itself. On impulse, Crowley ducked inside and bought a large, elegant box of Belgian chocolates: pralines swirled with milk and white chocolate.

When he pushed through the protective wards to his quarters, he found Aziraphale curled on the sofa with one of those romance novels that had accidentally materialised weeks ago. Chopin played softly in the background, and the angel looked utterly content in the warm lamplight, no longer the broken creature who'd been thrown into this room months ago. The transformation still took Crowley's breath away sometimes.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale looked up with genuine pleasure, carefully marking his place before setting the book aside. “I wasn't expecting you today.”

“Had some time,” Crowley said, producing the book and records from his bag. “Brought you some things.”

Aziraphale's face lit up with the delight Crowley had grown to relish – to crave, if he was being honest. “Oh, wonderful. I did so enjoy Hamlet.” He examined the records with equal enthusiasm. “More classical. Perfect. I've been listening to that Mozart piece on repeat.”

“And, uh…” Crowley pulled the chocolate box from behind his back, feeling oddly self-conscious as it gave a small rattle. “Thought you might like these. Proper chocolates.”

The change in Aziraphale's expression was immediate. His eyes went wide, blinking rapidly as he stared at the opulent box with its black exterior and gold ribbon. He looked completely taken aback, as if Crowley had just announced he’d been promoted to the Prince of Hell.

“Chocolates,” he said faintly. “You brought me…chocolates.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, puzzled. “Thought you’d like them. You seem to enjoy chocolate-flavoured things, so…”

Aziraphale stared at the box as if it might spontaneously combust. His hands reached out tentatively, then pulled back, then reached out again in a nervous dance. 

“This is…” he started, then seemed to lose his words entirely. His cheeks had begun to flush a delicate pink that spread down his neck.

What's wrong with him? Crowley thought. It's just chocolate.

“They're Belgian,” Crowley offered, wondering if that was somehow the problem. “Shop assistant said they were their best.”

“Their best,” Aziraphale repeated weakly, finally accepting the box with trembling fingers. He held it like it was made of glass. “You...you chose their best. For me.”

“Well, yeah. I mean, if you're going to try chocolate properly for the first time, might as well be the good stuff, right?” Crowley watched in growing bewilderment as Aziraphale's flush deepened.

Aziraphale's gaze darted between the box and Crowley's face, his expression shifting between panicked and hopeful. There was something flustered about him, as if the chocolates had completely derailed him.

What was Aziraphale struggling to understand? Crowley had brought him countless desserts, cakes, and sweets over the months, but never chocolate in its own right. Perhaps the angel simply hadn't realised chocolate came in boxes like this – though that hardly explained the look of barely contained panic on his face.

“I…” Aziraphale started, then stopped. He looked back at Crowley, then down at the box again. “This is very thoughtful of you.”

“It’s just chocolate, angel. Don’t look so worried about it.”

But Aziraphale did look worried. More than worried, it was like he was having some sort of existential crisis over a box of pralines. His breathing had gone slightly shallow, and he kept glancing at Crowley with quick, searching looks, as if trying to read his intentions.

“Is there something wrong with them?” Crowley asked, genuinely concerned now. “I can take them back if you don’t—”

“No!” Aziraphale clutched the box protectively to his chest. “No, please don’t. I…I very much want them.”

“Right. Good. So what’s the problem?”

“There’s no problem,” Aziraphale said quickly, though his voice had gone up an octave. “Thank you. For the chocolates. They’re beautiful.”

Crowley couldn't help but notice that Aziraphale was looking directly at him when he said 'beautiful', and not the chocolates. 

With the utmost care, Aziraphale opened the box, revealing rows of uniform pralines nestled in paper cups. His breath caught audibly.

“Oh my,” Aziraphale murmured, selecting one from the centre after some deliberation. “They look almost too lovely to eat.”

As he brought the chocolate to his lips and took a small, careful bite, his eyes fluttered closed. “Oh,” he breathed, and there was something almost sensual in the way he savoured it. “That's divine.”

When he opened his eyes, they locked onto Crowley with such startling intensity that it made him squirm. There was something different in Aziraphale's gaze, something softer, more wondering, as if he were seeing Crowley in an entirely new light.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said quietly. “This is…this means…”

He trailed off, his gaze darting back to the chocolates, and Crowley caught a glimpse of something that looked like shy delight before Aziraphale's brow furrowed with worry.

“Means what?” Crowley prompted.

“It means…” Aziraphale seemed to struggle, then straightened suddenly. “It means I should let you get back to Earth. You must have important work to attend to.”

The abrupt dismissal was so unexpected that Crowley felt slightly winded.

“Right,” he said slowly, still trying to work out what had just happened. “Well…enjoy the chocolates, I suppose.”

Aziraphale nodded, clutching the box like a treasure. The tiny, secret smile he wore made Crowley feel as though he'd missed something crucial.

As he left, he couldn't shake the sensation that an entirely different conversation had just taken place.

Chapter Text

Angels did sleep, as it turned out. Or rather, Aziraphale did.

As Aziraphale had explained to Crowley during one of their quieter conversations, he'd taken to it as a way to pass the time. A chance to leave captivity behind, at least for a while, to drift into dreams that sometimes, mercifully, carried him far away from these dark corridors. 

Sleep had become more frequent for him over the past month. Crowley could only imagine it was due to their slowly building trust; Aziraphale felt secure enough to let his guard down completely. Though he was always slightly disappointed when he found the angel asleep when he arrived – no conversations to look forward to – it did make him happy to know Aziraphale trusted him enough to be vulnerable.

He feels safe, Crowley would think whenever he found the angel curled up in bed. Safe enough to sleep. Because of me.

When Crowley pushed through the protective wards tonight, he immediately noticed the quiet: no soft classical music or rustling of turning pages. The main room was empty, though he could see evidence of Aziraphale's presence: a half-finished cup of tea, a book resting on the arm of the sofa, and several chocolate wrappers folded beside the box on the table, which was nearly empty.

“Angel?” he called softly as he pocketed his sunglasses.

His gaze drifted towards the small bedroom, the door standing slightly ajar. Through the gap, he could make out a familiar shape beneath the sheets, pale hair nestled against the pillows.

Usually, when he found Aziraphale asleep, Crowley would deposit whatever he'd brought somewhere visible and leave quietly. But tonight, he found himself lingering.

There was something oddly domestic about it all; the gentle sound of breathing from the bedroom, the scattered remains of a quiet afternoon spent reading, drinking tea, and eating chocolates. It made something warm and unfamiliar wash over Crowley, something that felt suspiciously like contentment.

He was just placing the new book he’d brought on the table (a fascinating account of an Arctic expedition) when he heard it: a soft whimper that made every one of his muscles tense. 

Crowley froze, listening intently. Another sound of distress drifted in, low and pained. Without thinking, he moved to the bedroom door and nudged it wider, his heart beginning to race.

Aziraphale lay tangled in sheets, face contorted with anguish. His white-knuckled hands had fisted themselves in the bedding as his head thrashed from side to side

“No,” Aziraphale moaned. “Please, not again. Please…don’t…”

Something twisted painfully in Crowley's chest; a fierce, protective anger. He approached the bed cautiously, uncertain. Should he wake him? Or would that only frighten him more?

But then Aziraphale let out a sound that was nearly a scream, his back arching off the bed as if in excruciating pain, and Crowley threw hesitance to the wind.

“Aziraphale,” he said softly, kneeling on the edge of the bed. “Angel, wake up. It's just a dream.”

He reached out, wavering only a moment before gently touching Aziraphale's shoulder.

The reaction was immediate. Aziraphale jolted violently awake, eyes flying open, wild with a terror that made Crowley's heart clench.

“NO!” Aziraphale scrambled backwards to flatten against the headboard, his breath coming in harsh, panicked gasps. “Don't touch me! Please, I can’t—”

“Hey, hey, it's me,” Crowley insisted, raising his hands where Aziraphale could see them. “It's just me. Crowley. You're safe.”

For one horrifying moment, Aziraphale stared at him without recognition, his blue eyes wide and unseeing, lost in whatever his mind had conjured up. Crowley felt something break a little inside him.

Come back, he thought desperately. Come back to me.

Then, gradually, awareness began to seep back in. The wild panic faded, replaced by recognition, and then immediate mortification.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed out on a shudder as he forced his shoulders to lower. “Crowley. I'm so sorry, I didn't…I was…”

“Having a nightmare,” Crowley finished gently, relief washing over him. “It's alright. You don't need to apologise.”

Aziraphale drew his knees into his chest, snaking his arms around them protectively. His whole body trembled with the aftermath, and he couldn't quite meet Crowley's eyes, shame radiating from him in waves.

“Would you like some water?” Crowley asked after a few moments, unsure what else to suggest. “Or tea? I could make some.”

“No.” Aziraphale gripped his wrist, trying to quell the shaking. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

He was very clearly not fine; the trembling hadn’t stopped, but Crowley didn’t press. Instead, he settled on the edge of the bed, maintaining a respectful distance. He was relieved when Aziraphale didn't flinch away.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Crowley asked softly. “The nightmare?”

Aziraphale worried his bottom lip, a gesture Crowley had not seen him do for some time now. “It wasn’t just a nightmare,” he said eventually in a whisper. “It was a memory.”

Crowley went very still. “A memory of what?”

“Of before. Before you.” Aziraphale’s gaze was fixed on the sheets rumpled at the bottom of the bed; his grip on his wrist tightened until the skin went white beneath his fingers. “Of what it was like…here.”

“Angel…” Crowley swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “...what happened to you?”

Aziraphale was silent for so long Crowley thought he might not answer. The only sounds in the room were their uneven breathing and the distant drip of water somewhere in Hell’s depths. Crowley stayed completely still, not even daring to shift his weight, whilst he waited for Aziraphale to gather himself. 

When the angel finally spoke, his tone was so hollow and detached that Crowley barely recognised it as belonging to the same being who'd laughed at his antics and swooned over a croissant.

“When I was first captured,” Aziraphale began, “they put me in the pits. The lowest level of Hell. Where they keep souls destined for the worst torments. Though I suppose you'd know that.”

Crowley's jaw clenched. He knew the pits all too well, knew them as a place where hope went to die, where the air was thick with smoke and ash, and the echoes of screaming never ceased.

“There were...sessions,” Aziraphale continued, forcing the words out. “Interrogations, they called them, though they never actually questioned me about anything of importance. They just...hurt me. To see how I would react. What would make me scream, or beg, or…” He broke off with a sharp intake of breath, his whole body shuddering.

“You don't have to—” Crowley started, his hand twitching involuntarily towards Aziraphale's trembling one.

“I want to,” Aziraphale said with a determination that caught Crowley off guard. “I need to. I've never spoken of it to anyone.”

Crowley nodded, curling his fingers into fists to keep them still, to resist the overwhelming urge to reach out and offer physical comfort that probably wasn’t welcome.

“After a while, they grew bored with simple torture,” Aziraphale murmured, his voice growing distant. “So they found other ways to...to defile an angel of the Lord.”

Rage shot through Crowley's chest like lightning, white-hot and violent. He had to bite down hard on his tongue to keep from snarling. He exhaled slowly through his nose, trying to contain the fury building inside him.

Breathe, he told himself. Aziraphale needs you calm. 

“They would take turns,” Aziraphale went on, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the bedroom wall, eyes glazing over. “Make a game of it. See who could make the angel weep, who could make him beg for mercy. There was betting involved, I think. Who could break me the fastest…” His voice dropped to barely a whisper. “There was one demon called Hastur who was particularly...creative.”

Crowley hissed involuntarily. Hastur, Duke of Hell, known throughout Hell for unspeakable cruelty and sadism. The thought of him putting his filthy hands on Aziraphale, of touching this gentle, beautiful creature, made Crowley want to tear Hell apart piece by piece with his bare hands.

“They told me Heaven had forgotten me,” Aziraphale said, his breath hitching. “That no one was coming. That no one even knew I was missing. That I belonged to Hell now, and this was my purpose. To be their...plaything.”

“Angel…” Crowley breathed, a protective fury burning so intensely inside that it scared him.

“They made sure I understood,” Aziraphale murmured, “that I was nothing now. Less than nothing. Just something they could use however they pleased, whenever the mood struck them.”

He drew a shuddering breath. “Eventually, even they tired of that. I suppose I stopped being…amusing. I was moved to a cell. Alone. Left there for...I don't know how long. Time moves strangely here. Years, certainly. Decades, possibly. Just...forgotten. Like I'd never existed at all.”

He looked up at Crowley, eyes bright with unshed tears, but his gaze unwavering. 

“And then one day, they came for me,” he said. “Told me I was being gifted to a demon who’d done something they approved of. And I was so afraid, Crowley. So terrified. I thought it was starting all over again. I thought whoever you were, you would want the same things they did.”

Something cracked open in Crowley's chest, raw and aching.

“But you didn't,” Aziraphale whispered, managing a watery smile that was somehow the most devastatingly beautiful expression Crowley had ever seen. “You were so kind. Even that first day, you clothed me, healed me…I was so shocked, I didn’t know how to process it.”

He choked out a wounded sound like a laugh. “Part of me wondered if it was some elaborate ploy, if you were just...setting me up for something worse.”

It occurred to Crowley with a pang of horror that there would be no crueller demon trick than to treat Aziraphale with the kindness he had, only to strip it away later to reveal it had all been a ruse. Though Crowley was confident no demon in Hell was cunning or patient enough to pull off such a long con.

“I kept waiting,” Aziraphale carried on, his voice growing stronger. “Waiting for you to reveal your true nature, to show me what you really wanted. But you just...kept being kind. Bringing me books and food and…comfort. Not treating me like property. As if I really mattered.”

“Angel, I’m so sorry,” Crowley choked out. “I’m so fucking sorry all that happened to you. You didn’t deserve any of it. Not one moment of it. You're good and kind and brave, and they had no right—”

Aziraphale's composure finally shattered. A sob escaped him, then another, until he was crying openly; deep, wrenching sounds that tore straight through Crowley. Tears that had been held back for over a century, dredged up from somewhere long-buried.

As tentatively as he could, Crowley reached out and ghosted Aziraphale's arm with his fingertips, ready to pull back at the first hint of discomfort. When the angel didn't flinch away, and actually leant into the touch, Crowley shifted closer on the bed. 

Aziraphale went willingly into his arms when Crowley wrapped them around his trembling form, collapsing against him with a sound that was half sob, half sigh.

“I’ve got you,” Crowley murmured into Aziraphale’s hair, rubbing gentle circles across his back, marvelling at how perfectly the angel seemed to fit against him. “You’re safe now, I promise. I won’t let anyone hurt you again.”

It felt strange to hold Aziraphale like this. They’d had virtually no physical contact since Crowley had gently touched his temples that first day to heal him. The angel was so incredibly warm against Crowley’s chest, solid and present in a way that was alarming yet deeply comforting. This wasn't the scarred creature who'd been thrown into his room months ago – this was a being who trusted him enough to fall apart in his arms.

They stayed that way for a long time, Aziraphale's tears soaking through Crowley's jacket, until his sobs gradually subsided into quiet hiccups, then finally into exhausted silence. When Aziraphale pulled back, his eyes were red-rimmed and his lashes were saturated with tears, but he seemed as if a weight had been lifted.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, looking away. “For listening. For not...for not thinking less of me.”

“Less of you?” Crowley stared at him in disbelief. “Angel, I think more of you now than I ever have. What you survived, what you endured..fuck, you're the strongest person I've ever met.”

Aziraphale made a small self-deprecating sound. “I don't feel very strong.”

“Trust me on this one,” Crowley said firmly. “You're extraordinary.”

Crowley realised he was still half clinging to him, and reluctantly dropped his hands from Aziraphale's back, already missing the warmth and weight of him. The angel was still wearing the same white robe from that first day, now damp with sweat and clinging uncomfortably to his skin. He looked wrung out, exhausted.

“You're a bit worse for wear,” Crowley said gently. “From the nightmare. Would you like to bathe? Might help you feel better.”

Aziraphale blinked in surprise. “Bathe? You mean…the human way?”

“It’s nice,” Crowley said with a small shrug. “Soothing. I know we don’t need to, but…”

With a gesture, he conjured a large copper bathtub at the foot of the bed, steam rising gently from the water within. He added oils and lavender; he'd read somewhere that it was meant to be calming. The heady scent quickly filled the small space.

“Oh,” Azirahale said, gazing at the tub. “That does look rather inviting.”

He shifted to the edge of the bed and stood, lifting the robe up and over his head in one swift movement. Crowley's eyes widened as the white fabric slipped from Aziraphale's hands, pooling forgotten on the bed.

“Right, I’ll just…” Crowley started to turn away, heat creeping up his neck.

“You don’t have to leave,” Aziraphale said, stopping him in his tracks. “Unless you prefer to.”

Crowley swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. He'd seen Aziraphale naked before, that first day, but this was different; it was something far more intimate. Perhaps he'd spent too much time amongst humans, absorbing their concepts of modesty.

He kept his gaze carefully averted until he heard Aziraphale step into the water with a soft sigh. When he finally looked up, Aziraphale was settled back in the tub, water lapping at his collarbone. Crowley moved to sit on the end of the bed and shucked off his now rather tear-damp jacket.

“This is lovely,” Aziraphale murmured, sinking deeper into the tub. The metal collar gleamed wetly in the lamplight. “I can see why humans enjoy this.”

“Another one of their great inventions,” Crowley agreed, trying to focus on Aziraphale’s face and not let his gaze wander. “Along with books, music, and chocolate.”

“And tea,” Aziraphale added with a small smile, the first Crowley had seen since waking him from his nightmare. “Don’t forget tea.”

“Couldn’t possibly forget tea. You’d never forgive me.”

Aziraphale’s smile grew slightly, and he swirled a hand through the water, letting it run between his fingers. The gesture was oddly mesmerising, and Crowley watched the graceful movement of those hands with more attention than was probably appropriate.

They were quiet for a few minutes, Aziraphale relaxing in the water while Crowley sat close by, hoping his presence was reassuring, a comfort. He could see the tense lines in Aziraphale’s shoulders slowly easing as he soaked, returning to the relaxed state he’d grown accustomed to over the months.

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale’s damp, discarded robe on the bed. “You know, I could get you some proper clothes,” he said. “What humans actually wear, not just that robe. And maybe something to change into while you sleep. Pyjamas or something.”

Aziraphale looked up with interest. “I’d like that very much. What sorts of things do humans wear?”

“All sorts. Jeans, mostly, to be honest. What do you like the look of?”

Aziraphale considered this, still running his fingers absently through the warm water. “I've always rather fancied those fitted jackets I've seen in photographs. They’re worn with waistcoats, I believe? Bow ties seem rather charming as well.”

“Waistcoats and bow ties? For everyday wear?” Crowley said with a grin. “Angel, that’s pretty old-fashioned these days. Like, really old-fashioned.”

“Is it?” Aziraphale seemed surprised. “Well, I don’t mind. I rather like the look of it. Classic, don’t you think?”

“Classic’s one word for it,” Crowley said with a hint of amusement. “Alright then. Waistcoats and bow ties it is. Though I’ll warn you, you'll look like you've stepped out of the nineteenth century.”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

Taking in Aziraphale's hopeful expression, Crowley couldn't think of a single reason why it would be. He could picture it perfectly, Aziraphale as a Victorian gentleman, looking like he’d walked out of one of the Jane Austen novels he loved. 

“No, angel,” Crowley said softly. “I think you’ll look perfect.”

Aziraphale's smile was radiant. He ducked his head shyly, and Crowley tried not to pay attention to how unbearably cute it was. The angel settled back in the tub, looking more relaxed than Crowley had ever seen him.

“You know,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully after a while, “I told you I thought you’d be like the other demons, and you’re not. But you also don’t…” He trailed off, biting his lip as if he'd said too much.

“Don’t what?” Crowley prompted, curious.

Aziraphale's face began to turn pink above the waterline. “I...I was just going to say you don't especially look like other demons, either.”

“Oh?”

Aziraphale seemed to shrink into himself, his eyes dropping to the water. Crowley's curiosity sharpened. “Go on,” he urged.

“You're rather…” Aziraphale's hands fluttered nervously, and he glanced up briefly before focusing somewhere over Crowley's shoulder. “...pretty, for a demon."

“Ngk,” Crowley managed, his face reddening to match Aziraphale’s. He cleared his throat roughly. “Right. Well. That’s…you're not exactly hard on the eyes yourself, angel.”

They stared at each other for a moment, both flushed and uncertain. This was flirting, wasn’t it? They were actually flirting. Crowley was completely out of his depth. 

What the ever-loving fuck is happening? 

He hadn’t lied, though. Angels were a lot prettier than demons, as a general rule – part of their design, really. But Aziraphale was exceptional even by those standards. The soft curves of his cherubic face, those impossibly blue eyes, the way he managed to look both innocent and knowing at the same time…

Stop, Crowley ordered himself firmly.

“Right, uh.” He cleared his throat again, desperate to change the subject before he incriminated himself further. “I’ve actually been wondering…what were you doing down here in the first place? When you were captured, I mean. Did Heaven send you, or—”

A sharp knock rattled the outer door.

Aziraphale went rigid, eyes wide with terror. All the relaxation vanished instantly, replaced by the wariness Crowley had worked so hard to ease away.

“Stay here,” Crowley said, rising quickly. He conjured a large, soft towel on the bed. “Don't move. I'll handle whoever it is.”

“Crowley…”

“You’re safe,” Crowley assured him, moving towards the bedroom door. “The wards will hold, and I won’t let anyone in. Just stay quiet and stay put, alright?”

Aziraphale nodded, sinking lower into the water like he was trying to disappear entirely. The knock came again, more insistent. 

After closing the bedroom door gently behind him, Crowley strode through the main room and yanked open the outer door with more force than necessary.

“What?” he barked at a demon with spidery lashes and dressed head to toe in distressed denim – one of the disposable Erics, he realised. Not particularly threatening, but irritating enough.

“Message for you, from the boss,” the Eric said, holding out a scroll.

“Right. Thanks.” Crowley snatched it from him and slammed the door before the Eric could say anything else. His hands trembled with anger as he snapped off the black ribbon encasing the scroll.

The parchment crackled as he unfurled it; Hell’s official seal glaring up at him in blood red wax. The words burned into his vision:

Demon Crowley,

It has come to my attention that you have failed to utilise your reward appropriately. The collar worn by your angel monitors physical activity, and our records show a concerning lack of engagement since your acquisition.

You have been granted twenty-four Earth hours to remedy this situation and fulfil the purpose for which the angel was given to you. Failure to comply will result in immediate reassignment of the prisoner to more appreciative hands.

Do not disappoint me.

Lord Beelzebub

The scroll slipped from Crowley’s fingers and fluttered to the floor. Twenty-four hours. They were giving him twenty-four hours to violate Aziraphale or they'd take him away and give him to someone who would. Bile rose in his throat; his vision blurred with rage.

Bastards, he thought viciously. Sick, twisted bastards.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s soft, concerned voice came from behind him, cutting through his spiral. “Is everything okay?”

Crowley spun to find Aziraphale in the bedroom doorway, towel wrapped around his waist, the ends of his hair damp and dripping. His face was etched with worry as he took in Crowley’s expression. 

“What is it?” he asked, stepping closer. “What did they want?”

Crowley couldn’t bring himself to say it; the words caught in his throat. Wordlessly, he picked up the scroll and handed it over, watching Aziraphale as he read.

He saw the exact moment comprehension dawned. The colour drained from Aziraphale's face, and his eyes combed over the words several more times.

“I see,” Aziraphale said quietly at last, setting the scroll on the table. Crowley could see the way his hands shook.

“Angel, listen to me,” Crowley said urgently, moving closer before grinding to a halt, suddenly terrified that any movement could be misinterpreted. “I won’t do it. I would never…I could never…”

“I know,” Aziraphale said weakly.

“But they'll take you away,” Crowley continued, his voice cracking. “Give you to someone else, someone who'll…” He couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't bear to look at Aziraphale's face.

Someone like Hastur. Someone who would enjoy breaking the angel all over again, who would take pleasure in destroying the peace they'd built together.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale waited until their eyes met, and there was a strength in his gaze that took Crowley's breath away. “If that's the only way...if the choice is between you and—”

“No,” Crowley cut him off immediately, the word exploding from him like a gunshot. “Absolutely not. Angel, I can't. I said I would never hurt you, and I meant it.”

“I know you did,” Aziraphale said, his voice beginning to tremble. “But I'd rather it be you. You would never hurt me the way they did. You would be gentle, wouldn't you? You would try to make it...bearable.”

The quiet acceptance, the way he was trying to make this easier for Crowley, was like a knife to the heart.

“I can't,” Crowley said desperately, fists pinned at his sides. “I couldn't do that to you. I couldn't live with myself. I can't force myself on you, angel.”

“It wouldn’t be…” Aziraphale winced, looking away. “If I agree, if I consent—”

“Angel, there’s nothing consensual about this!”

For the first time in a long time, Aziraphale actually flinched back from him, and a stab of guilt lanced right through Crowley. He gripped his hair with both hands, doubling over with a strangled sound.

“This is fucked…” he hissed. “There has to be another way.”

“What way?” Aziraphale whispered, and when Crowley looked up, the angel's eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I'm trapped, Crowley. This collar won't let me leave, and you can't defy Hell. There's no escape from this.”

Crowley sensed Aziraphale move steadily closer and slowly straightened until they were eye level. The desperation in Aziraphale’s gaze was devastating.

“I…I don’t want to be taken from you,” Aziraphale said with a tremor. “These past months…they’ve been the happiest I can remember. You’ve given me books and music and kindness. You’ve made me feel whole again, feel worthy…I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose you.”

“Angel—”

“I know what they'll do to me,” Aziraphale continued, tears beginning to track down his cheeks. “I know what they’re capable of, what any of them would do given the chance. At least with you…I know you care.”

The trust in his voice, the way he was looking at Crowley as if he were some kind of saviour rather than another demon about to hurt him, was unbearable.

“Promise me,” Aziraphale said urgently, reaching out as if to touch him before pulling back at the last second. “Promise you'll do what you must to keep me safe. Promise you won't let them take me back to that.”

Crowley stared at him, drinking in the fear in Aziraphale’s eyes, but also the complete, unwavering trust there. It was the most precious thing anyone had ever given him, and it was killing him.

He trusts me enough to ask me to hurt him rather than let someone else do it.

But he couldn’t.

“No,” Crowley said suddenly, backing away. “No, there is another way.”

“Crowley—”

He turned sharply back to the door, his jaw set. “I’m going to do what I should have done the day they brought you here.”

He wrenched open the outer door and cast one last look at Aziraphale standing in the sanctuary he'd built for him; wide-eyed, vulnerable, trusting.

“I'm going to Heaven,” Crowley said. “And I'm going to make them come and rescue you.”

Chapter Text

Crowley stormed through Hell's corridors, fury simmering beneath his skin. Beelzebub's ultimatum burned in his mind. Twenty-four hours to remedy this situation. Twenty-four hours to violate everything he'd spent months carefully building with Aziraphale, or watch him be handed to demons who would show no mercy.

It made him sick with rage.

But if Hell thought they could force Crowley’s hand, they clearly didn't know him very well.

First, he needed information if his plan was going to work. As a demon, he couldn't simply stroll into Heaven uninvited. Only angels could manage that, and he'd discorporated the only angel he knew apart from Aziraphale.

He needed a workaround.

By the time he reached Hell's administrative floor, he'd managed to subdue his expression into something resembling calm indifference. The hostility still bubbled beneath the surface, but he couldn't afford to let it show.

He located the door he wanted and let himself in without knocking.

The office was cramped and cluttered, home to a single demon hunched behind a desk that seemed too small for the towers of paperwork surrounding it. Furfur looked up and startled, his elbow catching a precarious stack beside him. He managed to steady it before disaster struck, though a couple of sheets escaped and fluttered to the floor.

Crowley scooped them up and handed them over, barely noticing how Furfur's fingers lingered during the exchange.

“Crowley,” Furfur sputtered, clearing his throat. “What brings you here?”

Furfur was peculiar, Crowley had always thought. The short, sickly demon often had a hard time maintaining eye contact with Crowley – but not because he feared him, Crowley was certain. Some sort of nervous condition, perhaps. It hardly mattered.

“I need information,” Crowley told him, leaning against the doorframe.

If there was one thing Furfur could be relied upon for, it was being in the know. Heaven or Hell, bureaucracy or gossip, Furfur had ears to the ground. And while they weren’t friends, exactly, Furfur had a certain weakness Crowley knew how to exploit. And the pencil-pushing demon was surprisingly eager to please when it came to Crowley's requests.

“Information,” Furfur said with a deep sigh, like it was a huge inconvenience, though he was already setting aside his current work to give Crowley his full attention. “What sort of information?”

“I need to know when there's next going to be an angel performing earthly duties,” Crowley said, pushing off from the doorframe to move closer. Furfur's bushy brows shot up as if Crowley's proximity had somehow short-circuited his brain.

“Isn’t it your job to know that? Keeping tabs on the opposition?”

“Sandalphon is…indisposed.”

Furfur paused, lifting a stack of forms to shield his face. Only his severe middle parting was visible over the top. “Ah, yes, that business. Impressive work, by the way,” he said with a slight drawl. “But he won't be back on Earth for some time.”

“I know. But Heaven won't let that disrupt operations. They'll send temporary replacements.” Crowley planted his hands on the desk, leaning forward. “I need to know when and where.”

Furfur lowered his papers, revealing flushed cheeks. “Planning another discorporation so soon? I highly doubt the boss has another angel to bestow upon you,” he added with a bitter edge.

Crowley didn't have time for whatever emotional undercurrent was at play here. “Never hurts to stay in their good books, does it?” He leaned closer, moving aside the forms Furfur was fussing with. Furfur seemed to freeze entirely. “There's a box of Thorntons in it for you…”

Furfur's gaze snapped to Crowley's face with sudden, laser focus. 

Few demons apart from Crowley were permitted topside, but Furfur had been, once. During a particularly long snooze Crowley undertook during the nineteenth century, Furfur was sent on a mission to collect overdue reports, as Hell had struggled to contact Crowley through conventional channels. Whilst waiting for Crowley to dig around his flat to find the reports – or rather, frantically write them up in the first place – Furfur had strolled passed a chocolate shop handing out free samples and became rather hooked on the stuff. 

Though given how quickly he always agreed to help, sometimes Crowley wondered if the chocolate was really the main incentive.

“Right then,” Furfur conceded, reaching into his desk drawer for a leather-bound notebook. He flicked through it briefly. “You're in luck. Wedding in Oxford this afternoon, St Nicholas' Church. Low-ranking angel called Muriel will be performing the blessing. Three o'clock sharp.”

“Perfect.” Crowley straightened. “Thanks, Furfur. You're a star.”

He turned to leave, missing entirely the way colour flooded Furfur's pale cheeks, or how the demon's fingers traced the exact spots where Crowley's hands had rested on his desk.

***

St Nicholas' Church was exactly the sort of quaint English parish church that made Crowley's skin itch; all grey stone and perfectly manicured grounds, ancient headstones dotting the grass like crooked teeth. The wedding had just concluded; church bells rang merrily, and the guests mingled outside as the bride and groom posed for photos on the worn stone steps. Mercifully for them, the English weather had held clear for once.

Crowley found the angel in the churchyard, standing beside a weathered headstone with eyes closed and head bowed in prayer. They – Crowley could simply infer that they were definitely a they – were small and unassuming, with dark, finger-waved hair and knee-high argyle socks that screamed eager junior employee.

Leaning against a gnarled tree behind them, Crowley cleared his throat.

The angel’s eyes snapped open: huge, dark, and blinking. They spun around, taking in Crowley’s appearance with mild alarm, their gaze lingering on the serpent tattoo beside his ear.

“Oh,” the angel said in a voice laced with obvious nerves. “You’re a demon.”

“Astute observation,” Crowley said dryly. “You must be Muriel.”

“I am.” Muriel managed a wary smile. “I don’t suppose you’re here to congratulate the happy couple?”

Despite himself, Crowley found himself smiling. “Afraid not. I need to talk to you.”

“Oh, dear,” Muriel murmured, taking a cautious step back. “I should probably say, I’m new to this whole Earth assignment thing. This is my first one, and I’d like it to go well so I don’t look like I don’t know what I’m doing. Even though I don’t, really.” They squared their shoulders. “So if you could possibly see your way to not discorporating me, I’d be very grateful.”

The earnest plea caught Crowley off guard. This angel was...sweet. Like Aziraphale. Perhaps he'd misjudged angels based solely on his unfortunate experiences with Sandalphon.

He tried not to dwell on the fact that he’d just thought of Aziraphale as sweet.

“I’m not here to discorporate you,” Crowley said. “I need your help.”

“Help?” Muriel’s eyebrows shot up. “With what?”

“I need to speak to your boss. Gabriel. You're going to take me upstairs to see him.”

Muriel stared for a moment, then let out a surprised bark of laughter. When Crowley didn't join in, their mouth snapped shut. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Deadly.”

“I can’t possibly…I mean, I couldn’t just…” Muriel stammered, hands flailing. “Demons don't pop up to Heaven for a chat! There are protocols! Forms to fill out! I'd get in so much trouble...”

“It’s about Aziraphale,” Crowley said firmly, watching Muriel’s face.

Muriel’s hands stilled mid-gesture, their brow furrowing. 

“Aziraphale…” they repeated softly. “I know that name. That angel...he went missing. Ages ago.”

“Not missing,” Crowley corrected grimly. “Captured. He’s in Hell right now. Has been for over a century.”

“But…” Muriel shook their head. “Angels can’t be sent to Hell. It’s against the rules.”

“Yeah, well, turns out your rules aren't as ironclad as advertised,” Crowley growled, pushing off the tree. Muriel flinched but held their ground, anxious rather than terrified, unlike Aziraphale in their early days together. 

Crowley pulled off his sunglasses so Muriel could see his eyes. “Look, I know you don't know me, and this is asking a lot. Your instincts are probably screaming not to trust me. But I need you to take me up there. I need to speak to Gabriel or whoever's running things and make them rescue Aziraphale.”

Muriel’s feet fidgeted in the grass. “I’ve only just been promoted to junior blessing coordinator. I don’t have authorisation to—”

“Tell them it’s urgent,” Crowley pressed. “Tell them it’s about a missing angel. Tell them whatever you need to tell them, but get me an audience.”

Muriel was quiet for a long moment, hands wringing together as they frowned. But Crowley could see them wavering, could see genuine concern creeping into their expression since he'd mentioned Aziraphale's name.

“I’ll take full responsibility,” Crowley assured them, his voice softening. “You can even tell them I threatened you, if it helps.”

Muriel studied his face intently, like they were trying to decipher a puzzle. “You really care about him, don't you? About Aziraphale.”

Heat rose to Crowley's cheeks, and he quickly replaced his sunglasses. “That's beside the point,” he grunted.

“No, it isn't,” Muriel said quietly. They took a deep breath and straightened. “Alright. I'll do it. Though I’ll warn you, I've never taken a demon to Heaven before, so I have no idea what will happen.”

“I'll manage,” Crowley said. “Lead the way.”

“One more thing,” Muriel said, looking almost shy. “When we get there...try not to burst into flames or anything dramatic, please? I'd rather not explain to the Supreme Archangel why there's a smouldering crater where a demon used to be.”

Crowley almost grinned. “I'll do my best not to spontaneously combust. Can't make any promises about the dramatic bit, though.”

***

The lift to Heaven was blindingly white, gleaming, and playing soft celestial music that set Crowley’s teeth on edge. Beside him, Muriel fidgeted, keeping their head bowed as if expecting divine retribution at any moment. Crowley tried to project nonchalance, one hip cocked and hands buried in his pockets, but there was a niggling worry that his presence might trigger an alarm, bringing a swarm of angels to douse him with Holy water. 

But he'd do this. He’d do this for Aziraphale.

The doors whispered open to reveal even more dazzling white. An endless corridor stretched before them, and the distant plucking of harp strings struck Crowley like tiny knives. The oppressive holiness made every hair on the back of Crowley’s neck stand on end.

Muriel set off immediately, occasionally glancing back to ensure Crowley was following as they hurried down the pristine, sterile hallway. Angels in immaculate white suits occasionally swept past, casting startled looks at Crowley before their gazes darted to Muriel. One or two looked ready to ask questions, but Muriel barrelled on, whisking Crowley away before anyone could gather their wits.

They navigated a labyrinth of identical corridors until they reached towering golden doors marked with the Supreme Archangel's insignia. Two imposing angels flanked the entrance, their eyes tracking Crowley's every movement as they came to a stop in front of them.

“Um,” Muriel cleared their throat. “This demon needs to see the Supreme Archangel. It's terribly urgent…”

The guards exchanged glances, clearly stunned. The taller one stepped forward, his expression dubious.

“Wait here,” he commanded, before disappearing through a smaller side door.

Crowley could hear muffled voices, urgent, questioning tones that he couldn't make out. Muriel shifted nervously beside him, wringing their hands together.

After what felt like an eternity, the guard returned, looking thoroughly perplexed but resigned.

“The Supreme Archangel will see you,” he announced. “But any trouble, demon, and you'll find yourself back in Hell faster than you can blink.”

Crowley shot Muriel a grateful look as the golden doors swung open. The angel offered a shaky thumbs-up before the entrance sealed behind him.

Gabriel’s office was a shrine to celestial bureaucracy. Endless filing cabinets lined the walls, whilst multiple desks groaned under the weight of immaculate paperwork stacks. There was no harp music in here, just an oppressive silence. And at the centre of it all, Gabriel himself, looking every inch the insufferable prick Crowley remembered from the angel’s brief appearances on Earth. 

The Supreme Archangel leant against one of the desks, pen in hand, as he reviewed a document. His grey suit was immaculate, every strand of hair precisely placed with the kind of holier-than-thou perfection that made Crowley want to smack him in his chiselled face.

“Well, well,” Gabriel said without glancing up. “Crowley. How…delightfully unexpected.”

“Thanks for agreeing to see me,” Crowley said tightly.

“Oh, I didn’t agree to anything,” Gabriel replied, finally deigning to look up with those unsettling violet eyes. “But when Hell’s Earth representative shows up demanding an audience shortly after discorporating one of our agents…well, curiosity gets the better of me.”

“That was an accident.”

“Was it?” Gabriel arched a perfectly sculpted brow. “How wonderfully convenient. Though it has given other angels valuable field experience in Sandalphon's absence.” He smirked. “Perhaps we should thank you.”

He returned to his paperwork as if Crowley were merely an annoying fly he’d brushed away.

“Look, I’m not here about bloody Sandalphon,” Crowley snapped. “An angel is being held prisoner in Hell. Has been for over a century. His name is Aziraphale.”

Gabriel's pen stopped moving. For a moment, something unreadable flickered across his perfect features before his expression smoothed back into superior amusement.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel repeated slowly, setting down his pen on the desk behind him. “Now that's a name I haven't heard in quite some time.”

“So you know him,” Crowley said, relief flooding through him. “Then you'll understand you need to come get him.”

Gabriel paused, then casually plucked up another document, his eyes roving over it in a maddeningly casual way. “I'm afraid that's not going to happen.”

“What?” Crowley stared at him. “What do you mean it's not going to happen?”

“Exactly what I said,” Gabriel drawled. “Heaven will not be mounting any rescue operation for Aziraphale.”

“But he's one of Heaven's angels,” Crowley said incredulously. “He's been trapped in Hell for over a century. You can't just—”

“Can't I?” Gabriel's violet gaze snapped up. ”Aziraphale embarked on an unauthorised mission to Hell against direct orders. He forfeited Heaven's protection the moment he set foot in enemy territory.”

“So you're just going to abandon him? Leave him to rot down there?”

Gabriel shrugged. “He made his choice.”

Rage erupted in Crowley's chest, white-hot and consuming. “He's been tortured,” he snarled, taking a step forward. “Do you understand that? They've been using him, hurting him, for decades.”

“And that's unfortunate,” Gabriel said calmly. “But it doesn't change facts. Aziraphale violated protocol. He knew the risks.”

“Unfortunate?” Crowley's voice was dangerously quiet. “That's all you have to say? Unfortunate?”

“What would you have me say?” Gabriel asked, looking genuinely puzzled. “That I'm sorry? That I wish things were different? Sentiment won't change policy, Crowley.”

“Your policy is a load of shit.”

Gabriel's eyes flashed with irritation. “Our policy maintains order. It preserves the delicate balance between Heaven and Hell. We can't go charging into enemy territory every time an angel makes a poor decision.”

“But he’s one of you,” Crowley said desperately. “Doesn't that mean anything?”

“Of course it does. But rules exist for a reason. We can't simply ignore them because the outcome is…unpleasant.” He made to lift his document again, then paused, giving Crowley a searching look. “Though I confess myself curious how you've become so familiar with Aziraphale’s plight.”

“They gave him to me,” Crowley said, the words tasting like ash. “As a reward. For discorporating Sandalphon.”

Gabriel's eyebrows rose with sudden interest. “Gave him to you? How fascinating.” He set down his paperwork entirely now, giving Crowley his undivided attention. “So you're not just some concerned bystander. You're his owner.”

Crowley bristled with indignation. “I'm not his—”

“Oh, but you are, aren't you?" Gabriel's lips twisted into a grin. “Hell gifted you a broken angel as a reward for good behaviour. How perfectly diabolical of them.” He pushed off from the desk, beginning to circle Crowley like a shark scenting blood. “So, what exactly have you been doing with your prize? Surely not showing kindness, that would be rather against your nature, wouldn't it?”

Crowley's jaw clenched. “That's none of your business.”

“But it is,” Gabriel said, his voice taking on a mocking lilt. “After all, here you are, a demon requesting an audience with the Supreme Archangel to beg for his captive angel's freedom.”

“I'm not begging.”

Gabriel completed his circle, coming to a stop directly in front of Crowley. “Tell me, Crowley, why are you now so keen to be rid of him? Has Aziraphale not been…performing to expectations?”

Crowley gritted his teeth. “Shut up.”

For a long moment, Gabriel's gaze tracked the tension lines in Crowley's face, reading something that was written there. Then those eyes widened with something like understanding.

“Oh, I see what’s happened here,” he said with a ghost of a smirk. “You want to help Aziraphale because you’ve grown fond of him, haven’t you? Developed some sort of attachment.”

Heat flooded Crowley's cheeks despite his best efforts. “I said shut up," he bit out.

“That's it, isn't it?” Gabriel actually laughed, the sound a cold stab to the chest. “How perfectly pathetic. You’ve caught feelings for your angel.” 

Gabriel strolled back to his desk with obvious satisfaction. “Does Hell know about your emotional investment? I imagine Lord Beelzebub would find this development quite amusing. A demon pleading for an angel's freedom because he's gone soft over his toy. It's almost romantic, in a thoroughly disgusting sort of way.”

Crowley's hands clenched into fists, his heart starting to race. “You don't know what you're talking about.”

“Don't I?” Gabriel tilted his head to one side, his expression shifting to mock sympathy. “Oh, Crowley. This is rich. Absolutely rich. No wonder you're so desperate. You've actually gone and fallen for him.”

“I haven't—”

“Please. It's written all over your face,” Gabriel muttered. He shook his head with a pitying look. “Have you been enjoying yourself? Have you and Aziraphale been playing house down in Hell? Been tucking him in at night? Reading him bedtime stories?”

Crowley felt exposed, raw, like Gabriel had reached into his chest and torn something vital out into the light. Exposing every tender moment he'd shared with Aziraphale and making them sound sordid, pathetic.

“Look,” Crowley bit out, startled by how unsteady his voice was, “you need to come and get him. He doesn’t belong down there. It’s the right thing to do.”

“And you would know all about the right thing, would you? Being a demon and all?” Gabriel's smile was poisonous. “Here's some free advice, Crowley. Demons aren't built for love. You're fighting your very nature, and it will destroy you. Cut your losses. Find a nice bit of evil to focus on instead.”

“Go to hell,” Crowley spat.

“No, thank you. Dreadful décor.” Gabriel pressed something on his desk. “Though speaking of dreadful places, I think it's time you returned to yours.”

The golden doors swung open, and the two guards stepped inside.

“Escort our guest back to the elevator," Gabriel instructed pleasantly. “We’re done here.”

The guards moved towards Crowley, who stood frozen as the full weight of his failure crashed over him. No rescue. No hope. Just Gabriel's smug superiority and his own pathetic, exposed feelings.

“Oh, and Crowley?” Gabriel called out as the guards seized him roughly by the arms. “Do give my regards to Aziraphale when you see him, won’t you? Tell him Heaven sends its...thoughts and prayers.”

The dismissive drawl sent fresh rage coursing through Crowley's system. His arm jerked violently in the guard's grip, every nerve firing to wipe that smirk off Gabriel's pompous face.

“Bastard,” Crowley snarled as he was dragged away.

“Such language,” Gabriel tutted. “And in Heaven, no less.”

The last thing Crowley saw before the doors sealed closed was Gabriel's satisfied smirk as he returned to his paperwork, as if the entire conversation had been nothing more than a mildly amusing distraction.

Chapter Text

The journey back to Hell felt endless. Crowley shambled through central London after being unceremoniously ejected from the lift, rage and despair warring inside him. He didn't know how to face Aziraphale. How to look into those trusting blue eyes and admit he'd failed.

Had he expected this outcome? No. He'd envisioned Heaven mobilising. If not out of moral obligation, then at least from embarrassment that a demon was showing more compassion than they were. He imagined a handful of senior-ranking angels descending to the depths of Hell to demand Aziraphale’s safe return.

He hadn’t anticipated such repugnant indifference to an angel’s suffering.

The fact that Gabriel hadn't even hesitated before rejecting any notion of saving Aziraphale made Crowley physically ill. The fury was eating him alive, like he was liable to combust if anything came too close.

He didn't want to deliver this crushing news, but he'd already been away too long. He wouldn't put it past Hell to revoke their twenty-four-hour grace period and come for Aziraphale early.

That thought sent Crowley’s heart racing with panic, and he quickened his pace. He had just enough presence of mind to dip into a supermarket and collect the promised chocolates for Furfur, depositing them on the demon's empty desk back in Hell. At least he could keep one promise today.

When he finally pushed through the protective wards to his quarters, his hands were shaking. Gabriel's mocking laughter rang in his ears. That, and his smug certainty that Crowley had “caught feelings” and compromised himself.

The main room was empty when he entered, and for one terrifying moment, Crowley's heart stuttered to a halt.

“Angel?” he called, his voice cracking. “Aziraphale!”

Movement from the bedroom made him nearly double over with relief as Aziraphale appeared in the doorway. He was back in his robe, his hair slightly mussed

“Crowley? Is everything okay?” Concern creased Aziraphale’s face as he took in Crowley’s obvious distress.

Crowley released a breath, sagging against the doorway. “Sorry. I thought…I thought maybe they’d already come for you.”

“No, I was just resting,” Aziraphale said with a weak smile. He studied Crowley's face for a long moment, seeming to steel himself for bad news. “You managed to get into Heaven.”

“I did,” Crowley confirmed, though Aziraphale had not phrased it as a question.

“And?”

Crowley's throat felt tight. “Gabriel refused, point-blank. They won't help. I’m sorry, Aziraphale; they're not coming for you.”

Aziraphale was quiet for a long moment, his gaze dropping to the floor. When he looked up again, there was a resignation in his eyes that broke Crowley's heart.

“I see,” he said softly. “I can't say I'm entirely surprised.”

“You're not?”

“Heaven abandoned me long ago, Crowley. The fact that they won't rescue me now...it's consistent, at least.” Aziraphale's smile was small and bitter. “What exactly did Gabriel say?”

“That you acted without authorisation. That you forfeited Heaven's protection when you came down here.” Crowley moved to the armchair, gripping its back as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. “He said that it was your choice to come down here, and you have to live with the consequences.”

“He's not wrong about that,” Aziraphale said quietly.

“But he is wrong about leaving you here. About abandoning you to…” The words stuck in Crowley’s throat.

They stood in uncomfortable silence, both aware of the deadline hanging over them like the sharp blade of a guillotine: eighteen hours, maybe less. 

“So,” Aziraphale said finally, “what happens now?”

Crowley closed his eyes. “I don't know.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Angel—”

“We both know what has to happen.” Aziraphale's voice wavered despite his obvious efforts to stay calm. “There's no point in pretending otherwise.”

Crowley shook his head violently. “There has to be another way.”

“What way? Heaven has made it very clear I’m not their problem. Hell has given you an order…there are no other options.”

Crowley opened his eyes to find Aziraphale watching him from the bedroom doorway, gaze searching his face with a mixture of fear and resolve. He was trying to be brave, to make this easier, but Crowley could see the fear bleeding through the cracks.

“I can’t,” Crowley whispered. “I can’t do that to you.”

“And I can’t go back to them.” Aziraphale's voice broke slightly. “I won’t survive it again, Crowley. I barely survived it the first time.”

“There has to be something—”

“What?” Aziraphale moved closer, close enough that Crowley could see the unshed tears in his eyes. “What miraculous intervention are you hoping for? This is our reality. Either you…” He swallowed hard, unable to voice it. “...or they take me back to Hastur and the others.” 

“I could get you out of here,” Crowley asserted suddenly. “Hide you. Alpha Centauri.”

“The collar would destroy me the moment I step outside of Hell’s boundaries,” Aziraphale said weakly, stepping closer. The movement brought him within arm's reach, and Crowley could see the way he was holding himself together through sheer force of will. “This has to happen, Crowley. And I'd rather...I'd much rather it be you.”

Crowley's hands clenched tighter against the chair back. “Don’t ask me to do this,” he said. “Don’t ask me to hurt you.”

“I’m not asking you to hurt me,” Aziraphale whispered. “I’m asking you to save me, Crowley. The only way you can.”

Aziraphale took another step closer, until only the width of the armchair separated them. With infinite care, he reached out and rested his hand just beside Crowley's white-knuckled grip on the upholstery.

“I know it’s not an ideal situation,” he murmured, and there was something almost apologetic in his tone. “I know I…I’m not what you’d choose.”

Crowley looked up sharply, startled. Without thinking, he covered Aziraphale’s hand with his own.

“Angel, you have no idea what I’d choose,” he said fiercely, then caught himself with a strangled sound. But when he tried to pull away, Aziraphale's fingers threaded through his and held him there.

“But you’re a prisoner,” Crowley murmured, dropping his gaze to their joined hands. “You don’t have a real choice.”

“Perhaps not,” Aziraphale acknowledged. “But I'm choosing the best option available to me. And that option is you, Crowley.”

Crowley felt something break him. Aziraphale was right, and they both knew it. Heaven wasn’t coming to intervene. Hell had given them an ultimatum. There were no other options, no miraculous rescues, no last-minute divine interventions.

“I hate this,” Crowley said finally.

“So do I.”

“I hate that they've put us in this position, that I have to…” 

“I know,” Aziraphale said softly. “But it's not your fault. None of this is your fault.”

Crowley looked at him. Beautiful, brave Aziraphale, standing there trying to comfort him even as he faced his own nightmare. The angel who'd been tortured for over a century and was still capable of kindness. Who trusted Crowley enough to choose him, even for this.

“If I do this,” Crowley said slowly, “it changes everything. It makes me like them.”

“No,” Aziraphale said firmly. “It makes you someone who's trying to protect me, the only way you can. They would do it to hurt me. You would do it to save me. It’s not the same.”

Crowley wanted to argue, wanted to insist that violation was violation regardless of intent. But looking at Aziraphale's face, seeing the absolute trust there despite everything he'd endured, the words died in his throat.

Because it wasn’t about Crowley’s morals anymore; it wasn’t about proving how different he was from other demons. This was about Azirpahale. About how Crowley would do anything, sacrifice anything, to keep him safe.

When had Aziraphale become so precious to him? When had protecting him become more important than protecting himself?

“Crowley?” Aziraphale said gently. “What are you thinking about?”

You, Crowley thought. About how Gabriel was right, I have caught feelings. And I don't know what to do about it.

“Nothing important,” he lied, then looked into those soft blue eyes and felt his resolve crumble completely. “Okay,” he said quietly. “I'll do it.”

The relief that washed over Aziraphale was so profound it was almost painful.

“Thank you,” he breathed.

“Please,” Crowley said, gently extracting his hand from beneath Aziraphale's trembling fingers. “Please don't thank me for this.”

They stood in the harsh silence, neither quite able to look at the other. The choice they’d made surrounded them like a shroud, suffocating and inescapable.

Finally, Crowley cleared his throat, trying to shake off the crushing despair. “I'm going to head back to Earth for a bit,” he said, already moving towards the door. “Need to...I don't know, prepare myself. Get my head sorted before I come back and we…” He gestured helplessly. “I'll be back soon. Before the deadline.”

Aziraphale nodded, but spoke again before Crowley reached the door. “I never asked, how did you actually manage to get into Heaven? I can’t imagine they welcomed you at the door with open arms.”

“They didn't,” Crowley said, turning back. “I needed an angel to take me up there. Had to get information from someone in Hell's admin department first – Furfur. He keeps track of when angels are sent on jobs to Earth.”

“And he just told you?” Aziraphale asked, sounding surprised.

“Had to bribe him,” Crowley explained. “Gave him a box of chocolates; he's got a weakness for the stuff. One promise of chocolate and he'll spill everything he knows.”

The moment the words left his mouth, Crowley noticed something shift in Aziraphale's face. The angel went very still; his eyes widening almost imperceptibly. But Crowley caught it.

“You gave him chocolates,” Aziraphale repeated slowly, and there was something odd in his tone.

“Yeah, he's obsessed with them,” Crowley continued, suddenly compelled to keep talking and hopefully draw Aziraphale away from whatever seemed to be troubling him. “Been that way ever since he had a brief stint on Earth decades ago. Ridiculous really, but it worked in our favour.”

Aziraphale was quiet for a long moment, his gaze dropping to his hands. “I didn't realise you were...close to anyone down here,” he said softly.

“We're not close,” Crowley said, frowning. “I barely know him. It's just business.”

“Business,” Aziraphale murmured. “Of course.”

Crowley’s frown deepened. He studied Aziraphale’s face – how his jaw had tightened, how his brows drew together. “Angel, is something wrong?”

“Wrong? No, nothing’s wrong,” Aziraphale said, but he wouldn’t meet Crowley’s eyes. “I just…I suppose I thought…”

He trailed off, worrying his lower lip between his teeth.

“Thought what?” Crowley prompted gently.

“It's probably silly…” Aziraphale continued quietly. “But, when you give someone chocolates as a gift, what does that typically signify? In terms of…intent?”

Crowley blinked, completely thrown by the question. “Intent? I don't know, depends on the context, I suppose. Why?”

Aziraphale fidgeted with the front of his robe, balling a section up into a fist, clearly struggling with something. “I've been reading those novels you accidentally brought here, the romance ones,” he muttered.

“Yeah?”

“And I've noticed certain...patterns in them. Conventions, I suppose you'd call them.” Aziraphale's cheeks began to flush pink. “There seem to be particular gestures that carry specific meanings.”

Crowley had no idea where this was going, but he could see how much effort it was taking Aziraphale to voice whatever was troubling him. “What sort of gestures?”

“Well, for instance, the giving of flowers seems to denote romantic interest. As does the presentation of jewellery, or the sharing of certain meals.”

“Right,” Crowley said slowly, still not understanding why this was relevant.

Aziraphale took a shaky breath. “And chocolates,” he said, finally looking up to meet Crowley's eyes. “Chocolates appear to be a particularly significant token of...of courtship. Of romantic affection.”

Comprehension smacked Crowley in the face with the weight of a sledgehammer. “Angel, no,” he blurted out. “Fuck, no, it's nothing like that with Furfur! There's nothing romantic about it whatsoever. It's purely transactional; he wants chocolate, I need information, so I get him chocolate. That's all there is to it.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale's voice was very small, and he looked away again. “Transactional. I see.”

“Exactly. I mean, bloody hell, angel – Furfur? The idea of anything like that...no. Just no. Never in a million years.”

Aziraphale nodded, and some of the tension seemed to leave his shoulders, but he still looked oddly distant, as if he were pulling back into himself. 

“Of course,” he said quietly. “That makes perfect sense. I don't know why I thought...well, it doesn't matter.”

But Crowley could see that it did matter, somehow. There was still something hurt and withdrawn in Aziraphale's manner that he didn't understand.

“Are you sure you're alright?” he pressed.

“I'm fine,” Aziraphale said, but his smile looked forced. “I think I'm going to have a lie-down, actually. All this stress has left me rather tired.”

“Right, good idea.” Crowley hesitated, still feeling like he was missing something crucial. “I'll see you in a few hours then.”

“Yes. Take care, Crowley.”

Aziraphale retreated into the bedroom, closing the door softly behind him. Crowley stood there for a moment, frowning at the closed door.

Had Aziraphale really thought Crowley had some sort of romantic involvement with Furfur? The very idea made Crowley shudder involuntarily. But why should Aziraphale care even if that had been the case?

He was just about to leave when his gaze fell on the table, and specifically on the mostly-empty box sitting there – the chocolates he'd brought Aziraphale just days ago. The ones Aziraphale had reacted so strangely to receiving, going all flustered and pink-cheeked and, frankly, adorable.

The chocolates that, according to the novels Aziraphale had been reading, were tokens of romantic affection.

“Oh, fuck,” Crowley breathed, everything suddenly clicking into horrible, wonderful clarity. “You absolute bloody idiot.”

Aziraphale hadn't been upset about Furfur. He'd been upset about the chocolates, about what he thought they meant coming from Crowley, and what it might mean that Crowley apparently gave them to others as well.

Aziraphale had thought the chocolates were a romantic gesture. He’d thought Crowley had been...what? Courting him? (And why did that thought send tingles down his spine rather than horrify him?)

Crowley stared at the chocolates, his heart hammering against his ribs. Why had he chosen those specifically? Why had he spent twenty bloody minutes in that shop agonising over percentages of cocoa and where the beans had been sourced, even going as far as to ask a shop assistant for recommendations? He'd told himself it was just being thoughtful, just wanting to bring something nice. But why had he cared so much about getting them perfect? Why had his chest gone warm when Aziraphale's face lit up at the sight of them? Why had he felt that quiet satisfaction watching the angel taste them? 

His feet were already moving towards the bedroom when he stopped himself, running both hands through his hair. What would he say? That he didn't know why he'd done it? That he'd spent all that time choosing them without understanding his own motivations? That maybe, possibly, unconsciously, they had been meant as something more than just a friendly gesture?

Because looking back now, it certainly seemed like...well, like exactly what Aziraphale thought it was. Like something out of those ridiculous romance novels.

“Shit,” he muttered, pacing back towards the sofa. “Shit, shit, shit.”

But what did that even mean? What if he went in there and tried to explain something he didn't fully understand himself? Aziraphale was stuck in Hell with no way out, vulnerable and dependent on Crowley for protection. What if trying to untangle this mess just made Aziraphale more uncomfortable? What if the angel’s blushes and soft smiles were just gratitude and nothing else? Relief at finally being treated with kindness after decades of cruelty? 

Crowley couldn't bear the thought of making Aziraphale feel uncomfortable in the one place that was supposed to be safe for him.

They had something good here: friendship, trust, companionship in this godforsaken place. He couldn’t risk ruining that. The angel was already upset, already pulling away. If Crowley went charging in there with declarations and explanations, he might make it worse. 

He'd stick to his original plan: go to Earth for a few hours, get his head sorted, give them both some space to breathe.

He paused at the outer door, looking back at the closed bedroom one more time. Part of him was still desperate to knock. Desperate to see Aziraphale's face when he explained that those chocolates had been special, chosen with care, chosen just for him.

But a bigger part of him told him to walk away, to protect what they had.

Crowley stepped out into Hell's corridors, telling himself he was doing the right thing. That sometimes the kindest thing was to leave well enough alone.

Even if it felt cowardly.

Chapter Text

Crowley found himself wandering through Hyde Park, hands shoved deep in his pockets. His mind kept circling back to that bloody box of chocolates, the way Aziraphale had looked at him when he'd mentioned giving one to Furfur, like he’d been wounded. Betrayed.

But he had to push that aside. There were more pressing concerns now.

Despite his long existence, Crowley’s experience with sex was…limited. Non-existent, really. Of course, in six thousand years, it would be absurd to assume that he’d never tested out his equipment – and he had, rather extensively. But always alone. He'd discovered that particular earthly pleasure long ago, and with great enthusiasm. But actual sex? With someone else? That was entirely different territory.

He'd kissed a few humans before, or rather, they’d kissed him. The overly enthusiastic sort in nightclubs who'd had too much to drink and mistaken Crowley’s aloofness for sexual magnetism. He'd never initiated any of it, had always pulled away before things went further.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like the idea of physical intimacy; the opportunity had just never presented itself. Demons often fucked other demons, but that thought made Crowley’s stomach try to cough itself up. Besides, he never spent time around other demons regardless. And the only being he had existed around for forever was Sandalphon, which...hard pass.

As for humans, Crowley wouldn’t entertain the thought. The power imbalance alone made it distasteful, never mind the inevitable complications.

Brilliant preparation for this situation, he thought bitterly.

His first encounter with sex had been in ancient Greece, stumbling across a symposium that had devolved into an orgy. He'd watched from the doorway, utterly mystified by all the grappling and moaning. He'd left to find actual entertainment at the theatre instead.

Throughout the centuries, he'd occasionally blundered into similar scenes: Roman citizens getting too friendly in the baths, medieval courtiers carrying on behind tapestries, Renaissance painters taking artistic licence with their models. It never really bothered him; humans did all sorts of weird stuff. This was another item on the list, like their obsession with hats or their compulsion to keep inventing new dances.

The closest he'd come to it in recent years was the 1970s, when he'd had a hand in the burgeoning porn industry. Not out of personal interest, but because corrupting human sexuality had seemed like efficient tempting at the time. That, and he reckoned he’d rather rocked the pornstache look.

The memory inspired him to stop by his flat and unearth an old laptop from his desk, thinking he ought to refresh himself on how the whole thing actually worked.

That had been a catastrophic mistake.

Whatever had been happening in the 70s bore no resemblance to what he found online now. Modern material was brutal, all aggression and dominance masquerading as passion. There was a lot of choking and slapping, the performers looking as though they were committing acts of violence rather than enjoying themselves. The emphasis on pain and humiliation made Crowley's skin crawl.

He'd slammed the laptop shut after barely five minutes. The absolute last thing Aziraphale needed was Crowley approaching him with techniques borrowed from...that. Not when it was likely reminiscent of what he'd already endured.

Crowley ran his hands down his face and let out a low groan. The idea of it, having sex with Aziraphale, the angel who trusted him, who looked at him with such faith and hope. The angel who was beautiful and gentle and deserved so much better than having a fumbling, inexperienced demon pawing at him out of necessity.

It was unbearable.

What if I hurt him? The thought made his stomach clench. What if I make it worse somehow?

Knowing something intellectually and actually doing it – especially under these circumstances, with someone who'd been so brutally violated – felt impossible.

He needed to talk this over with someone. Someone who could help. There were precious few humans currently alive with whom he had any sort of camaraderie.

But there was one.

With a tight sigh, Crowley left his flat and hurriedly made his way to Soho

***

Give Me Coffee Or Give Me Death was the only coffee shop in the whole of London willing to dump six espresso shots into one cup, no questions asked. Other shops advised against it on health and safety grounds, trying to compromise with a maximum of four shots, annoying Crowley to no end. He wouldn’t say he was friends with Nina, the shop’s owner, exactly, but they had an understanding.

Nina was not the most successful businessperson, unfortunately. Too snippy and easily irritated by customers. So to compensate, Crowley may or may not have exaggerated the ill effects of coffee in humans when filing reports downstairs, passing off his tempting of patrons into the shop as simply fulfilling his job requirements.

The fact that they nearly always left generous tips was purely coincidental.

It was also where he'd bought Aziraphale his latte, cappuccino, and first cup of tea to try. Nina hadn't questioned why Crowley's drink order had changed so radically or why he'd needed so many at once. Another thing he liked about her – she didn't pry. But Crowley could sense Nina had always been somewhat curious about him. Curious enough that she'd once asked if he was married, something he'd never heard her ask any of her other regulars. He'd laughed at the question, likely cementing in Nina's mind that he was some sad, lonely bachelor.

The bell chimed as Crowley entered the shop, and Nina looked up from where she was wiping down the espresso machine, an apron tied around her middle, braids held back with a hair claw. The afternoon rush had died down, leaving the place empty save for a woman in the corner with a laptop.

“Crowley,” Nina said, not bothering with pleasantries. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Been busy,” Crowley said vaguely. He’d not set foot in here since taking those drinks down to Hell for Aziraphale a month ago. “But, uh, I take it you’re not? Right now, I mean.”

Nina slowly raised an eyebrow. In all the years he’d been coming here, he’d never wanted to chat. He ordered his coffee, made some sarcastic comment about the weather or his boss, then left.

“I’ve got time,” Nina said, setting her cloth aside. “What’s up?”

“Need to talk to someone. And you’re…direct. I like that about you.”

“Right.” Nina folded her arms, trying to look unaffected, but Crowley could tell she was at least slightly pleased. “What’s going on?”

Crowley glanced around the near-empty shop, then back at her. “There’s someone. A person I…care about. And we’re in a situation where we might…where things might become…” He made a helpless, rather rude gesture with his hands.

“Physical?” Nina supplied, eyebrows climbing towards her hairline.

“Yeah.” Heat crept up Crowley’s neck. “And I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

Nina stared at him for a long moment, her forehead creasing. “You don’t…hang on, aren’t you, like, fifty? What d’you mean you don’t know what you’re doing?”

Crowley cleared his throat. “It’s complicated.”

“It’s really not. You put your—”

“No, I understand the mechanics,” Crowley rushed to say, waving his hands frantically. “It’s just…this person has been hurt before. Badly. And I need to make sure I don’t mess this up.”

Something in Nina’s expression softened. “Ah. Right, I see. That’s different, then.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She moved to the coffee machine and began making his usual without asking. “Someone who’s been hurt like that needs patience. Trust. You can’t dive in expecting everything to work the same way.”

“Right. Patience.” Crowley nodded like he was taking notes. “Makes sense. What else?”

“Talk to them. Constantly. Ask what they want, what they don’t want. Don’t assume anything just because it worked for someone else or you saw it in some dirty film.”

Crowley tried not to think about the violent displays he’d seen on his laptop earlier. “And if they don’t know what they want?”

Nina pulled the portafilter free from the machine and paused, considering. “Then…you go slow. Really slow. Checking in throughout. Let them figure it out as you go.” She gave him a long look. “This person…they mean something to you?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said quietly. “They do.”

“Then you'll figure it out. The fact that you're here wanting to do right by them, you're already doing better than most blokes.” She finished up his drink and slid it across the counter. “Just…be gentle, you know? Be present. And for fuck’s sake, don’t try to be some sort of pornstar on your first time with them.”

“No worries there, trust me.” He took the drink, letting the warmth seep through the paper cup into his fingers. “Thanks, Nina. I…this helps.”

“Don’t mention it.” She went back to cleaning the machine, pointedly ignoring when Crowley dropped a rather large note in the tip jar. “By the way,” she said, stopping Crowley in his tracks as he made to leave, “this person sounds lucky to have someone who cares enough to ask for advice. So…I reckon you’ll be fine.”

Crowley managed a smile. “Thanks.”

He left, the bell jingling behind him. He found a park bench nearby and sat, his mind still racing. Nina had reassured him somewhat, but he'd be lying if he said he felt completely prepared for this. He remained still for so long that his coffee went cold, and a duck waddled over and began napping on his shoe.

You have to do this, he told himself firmly. Aziraphale is counting on you. He'd rather have you, completely out of your depth, than face Hastur and the others again. Don't make this worse for him.

The thought of Hastur's hands on Aziraphale, of what that sadistic bastard would do given free rein, made Crowley's vision go red at the edges. Whatever his inadequacies, however nervous he was, he would be gentle. He would be careful. He would make sure Aziraphale felt as safe as possible under the circumstances.

But as he sat there, watching humans go about their ordinary lives, Crowley couldn't shake the feeling that he was about to destroy the best thing that had ever happened to him.

And the worst part was, he had no choice but to do it anyway.

***

Crowley returned to Hell with plenty of time before the deadline, but the walk down to his quarters felt like approaching his own execution. The protective wards parted silently, and he stepped into the cosy sanctuary he had worked so hard to build, to make Aziraphale feel safe and cared for.

Now I’m about to do something that will make sure he never feels safe around me again, Crowley thought mournfully.

The main room was dimly lit with the warm glow of the standing lamp Aziraphale preferred for reading. The angel was curled on the sofa with a book, Persuasion , Crowley noted automatically, but he looked up when the door opened.

“You're back,” Aziraphale said softly, setting the book aside.

“Yeah.” Crowley hovered near the door, suddenly uncertain. “Thought you’d be asleep.”

Aziraphale gave him a small, anxious smile. “I tried, but I couldn’t drift off.”

The misunderstanding from earlier hung between them like thick smoke, cloying at their throats. But Crowley knew they had to push past it, at least for now. They needed to get this over with.

He moved further into the room, hands fidgeting at his sides. “How are you feeling?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth as if a casual response was about to come, then gave a small shrug. “Terrified,” he admitted softly. “But…ready, I suppose. As ready as one can be.”

Crowley nodded, then forced himself to settle into his usual armchair and remove his sunglasses. The distance felt both too much and not nearly enough.

“We should…talk through the practicalities,” Crowley said, his voice coming out gruffer than intended. “Make sure you’re comfortable with how we do this.”

“Yes, I suppose we should.”

They sat in awkward silence for a moment, neither quite sure how to start. Crowley studied Aziraphale’s face and decided to voice what had been buzzing in his mind since his wanderings on Earth.

“I could…” Crowley started, then stopped, running a hand through his hair. “I could change your physical form, your corporation, if you'd prefer. Give you different...uh, equipment, so to speak. It might be easier that way. More comfortable for you.”

“No,” Aziraphale said immediately. “Please don't. I'd rather you didn't alter me physically. That would feel rather...invasive.”

The word “invasive” sent a knife plunging through Crowley’s chest. His eyes widened with sudden panic.

“Fuck, was it invasive when I healed you?” he asked urgently, half-rising from his chair. “That first day, when I healed your injuries, was that invasive? Did I—”

“No!” Aziraphale said quickly, reaching out as though to calm him. “No, Crowley, not at all. I'm so glad you did that. It was...it was the first kindness anyone had shown me in over a century. Please don't think—”

“But I changed your body then,” Crowley pressed, guilt spiralling. “I altered your physical form without really asking permission first.”

“That was healing,” Aziraphale said firmly. “That was taking away pain. This would be...changing who I am, fundamentally. Do you understand the difference?”

Crowley sank back into the chair, relief washing over him. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I do.”

Fresh anxiety churned in his stomach. He understood the mechanics of what they'd have to do now, the preparation that would be required, the patience it would demand. “In that case...I'll need to take time to...to make sure you're ready.”

Aziraphale flushed. “I understand.”

Another silence fell. Aziraphale plucked at the front of his robe, drawing his knees up to his chest in a protective gesture. 

“Where?” he asked finally. “I mean...where should we...?”

Crowley glanced towards the bedroom, then shook his head firmly. “Not in there. That's your space. I won't...I don't want to taint that for you.”

“...here, then?” Aziraphale asked softly, indicating the sofa beneath him.

“If that's alright with you,” Crowley said. “I can make it more comfortable, add cushions, whatever you need.”

“That would be nice,” Aziraphale said, and there was something in his voice that suggested he was touched by Crowley's consideration, even now.

Crowley nodded, then looked at his hands, flexing them uselessly. “Angel, I need you to know…” He winced. “I've never actually done this before. I know the theory, but the practice...I might not be very good at it.”

“That's alright,” Aziraphale said softly. “I trust you to be gentle. That's all I need.”

The simple faith in those words made Crowley's chest ache. "I'll do everything I can to make it as easy as possible for you. I promise."

"I know you will," Aziraphale said, and despite everything, he managed a small, genuine smile. "Should we…get started?”

Crowley nodded stiffly. “Probably. No use…putting it off any longer.”

With a small gesture, Crowley materialised a large, plump pillow behind Aziraphale’s back. He assumed Aziraphale would settle back against it, but instead, the angel lay down on his side facing the back of the sofa, knees drawn up towards him.

Crowley watched him, something twisting in his chest. It stung, just a little, but he supposed Aziraphale would find it easier this way. Probably bury his face in the sofa cushions and think of anything else, try to forget where he was and what was happening. Whatever Aziraphale needed to get through this, Crowley would never deny him that, even if it wasn't what he might have chosen.

Crowley approached the sofa on unsteady legs. A gentle warmth bloomed between them as he settled behind Aziraphale, pressing his chest to the angel's soft back. His hand hovered above Aziraphale's waist, uncertain.

He recalled Nina's words and took a deep breath.

“If you need me to stop at any point, if it’s too much,” he said softly, “just tell me, okay? I’m…I’m going to lift your robe. No need to take it off, if that helps.”

Aziraphale nodded mutely. Crowley slowly tugged the robe up to expose his lower half, then placed his hand on the naked curve of Aziraphale's hip. He felt the angel tense beneath his touch, so he took his time, letting his hand rest there, gentle and undemanding, as though he could coax all the tension away with patience alone.

He ghosted his fingers down the small of Aziraphale’s back, pausing every few inches to listen, waiting for the angel’s breathing to slow, for a soft sigh instead of the too-familiar hitch of fear.

When Aziraphale finally relaxed against him, Crowley miracled his fingers slick. “I’m going to touch you now,” he murmured softly into Aziraphale’s hair, and waited until the angel's breathing steadied again. He tried not to think about how soft Aziraphale was, how perfectly he fit against him, as he traced one finger along smooth skin, moving lower to where it was needed.

“Okay?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale gave a tight nod.

Crowley went excruciatingly slowly. He stroked over Aziraphale’s entrance without trying to breach it, circling, coaxing, with endless patience. Every time Aziraphale’s body seized up, Crowley paused, murmuring soft reassurances into his hair until he felt him melt again.

This went on for a long time. Only when Crowley managed to circle several times in succession without Aziraphale tensing did he allow the very tip of his finger to press inwards – shallow, just testing.

Aziraphale’s breath stuttered, and Crowley felt his body begin to tremble.

Crowley stilled completely, waiting for the next shaky exhale.

“I’m going to keep going, okay? Just with my finger.”

Aziraphale nodded, chin pressed to his chest. His hands gripped the sofa cushion so tightly his knuckles went white.

Crowley eased the tip of his finger past the first ring of muscle, stunned by the heat, the impossible softness. For a brief moment, he imagined a scenario where this was not an act of compliance, but of simple longing, and his body ached for it.

But the spell shattered almost immediately. Aziraphale made a soft, strangled sound: a whimper of pure terror that sliced straight through Crowley's heart.

“Stop,” Aziraphale gasped, his whole body recoiling. “Please, stop.”

Crowley pulled away instantly as though scalded. Aziraphale curled in on himself, arms wrapped tightly around his middle, breath coming in rapid, shuddering pants.

Crowley hovered behind him on the edge of the sofa, hands raised, not letting any part of himself make contact. “Angel…Aziraphale, fuck. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

Aziraphale shook his head violently. “No, it’s not you,” he choked out. “It’s not, it’s…” His body shook with the effort of holding himself together.

Crowley slid off the sofa onto the floor, giving him space. “Hey. Hey, Aziraphale…it’s okay. You’re safe.”

Aziraphale pressed his forehead into the sofa cushions, hands digging into the fabric. Crowley could hear the ragged edge of each breath, the effort it took to inhale.

Crowley stayed completely still. “Angel,” he murmured after a while, “just breathe. I’m right here. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

It took several minutes; Crowley counted every second, each one a small eternity. Slowly, Aziraphale’s breathing eased from frantic to uneven, then to merely shaky. Crowley kept talking, voice soft and steady. He talked about the weather on Earth that day, about his favourite shop in Camden, about the first time he'd seen his Bentley gleaming in a showroom and nearly throttled the salesman in his enthusiasm to buy her. Anything to distract Aziraphale from whatever memories were resurfacing.

When Crowley finally risked reaching out, he did so with the lightest of touches, fingers barely grazing Aziraphale’s back. The angel didn’t flinch, so Crowley let his hand rest there.

At last, Aziraphale sat up, scrubbing at his wet face with the back of his hand, refusing to meet Crowley’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I thought I could. I really did.”

“Don't apologise,” Crowley said firmly. “It's not your fault.” He gently pulled Aziraphale's robe down to cover him. “I'll make you some tea.”

Crowley moved to the kitchenette, hands trembling as he filled the kettle. Steep the teabag for exactly three and a half minutes, splash of milk, no sugar. When had he memorised Aziraphale's preferences so completely? When had brewing the perfect cup for him become second nature?

“Here,” Crowley said softly, perching carefully on the edge of the sofa with the steaming mug.

Aziraphale took it with a shaky smile and blew across the surface. They sat in silence, Aziraphale taking small sips whilst Crowley tried not to replay the sound of abject terror in the angel's voice when Crowley had touched him.

“What do you want to do?” Crowley asked when the mug was halfway empty.

Aziraphale worried his lip, eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Try again?” he ventured with a watery smile. “You might need to, ah…hold me down.”

Crowley's heart lurched violently. “Fuck no,” he choked out. “I can't do that. I won't.” He watched Aziraphale set his mug on the coffee table, gaze lowered as though resigned to his fate.

“I don't see how else we get through this, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, hands curling into fists. “I'm not sure my body will allow it otherwise.”

Crowley pawed at his hair. They needed to get this done. But he knew he wouldn’t be able to do anything to Aziraphale by force, even if he technically gave permission.

“How about…” he started, waiting until Aziraphale’s gaze flicked up to meet his. “...we try it another way? Facing each other?”

Aziraphale looked startled. “Facing each other?”

“So you can see it's me,” Crowley said gently. “So you know you're safe. It might be easier.”

Aziraphale seemed to consider this, his expression morphing into something softer. He nodded slowly and shifted on the sofa until he was lying the opposite way, back against the cushions, angled towards Crowley.

Crowley moved closer, cautiously letting one hand rest on Aziraphale's hip through the robe. He could feel the tremors, but they seemed less pronounced now.

“If you need me to slow down or stop, just say the word, okay?” Crowley murmured, carefully hitching the robe up to Aziraphale’s lower belly. His gaze lingered for a moment on the soft, pale hair across the angel's stomach, and lower to his cock, utterly deflated against his thigh.

He miracled his fingers slick again and brought them between Aziraphale’s legs.

It was far more intimate this time. Crowley leant back against the armrest, his face level with Aziraphale’s. He couldn't stop the flush burning his cheeks as their eyes met, faces so close he could count Aziraphale's eyelashes. The angel was looking at him with cautious hope, teeth catching his bottom lip.

The first touch had Aziraphale squeezing his eyes shut, and Crowley paused, finger lightly grazing the tense furl of muscle.

“Hey,” he said gently, “look at me, angel.” He waited until Aziraphale, with visible effort, opened his eyes again. “It’s just me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Aziraphale nodded shakily, forcing himself to hold Crowley's gaze as he slowly began circling his finger around the rim, trying to coax it to relax. Aziraphale’s body didn’t open easily; every nerve seemed to remember violence, to brace for it. But Crowley was patient, gently stroking, keeping his eyes fixed on that intense blue gaze, until gradually he felt something begin to shift.

The muscle relaxed incrementally, going pliant under his touch, and Crowley dared to slip the tip of his finger inside. Aziraphale's body tensed immediately, and Crowley could see him fighting the urge to shut his eyes again. But Crowley brought his free hand up to cup the angel's face, thumb brushing along his cheek.

“It’s just me…” Crowley murmured. “I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

The words seemed to help. Aziraphale took a slow breath, and Crowley felt the vice-like grip ease, allowing him to push in a little deeper.

“Tell me if it's too much.”

“You can keep going,” Aziraphale whispered shakily. “Just…please slowly.”

Crowley nodded, pressing his finger in tiny increments, in and out, each time going a little deeper. He could feel the way Aziraphale’s body resisted and then surrendered; microseconds of release, then the old panic, then release again. It was like taming a frightened animal: patience, repetition, no sudden moves. 

His second finger joined almost subconsciously, brushing against the slick entrance that was slowly opening for him. He murmured soft reassurances until the clench eased entirely, and he managed to work the second finger inside. 

The arm trapped against the sofa was going numb, and Crowley shifted slightly to ease the pressure. The movement adjusted the angle of his fingers, and when he next pushed inside, Aziraphale let out a soft gasp that was so unlike the uneasy sounds from before that Crowley froze.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked, startled.

Aziraphale shook his head, cheeks scarlet. “No, you…it’s—" He broke off with another soft sound as Crowley experimentally pressed there again, feeling the tender swell of the angel’s prostate. Aziraphale's hips lifted involuntarily, body clinging to Crowley's fingers.

The sight nearly undid him. Crowley had expected this to be clinical, a mercy fuck at best, something to endure. Instead, Aziraphale was trembling for an entirely different reason now, his knees falling open so Crowley could get closer, press deeper.

It was then he noticed something brushing against his wrist. He glanced down, surprised to find Aziraphale rapidly hardening. The angel realised too and stared down at himself with wide eyes, mouth slightly agape.

Aziraphale’s face flamed. “That’s…that’s never happened before,” he confessed, voice so tiny Crowley might have missed it if he weren’t so close. “I don’t understand.”

Something fierce and protective surged through Crowley's chest, so hot it nearly scorched him from the inside. “Doesn't matter,” he said softly. “You feel good, angel. You're allowed to.”

Crowley steadied his hand and continued, curling his fingers carefully, feeling Aziraphale's body pulse around him with every shallow breath. He watched as the angel's cock continued to harden until it lay flat against his stomach, a bead of moisture gathering at the tip.

“Is this...is this alright?” Crowley whispered, maintaining that careful rhythm whilst searching Aziraphale's face for any sign of distress. The angel's breathing had grown shallow, chest rising and falling rapidly beneath his dishevelled robe.

“Yes,” Aziraphale breathed, the word barely more than air. “I think...I think I'm alright.” There was wonder in his voice, as if he couldn't quite believe what was happening. His hand found Crowley's wrist, not to stop him, but to ground himself, fingers curling around the warm skin.

Crowley felt his own breath catch. “You're doing so well, angel.” The praise seemed to affect Aziraphale physically; his body relaxed further, accepting Crowley's touch more easily. 

When Aziraphale's breathing grew ragged, when his body seemed to welcome rather than merely tolerate the intrusion, Crowley dared to speak.

“Angel,” he said softly, waiting until those blue eyes focused on him again. “I think...I think you might be ready. Are you okay to carry on?”

Aziraphale nodded, pressing his face more firmly into Crowley’s palm. “Yes.”

Crowley's cock pressed painfully against his jeans; he'd been hard since the moment he realised Aziraphale was responding with pleasure rather than pain. For a moment, he debated fumbling with his belt one-handed, but instead made a gesture, miracling away his clothes save for his shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His cock sprang free, already leaking incessantly. Aziraphale's gaze darted towards it, then away; he blushed furiously.

Crowley nudged Aziraphale gently until he was lying flat on the sofa, propped against the pillow with Crowley positioned above. He applied a generous coating of lube and then lined himself up, one hand guiding his length to Aziraphale's prepared entrance.

“Ready?” he whispered. “I’ll be as gentle as I possibly can.”

Aziraphale's eyes were huge, but he nodded, hands braced against Crowley's shoulders. Crowley pushed forwards slowly – just the tip at first, barely breaching the tight ring of muscle. Aziraphale’s jaw clenched, the breath knocked from him in a sharp exhale.

Crowley froze, every muscle locked. “Angel. Tell me to stop and I’ll—”

“No,” Aziraphale gasped. “It's...it's alright.”

Crowley hesitantly inched forward, scanning Aziraphale’s face for any sign of distress. He pressed in until the tight heat enveloped the head and the first inch of him, then paused, breathing heavily.

For a long moment, they remained still, Crowley supporting himself on trembling arms, Aziraphale’s legs spread beneath him, both of them quivering with the intensity of it.

When the tension finally eased, Crowley began to move, slow and cautious. He pressed in a little more, retreated slightly, then pressed again, gradually working himself deeper in tiny increments. Each time he pushed deeper, Aziraphale’s body tensed around him, then relaxed, as if learning his shape.

When Crowley finally seated himself fully, hips flush against Aziraphale's skin, he made a choked sound that was half relief, half disbelief. The feeling was overwhelming; Aziraphale's body gripping him in fluttering spasms, so tight and warm and perfect that Crowley had to bite back a groan.

He eased his hips back, then pressed forward again, feeling the exquisite friction, the way every movement wrung a new gasp or shiver out of the angel beneath him. “You alright, angel? Tell me if it’s too much.”

“It's…” Aziraphale's voice came out high and breathless. “It's different from what I remember. Not...not bad, oh—” Crowley angled his hips and caught that sweet spot inside. The effect was immediate: Aziraphale’s whole body jerked, eyes rolling back, a whimper torn from his throat.

Crowley did it again, and again, finding the exact angle that made Aziraphale’s cock pulse, precome smearing over his stomach. The sight made Crowley’s mouth go dry. 

Without really thinking about it, Crowley reached between them and wrapped his hand around Aziraphale’s length, applying light pressure as he stroked in time with his gentle thrusts. Aziraphale's eyes went wide.

“Crowley…”

“Is this okay?” Crowley asked, stilling his movements. “I’ve never…I mean, I have by myself, but not with someone else. I can stop—”

“Don’t stop,” Aziraphale bit out, hips jerking as if trying to thrust into Crowley's grip.

Heat flooded through Crowley's chest. He took a firmer hold, pressing his thumb to the sensitive underside as he worked his hand in rhythm with the movement of his hips. He buried his face against Aziraphale's neck, feeling the intense heat radiating from the collar – the demonic monitoring system going crazy as it registered what they were doing. He wanted to tear the bloody thing off with his teeth, but settled for pressing his lips to the soft, damp skin at the hinge of Aziraphale’s jaw.

“C-Crowley,” Aziraphale moaned, his hands tightening on Crowley’s shoulders, digging in so hard it was almost painful. His breath hitched, and he looked up at Crowley with wide, worried eyes. “Crowley, something’s happening. I-I can feel…haah—”

Crowley’s hand worked frantically over Aziraphale’s cock, thumb sweeping over the leaking head, squeezing just tight enough to draw out another convulsion. “It’s okay, angel. Let go. Just let go, I’ve got you,” he murmured.

Aziraphale made a strange, strangled sound, as if something inside him had come completely undone. His whole body arched, a shuddering wave running through him, and Crowley felt Aziraphale’s cock pulse and spill hot and slick across their stomachs. The angel was gasping, almost sobbing, as if the pleasure was too much, shock written all over his face.

Crowley couldn't put into words what he was seeing, what he was feeling. Aziraphale, coming apart beneath him, because of him. Pleasure replacing fear, trust replacing caution. It was more than he'd dared hope for.

Crowley stroked him through it, never slowing, riding Aziraphale’s convulsions with deep, careful thrusts. The sight of Aziraphale undone, hair plastered to his forehead, mouth agape, body flushed and radiant, pushed Crowley to the edge.

The rhythm came apart as he chased his own release. The heat, the pressure, the impossible grip of Aziraphale's body around him. Crowley moved raggedly, buried himself to the hilt, and came with a broken sound, spilling hot and hard inside the angel. The release tore through him so intensely he nearly blacked out, the world narrowing to the press of Aziraphale's body and the taste of his name on Crowley's lips.

He collapsed against Aziraphale, both of them trembling and breathless.

Crowley slowly levered himself upright, the motion pulling him free of Aziraphale with a soft, wet sound. For a moment, he hovered uncertainly, untangling his limbs from the angel's trembling ones, desperate not to startle or wound. He reached out, thumb brushing a strand of hair back from Aziraphale's damp brow.

“Are you okay?” he whispered.

Aziraphale’s eyes were still blown wide, mouth still open as he drew in soft, rapid breaths. “I think so…” he squeaked out. His gaze was fixed solidly on the ceiling above, completely unseeing.

In a slight panic, Crowley extracted himself completely and stood on unsteady legs. He miracled his clothes back on, cleaning up Aziraphale in the process. But the angel barely seemed to register it, his eyes unmoving, expression shell-shocked.

“I’ll, uh…biscuits!” Crowley blurted out, stumbling towards the kitchenette. “You’ll want something to eat, I’ll…I’ll just…”

He's broken, Crowley thought frantically. I've broken him. He's not responding, he's just staring at nothing and…

He opened each cupboard, somehow completely forgetting where everything was stored, trying to ignore how violently his hands were shaking. He found Aziraphale's biscuit supply on the third try and started pulling various packets down onto the counter.

In his effort to prise them open, several biscuits slipped free and crumbled to pieces as they hit the floor. “Shit,” Crowley muttered, crouching to clear them away. He risked a glance at the sofa. Aziraphale was no longer staring at the ceiling. Instead, his gaze had lowered to his slowly softening cock, looking at it with something akin to bewildered wonder.

Crowley's cheeks blazed, and he resumed what he was doing, piling biscuits onto a plate. Custard creams, ginger nuts, digestives...he paused on the packet of chocolate digestives and immediately tucked them away. No chocolate. Not right now. That was the last thing they needed.

With a plate stacked unnecessarily high, Crowley slowly made his way back to the sofa, where he hovered awkwardly.

“I brought…I mean, you should eat something,” he said, holding the plate out near Aziraphale's head. He had to use both hands to keep it steady.

After a long moment, Aziraphale's eyes finally slid to meet Crowley's, and the demon almost wanted to recoil. He'd completely fucked it up, hadn't he? Aziraphale was hurt, damaged. He'd done irreparable harm, and now the angel would never—

“That’s never happened to me before…” Aziraphale murmured, cutting through Crowley’s spiralling thoughts. 

Crowley collapsed to his knees beside the sofa, ignoring the biscuits that scattered to the floor with the impact. “Aziraphale…” he said, then trailed off. He didn't know what to say, how to make it better, how to fix whatever he'd broken.

“I’ve never…” Aziraphale gestured towards his spent cock, a flush colouring his cheeks. “Is it always supposed to be like that?” he asked quietly.

“I…” Crowley swallowed hard. “Maybe? I'm not exactly an expert at this.” He took a shaky breath, the words tumbling out. “Aziraphale, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for it to be so intense, I should have warned you, I should have—”

“Thank you.”

Crowley stopped mid-sentence, staring at him in disbelief. “For what?”

“For making it...not terrible,” Aziraphale replied, choosing his words carefully. “For being gentle.”

“You're thanking me for the bare minimum of decency?” Crowley asked, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. “For trying my best not to hurt you when I was forced to—”

“No,” Aziraphale interrupted, shifting to face him properly. “I'm thanking you for caring enough to make it more than compliance. For giving me pleasure, not just...not just using me.”

The raw honesty in his voice struck Crowley silent. For a moment, they simply looked at each other, and Crowley was overwhelmed by what he could see in Aziraphale’s eyes. The trust, the softness. Something else he didn’t want to think about, didn’t want to hope for.

“It wasn't terrible for me either,” Crowley admitted finally, the truth slipping out before he could stop it. “Being with you.”

Something vulnerable flickered in Aziraphale's eyes. “No?”

“No,” Crowley confirmed quietly. “Not terrible at all.”

They fell quiet for a long while, Crowley keeping his gaze fixed somewhere over the top of the sofa, whilst Aziraphale slowly pulled his robe down to cover himself.

“Do you think it worked?” Aziraphale asked eventually, his hand moving unconsciously to touch the dark band around his neck. “Will Hell be satisfied?”

The question brought reality crashing back. This hadn't been a choice, hadn't been born of mutual desire, no matter how their bodies had responded. How it had felt. It had been compliance, nothing more.

“It worked,” Crowley assured him, settling into a more comfortable position on the floor. “I could...could feel the collar monitoring everything. They'll know what happened,” he finished quietly.

Aziraphale nodded, relief visible in the slump of his shoulders. “Good. That’s…good, then.”

Crowley gave him a small, sad smile, then seemed to remember the plate he was still clutching and thrust it towards him with slightly trembling hands. “You should eat something. You’ll…feel better.”

Aziraphale returned his smile as he slowly pushed himself into a sitting position against the pillow. “But I feel fine, Crowley. More than fine.” He looked away for a moment, his brow furrowing. “I…I didn’t know it could feel like that. I thought it was only ever meant to hurt.”

Crowley’s chest tightened, and he had to swallow hard before he could speak. “No. It’s supposed to be good, angel. When it’s done right, when someone cares about you.”

“Do you?” Aziraphale asked softly. “Care about me, I mean?”

“Of course I bloody care about you,” Crowley said fiercely. “That’s why I feel so…so bad about all this. You shouldn’t have had to go through any of it.”

“But I did,” Aziraphale said, his voice steady. “And you made it bearable. More than bearable.” He reached out, fingers brushing against Crowley’s hand still gripping the plate. “I felt safe with you, even when I was scared. I knew you wouldn’t truly hurt me.”

“Never,” Crowley asserted. “I would never hurt you, angel. Not intentionally. Not ever.”

“I know.” Aziraphale's smile was beautiful. “That's why it worked, I think. Why I could...let go. Trust you enough to...to feel something other than fear.”

They sat together for a moment. Aziraphale's fingers still rested lightly against Crowley's hand, and Crowley found himself staring at that small point of contact, his heart doing uncomfortable things in his chest.

The intimacy of it, this quiet moment, felt somehow more overwhelming than everything that had come before. Crowley cleared his throat and pushed the plate towards Aziraphale again, gently breaking the connection.

“Here, you should…” he muttered, giving the plate a nervous jiggle. Several biscuits slipped off and hit the floor, breaking into pieces. “Shit.”

“Careful,” Aziraphale said with a soft chuckle, the sound like music to Crowley's ears. He plucked a digestive from the haphazard pile, taking a small bite. “Thank you. For...everything.”

He chewed, still watching Crowley with those wide, wondrous eyes. Without a word, he held the half-eaten biscuit out.

Crowley found himself leaning towards it almost automatically, accepting the digestive whilst Aziraphale was still holding it. The biscuit crumbled around his mouth, and he felt the brush of Aziraphale's fingers against his lips as he bit down. The sensation sent an unexpected jolt through him.

They both froze. Aziraphale's fingers lingered there against Crowley's mouth, neither of them seeming to breathe. Crowley realised with startling clarity how close they were, how Aziraphale's pupils had dilated, how his pulse was thundering in his ears.

He chewed slowly, never breaking eye contact, acutely aware of every small movement, every shared breath. A few stray crumbs clung to his lips, and he watched Aziraphale's gaze drop to his mouth and linger there.

“You’ve got a little…” Aziraphale murmured, using his thumb to gently brush against the corner of Crowley’s mouth, his touch feather-light.

Crowley went utterly still, his breath catching as Aziraphale's thumb stilled.

“There,” Aziraphale whispered, but he didn't pull away. Instead, his fingers seemed to curve naturally against Crowley's cheek, thumb still resting near his mouth.

The space between them seemed to shrink without either of them consciously moving. Crowley's hand came up instinctively to cover Aziraphale's where it rested against his face, and suddenly they were so close that Crowley could feel the angel's warm breath ghosting across his lips.

His heart hammered against his ribs, palms growing damp. This felt different from before. This...this felt like choice. Like want.

Aziraphale’s gaze flickered between Crowley’s eyes and his mouth, and Crowley found himself leaning closer, drawn by something he didn’t dare name, until—

There was a sharp knock at the outer door. 

Crowley startled; the plate flew from his hands, smashing against the floor in an explosion of porcelain and biscuit crumbs. “Shit,” he wheezed, scrambling backwards on his hands and knees, his face burning. He stared at the door, and Aziraphale pulled his knees up to his chest, eyes wide and uncertain. 

“Stay still, angel,” Crowley told him as he got to his feet. He took a shaky breath, running a hand through his dishevelled hair before cracking the door open wide enough to see who was there.

Another disposable Eric stood in the corridor, possibly the same one as last time, though Crowley couldn't tell. Before he could get a word out, the demon thrust a rolled-up scroll towards him with obvious glee.

“Message from the boss.” 

Crowley snatched it from his hands with more force than necessary. “Right. Anything else?”

Eric’s eyes glinted with curiosity as he tried to peer past Crowley into the room. “Did you have fun?” he asked with a leer.

Crowley’s expression darkened. “Fuck. Off,” he snarled, each word dripping with venom.

He slammed the door closed so hard the whole frame rattled. After a deep breath, he broke the wax seal with his thumb and scanned the short message.

“What is it?” Azirapahle asked softly from the sofa, an anxious twinge in his voice.

Crowley’s shoulders sagged. “It’s…confirmation,” he said finally. “They registered the, uh, activity. The collar did its job.” He paused, re-reading the note with reluctance. “But they won’t send any future warnings."

“What does that mean?”

Crowley crumpled the scroll in his fist and turned to face Azirapahle, his face set. “It means they expect us to keep doing this. Regularly. Without them having to tell us when.” He met the angel’s eyes, his jaw clenched. “This wasn’t a one-time thing, angel. This will…need to be ongoing.”

Azirapahle sat very still, seeming to process this information.

“I see,” he said quietly.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said, moving towards the sofa. “I’m sorry,  Azirapahle. I thought if we…if we got through it, that would be enough. But they’re not going to let this go.”

To his surprise, Azirapahle seemed remarkably unfazed. “How often do you think they’ll expect it?”

Crowley blinked, taken aback by the practical question. “I…I don’t know. Often enough that it's regular, I guess.”

“And the alternative…is the same threat as before, I’m assuming?”

Crowley nodded stiffly and came to kneel by the sofa again. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to do this.”

“But I do,” Azirapahle interrupted gently. “We both know that. The question is how we manage it.”

Crowley stared at him. “You’re being very calm about this.”

“Well...the alternative isn't an option,” Azirapahle said with a small, resigned smile. He paused, then added softly, “Besides, it wasn’t…terrible. As you said.”

Heat rose up Crowley's neck, and he looked away, pretending to examine the scattered remains of the broken plate. “Right. Well. If we’re going to do this, we should…should have a system. A schedule.” He began gathering the larger pieces of porcelain. “Hell likes schedules. Predictability. And it'll help you too, won't it? So you're not constantly wondering when it might happen.”

“That sounds sensible,” Azirapahle agreed.

“Once a week, I think. That should be often enough to satisfy them.” Crowley stood abruptly, hands coated in crumbs and full of broken crockery, which he restored to plate form with a quick gesture. “It’s Thursday today, so…every Thursday? That gives you a whole six days to do what you want, and not have to think about it.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Thursdays.”

“I’ll bring you a calendar. You can mark the days, put it up somewhere visible, so you always know exactly when to expect it. You'll be able to prepare yourself...mentally, I mean. No surprises.”

“That’s very thoughtful,” Azirapahle said, and seemed to mean it.

Crowley deposited the restored plate on the kitchenette island, dusted off his hands, and stood there for a moment, uncertain. His heart hadn't slowed since he and Aziraphale had almost...had they almost? No. No, he had to have mistaken what that was. Angels didn't...and he shouldn't...

He cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room.

"Clothes," he said suddenly, and Aziraphale blinked in confusion.

"I'm sorry?"

“I promised you clothes,” Crowley clarified, gesturing vaguely at him whilst avoiding eye contact. “Proper clothes.”

“Oh.” Azirapahle blinked at the abrupt change of conversation. “I suppose, yes. That would be nice.”

Crowley gestured, and a neatly folded set of soft cotton pyjamas courtesy of M&S appeared on the coffee table. “These are for sleeping. Might be more comfortable than the robe.”

Azirapahle reached out and touched fabric – pale blue with white pin-stripes. “They’re lovely,” he said. “Thank you.”

“The other stuff, though," Crowley continued, beginning to pace restlessly. He couldn't seem to look directly at Aziraphale, his gaze darting away whenever their eyes tried to meet. “The suits you wanted. Waistcoats, bow ties, all that Victorian stuff.” His heart was still hammering against his ribs, making it hard to think straight. “That's going to take longer. I'll have to hunt through vintage shops on Earth, maybe commission some pieces from proper tailors. Can't just miracle authentic period clothing, you know? Well, I could, but it wouldn't be right. You'd be able to tell immediately.”

“I see,” Azirapahle said quietly, watching Crowley’s increasingly agitated movements around the room.

“Proper tailoring takes time, especially for period-accurate pieces,” Crowley rambled on, talking faster now. “Have to find the right shops, the right people who understand what they're doing. Need to source the right fabrics, the correct buttons, make sure the cut is authentic to the era…” He ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up at odd angles. “Want to get it right for you, not just throw something together.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale murmured. “I wouldn't want to rush you.”

“Good. Right. So I'll...I'll start on that.” Crowley finally stopped pacing, hovering near the door like a bird about to take flight. “Might take a while, like I said.”

Something shifted in Aziraphale's expression; understanding, followed by what looked like disappointment. His fingers smoothed over the pyjamas again, folding and unfolding one sleeve.

“You're leaving,” he said. 

“I...well. I should.” Crowley's hand moved to the door handle. “There's some work I need to catch up on upstairs. And it’ll give you some time to rest, process everything. Today's been…” He trailed off.

“Quite a lot,” Aziraphale finished for him.

“Yeah. Exactly.” Crowley turned the handle partially, then paused, guilt warring with his need to flee. “You'll be okay?”

“I'll be fine,” Aziraphale said, though his voice was smaller now. “I have my books. And the pyjamas. They’re really lovely, thank you for thinking of that.”

“It’s nothing.”

They looked at each other across the room, and the distance felt vast. Aziraphale’s hands were still fiddling with the pyjamas, his posture perfectly composed, but something rather fragile in his expression. The silence stretched uncomfortably until Crowley made to open the door properly.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called softly.

“Yeah?”

The angel hesitated for a long time, his fingers stilling on the fabric. “Nothing has changed between us, has it?”

Everything’s changed. Crowley thought desperately, and I don't know how to handle it, and I'm terrified I've ruined the best thing in my existence by wanting something I have no right to want.

“No, angel,” Crowley lied, the words like ash in his mouth. “Nothing’s changed.”

But even as he said it, they both knew it wasn't true. Everything felt different now, as if something was breaking through the surface that neither of them knew how to navigate. Aziraphale's face fell almost imperceptibly, and Crowley had to force himself not to cross the room and gather him into his arms.

“I'll see you Thursday, then,” Crowley said instead.

“Thursday,” Aziraphale repeated softly.

Crowley nodded once, stepped through the door, and closed it behind him

Chapter Text

Crowley sat in the Bentley outside the tube station that led to the depths of Hell. A cacophony of car horns blared behind him as he obtusely blocked the road, engine idling. He should pull over. He should go downstairs. He should be making his way to his quarters where Aziraphale was waiting.

But he couldn't make himself move.

A week. He'd managed to stay away for an entire week – the longest they'd been apart since they'd first met – and it had nearly killed him. The angel had consumed Crowley’s every waking thought. Those blue eyes and gentle smiles infiltrated his sleep, too. In his dreams, they were always on Earth, never down below. The most vivid one had them on a hotel balcony in Paris, sharing a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape under the stars. Aziraphale marvelled at the Eiffel Tower glinting in the distance, clutching his wine glass to his chest, eyes bright with wonder. But when he turned that same gaze on Crowley, it burned no less brightly. He looked at the demon as though he were one of the wonders of the world. When they kissed beneath the moonlight, gentle rain began to fall, dampening their faces.

Crowley slammed his forehead against the steering wheel. A passing traffic warden, who'd been approaching to move him along, startled and hurried past instead.

Every day of the past week had been agony, each hour stretched into eternity. Now it was Thursday, and he had to return. But all he could think about was how wrong it all was.

The intensity of his feelings, the way Aziraphale had become the centre of his entire world, made everything so much worse. Because love couldn’t exist like this, inside a prison. Depsire wasn’t supposed to flourish in chains. And yet here he was, hopelessly gone on an angel who had no choice but to accept whatever Crowley offered.

The memory of his last visit haunted him. The way Aziraphale had touched him, gazed at him with such trust and affection – it had felt real. More real than anything Crowley had ever experienced. But how could he trust that? How could he believe the feelings expressed by someone who depended on him for everything? 

Aziraphale needed Crowley's protection. Needed him to keep the other demons away, to keep him safe. Under those circumstances, how could anyone, even an angel as inherently honest as Aziraphale, express anything but gratitude and compliance?

The disparity was staggering when Crowley thought about it. He controlled every aspect of Aziraphale's existence. Whether he lived or died. One careless word to the wrong demon, one moment's inattention, and Aziraphale could be torn apart by creatures who saw angels as nothing more than playthings.

Even if Aziraphale did feel the same way, or thought he did, it didn’t matter. Aziraphale was a prisoner. Crowley's prisoner. That was the truth, no matter how Crowley tried to rationalise it to himself. The power imbalance didn’t allow Aziraphale to reciprocate. Crowley had to remember that.

But it was bloody difficult to remember when Aziraphale looked at him as though he'd hung the stars (and in a way, he had), when the angel reached for him with such trust and apparent want. When he'd thrown his head back, crying out Crowley's name like it was something sacred, trembling beneath him with what looked desperately like ecstasy.

It had felt dangerously close to making love.

The worst part was that Crowley kept making excuses. He’s safe with me, his unhelpful mind whispered. He’s happier than he’s ever been. What we have is gentle, and we both want it. But those justifications crumbled under one fundamental truth: Aziraphale had no real choice.

Without Crowley's protection, Aziraphale would be back in the hands of demons who’d tear him apart piece by piece until there was nothing left. So what they had, was it really a choice, or was it just the lesser of two evils? Was Aziraphale’s affection genuine, or was he clinging to the only kindness available to him?

The questions made Crowley's stomach roil with self-loathing. Because even knowing all this, even understanding how impossible their situation was, he still wanted to go down there. Still wanted to hold Aziraphale and pretend the soft sounds the angel made were born of desire rather than necessity. Still wanted to believe that somewhere in this tangle of power and protection and coercion, something real had managed to bloom.

Selfish bastard. He was supposed to be protecting Aziraphale, and instead, he'd fallen in love with him. Had let his own wants complicate what should have been straightforward. Had turned himself from protector into another form of captor.

But Aziraphale was waiting. Was probably watching the door, wondering where Crowley was, whether he was coming back at all. The thought of the angel alone in those quarters, afraid he'd been abandoned, was unbearable.

And there was the cruel irony: Crowley's love for Aziraphale, the very thing that made this arrangement so complicated, was also the thing that made it impossible to walk away. Because leaving would mean abandoning him, and Crowley would rather damn himself than let that happen.

So he'd go down. Return to those quarters and play his part of protector, provider, whatever Aziraphale needed. He'd try to keep emotional distance whilst remaining close enough to keep the angel safe. And perhaps, somehow, he could find a way to love Aziraphale that didn't make him feel like a monster.

With a sigh drawn from the very depths of his soul, Crowley veered the Bentley half up onto the pavement, waved a quick miracle to ensure traffic wardens would ignore the blatant parking violation, and made his way to the tube station.

***

The protective wards parted, and Crowley slipped into his quarters, heart heavy with nerves and anticipation. He was weighed down with more bags than usual as guilt drove him to excess. The memory of how he'd fled last Thursday, of the look on Aziraphale's face when he'd lied and claimed nothing had changed between them, had haunted him all week.

“Crowley…” 

The angel's voice was bright with delight, and when Crowley looked over at him on the sofa, Aziraphale was practically incandescent with happiness. The sight of him – safe, clearly pleased to see him – made the knot in Crowley's chest finally loosen.

“Hey, angel,” Crowley said, trying to match Aziraphale's enthusiasm but falling short. The week of guilt and longing had left him raw and uncertain.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” Aziraphale said, rising from the sofa and moving closer with obvious eagerness.

“Course I came back,” Crowley muttered, focusing on the bags rather than the relief in Aziraphale's voice. “Said I would, didn't I? It's Thursday.”

The reminder seemed to deflate Aziraphale slightly, his smile dimming. “Yes. Of course. Thursday.”

Crowley winced at the flatness in the angel's tone. “I brought you some things,” he said quickly, hefting the bags and carrying them to the kitchenette island. “Food from the market, bread and some of those cheeses you like. A few cakes, some jam tarts. And books. New ones, since you’ve probably finished what you have.”

Aziraphale approached cautiously, but his gaze remained fixed on Crowley’s face rather than the offerings being piled up. “That’s very thoughtful of you, thank you.”

“And music,” Crowley continued, pulling out a stack of records whilst carefully avoiding eye contact. “More classical. Some Shostakovich, I think you’ll like it.”

“Lovely,” Aziraphale murmured, but Crowley could sense those blue eyes studying him, not taking in any of the items scattered across the counter.

“Oh, and the clothes,” Crowley said, finally glancing up. “Found some bits in vintage shops, trousers and a bow tie. But the rest are being made for you. Tailor on Savile Row. Should be ready by next week. Waistcoat, jacket, the whole Victorian ensemble you wanted.”

Aziraphale's eyes brightened genuinely at this. “Really? Oh, that's...that's wonderful news. Thank you for remembering.”

“Course I remembered,” Crowley muttered, then produced a calendar with slightly more ceremony. “And this, as promised.”

This finally caught Aziraphale’s full attention. The glossy cover depicted the Northern Lights dancing over an Icelandic landscape in stunning shades of green and purple, and Aziraphale gazed at it with wonder.

“Famous landmarks from Earth,” Crowley explained, suddenly a little nervous. “Beautiful places and monuments.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed, flipping slowly through the pages. “The Pyramids, Machu Picchu, Stonehenge…these places still exist?”

“All of them. Stood for thousands of years. Humans do a pretty good job of preserving what matters.”

Aziraphale paused at each photograph, studying them with the same intensity he would a book, or a delicate pastry. “Thousands of years,” he repeated softly.

When he was done looking, he pinned the calendar against one of the cupboards and opened it to April; the featured photograph was the Eiffel Tower, which made heat creep up the back of Crowley's neck. Aziraphale plucked the attached pen and drew a dark pair of sunglasses in today's square. Despite everything, Crowley couldn't help but smile.

“Thank you for all this,” Aziraphale said, gesturing to the gifts strewn across the counter. “The food, books, the music…you didn’t need to bring me anything, but I’m grateful you did.”

The formal politeness in his tone stung worse than anger would have. It reminded Crowley of their early days together, all politeness and keeping a careful distance. Before they'd known each other. Before last week had changed everything.

“Angel,” Crowley started, then faltered. He didn't know how to bridge the gap he'd created by running away, by keeping Aziraphale at arm's length even now.

“Yes?”

“How are you? After last week, I mean.” The words came out uncertain. “Any problems? Nightmares?”

Aziraphale's expression softened. “No nightmares. Actually, I've been sleeping rather well. Better than I have in months.”

“Right.” Crowley didn't know what to do with that information. Aziraphale was supposed to be traumatised, wasn't he? Supposed to be struggling with what they'd done? “Good. That's...good.”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale's voice was gentle, concerned.

“Yeah?”

“Are you quite alright?”

Crowley's hands stilled on the records he was sorting. How could he explain that seeing Aziraphale happy and well-rested after what had happened made him feel monstrous? That the angel's obvious pleasure in his company only highlighted how wrong this entire situation was?

“Just tired,” he said instead. “Long week.”

Aziraphale studied him for a moment, hands flexing at his sides. Before Crowley could step away, the angel crossed the space between them and wrapped him in a gentle but desperate embrace.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Aziraphale whispered against his shoulder. “I…missed your company this week.”

For a moment, Crowley stood rigid, every part of his brain screaming at him to maintain distance. But Aziraphale was soft against him, a warm, comforting presence, and the arms around his neck felt like coming home after a week in exile. Despite all his noble intentions about keeping things professional, Crowley’s arms came up to return the hug.

“Angel,” he started, his voice rough.

He held on a moment longer than he should have, then gently but firmly stepped back.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Aziraphale asked softly, arms falling to his sides, eyes still hopeful. “I could make some. We could get the chessboard out, and I’ll put on one of those new records.” He reached for the pile on the counter, but Crowley cleared his throat and shook his head.

“We should probably get on with the arrangement,” he said, wincing at how callous he sounded. 

The warmth fled Aziraphale's expression immediately, replaced by something guarded and wounded. “Of course,” he said quietly. “I apologise. I didn't mean to make this more difficult than it already is.”

“You're not,” Crowley said quickly, then caught himself before he could say more. Because the truth was, Aziraphale was making it difficult, but not through any fault of his own, but because everything about him made Crowley want things he had no right to want.

Aziraphale looked away. “Same as last time?” he asked.

Crowley nodded. “If that’s okay with you. Whatever you need, angel.”

Aziraphale's smile was shy as he moved towards the sofa. “That’s fine by me.”

It was easier this time. There was still that initial flutter of panic, old fear resurfacing when Crowley's finger first breached him, but Aziraphale surrendered to it quickly, melting under his touch. Crowley found that spot inside him almost instinctively, and Aziraphale let out the sweetest sound, grip tightening on Crowley's shoulders as he tilted his hips up encouragingly.

When Crowley finally pushed inside, it was just as earth-shattering and achingly perfect as before. He couldn't suppress the raw sound that escaped him as he sank into that exquisite heat. Aziraphale's hands slipped into his hair, anchoring himself, leaving small welts on Crowley's scalp that somehow made everything more real, more present. Their faces were so close that each breath was shared, Aziraphale's soft pants warming Crowley's lips as he thrust into him, hitting that spot every time. Before he did something reckless like kiss him, Crowley buried his face against the angel's neck, pressing his lips to the sweat-damp skin there whilst carefully avoiding the pulsing collar.

They came together, Aziraphale with a broken cry of Crowley’s name, fingers twisting in his hair as he spilt between them, marking them both with his desire. Crowley followed heartbeats later, burying himself to the hilt with a deep, shuddering grunt.

They lay in the soft afterglow, Crowley shifting to one side so as not to rest his full weight on Aziraphale. The angel drew slow, steadying breaths, his hands still clinging to Crowley's shoulders as though he couldn't bear to let him go.

I should get up, Crowley thought. But Azirapahle was warm and pliant beneath him, still trembling with the aftermath, his blue eyes gazing at him with such trust, such contentment, that Crowley found himself unable to pull away.

Instead, against every rational instinct, he let himself settle more comfortably against Aziraphale’s side, one arm curling around the angel’s waist. Aziraphale made a soft sound of surprise and pleasure, immediately curling closer, his head finding the hollow of Crowley's shoulder.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Crowley murmured.

He felt Aziraphale’s smile against him. “No. No, not at all.”

They lay there in the lamplight, wrapped round each other, and Crowley tried not to think about how perfectly right it felt. Aziraphale's breathing gradually steadied, his fingers tracing absent patterns on Crowley's chest through his shirt, and for a brief, dangerous moment, Crowley allowed himself to imagine this was something other than a necessary evil. Something chosen, something real.

The fantasy lasted perhaps five minutes before guilt came crashing back.

What are you doing? This isn’t helping anyone. You’re making it worse, making him think this means something when it can’t.

With considerable effort, Crowley began to extract himself from Aziraphale’s embrace. The angel made a small, involuntary sound of protest, but he didn’t try to stop him.

“Sorry,” Crowley said gruffly, sitting up and reaching for his jeans. “Need to…tidy up.”

He quickly pulled on his jeans without looking at Aziraphale, throwing in a quick miracle to clean them both. When he finally glanced back, the angel had drawn his robe down over his knees and was sitting against the sofa cushions, watching him with the slightest furrow in his brow.

“I should head back to Earth,” Crowley said, running a hand through his hair and trying not to think about how Aziraphale's fingers had been tangled there moments before. “There’s…more work I need to be getting on with.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said quietly. “I understand.”

There was a soft, defeatedness to his voice that wasn’t lost on Crowley. This was what had happened last week: Crowley turning up, fulfilling the arrangement, then fleeing as quickly as possible. The guilt burned in his stomach, but he had to ignore it.

“Your clothes should be ready by next Thursday,” Crowley said, focusing on practical things because it was easier than acknowledging the hurt flickering in Aziraphale’s eyes. “I’ll bring them when I come back.”

“That would be lovely,” Aziraphale replied, but his hands had twisted in the front of his robe, gaze lowered.

Crowley hovered near the door, his mind screaming at him to leave before he made this worse, before he gave in to the urge to return to that sofa and take Aziraphale in his arms again. But something in the angel's composure, the way his hands still shifted restlessly, made him hesitate.

“You’re alright?” he asked. “Everything’s…you’re comfortable?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, finally looking up with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll be perfectly fine, my dear. Thank you for asking.”

The endearment struck Crowley right in the heart. Aziraphale said it so naturally, with such warmth, as though there was actual affection behind it despite everything.

Get out before you do something stupid. Before you ruin this completely.

“Right then,” he said, hand already on the door handle. “I'll see you next week.”

“Next Thursday,” Aziraphale confirmed softly.

Crowley nodded once and stepped through the door. As he walked down the corridor, he tried not to think about how small Aziraphale had looked on that sofa, tried not to replay the careful way the angel had said he was “perfectly fine” when he clearly wasn't.

He wanted nothing more than to turn around, go back, and spend the rest of the evening holding Aziraphale close. Wanted to make him tea and listen to him talk about his books and pretend that this was real.

But he couldn't. He wouldn't. Because that would be taking advantage, wouldn't it? Making this about his own wants instead of Aziraphale's needs.

At least, that's what he told himself as he made his way back to the surface, leaving the angel alone once again.

***

The following week had been another form of torture.

Crowley had thrown himself into work – that was the only silver lining, that he'd managed to get on top of his temptations and chaos-sowing, even if his heart wasn't in it.

He'd spent the week causing traffic jams, inspiring rather creative tax evasion schemes, and getting politicians to contradict themselves in interviews. But none of it helped. Every quiet moment, every lull between assignments, his mind drifted back to Hell. Back to Aziraphale.

The dreams were the worst part. His sleeping mind conjured impossible fantasies: walking with Aziraphale along the Seine, showing him the bookstalls and cafés the angel had mentioned longing to see. Sitting together in a little bistro, watching Aziraphale's face light up as he tasted French pastries for the first time outside of Hell. Wandering through the Louvre, listening to him marvel at the art.

In the dreams, Aziraphale was free. They both were. And Crowley would wake up aching with a longing so fierce it nearly brought him to his knees.

By Thursday morning, he was a wreck, running on nothing but caffeine and stubborn determination. But he had the clothes: a beautiful tan waistcoat with ornate gold embroidery, tartan bow tie, the palest blue shirt with perfectly starched collar, smart fitted jacket, and matching trousers. The tailor had done exquisite work recreating the historical style Aziraphale wanted.

He entered his quarters with the garment bag slung over his arm. He'd barely stepped through the door when—

“Oh!” Aziraphale looked up from where he'd been arranging cake slices on two plates at the kitchenette counter, and it broke Crowley's heart a little to see the domestic display. “You’re here.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, hovering awkwardly near the entrance. “Brought your clothes.”

Aziraphale crossed the room in a flash, barely seeming to register the garment bag Crowley held out. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Crowley's chest, burrowing his face into his neck.

Crowley swallowed hard, trying not to think about the sweet, soft scent of the angel so close, how he could feel Aziraphale's racing heartbeat against his own. He returned the embrace carefully, mindful not to crush the garment bag as he held him.

Neither of them pulled away for a long moment.

Eventually, Crowley cleared his throat and moved to the sofa, carefully laying out the bag and unzipping it to reveal the ensemble inside.

“Oh my,” Aziraphale breathed, reaching out to touch the fabric. “This is...this is exactly right. The cut, the fabric…it's perfect.”

“Tailor said the fabrics came from Italy,” Crowley said, watching Aziraphale's face carefully. “Hand-embroidered. Colours chosen to complement the trousers I found.”

“I don't know what to say,” Aziraphale said softly, holding up the waistcoat like it was something precious. “This must have taken such thought and effort.”

“You’re worth it,” Crowley said without thinking, then cleared his throat awkwardly. “I mean…you should have proper clothes. Everyone deserves them.”

Aziraphale's smile was radiant. “Could I...would it be alright if I tried them on?”

“Course, they're yours,” Crowley said, but even as Aziraphale gathered the suit with obvious excitement, Crowley felt the familiar weight of their obligation settling over him like a dark cloud.

“Actually,” he said, reaching out to still Aziraphale’s movements, “we should probably get our arrangement sorted first. You know…get it out of the way.”

Crowley hadn't meant it to sound so dismissive, like it was a chore rather than something he couldn't deny finding pleasure in. The joy drained from Aziraphale's expression immediately. His hands stilled on the beautiful fabric as he glanced towards the cake slices he'd left on the counter.

“Yes, of course,” he murmured. “The arrangement.”

“I just thought...best to get it done,” Crowley continued, hating how clinical he sounded but unable to stop himself. “Then you can try on your clothes properly afterwards. Take your time with them.”

“Right,” Aziraphale said, carefully setting the garments aside on the coffee table. “That's...very practical of you.”

The word 'practical' stung more than it should have.

As with the previous times, they settled on the sofa, Aziraphale propped against the cushions with Crowley positioned carefully above him. Aziraphale was more vocal this time, his head falling back against the armrest as soft pleas of “right there” and “don't stop” spilt from his lips. Crowley couldn't help but draw it out, sliding a firm hand along the back of Aziraphale's thigh as he pushed deeper, guiltily relishing the exquisite drag of the angel's body welcoming him. When he took Aziraphale in hand, he felt him clench tighter around him, and Crowley was flooded with overwhelming pride when Aziraphale shuddered beneath him, pulling Crowley into his own release.

Like before, Crowley lingered far too long. He held Aziraphale close as their breathing slowed, taking shameful pleasure in the afterglow. Aziraphale's fingers traced gentle patterns over his arms and back whilst Crowley buried his face in the crook of the angel's neck, letting the sweet scent of tea and biscuits that always clung to him fill his senses.

When he finally tried to pull away, he felt the subtle resistance in Aziraphale's touch, how those fingers pressed lightly against his back as if to keep him close. But after another gentle nudge, Aziraphale reluctantly released him.

Crowley paused long enough to brush a stray curl back from Aziraphale's forehead, searching those blue eyes for any trace of pain or fear. He found none – just that devastating devotion that made Crowley’s heart both soar and shatter in equal measure.

With a miracle, he cleaned and dressed them both, then cleared his throat before Aziraphale could mention tea and cake.

“Right, well,” he said, not quite meeting Aziraphale’s eyes as he headed for the door. “Same time next week, yeah?”

“Crowley…”

Something in the angel’s voice made him pause. “Yeah?”

“Could you stay? Please…”

Crowley’s shoulders tensed. He turned slowly, taking in the sight of Aziraphale curled on the sofa, knees drawn up with the robe pulled round himself like armour. But his eyes were bright and desperate.

“Aziraphale…” Crowley started, but the words caught in his throat.

“I'm sorry,” Aziraphale said, his voice was already beginning to break. “You must think it terribly needy of me, and I know you must have important work on Earth to return to, but...I don't want this arrangement to change us. I...I'd like you to visit properly, sit with me, talk, play games, listen to music like we used to. I don't want this to be all we are…you coming here once a week to fulfil Hell's requirements.”

The words struck like a blade to the heart, but it was the slight tremor in Aziraphale's voice that undid Crowley completely.

“Why do you leave so quickly now?” Aziraphale continued, tears beginning to gather. “Why do you barely look at me afterwards? I thought…I thought…” He dabbed at his eyes with his sleeve. “Have I misunderstood everything? Am I just…am I just a job to you now?”

The last word came out as barely a whisper, and when the first tear spilt down Aziraphale's cheek, Crowley moved without thinking.

“No, angel, no,” he said urgently, crossing the room in three quick strides. He dropped to his knees beside the sofa, hands hovering uncertainly before settling gently on Aziraphale's arms. “Fuck, no, that's not...you're not a job. You could never be just a job.”

“Then why?” Aziraphale asked brokenly as more tears fell. “Why do you run away from me?”

“Because I'm a bloody idiot,” Crowley said fiercely. “Because I was so terrified of making this harder for you that I made it worse instead.”

He couldn't bear seeing Aziraphale like this. He climbed onto the sofa and gathered the angel into his arms. Aziraphale came willingly, burying his face against Crowley's shoulder as the tears came harder.

“I thought I was giving you space,” Crowley murmured into his hair. “I thought you'd want me gone after...after what we have to do. I didn't want you to feel trapped with me here.”

The half-truth would have to suffice for now. Crowley had been concerned about giving Aziraphale space, but the deeper truth about his own inappropriate feelings lurked beneath the surface, too dangerous to put out in the open.

“Trapped?” Aziraphale pulled back slightly, looking at him with red-rimmed eyes. “Crowley, you're the only thing in this place that makes me feel free.”

Crowley's chest tightened painfully. “Angel…”

“I don't think about them anymore when you touch me,” Aziraphale whispered, voice still thick with tears. “I think about you. About how gentle you are, how safe you make me feel.” He smiled weakly. “What if I told you that the best part of my week isn't...isn't the arrangement itself? It's afterwards, when you hold me and I can pretend, just for a few minutes, that you're here because you want to be.”

“I'd say you're going to be the death of me,” Crowley whispered, cupping Aziraphale's face in his hands and wiping away tears with his thumbs. “I do want to be here, angel.” He pulled him close again, pressing his face into those soft curls. “I’m sorry. I'm so sorry for making you think you didn't matter. You matter more than anything.”

Without thinking, Crowley pressed his lips to Aziraphale's temple, relishing the slight catch in the angel's breath.

“Will you stay?” Aziraphale asked quietly, not pulling away from the gentle pressure of Crowley's lips. “Not just tonight, but...will you go back to visiting me properly? Like before?”

“Every day if you’ll have me,” Crowley said without hesitation. There was no point maintaining the charade anymore; he wouldn't be able to stay away even if he tried, not now. “I’ve…I’ve missed you. Just being with you.” 

“I've missed you, too,” Aziraphale whispered. “So very much.”

They held each other close, and for the first time in two weeks, Crowley felt like he could breathe again.

When he reluctantly pulled back, he kept his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders. “Come on then,” he said softly. “Why don't you try on your new clothes? I'll make us some tea.”

Aziraphale's eyes brightened, the last traces of tears quickly forgotten. “Really? You don't mind?”

“Mind? Angel, I spent a fortune on that outfit specifically so I could see you wear it.” Crowley felt heat rise in his cheeks. “I mean...you should be comfortable. Properly dressed.”

Aziraphale’s smile was warm. “Thank you.”

Crowley busied himself at the kitchenette with the familiar ritual of making tea the way Aziraphale preferred. Despite his attempt to focus on the task, his attention kept drifting to where the angel was carefully laying each garment over the sofa. Without a word, Crowley conjured a full-length mirror against the wall beside the bedroom door, earning himself a pleased smile.

“There’s underwear, too,” Crowley blurted out. “Uh, to wear under the trousers. Hence the name, I guess. It’s…customary.”

Aziraphale gave him a rather coy look as he located the white boxer briefs tucked in the garment bag. Rather than slip them on beneath his robe, as Crowley might have expected, he pulled the robe up over his head and let it pool on the floor.

“You always seem so shy when you see me like this,” Aziraphale said as Crowley pointedly averted his gaze.

“Ngk.” Crowley managed, needlessly stirring the teabag in circles. “Spent too much time on Earth, I suppose. Humans’ awkwardness starts to rub off on you.”

He thought he heard Aziraphale laugh softly, and kept his gaze fixed on the counter, watching the water in the mug turn a deeper shade of brown. When he heard the rustle of fabric – underwear being pulled on, other garments being lifted – he glanced up.

Aziraphale started with the shirt, slipping into the soft cotton. It fitted perfectly, Crowley noted with satisfaction, the cut emphasising his shoulders beautifully. Next came the trousers, deep brown to complement the lighter tan of the waistcoat. As Aziraphale pulled them up over his thighs, Crowley had to look away again before he said something inappropriate.

But when the angel lifted the waistcoat, Crowley's breath caught. Aziraphale was looking at it with such wonder, as though he could hardly believe it was truly his. As he slipped his arms through and began fastening the buttons, Crowley felt something shift inside his chest.

Bloody hell, he's beautiful.

The thought crashed through him in an overwhelming wave. Not just attractive, not just pleasing to look at, but genuinely, devastatingly beautiful. The way the pale blue of the shirt brought out his eyes, the way the jacket settled over his shoulders as he slipped it on...it was like watching art come to life.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked softly. “I seem to be having trouble with…”

Crowley looked up to find the angel fumbling with the bow tie, brow furrowed in concentration as he worked clumsily over it.

“I read about the proper technique,” Aziraphale muttered with frustration. “But I can’t seem to get it right.”

“Here,” Crowley said, abandoning the tea. “Let me help.”

He approached slowly until they were face to face, and Crowley could see the intricate detail of the gold embroidery on the waistcoat, could smell the faint, familiar scent of the angel's skin beneath the fabric.

He reached up to touch the ends of the bow tie, willing his hands to be steady.

“The trick,” Crowley murmured, “is not to overthink it. Just…let your hands remember.”

His fingers worked instinctively over the soft cotton, muscle memory from centuries of formal dress taking over. But he moved slowly, reluctant to finish and step away. Aziraphale was watching him rather than his hands, eyes fixed on Crowley’s face as he folded and wrapped the fabric into the perfect knot.

“There,” he said finally, adjusting the bow so it sat perfectly against Aziraphale's collar. “Perfect.”

But as Aziraphale turned to admire himself in the mirror, dressed in clothes Crowley had chosen especially for him, perfect felt inadequate. It didn’t begin to cover it.

“You look…” Crowley started, then stopped, searching for the words. “You look like yourself. Like the angel you were always meant to be.”

Aziraphale's eyes met his in the mirror, bright with unshed tears of a different kind now. “Do I really?”

“Yeah,” Crowley whispered. “You really do.”

Aziraphale smiled, smoothing his hands down the waistcoat with obvious delight, turning to admire himself from all angles. As he brushed his hands along the trouser sides, his fingers stilled.

“Oh,” he said, looking surprised. “There’s something…” He reached into the pocket and withdrew a small, narrow book with an attached pen. “The previous owner must have left this behind.”

Crowley moved closer to peer over Aziraphale’s shoulder. The little book was old, its brown leather soft and creased with age. Aziraphale opened it, revealing page after page of ruled lines with printed text at the top asking for a name, number, and address.

“It’s empty,” Aziraphale observed, flipping through and finding no writing. 

“It’s an address book,” Crowley explained, pointing to the printed headers. “Humans used to use them to keep track of each other’s details – addresses, phone numbers and such.”

“Used to?” Aziraphale looked up. “They don’t anymore?”

“Not really. Bit old-fashioned. Most people put all that in their phones these days,” Crowley said with a shrug. “More convenient.”

Aziraphale turned the book over in his hands. “How charming. I rather like the idea of having something physical to write important information in.”

“It’s all yours now. Came with the trousers.”

Aziraphale was quiet for a moment, still examining the little book. Then, softly, he said, “Crowley?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you…” Aziraphale hesitated, holding the book out to him as a faint flush coloured his cheeks. “Would you write your address in it? Your home on Earth, I mean. I know I can’t visit, but I’d like to…well, I’d like to know where you are when you’re not here.”

The request was so heartbreakingly simple that for a moment Crowley couldn’t speak. He nodded mutely, accepting the offered book and taking out the attached pen. Aziraphale wanted his address, a way to imagine where Crowley went when he wasn't here. It wasn't much, but it felt like everything, giving Aziraphale a piece of his life outside of Hell.

He turned to the first page and wrote the address for his flat in Mayfair in a neat script, then handed it back with the page still open. Aziraphale studied it, a small smile playing at his lips.

“Anthony J. Crowley. What’s the J stand for?”

Crowley shrugged. “Just a J, really.”

“Mayfair, London,” Aziraphale murmured.

“I wish you could see it,” Crowley blurted out before he could stop himself. “Come and visit me on Earth, I mean.”

Aziraphale's smile turned wistful. “What's it like? Your flat?”

“Nothing special,” Crowley said. “Modern. Lots of windows. Good view of the park. I've got plants everywhere, dozens of them. Probably bore you senseless.”

“I doubt that very much,” Aziraphale said softly. “I should love to see your plants. And the view. And…” He trailed off, looking down at the address book in his hands. “I should love to see your world, Crowley. The bookshops, the cafés, all those places humans have built. Paris…”

Crowley's chest ached with the longing in the angel's voice. “You'd love it, angel. The bookstalls along the river, all the little shops. And the food. Proper croissants, pain au chocolat…” He trailed off, unsure if it was cruel to list what Aziraphale was missing, everything he wished he could show him.

“It sounds wonderful,” Aziraphale whispered, clutching the address book to his chest.

They stood for a moment, Aziraphale glancing back to the mirror as he continued tweaking the ends of his waistcoat. Crowley found himself studying the collar around Aziraphale’s throat, the dark band peeking out over the top of the shirt. For the first time since the day they met, he really looked at it, locked in on the pulse of infernal energy, the invisible runes etched into the metal that his demon eyes could see if he really concentrated.

Could it be removed? The thought struck him suddenly, powerfully. Surely there has to be a way. Nothing in Hell was permanent. Everything had loopholes, technicalities, ways around the rules if you were clever enough to find them.

Aziraphale carefully tucked the address book into his waistcoat pocket and smiled, gesturing to the kitchenette. “Shall we have that tea with some cake?”

Crowley blinked himself free of his thoughts and returned the smile.

“Yeah, angel. That sounds perfect.”

Chapter Text

Crowley kept his word. He stayed with Aziraphale that night and the following day. And the one after that. In fact, he barely left the angel's side all week, slipping back to Earth only for brief interludes: a spot of mischief-making here, restocking teabags and treats there.

When he was in his quarters with Aziraphale, they talked for hours about Aziraphale's latest literary discoveries, current world events, art and philosophy…it was wonderful. It was exactly what Crowley had been aching for during those awful weeks of self-imposed exile.

But it was also becoming increasingly dangerous to his peace of mind.

Because between the conversations and shared meals, between listening to Aziraphale read aloud in that sweet voice of his and watching him conduct invisible orchestras while Vivaldi played on the record player, their friendship had shifted into something else entirely. Something that, Crowley suspected, were they both human, might quite reasonably be called a relationship.

And Crowley couldn't even lay all the blame on Aziraphale; he was equally incapable of keeping his distance now. He no longer sat in the armchair when they spent time together. Instead, he'd migrated to the opposite end of the sofa from Aziraphale's usual spot, sharing the space.

On the evening after he’d promised Aziraphale he’d stay, the angel had shuffled closer on the sofa to show Crowley a particularly fascinating passage in a book, practically tucking himself against Crowley's shoulder to do so. But when he'd finished, he didn't retreat. Rather, he lingered, settling into Crowley's side as though he belonged there.

Crowley's heart began hammering so violently it drowned out everything else, including, he suspected, the frantic thrumming of Aziraphale's own pulse as the angel pretended to return to his reading. Crowley's arm, which had been draped casually over the back of the sofa, seemed to move entirely of its own accord until his hand came to rest against Aziraphale's shoulder, earning him a soft, pleased little sound.

It was like this most days now. They found excuses to be near each other: Aziraphale curling beside him whilst reading, both of them leaning over the same book to look at illustrations, Aziraphale unconsciously gravitating towards wherever Crowley was standing. Small touches that seemed innocent enough, but were adding up to something that felt decidedly…couple-like.

Now when they talked, or read, or listened to music, they sat pressed together from shoulder to knee. Aziraphale would tuck himself against Crowley's side, and Crowley was never quite sure whether it was subconscious or deliberate.

When Thursday came around again, Crowley could sense that something else had shifted. Aziraphale kept stealing shy glances at him from the moment Crowley arrived, his finger tracing the rim of his teacup as they sat together on the sofa, talking about everything and nothing.

It was Aziraphale who prompted them to begin, standing and carefully removing his tailored jacket to drape over the armchair.

“Uh, angel, you don’t need to take all that off,” Crowley muttered roughly when the angel’s waistcoat and shirt joined the growing pile. He tried (and failed) not to let his gaze linger on the impossibly soft-looking chest hair that swirled around Aziraphale's nipples and down to his navel.

Aziraphale gave him a small smile. “I’d rather not get my new things…dirty,” he said, and Crowley nearly choked.

“Right. Well. In that case, are you putting the robe back on?”

Aziraphale paused, hands at the waistband of his trousers. “Would you like me to?”

Crowley shook his head too quickly. “No. I mean...uh. I don't mind. If you're comfortable without...”

Aziraphale glanced at his old robe, neatly folded on the armchair, but looked back at him with a shy smile. “I’m fine without.”

Crowley nodded stiffly, pressing the heels of his hands into the tops of his thighs. He felt he should do the same, wanted to do the same, to feel their skin pressed together without any frustrating barriers between them. But he had no practical reason for undressing completely, other than admitting why he wanted to, which he absolutely could not do.

So Crowley stood and removed his jeans, waiting for Aziraphale to take his usual place on the sofa. But the angel lingered, watching him until Crowley met his eyes.

“Angel?”

“Would you…that is to say, would you mind sitting here?” Aziraphale asked softly, gesturing towards the sofa.

“What?”

Aziraphale blushed heavily. “I’d like…to be on top of you this time, if that’s alright.”

Crowley's brain nearly short-circuited. He watched the flush spread down Aziraphale's throat and across his chest, his mouth going dry.

“Ngk. Yeah…yeah, we can do that.”

On trembling legs, Crowley practically collapsed onto the sofa cushion. He could only watch with helpless desire as Aziraphale shed his remaining clothes, leaving himself completely bare. Crowley's gaze roamed unabashedly over the angel's exposed form as he approached and settled carefully over his lap, thighs bracketing Crowley's hips.

Aziraphale hardened instantly under Crowley’s touch, letting out soft, breathy sounds as Crowley worked him open. When he finally positioned himself, Aziraphale sank down with a sigh, fingers threading into the hair at the back of Crowley's neck. Crowley held still for a moment, savouring the sensation, but the angel was having none of it – lifting himself only to drop back down with such force that it yanked a deep groan from the bottom of Crowley's throat.

“A-Aziraphale…” Crowley gasped as the angel moved above him, hips working in short, tight circles to grind himself into Crowley's lap, fingers becoming talons against the demon's scalp. “Fuck, angel. Where…where did you learn that…” he asked with a breathless chuckle.

Aziraphale's answer was a sheepish grin and a particularly devastating roll of his hips that left Crowley seeing stars.

It was too much, the impossible heat, the short, sharp movements of Aziraphale’s body against him; Crowley was racing towards his release all too soon.

“Ngk. Fuck,” Crowley hissed, fingers digging into Aziraphale’s hips as he came, spilling into the angel's body, which continued grinding against him, drawing out every last tremor.

Aziraphale was still hard and leaking against him, and Crowley openly stared at the angel’s cock as he came down from his high. With gentle hands, he eased Aziraphale up until he slipped free, but when he tried to climb off, Crowley nudged him closer, sliding his hands along the backs of his thighs to anchor him there.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale murmured, fingers still wound in Crowley’s hair.

Crowley barely registered his name, so focused on the thick length before him, hard and wanting. “You’re bloody gorgeous like this,” he murmured, leaning forward to taste the bead of moisture at Aziraphale's tip. The subtle sweetness of it burst across his tongue, and he looked up, locking eyes with the angel.

Aziraphale made a broken, pleading sound, staring down at him with wide eyes. Crowley grinned, swallowing his cock down to the hilt in one smooth motion. The angel cried out, back arching, head thrown back.

Crowley moaned around the weight and taste filling his mouth, relishing the way Aziraphale’s entire body trembled, the way his hands fluttered, unsure whether to hold Crowley’s head or the top of the sofa. Crowley set a punishing pace with his lips and tongue, the angel’s cock pistoning helplessly between his lips. Aziraphale was already close, Crowley could tell, the way his body tensed and shook, the desperate, wordless sounds spilling from his lips.

He slid a hand up Aziraphale’s thigh to circle a finger around the slick, dripping entrance. The moment he pressed just inside, Aziraphale’s whole body spasmed.

“Oh, fuck, Crowley…” Aziraphale cried, voice breaking on Crowley’s name.

Crowley hummed deep in his throat and sucked harder, letting his finger slip deeper, stretching Aziraphale open as he swallowed around him. He crooked his finger, searching for that spot, and when he found it, Aziraphale's hands shot to his hair, gripping tight.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, please…” Aziraphale babbled, his entire body rolling helplessly against Crowley’s mouth.

Crowley added a second finger, matching the rhythm of his mouth and tongue. The angel’s thighs clenched tight around Crowley’s head, and then Aziraphale came with a strangled sob, cock pulsing and spilling down Crowley’s throat. Crowley swallowed every drop, his fingers never losing pace.

Aziraphale collapsed against him, and Crowley gently guided him down until he was curled up in Crowley’s lap, trembling with aftershocks. He panted heavily into Crowley’s throat, hands clutching the fabric of his shirt as he slowly returned to himself.

“You…you didn’t have to do that,” Aziraphale whispered after a while, eyes still dazed.

“I wanted to,” Crowley confessed before he could stop himself, pressing his lips to Aziraphale’s temple in a way that had become second nature. As always, Aziraphale held himself perfectly still, eyes fluttering shut as he savoured the gentle contact.

They stayed wound together for a long while, slowly shifting further down the sofa until they were lying side by side, Aziraphale's head pillowed against Crowley's chest. Unlike last time, Crowley didn't pull away; he stayed, tracing gentle fingers over the angel’s bare shoulders whilst listening to his soft breathing against his neck.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale murmured, and Crowley could sense the angel was on the verge of saying something, possibly mustering courage.

“Tea?” Crowley cut in before Aziraphale could gather his thoughts. “We could open that pack of angel slices.”

He felt Aziraphale smile against his throat. “Was there a particular reason you brought me those?”

“None whatsoever, angel,” Crowley said with a grin, carefully sitting up and letting Aziraphale slide from his chest.

He dressed and set about sorting the cake and tea, trying to ignore his heart hammering against his ribs. He had to avoid this, had to keep talking, keep moving, or he'd do something insane like confess how he felt.

***

A couple of days later, after a brief stint on Earth to short-circuit some powerlines and pick up some crumpets and Irish butter, Crowley returned to his quarters to find Aziraphale reading another of those romance novels, tucked beneath a blanket on the sofa in his beloved waistcoat and bowtie.

“Good book?” Crowley asked, settling into his usual spot beside him. 

“I know it’s silly,” Aziraphale said with a shy smile, stifling a yawn behind his hand. “But they are actually quite riveting.” He glanced up. “I find the rather dramatic declarations of devotion quite stirring, even if some of the methods are questionable.”

Crowley settled back against the cushions, and without seeming to think about it, Aziraphale shifted closer until he was pressed against Crowley's side, using his shoulder as a backrest. It was such a natural movement that Crowley almost didn't notice – save for the way his pulse quickened at the contact.

This is dangerous, he thought, even as his arm came up automatically to rest along the back of the sofa, creating a comfortable space for Aziraphale to lean into him. You're getting too comfortable with this. He's getting too comfortable with this.

Aziraphale settled back against Crowley's side with a small, contented sigh.

“I'm glad you’re here so often now,” he said quietly. “I know I've said it before, but...these visits make this place bearable.”

“Angel…” Crowley started, then stopped, not sure what he was trying to say. I love spending time with you too. I think about you constantly when I'm not here. You're everything to me, and it's terrifying.

“I know it's selfish,” Aziraphale continued, apparently taking Crowley's silence as discomfort. “Keeping you here so much when you have important work to do. But I can't help being grateful for it.”

“It's not selfish,” Crowley said firmly. “And it's not a hardship, angel. I like being here with you.”

The understatement was laughable, but it was as close to the truth as he dared get. 

Aziraphale tilted his head to look up at him, and there was something soft and wondering in his expression that made Crowley's breath catch.

“Do you really?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah,” Crowley managed. “Really.”

They looked at each other for a long moment, and Crowley was acutely aware of how close they were, how Aziraphale's face was tilted up toward his, how easy it would be to lean down and...

Aziraphale's eyes fluttered closed, and for one heart-stopping second, Crowley thought he was going to do something irreversibly stupid.

Instead, he pressed a gentle kiss to Aziraphale's forehead and murmured, “You should finish your chapter. Can’t leave that loved-up couple hanging.”

Aziraphale's eyes opened again, and there was something that might have been disappointment flickering there before he smiled and settled back against Crowley's side.

“Quite right,” he said, picking up his book again. “Though I suspect I already know how it ends.”

“Happily ever after, knowing you,” Crowley said, trying to keep his voice light. “You don't go in for tragic endings.”

“No,” Aziraphale agreed softly. “I much prefer stories where people who care about each other find their way to happiness, despite the obstacles.”

Something tightened in Crowley's chest, and he let out the quietest sigh he could manage.

But Aziraphale was already absorbed in his book again, and Crowley allowed himself to enjoy this closeness. Tried not to notice the way Aziraphale unconsciously played with the fabric of Crowley's shirt whilst he read, or how perfectly the angel's weight settled against him.

He was close enough that Crowley could glimpse the metal band peeking above his shirt collar – the one thing that still made Aziraphale tense, even around Crowley. The demon understood why. Even though he couldn't fully comprehend the collar's workings, he could sense its overwhelming demonic energy, could feel its volatile potential. It was a ticking bomb, liable to go off if someone who didn't know what they were doing tried to tamper with it. It would certainly discorporate Crowley, and quite possibly destroy Aziraphale in the process.

He hadn't broached the subject yet; he wasn't sure whether he should until he had at least some notion of how to remove the damned thing. He didn't want to give Aziraphale false hope until he had the semblance of a plan.

Aziraphale stifled another yawn against his shoulder.

“Angel, if you’re tired, you should go to sleep.”

Aziraphale smiled weakly. “Technically, it’s not actually possible for me to be tired.”

“I know, but sleeping's a tough habit to break once you’re in it,” Crowley said with a gentle smile, removing his arm from around Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Seriously, go have a nap if you want.”

Aziraphale glanced towards the bedroom, but Crowley caught the hesitance there, the slight worry of his bottom lip between his teeth.

“You’re worried I won’t be here when you wake up,” he said softly, noting the flash of guilt that crossed the angel’s face. He touched Aziraphale's hand where it rested on his knee. “I’ll stay, angel. Promise.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. In fact, I’m a big fan of sleep myself. Think I’ll join you.”

Crowley shifted until he was leaning back against the sofa's armrest and plumped the cushion behind him. Aziraphale was staring at him with wide eyes before looking away hurriedly.

“Oh. I see.”

“What?”

“I thought…” He gave a small smile. “When you said join me, I thought you meant…” He glanced meaningfully towards the bedroom, and Crowley felt heat creep up the back of his neck. “You can, if you like,” Aziraphale continued before Crowley could respond. “The bed's plenty big enough for both of us, if you...if you wanted to sleep properly instead of cramming yourself onto the sofa.”

Crowley's mouth went dry. Aziraphale was inviting him to share the bed. Together. Like a couple.

Don’t you dare, his mind warned. Don’t even think about it.

“That’s…that’s your space,” he said weakly.

“I don’t mind, Crowley, really. If you'd prefer it, I mean. The sofa can't be terribly comfortable.”

Crowley could see the hope warring with embarrassment in those blue eyes. The angel wanted this, to share a bed with someone who cared about him. And damn it all, Crowley wanted it too. Wanted it with such a fierce longing it should have terrified him.

“Yeah,” he heard himself saying. “Yeah, alright. If you're sure you don't mind.”

“I don't mind,” Aziraphale said quickly, his face brightening. “I don't mind at all.”

They made their way to the small bedroom, where the neatly made bed waited. Aziraphale switched on the bedside lamp and plucked up his pyjamas that were folded atop one of the pillows.

“I’ll just change into these.”

“Course,” Crowley said, then hesitated. “I, uh, I usually just sleep in my pants. Underwear, I mean. Is that…?”

The colour in Aziraphale’s cheeks deepened. “That’s perfectly fine,” he said, his voice slightly breathless. 

The way he said it, with just a hint of something that might have been interest, made Crowley's own face burn. He busied himself with removing his shirt and jeans, trying not to think about the fact that Aziraphale would see him like this, relaxed and undressed and vulnerable in a way the angel hadn’t seen him before.

The bedroom was still starkly simple; Crowley hadn’t done much to it over the months, unlike the main room. Dark, stone walls absorbed what little light the bedside lamp provided, creating deep shadows that pooled at the corners. At the foot of the bed, the copper bathtub still sat, gleaming dully in the lamplight.

When he turned around, Aziraphale was clad in his soft cotton pyjamas, his gaze fixed rather obviously on Crowley's bare chest, drinking him in.

Crowley couldn’t help but smirk. “My eyes are up here, angel.”

Aziraphale’s gaze darted guiltily up to meet his, but there was a cheeky glint there. “Well, I figured since I always seem to catch you staring at me, it only fair I return the favour.” 

“Ngk.” Crowley resisted the urge to turn away, reddening further as Aziraphale chuckled softly. 

Aziraphale climbed into the bed and settled beneath the sheets. Crowley followed suit on the other side, but his body met a soft fabric that definitely wasn’t bedding.

He lifted the sheets to find a black jacket of his, the one he’d shrugged off the last time he’d been in Aziraphale’s room and forgotten all about. It was tucked up along what would be his side of the bed.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said quietly, a deep blush spreading across his cheeks. “I…I meant to move that.”

Crowley held up the jacket, studying the angel’s mortified expression. The fabric still carried the faintest trace of his cologne and a distinctly earthy smell. “You’ve been sleeping with this?”

“It's not...I didn't…” Aziraphale's blush deepened, spreading down his throat. “It smells like you,” he admitted in a whisper. “When you weren't here, it was...comforting.”

Something warm and tender unfurled in Crowley's chest. The thought of Aziraphale curled up alone in this bed, clutching his jacket to comfort against loneliness, was both heartbreaking and oddly touching.

“Angel,” Crowley said softly, setting the jacket aside on the bedside table. “It's alright. More than alright, actually.”

“Is it?” Aziraphale asked uncertainly.

“Yeah.” Crowley reached across the small space between them, brushing his fingers against Aziraphale's hand. “You can keep it, if you like.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Crowley settled back against his pillow. “I'm rather flattered that you missed me enough to cuddle my clothes.”

“Don't tease,” Aziraphale said, but he was smiling now, the embarrassment fading into something softer.

The mattress dipped beneath their combined weight, and suddenly the space between them felt impossibly small.

“Comfortable?” Crowley asked, lying on his side facing Aziraphale.

“Very,” Aziraphale replied, mirroring his position. “Thank you. For staying, I mean.”

“Told you I would.”

They lay there side by side in the amber glow from the bedside lamp, eyes locked across the tiny gap between them. It was quiet and intimate in a way that Crowley found both soothing and terrifying. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale whispered.

“Yeah?”

“I'm glad you're here. Not just now, but...in general. I know I keep saying it, but I need you to know how much it means to me. Having you here, being able to talk to you, to just...exist with you.”

“Angel,” Crowley said softly, reaching out to brush a strand of hair back from Aziraphale's forehead. “You don't have to thank me for wanting to spend time with you.”

Aziraphale's eyes fluttered closed at the gentle touch, and when they opened again, there was something different in them. Something determined.

“I know. But I want to thank you anyway. For everything,” Aziraphale breathed, and then he was leaning in, closing the distance between them.

The kiss was soft, tentative, like a question. Aziraphale's lips were warm and gentle against his, and for a moment, Crowley's mind went completely blank. Every rational thought fled, replaced by the overwhelming sensation of finally, finally kissing his angel.

He kissed back without thinking, his hand coming up to cup Aziraphale's face, deepening the contact. Aziraphale made a pleased noise against his mouth, and Crowley felt something in his chest crack wide open.

The kiss deepened, became more urgent. Aziraphale's hands found Crowley's chest, fingers spreading over the warm skin, and Crowley could feel his careful control beginning to slip. The angel's lips were so soft, so eager, and when Aziraphale's tongue tentatively touched his lower lip, asking for more, Crowley nearly lost himself entirely.

It was clumsy and desperate and everything Crowley wanted. Their tongues met, and he slid his hands into Aziraphale’s curls, drawing him closer, and the angel made one of those sweet sounds that went straight to Crowley’s core. They were pressed together now, nothing but thin pyjama fabric and Crowley's boxer briefs between them, and he could feel heat building, the unmistakable longing in them both.

That's when reality crashed back in.

“No,” Crowley gasped, pulling away so abruptly that Aziraphale made a wounded noise of confusion. “No, we can't. We can't do this.”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale was breathless, bewildered, with kiss-swollen lips and mussed hair. He looked so beautiful, so trusting, that it made Crowley's heart ache. “What's wrong?”

“This is wrong,” Crowley said, sitting up and raking his hands through his hair. “This whole thing is wrong. I shouldn't have...we shouldn't have…”

“Why?” Aziraphale sat up as well, reaching out as though to touch him, but Crowley flinched away. “I thought...I thought this was what we both wanted.”

“It doesn't matter what you want,” Crowley snapped, then immediately regretted it when Aziraphale recoiled as if he'd been struck. Crowley’s hands flexed uselessly in his lap. “That's not...fuck, that's not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” Aziraphale whispered, hurt seeping in around the edges of his voice.

“I meant that you can't want this. Not really. Not freely.” Crowley scrambled out of bed and reached for his clothes, desperate to put some distance between them, to rebuild the walls that had just come crashing down. “You're grateful, that's all. Grateful for someone who doesn't hurt you. But that's not the same as actually wanting me.”

“That's not true,” Aziraphale insisted, reaching across the bed towards him. “Crowley, that's not true at all. What I feel for you—”

“Is Stockholm syndrome,” Crowley interrupted, yanking his shirt on sharply. “Or trauma bonding, or whatever it’s called when prisoners start caring about their captors.”

“You're not my captor,” Aziraphale protested. “You're the demon who saved me. You're the demon who's shown me more kindness and care than I've known in over a century. You're—”

“I'm the demon who's been fucking you every Thursday because Hell demands it,” Crowley snarled, hating himself for the way Aziraphale flinched at his words. “I'm the demon who has complete power over every aspect of your existence. How can you possibly think what you feel for me is real?”

“Because I know my own heart,” Aziraphale said quietly, but with steel beneath the softness. “Because I know the difference between gratitude and love.”

A jagged knife sliced through Crowley’s heart. “Don't,” he said sharply. “Don't say that word.”

“Why not?” Aziraphale's voice grew stronger now. He climbed out of bed to stand and face him. “Why can't I say that I love you when it's true?”

“Because it can't be true,” Crowley said desperately, pulling on his jeans with trembling hands. “It can't be real. Not under these circumstances. Not when you have no choice.”

“I do have a choice,” Aziraphale insisted, moving closer. “Maybe not about being here, maybe not about the arrangement, but I have a choice about how I feel. About what I do with those feelings. And I choose you, Crowley. I choose to love you.”

“You don't know what you're saying,” Crowley said, backing towards the door. “You're confused, or…or traumatised, or…”

“I'm not confused,” Aziraphale said, advancing steadily, hands clasped at his heart. “I'm not traumatised. I know exactly what I'm saying, and I know exactly what I feel. I love you, Crowley. Not because you saved me, not because you're kind to me, not because I'm grateful – though I am. I love you because of who you are. Because you make me laugh, because you challenge me, because you see me as more than just a broken angel who needs fixing.”

“Stop,” Crowley said, his voice breaking. “Please, just stop.”

Aziraphale halted just short of him. “Crowley, I understand our situation is complicated.”

“It’s more than a bit bloody complicated, angel!” Crowley burst out as his back hit the door. “Please…you have to stop.”

“I love you,” Aziraphale said simply, standing just out of reach but close enough that Crowley could see the tears gathering in his eyes. “And I think...I think you love me too. And that terrifies you.”

“Of course it terrifies me,” Crowley snapped, his head falling back against the door with a dull thud. “Aziraphale, can you honestly tell me that you'd still feel this way if we'd met under different circumstances? If you weren't trapped down here with me?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to respond, but there was a moment – just a split second – where he hesitated, his gaze flickering away.

That hesitation was everything Crowley needed to see.

“I can’t,” Crowley said, shaking his head desperately, “I can’t take advantage of that uncertainty. I’m sorry.”

“Crowley—”

Crowley's hand found the door handle. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry for letting this happen, for kissing you back, for...for all of it.”

“Please don't leave,” Aziraphale begged, the raw pain nearly shattering Crowley’s resolve. “Not like this. Not when we finally—”

“I'm sorry,” Crowley repeated, and then he was through the door, through the main room, through the protective wards, fleeing like the coward he was.

***

Crowley wasn’t sure how long he’d been pacing the streets of Soho, his mind a chaotic storm of self-loathing and panic. He kept replaying the scene: Aziraphale’s soft, insistent confession, the sweet taste of his lips, the way he’d said “I love you” like it was the most natural thing in the world. The way Crowley had run away in terror.

Fuck, fuck fuck, he raged at himself, turning another sharp corner only to find himself back on the street he’d stormed down ten minutes earlier. You complete and utter bastard. He opens his heart to you and you…you…

But what else could he have done? Let Aziraphale know his feelings were reciprocated when they couldn’t be trusted? Let himself fall completely only to have his heart shattered when Aziraphale inevitably came to his senses?

A sharp whistle made him jump violently. He looked up to see Nina standing in the doorway of Give Me Coffee Or Give Me Death, arms crossed, fixing him with a no-nonsense stare that could strip paint.

“Right,” she said, stepping aside and jerking her head towards the shop. “Inside. Now.”

“Nina—”

“I said inside,” she repeated firmly. “You've been prowling around out here like an agitated cat passing my window over and over, and it’s doing my head in. Whatever's got you wound up like this needs sorting, and you're not doing it out here where you're liable to get yourself run over.”

Crowley wanted to argue, wanted to tell her he was fine and continue his aimless wandering, but something in her expression told him she wouldn’t accept any excuses. He followed her into the warm, coffee-scented sanctuary of her shop, the bell above the door jingly far too merrily. 

Nina locked the door behind them and flipped the sign to ‘Closed’, despite it not even being five o’clock yet. 

“Sit,” she commanded, pointing to a table in the corner. “I’ll get you a drink.”

“I don’t need—”

“You need something,” she said, already moving behind the counter.

Crowley slumped into the chair, head in his hands and elbows propped on the table, until a steaming mug was placed under his nose. He looked up, frowning as an earthy scent hit his nostrils.

“You’re not having your usual in this state, it’s green tea,” Nina clarified as she pulled out the chair opposite and sat down. “And you're going to drink it while you tell me why you look like you've just committed murder.”

“Maybe I have,” Crowley muttered.

“Whose?”

“My own, probably.”

“Right. Start from the beginning.”

Crowley took the smallest possible sip from the mug, wincing as the bitter taste hit his tongue. “Disgusting,” he muttered.

“Quit stalling,” Nina warned.

Crowley sighed heavily. “Right. You…you remember that person I told you about last time I was here?”

“I had a feeling it was related to them,” Nina said, settling back in her chair. “Didn’t go well, then?”

“It…well, that actually did go rather well,” Crowley muttered, running a hand through his hair as he tried to banish the thoughts of just how well that particular aspect of things had been progressing. “...it’s been…wonderful with him.”

“Okay…so?”

Crowley winced, curling his hands around the warm mug. “He’s developed…feelings for me.”

Nina slowly raised an eyebrow. “The bloke you're sleeping with has developed feelings for you?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow,” Nina said, her expression deadpan. “Stop the presses.”

Crowley shot her a withering look. “Nina, I’m serious.”

“So am I,” Nina said, unable to help the smirk creeping onto her face. “He’s developed feelings for you, so what’s wrong with that? Aren’t you a bit old to be playing the field?”

“That’s not the point,” Crowley snapped, then winced despite Nina's complete lack of reaction. “He can't love me. Not really. Not when he's...when I'm…” He gestured helplessly, his mind scrambling for a way to explain his situation in human terms.

“When he’s what? When you’re what?” Nina leaned across the table. “What's actually going on with this bloke?”

Crowley let out a long breath, rubbing his temples. “He's...he's homeless, alright?” he said, inspiration striking. “His family disowned him, and he's got nowhere else to go. No one else to turn to. So he's been staying with me.”

"At your place?" Nina asked, her tone shifting slightly.

Crowley nodded. “Yeah,” he murmured, gazing off through the front windows of the shop, watching as fat drops of rain spattered against the glass. “So you see what I mean? It's not...I can't trust that he knows how he feels, you know? Because he depends on me for everything. How can anything he feels for me be real under those circumstances?”

Nina studied him for a long moment, her brow furrowing into a serious expression.

“Right, before this goes any further, let me ask you something.”

Crowley inclined his head.

“How old is this bloke, exactly?” she asked, fixing him with a stern look. “I mean, is he age-appropriate for you, or is this some naïve lad fresh out of school?”

Crowley shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny. “We’re the same age.”

This was true in both senses. All angels – Crowley having formerly been one – were created by Her at the same time, making him and Aziraphale the same age in terms of their long existence. As for their corporations, he was certain they inhabited bodies of similar human physicality.

Nina seemed to relax slightly, her shoulders settling. “Right. Well, in that case, it sounds like you’re not giving him much credit.”

Crowley furrowed his brows. “What?”

Nina shrugged. “He’s an adult. He can make his own choices and understand his own feelings. Sounds a bit like you’ve made this choice for him. What exactly happened?”

“I…told him he’d just trauma bonded to me, that he was just grateful I’d been kind to him,” Crowley muttered, grimacing at how harsh his words sounded when repeated to someone else.

Nina was quiet for a long moment, studying his face. “And what did he say to that?”

“He said he knew his own heart. That he knew the difference between gratitude and love.” Crowley's voice wavered. “He said he loved me because of who I am, not because of what I've done for him.”

“Hmm.” Nina crossed her arms. “And you didn't believe him.”

“How could I? How could I trust it when the power balance is so…” Crowley made another helpless gesture. “He doesn't have any real choice, Nina. He can't just walk away if this goes wrong.”

“Can you?”

The question caught him off guard. “What?”

“Can you walk away? If this goes wrong, if he decides he doesn't want you anymore, would you kick him out?”

“I…” Crowley stopped, the words dying in his throat. Because the answer was no, absolutely not. Even if Aziraphale rejected him completely, even if he never wanted to see Crowley again, Crowley couldn't abandon him. Wouldn't. “No. No, I couldn't do that.”

“So you're just as trapped as he is, then.”

“That's different.”

“Is it?” Nina's voice was sharp. “Seems like you both have reasons to stay that go beyond having to be there.”

“But I have the power in this relationship—”

“Do you?” Nina interrupted. “It sounds like he has quite a lot of power over you as well. Power to hurt you, power to make you happy, power to send you into a complete tailspin just by saying three little words.”

Crowley stared at her, the hot mug scorching his palms.

“Look,” Nina continued, her voice softening. “I'm not saying the situation isn't complicated. It is. Power imbalances can cause real harm. But Crowley...what you're describing doesn't sound like someone who's been coerced into feeling something. It sounds like someone brave enough to be honest about what they want despite difficult circumstances.”

“But what if I'm wrong?” Crowley asked desperately. “What if I let myself believe this is real and it's not? What if I hurt him?”

“What if you're right?” Nina countered. “What if it is real, and you're throwing it away because you're too scared to take the risk?”

“I can't—”

“Can't what? Be happy? Let yourself be loved?” Nina's expression was almost pitying now. “Crowley, you’re clearly head over heels over this bloke, and he’s told you he feels the same way, and you’re running from it because…why? Because it might not work out?”

“Because if it's not real, it'll destroy him,” Crowley said quietly. “And if it is real...fuck, Nina, if it's real and I mess it up somehow, if I can't be what he needs…”

“Then you'll deal with it when it happens,” Nina said firmly. “But you can't protect either of you from potential hurt by guaranteeing actual hurt right now.”

Crowley closed his eyes. “I left him,” he whispered. “I left him there, alone, after he...after he opened his heart to me. He probably thinks I was disgusted, or that he did something wrong.”

“Then you'd better go back and fix it,” Nina said simply.

“I don't know how.”

“You could start with an apology,” Nina suggested. “Then try being honest about how you feel instead of making decisions for both of you about what's real and what isn't.”

Crowley looked up at her, seeing something like hope flickering in the depths of his despair. “You really think...?”

“I think,” Nina said carefully, “that love doesn't ask permission before it shows up. It doesn't wait for perfect circumstances. And I think you're an idiot if you let fear make you throw away what could be the best thing that's ever happened to you.”

She reached across the table and patted his hand briefly. “Go home, Crowley. Go back to him. And for fuck's sake, try trusting that he knows his own mind.”

Crowley pushed his barely touched green tea aside and stood, feeling resolve settling in his chest. “Thanks,” he said quietly. He headed for the door, but paused with his hand on the handle. “Nina…what if he doesn’t want to see me? After the way I left?”

Nina gave him a look that was equal parts exasperated and fond. “Then you grovel until he forgives you. And next time you have a crisis, maybe try talking to him before you come to me. Communication works wonders in relationships.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Crowley said with a weak smile, opting not to mention how Nina had practically dragged him into her shop.

The journey back to Hell felt different this time. Crowley had a plan now: he would apologise properly, be honest about his feelings instead of hiding behind fear, and trust Aziraphale to know his own heart the way the angel had been asking him to do all along.

Most importantly, he would stop running.

The familiar corridors of Hell stretched before him, and Crowley quickened his pace. He needed to get back to Aziraphale, needed to fix what he'd broken with his cowardice. The angel was probably beside himself with worry, probably blaming himself for everything. The thought made Crowley's chest constrict with guilt.

I'm coming back, he thought desperately. I'm sorry, angel, but I'm coming back.

He reached his quarters and stopped dead.

Something was wrong. The protective wards were still intact, still recognising him and preparing to grant him entry, but there was something...off about them. Something that made his skin prickle with unease.

Crowley pressed his hand against the invisible barrier, feeling for the source of the disturbance. The wards retained the essence of everyone who passed through them, and as he concentrated, he could sense the residue left behind.

His own signature, of course, from when he'd fled earlier. But there was something else. Someone else had crossed these wards recently. Someone had been in his quarters.

No, Crowley realised with mounting horror. Not someone going in. 

Someone had left.

Crowley's blood turned to ice in his veins.

Aziraphale.

Chapter Text

Crowley burst through the door to his quarters, hands shaking so violently it was a wonder he didn't snap the handle clean off. The room was exactly as he'd left it; Aziraphale's romance novel splayed open on the coffee table where he'd abandoned it to follow Crowley to bed, his tea cold beside it.

And as his blood-chilling dread had confirmed when he'd felt the wards record Aziraphale's departure: no angel waiting for him.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley called out.

Nothing but oppressive silence.

He tore into the bedroom, hope dying like the last ember of a fire. The bed was unmade from where they'd disturbed it earlier, Aziraphale's clothes neatly folded at the bottom, and the sheets twisted from where they'd lain together just before their first real kiss.

No one had been here since. The wards would have told him if anyone had crossed the threshold. Which meant...

Aziraphale had left willingly. Had stepped out into Hell's unprotected corridors alone.

He was gone.

“No,” Crowley whispered, raking his hands through his hair as panic began to unravel in his chest. “No, no, no, no…”

Why would he leave? After everything, why would he…

But he knew why. Because Crowley had thrown his love back in his face. Because he'd made the angel feel unwanted, unloved, cast aside.

Crowley burst from his quarters like a being possessed, tearing through Hell's endless corridors wildly. He started with the lower levels around the residential area, careening around corners and down passages, hoping for any glimpse of blond curls or striped pyjamas. Nothing but dark stone and closed doors greeted him. He hammered his fist against a few of them, but there was no response from any, and the few he managed to force open were empty.

The familiar fluorescent-lit passages blurred past as he climbed towards the bureaucratic levels, where lesser demons scurried about clutching their endless paperwork. Here, surely, someone would have seen…

The first demon he encountered – a snivelling creature with six eyes – dropped his files when Crowley honed in on him like an avenging spirit.

“An angel,” Crowley snarled, grabbing the demon by his grimy collar. “Blond, blue eyes, wearing pyjamas. Have you seen him?”

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the demon stammered.

Crowley slammed him against the wall so hard that dust rained down from the ceiling and a light fixture blinked out. “Think harder,” he growled.

“I swear, I haven’t seen any angels!”

Crowley released him with a disgusted snarl and stormed deeper into Hell's bowels. Turning a corner, the administrative quarter stretched before him, a maze of corridors and offices with incessant flickering lights that cast dancing shadows on the walls. This was the most likely place for someone to have spotted a lost angel wandering where he shouldn't be.

Near the break room, he cornered a group of minor demons clustered around a coffee machine. He snatched off his sunglasses so they couldn't miss the fury blazing in his serpentine eyes.

“An angel's been wandering around here,” he hissed. “Where’d he go?”

The demons exchanged nervous glances. One of them (either the bravest or the most stupid) stepped forward. “We don't have to tell you anything. You're not our superior.”

In one fluid motion, Crowley had the demon pinned against the wall by his throat, feet dangling uselessly above the ground.

“You’re right,” Crowley said almost casually, tightening his grip so the demon gasped. “I’m not your superior. I’m something much worse than that: I’m desperate. And desperate demons do terrible things to get what they want.” 

Like startled cockroaches, the other demons scattered in a flurry of paper cups and smoke.

“Please,” the demon in Crowley’s grasp wheezed. “I don’t know anything—”

“Wrong answer.” Crowley’s grip tightened further until he could feel delicate bones grinding beneath his fingers. “I can smell lies, and you absolutely reek of them.”

“Alright, alright!” The demon's feet scrabbled uselessly against the wall. “Maybe I saw something.”

Crowley released him so suddenly he crumpled to the floor like a puppet. “Talk.”

Rubbing his bruised throat, the demon glared up with resentful eyes. “A little while ago, an angel was led through the main corridor. Someone official-looking had him.”

“Led by whom?”

“I don't know! Couldn't see properly—but!” He flinched as Crowley's hand twitched. “Someone mentioned a name. Fudfud or something stupid like that.”

Crowley went very still. “Furfur?”

“Yeah, that’s it! That’s everything I know, swear it—”

But Crowley was already gone.

He charged through Hell's corridors with renewed urgency, his mind racing faster than his feet. Furfur. What the hell was that bureaucratic pencil-pusher doing with Aziraphale? The demon barely looked up from his paperwork most days unless chocolate was involved. What could he possibly want with an angel?

Unless...

A shock of cold shot through Crowley's veins. Perhaps Furfur had no personal interest in Aziraphale at all. Perhaps he was simply delivering valuable goods to someone who did. An angel would fetch a high price in Hell's underground markets, and Crowley wasn't sure how much weight his “ownership” would carry if Aziraphale had walked willingly into another demon's hands.

He reached Furfur's office and exploded through the door without knocking, chest heaving from his furious sprint. The room jumped at his sudden arrival, papers flying and filing cabinets rattling against the walls.

And there, perched on a wooden stool in the corner like a broken bird, was Aziraphale.

The sight did a number of things to Crowley. Relief crashed through him first, so powerful it nearly brought him to his knees. Then came the horror.

The angel’s pyjama shirt hung in tatters, revealing angry claw marks scored across his pale shoulders and arms. His hair was dishevelled, face drawn with exhaustion and worry. But those blue eyes were alert and focused entirely on Crowley.

At his cluttered desk, Furfur looked up from a stack of incident reports, alarm written across his face as he took in Crowley's wild appearance.

“Crowley, what—”

“You fucking bastard,” The words tore from Crowley's throat as he lunged across the room. His hands found Furfur's neck, hauling the smaller demon from his chair and slamming him against the nearest filing cabinet with such force that towers of paperwork collapsed around them like snow.

“Crowley, stop!” Aziraphale cried out.

But rage had Crowley in its grip, red-hot and consuming. “What did you do to him?” he snarled, tightening his grip until Furfur’s pasty face began to take on colour. “I'll tear you apart piece by piece!”

“I didn’t—” Furfur choked, clawing at Crowley’s hands. “I found him like this!”

“Crowley, please!” Aziraphale's voice was stronger now, cutting through the roar of blood in Crowley's ears. “He’s telling the truth! He intervened!”

The words penetrated just enough for reason to surface. Crowley loosened his grip slightly, though he kept Furfur pinned against the cabinet. 

“Explain,” he growled. “Now.”

“Found him in corridor seven,” Furfur wheezed, hands still wrapped around Crowley’s wrists. “Someone trying to maul him. Managed to chase him off before he did any real damage.”

Crowley's eyes snapped to Aziraphale, drinking in the sight of him; torn pyjamas, marked skin, but alive. Breathing. Whole. The relief hit him like a sledgehammer, and he forced his fingers to uncurl from Furfur's throat.

Furfur slumped against the filing cabinet, one hand moving instinctively to his bruised neck whilst the other attempted to straighten his rumpled collar. When he spoke, he sounded hoarse. 

“Thought you wouldn't want your...property damaged,” he said carefully, eyes darting between Crowley and the angel. “So I intervened.”

The word “property” made something ugly twist in Crowley's gut, but he forced himself to nod curtly. “Right. Who was it?”

“Asterik. Big brute from the punishment division.” Furfur's breathing was steadying, though he remained pressed against the cabinet. “Was here dropping off requisition forms when he spotted your angel wandering about.” He paused. “I assume you'll want to handle him personally?”

Crowley nodded slowly, already planning exactly what he was going to do to the demon who’d dared lay claws on his angel.

Furfur tugged at his collar again. There was something unsettled in his expression, a confusion in his gaze as it moved between Crowley and Aziraphale.

“I apologise,” Crowley muttered, gesturing sharply. The scattered papers rose from the floor in a whirlwind, settling back onto Furfur's desk in precarious stacks. “For grabbing you. I thought…”

“You thought I was the one who'd damaged your property.” Furfur's voice carried a strange note, almost questioning. “It's...understandable, I suppose.” But he didn't sound convinced; his eyes lingered on Crowley's face with obvious bewilderment.

Crowley was acutely aware he was walking a razor's edge. Even the most unhinged demon wouldn’t have reacted as badly as he had to something as simple as their belongings being tampered with. And Crowley had a reputation for being fairly aloof about most things. He needed to maintain the pretence that Aziraphale was nothing more than an object to him, even as every instinct screamed at him to gather the angel in his arms and check every injury. 

“Can't have every demon in Hell thinking they can mess about with what's mine.”

“Of course,” Furfur said slowly, but his eyes were still troubled. “I suppose that’s…that’s what it was.”

Crowley stayed perfectly still, trying to keep his breathing under control whilst Furfur studied him in a deeply unsettling way. Furfur's hands still trembled slightly as he straightened his collar, and there was a wariness in his posture that hadn't been there before Crowley had grabbed him.

“I assume you'll want to discipline the angel as well,” Furfur continued, forcing his bureaucratic tone back into place. “For wandering off without supervision.”

Crowley managed a stiff nod. “Naturally.”

“Well then,” Furfur said, moving unsteadily towards the door with obvious relief. “I'll leave you to handle your...affairs. Just try not to get blood on my carpet, would you? It's a nightmare to clean.”

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Crowley and Aziraphale alone in the cramped office. The silence was deafening after the chaos, broken only by the angel's soft, unsteady breathing.

Crowley turned to face Aziraphale properly for the first time since bursting through the door, and the careful mask he'd been wearing finally cracked completely.

“Angel…” Crowley stumbled over, his legs nearly giving out. He dropped to his knees in front of the wooden stool where Aziraphale sat curled in on himself. “Are you alright? Are you hurt worse than what I can see?”

His hands trembled as he carefully lifted the tattered remains of Aziraphale's pyjama shirt, revealing the angry red welts beneath. No blood, thank someone, just surface wounds. But the sight of them made something violent and protective roar to life in his chest.

“I’m fine,” Aziraphale murmured, tugging the fabric from Crowley's grip and pulling it closed over himself with obvious shame.

The overwhelming relief that had flooded Crowley's system gave way to fury so intense it made his vision blur at the edges. He braced his hands on either side of Aziraphale's knees, needing the anchor, needing the angel to look at him.

“Right, well, that's good then,” Crowley said slowly. “Because now I can be properly angry with you for doing something so monumentally stupid.”

Aziraphale's jaw tightened. “I was only—”

“You could have been killed!” Crowley exploded, his control finally shattering, edged with the terror that had been clawing at him since he'd found his quarters empty. “Or, or tortured or…” He shut his eyes tight, his mind swimming with images that made him physically sick: Aziraphale broken, screaming, gone forever whilst Crowley wandered the streets of Soho feeling sorry for himself. “Dragged off somewhere, and I’d never have found you.”

“You don't need to tell me how foolish it was,” Aziraphale said, hurt creeping into his voice. “I'm perfectly aware.”

“Then why’d you do it? Why’d you leave?” Crowley demanded, his hands tightening on Aziraphale's knees. He needed to understand, needed to make sense of how everything had gone so wrong so quickly.

“I was trying to come after you,” Aziraphale said, meeting his gaze steadily.

“What?”

“I didn’t want you to run away again. I wanted us to talk properly; I couldn’t let you just walk out.” The rawness in Aziraphale's words made Crowley's chest ache. “I thought if I moved quickly enough, I could reach you before you left Hell entirely.”

Guilt crashed over Crowley in waves. “I didn't realise…”

“I know. You were already gone by the time I made it past the wards. But I thought…I thought I could navigate the corridors. Find the exit you'd used.”

“But you got lost.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, shame colouring his cheeks. “The passages all look identical. I panicked when I couldn't find my way back, and I was trying to retrace my steps when that demon found me.”

“Angel…”

“I tried to get away,” Aziraphale continued, fingers plucking anxiously at his torn shirt. “But without my powers…”

The angel trailed off, and Crowley felt something twist inside – guilt, rage, and helplessness all tangled together in one unbearable knot. 

“Angel, that was incredibly reckless,” he said, his fury draining, replaced by something softer and more frightened. “Do you have any idea what could have happened? If Furfur hadn't found you when he did? If it had been a pack of demons who attacked you instead of just one?”

But Aziraphale's expression was hardening, his own anger finally surfacing after being buried beneath fear and shame. 

“I wouldn’t have had to follow you, Crowley,” he said, each word cutting, “if you hadn’t run away like a coward.”

Shame flooded through Crowley, hot and bitter. Because Aziraphale was right, this was his fault. All of it.

“I tell you I love you, and you couldn't get out of there fast enough,” Aziraphale continued, pain bleeding through his anger.

“I was scared,” Crowley admitted quietly. “I was terrified, and I handled it badly.”

“By abandoning me,” Aziraphale's voice cracked. “By walking out the moment I told you how I felt.”

Crowley winced. “Angel, I wasn't thinking clearly. I just...I panicked.”

“And I panicked when you left. I couldn't bear the thought that you might think I didn't mean what I said. Or that you might disappear again.”

Crowley stared at him, seeing the love and pain conflicted in those blue eyes. “Angel, when I came back and found you gone…do you have any idea what that did to me?”

“Probably something similar to what it did to me when you stormed out,” Aziraphale replied, but the edge had left his tone. “I couldn't just let you walk away. Not after...not after what we’d shared.” He let out a shuddering breath. “I know it was foolish. But I would never leave you willingly, Crowley. I was trying to find you, trying to bring you home.”

The word “home” made Crowley's heart skip a beat. He reached out tentatively, and Aziraphale met him halfway, their fingers intertwining.

“I'm sorry, angel,” Crowley said roughly. “I'm so bloody sorry for leaving you. For making you feel like you had to chase me through Hell just to have a conversation.”

“I'm sorry too,” Aziraphale whispered. “For frightening you. For being so reckless. I never meant for this to happen.”

“I know,” Crowley said, bringing their joined hands to his lips to press a gentle kiss to Aziraphale's knuckles. “I know you didn't.”

They sat in the quiet for a moment, Hell's bureaucratic chaos continuing beyond the office door. The terror was still there, how close Crowley had come to losing his angel, but it was tempered now by relief and the warmth of Aziraphale's hand in his.

Finally, Crowley sighed and released the angel’s hand as he stood, his expression hardening.

“Right. I need to find Asterik.”

Aziraphale's brow creased with worry. “Crowley, no. Let's just go home.” The word made Crowley's heart clench again. “I'm perfectly alright, really.”

“This isn't about revenge,” Crowley said firmly, though they both knew that wasn't entirely true. “I have to do this.”

“Why?” Aziraphale rose carefully, wincing as the movement pulled at his wounds. “What good will it do?”

Crowley steadied him with gentle hands at his waist. “I need to send a message to every other demon in Hell. They need to understand that you're off limits. That touching you means answering to me.”

“Crowley—”

“If I don’t,” he continued urgently, “they’ll grow bold. They'll think they can try again. And next time…” He couldn’t finish, couldn't voice the possibility that there might not be someone around to intervene. 

Aziraphale studied his face for a long moment, then sighed in resignation. “You're not going to let this go, are you?”

“I can't,” Crowley said simply. “Not when it comes to protecting you.”

“Alright,” Aziraphale conceded reluctantly. “If you must.”

“I must,” Crowley said, and he pressed his lips to the angel's temple for a moment, breathing in his familiar scent beneath the lingering smell of fear and violence. “Stay close to me. I mean it, angel. Don't wander off, don't let go of me. Understood?”

Aziraphale nodded solemnly. “Understood.”

Crowley moved towards the door, then paused with his hand on the handle. “Angel?”

“Yes?”

“After I deal with Asterik...we're going to talk. Really talk. About us, about everything.”

A small, genuine smile touched Aziraphale's lips for the first time since Crowley had found him. “I'd like that very much.”

***

The Punishment Division occupied one of Hell's deepest levels: a labyrinthine complex of torture chambers and administrative offices where the screams of the damned echoed endlessly through corridors carved from black stone. The air was thick with sulphur and despair, punctuated by the mechanical sounds of torture devices designed for eternal suffering.

Crowley moved through the passages with Aziraphale pressed close to his side. The angel's fingers clutched at his shirt, and Crowley could feel him flinch at every distant cry that ricocheted off the walls.

They found Asterik in an open-plan office overlooking one of the main punishment floors. He was a brutish creature, long greasy hair hanging in dark strands around a scarred face, pale dead eyes indicative of centuries of orchestrating human suffering. He was reviewing punishment schedules when they entered and let the papers flutter to the desk with an indifferent flourish.

“Well, well. Crowley,” Asterik said with mock courtesy, flashing a mouthful of yellowed fangs. His gaze slid to Aziraphale and lingered with obvious hunger. “And what delicious company you keep.”

A muscle in Crowley’s jaw flexed. “We need to discuss what happened earlier.”

“Ah yeah, that little misunderstanding.” Asterik waved a dismissive hand. “Didn't realise the pretty thing belonged to anyone. It was just wandering about Hell like some lost little lamb. What was I supposed to think?”

“You were supposed to think that attacking anyone without provocation might have consequences,” Crowley said in a low growl.

Asterik barked out a laugh. “Consequences? From who? That pompous twat Furfur?” He spat black mucus onto the carpet. “All he did was screech at me about property damage. As if I was supposed to know the angel was under your ownership.”

“And now you do,” Crowley said, his gaze flicking meaningfully around the office where dozens of demonic eyes watched from behind desks, taking in the exchange with interest.

“Now I do,” Asterik agreed with a shrug, then leaned back in his chair. “Though I have to say, Crowley, you've got exquisite taste. Look at that bone structure. Those eyes.” He licked his lips. “How much do you want for him?”

The temperature in the room seemed to plummet. Behind him, Crowley felt Aziraphale’s grip on his shirt tighten.

“Excuse me?” Crowley's voice was deadly quiet.

“Don't be a shit,” Asterik continued, propping one boot up on his desk. “That's prime merchandise right there. Practically pristine, barely damaged. I'll give you a fair price. More than fair, actually. I've been looking for a new plaything. Human souls get boring after the first few decades, but an angel…” He made an appreciative noise deep in his throat. “An angel could provide entertainment for centuries.”

Aziraphale made a small, horrified sound, pressing closer to Crowley's side.

“He's not for sale,” Crowley said icily. 

“Everything's for sale down here. Name your price.” Asterik's smile turned predatory. “I'll even throw in a bonus if he screams as prettily as I suspect he will.”

The office fell into silence, every demon sensing the shift in atmosphere as Crowley went utterly still.

“You know what I think, Asterik?” Crowley said conversationally, though something lethal had crept into his tone.

“Enlighten me.”

“I think you've forgotten that some things in Hell are off limits.”

Asterik threw back his head and laughed; a harsh, grating sound. “Off limits? To me? I run the punishment division, Crowley. I decide what gets tortured and how. And that pretty little angel would look absolutely divine strapped to one of my tables, don’t you think?”

Crowley snapped.

It happened so fast that no one – not even Asterik – saw it coming. One moment Crowley was standing several feet away; the next he had the larger demon by the throat, hauling him clear off his feet to dangle in the air.

“Let me be perfectly clear,” Crowley snarled, his grip tightening until Asterik's eyes began to bulge. “He's not merchandise. He's not for sale. And he will never go anywhere near your torture chambers.”

Asterik clawed frantically at Crowley's hands, his bravado evaporating as he struggled. “Crowley, wait—”

“No, I don't think I will wait,” Crowley said pleasantly, his eyes blazing yellow fire. “You see, the problem with treating others like objects is that eventually, someone treats you like one too.”

The acrid smell of burning flesh began to fill the air as Crowley's grip grew white-hot. Asterik's struggles became more desperate as red flames began to consume him from the point of contact, his screams joining the eternal chorus that echoed through the chambers.

“And objects,” Crowley continued conversationally as Asterik writhed in agony, “are so very easy to dispose of.”

Within moments, there was nothing left but a pile of ash at Crowley’s feet. He brushed the residue from his hands with distaste, then scuffed the remains aside with his shoe.

The silence in the office was absolute. Every demon at their desk stared at the space where Asterik had been, their faces pale with horror.

Crowley turned to address the room. “The angel is under my protection,” he announced. “Anyone who touches him, threatens him, or even thinks about harming him, will end up exactly like Asterik.” He flashed a smile. “Am I understood?”

A chorus of nervous affirmations rippled through the room.

“Excellent,” Crowley said pleasantly, straightening his jacket. “I'm so glad we could clear that up.”

He placed a protective hand on Aziraphale's back – the angel was frozen in shock, staring at the ash pile with wide, disbelieving eyes – and guided him towards the door. As they walked away, Crowley could feel every gaze in the department following them, and he knew word would spread through Hell's corridors within the hour.

***

Every step through Hell's corridors back to his quarters wound Crowley's nerves tighter, his mind racing with thoughts of the conversation they needed to have.

He could feel Aziraphale beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed with each step, but the angel had gone deathly quiet. When Crowley stole glances at him under the flickering fluorescent lights, he noticed something peculiar radiating from him – a restless energy, a coiled tension in his quick footsteps as he hurried along beside him.

The protective wards recognised them both, and Crowley gestured for Aziraphale to step through first into their familiar sanctuary of warm lamplight and soft furnishings. The moment the barrier sealed behind them, cutting them off from Hell's oppressive air, something shifted.

“Right,” Crowley began, nerves settling like lead in his chest. “We should probably—”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence. Aziraphale was on him immediately, crashing into him as he wound his arms around Crowley’s neck. Aziraphale's mouth was hot and demanding against his, and Crowley made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a moan as he returned the kiss. Before he could process what was happening, he felt frantic hands tugging at his shirt, trying to pull it free from his jeans.

“Angel,” Crowley gasped against Aziraphale's mouth as fingers worked at his shirt buttons. “Aziraphale, wait—”

“I don’t want to talk right now,” Aziraphale murmured breathlessly against Crowley’s mouth, hands shaking as they moved to the demon’s belt. “I can’t…I need…”

Crowley gently caught Aziraphale’s wrists, stilling his movements. “Hey, slow down. What’s gotten into you?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale admitted, voice breaking slightly as he pressed himself closer. “Watching you with that demon...I thought you were just going to speak to him, but you…” His breathing was rapid, almost panicked. “You destroyed him. For me.”

“Of course I did,” Crowley said softly, pulling back just enough to study Aziraphale's face. “He hurt you.”

Aziraphale kissed him again, desperately. Crowley made a startled sound against his lips but found himself responding instinctively, hands coming up to grip the angel's waist as much to steady himself as to hold him.

“Angel,” he gasped when they finally broke apart, but Aziraphale was already kissing him again, fingers tangling in his hair.

“I don't understand what's happening to me,” Aziraphale murmured against his lips. “The way you protected me…I need you, Crowley. Right now. Please.”

“Hey, look at me,” Crowley said gently, framing Aziraphale's face with his hands and forcing him to meet his eyes. “Take a breath. You're shaking.”

Aziraphale's breathing was rapid and shallow, his pupils dilated. “I don't want to think,” he whispered fiercely. “I don't want to think about what could have happened. I don't want to talk about feelings or consequences. I just want to feel something good. Something real.” His hands scrabbled at Crowley's partially opened shirt, fingers seeking warm skin beneath. “I want you to make love to me.”

Crowley caught those restless hands, stilling them before cupping his face again. “Angel, this isn’t like you. Talk to me.”

“It’s about you,” Aziraphale said, leaning into Crowley’s touch. “About watching you burn that demon to ash for daring to hurt me. I've never...no one has ever…” He shook his head as if trying to clear a fog. “It's done something to me. Made me feel things I don’t understand.”

“What kind of things?” Crowley asked softly, thumbs brushing over Aziraphale’s flushed cheekbones.

“Protected. Cherished. Like I belong to you,” Aziraphale whispered. “Like I want to belong to you. Not as property, but as...as someone you'd burn the world down to protect.”

“You are,” Crowley said without hesitation. “You absolutely are.”

“Then why are we talking?” Aziraphale asked, pulling him closer again. “Why aren't you—”

“Because you're not thinking clearly right now,” Crowley said gently but firmly. “You've been through something traumatic today, it’s put you all out of sorts.”

“I don't care,” Aziraphale said, his hands moving to grab Crowley's shirt again. “I know what I want. I want you. I want to belong to you completely.”

Crowley could see what was happening to him: the adrenaline crash, the emotional whiplash of terror and relief and overwhelming gratitude all tangling together into something that felt like desire but ran much deeper. Aziraphale wasn't asking for sex; he was asking for proof that he was alive, that he was safe, that he mattered enough to be worth protecting.

“I need you to breathe for me,” Crowley said gently. “Deep breaths, angel. You've had a shock today.”

“Don't treat me like I'm fragile,” Aziraphale said, but the fight was already draining out of him, replaced by something more vulnerable. “I just...I want to feel close to you.”

Crowley pulled him into a proper embrace, feeling some of the tension leave Aziraphale's frame as he melted against him.

“I'm here,” he murmured into soft curls. “We're both here, we're both safe. But is this really what you want right now? Or is this just a reaction to what happened?”

Aziraphale went very still against him, staring up with wide, bright eyes. When he spoke, his voice was small and lost. “I don't know. Maybe both? All I know is that watching you protect me like that made me realise how much I love you. How much I need you.”

“I love you too,” Crowley said, the words coming easier than he'd expected. Aziraphale's expression crumbled, a single tear escaping. “But that's exactly why we need to slow down. Make sure this is really what you want, not just what you think you should want because of what happened.”

“How can I tell the difference?”

Crowley held him tighter, understanding now. This wasn't just desire, it was Aziraphale's way of reclaiming agency after a day when he'd had none. After being attacked, rescued, and defended, he needed to choose something for himself.

“We take it slow,” Crowley said, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. “We talk. We figure this out together. Because angel, if we do this, I need to know it's because you genuinely want it, not because you're overwhelmed or processing trauma.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, sagging against Crowley's chest. “I do want it,” he whispered. “But you're right, I am overwhelmed…everything feels so intense right now. Like I might fly apart if I don't do something.”

“Then let's sit down,” Crowley said gently. “Let's talk about what happened, and what we're both feeling…and make sure we're making the right decision.”

“You'd do that?” Aziraphale asked, looking up at him with something like wonder. “Even though I just threw myself at you like some desperate—”

“Like someone who’s been through a lot today,” Crowley interrupted firmly. “Yeah, angel. I’d do that. Because I love you, and I want to make sure we do this right.”

Aziraphale let out a shaky breath, some of the frantic energy leaving his shoulders. “I love you too,” he said quietly, giving a watery smile. “Thank you. For...for caring enough to make sure.”

"Come on," Crowley took him by the hand, leading him gently towards the sofa. “Let's talk.”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale settled onto the sofa, drawing his legs up beneath him. First things first, Crowley knelt and placed a gentle hand against the angel's torso, healing the claw marks scored into his skin. He watched them fade until the skin was unblemished once more. Next, he repaired Aziraphale's pyjama shirt, winding the torn fabric back together where it hung in shreds.

The angel smiled softly, touching the side of Crowley's face in gratitude with fingers that still trembled. Crowley tugged the woollen blanket from where it was folded on the back of the sofa and draped it around him. Aziraphale didn't protest when Crowley methodically tucked him in, ensuring the blanket was wrapped firmly around his shoulders, as if it could hold him together.

Without a word, he made Aziraphale tea exactly the way he liked it and brought it over. He sank onto the rug beside the sofa, so he could be close without crowding. The angel took greedy sips from his mug as Crowley leaned against the sofa, watching him. After a while, his shaking subsided, and Crowley reached up to gently touch the side of his leg through the blanket.

“Better?” he asked.

Aziraphale nodded, clutching his tea with both hands. “I’m sorry. For before, for throwing myself at you like that. I don’t know what came over me,” he murmured. 

“You don't need to apologise,” Crowley said firmly. “You've had a hell of a day. Literally.” He paused, studying the worry lines across Aziraphale's forehead. “Really, angel, it's okay.”

Aziraphale's concerned gaze found his. “You’re not going to get into any trouble for what you did, are you? For destroying that demon?”

“Technically, I only destroyed his corporation,” Crowley said. “Only holy water can destroy a demon completely. So unfortunately, he'll re-materialise at some point.” He didn't like the way Aziraphale's face remained taut with worry, how his teeth caught his bottom lip. “Demons fighting and destroying each other is hardly breaking news, angel. It'll be fine.”

Crowley's main concern was Furfur, and what he may have worked out, but he couldn't think about that now.

“Watching you do that…” Aziraphale's voice was soft, thoughtful. “...it did something to me.”

Crowley nodded slowly. “I think you were just...overwhelmed.”

“It was more than that.” Aziraphale let his gaze drop to the steaming mug in his hands. “It affirmed what I already knew.”

“Which is?” Crowley asked, feeling his heart rate climb.

Aziraphale shifted a little onto his side to look at Crowley properly, a small smile playing at his lips. “That you love me as much as I love you.”

Crowley had to look away from that intense blue gaze before his heart gave out entirely. “Angel…”

“I know,” Aziraphale said softly, setting his mug aside. “I know it must be hard to believe what I feel for you is real. I understand that. But Crowley…” He reached across and covered Crowley's hand with his own where it rested on the sofa cushion. “What can I do? What can I say that will convince you I know my own heart?”

“Aziraphale…” Crowley turned his hand over so their fingers could interlock. The truth was the angel didn't need to do anything. Didn't need to say anything. Crowley could see it in the way Aziraphale's entire face softened when their eyes met, how his pupils dilated as if Crowley were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He could feel it in the way the angel's thumb traced gentle circles against his knuckles. He could hear it in how Aziraphale's voice dropped to something almost reverent when he said the demon’s name. Whatever circumstances had led to it, whether it was wrong or not, Crowley couldn't deny that Aziraphale loved him – couldn't deny it any more than he could deny that the sky was blue.

“Earlier, before you left,” Aziraphale said, his voice growing quieter, “you asked me if I'd still feel this way if we'd met under different circumstances. And I hesitated.”

Crowley remembered that moment all too well. “Yeah.”

“I hesitated because I was trying to imagine a world where I wasn't trapped here, where I had other choices. And the truth is…” Aziraphale met his eyes. “I can't imagine that world. Not because I'm incapable of it, but because in any world, in any circumstances, I'd still be drawn to you.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because what I love about you isn't what you do for me,” Aziraphale said with growing certainty. “It's who you are. Your kindness that you try to hide. The way you pretend not to care about things whilst caring desperately. The way you read with me, even when the book bores you senseless.”

Crowley felt his throat tighten. “But the circumstances—”

“The circumstances brought us together,” Aziraphale interrupted gently. “But they didn't create my feelings. Those are mine, Crowley. They come from knowing you, spending time with you, watching you go against your very nature for me.” He took Crowley's hand firmly in his. “You're everything a demon shouldn't be, and I love you for it.”

A lump formed in Crowley’s throat. He brought the back of Aziraphale’s hand to his lips and kissed along the knuckles, one by one.

“I’m scared,” he murmured after a long moment, letting his thumb trace gentle circles into Aziraphale's palm.

“Of what?”

“Of…of believing this is real and then losing it.” Crowley’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Of letting myself love you completely and then having you realise you made a mistake.”

“And I'm scared of you never believing it's real,” Aziraphale replied with a weak smile. “Of always having to prove what I feel.”

Crowley looked at him, studied him properly. Took in the exhaustion from what happened earlier, but also the determination underneath, the unwavering certainty in those blue eyes. “I want to believe it,” he said finally.

“Then believe it.”

“It's not that simple.”

Aziraphale shifted closer on the sofa, letting the blanket pool around his waist. “Crowley, I know our situation is complicated. I know there’s a power imbalance that worries you. But at some point, don't we have to trust each other? Trust that I know my own feelings, and that you're worthy of being loved?”

Crowley felt something shift inside him, like a door unlocking. His hold on Aziraphale's hand tightened, like he was anchoring himself.

“What happened today,” Aziraphale continued softly, “watching you protect me…it didn't create new feelings. It just made me realise how deep the ones I already had were. How much I want to belong with you, not because I have to, but because I choose to.”

Crowley bit his lip. “And you're sure? Really sure?”

“I'm sure about loving you,” Aziraphale said, his voice steady. “I'm sure about wanting to be with you.” His smile brightened, transforming his entire face, and he reached up to brush his fingertips along Crowley's cheek. “And I’m certain that you want those things, too.”

“I do,” Crowley blurted out without hesitation. His eyes widened slightly at his own honesty. “I do want those things, angel. You have no idea.”

“Actually, I think I do,” Aziraphale murmured, his thumb tracing along Crowley's cheekbone.

The space between them dissolved as Aziraphale leaned down, their lips meeting in a kiss that was nothing like the desperate hunger from earlier. It was patient and exploratory, a conversation told through the gentle caresses of their lips alone. Crowley's hand came up to cup the back of Aziraphale's neck, fingers threading through soft curls as he deepened the contact.

When they finally parted, they were breathing slightly harder, Crowley's fingers still teasing light circles through the hair at Aziraphale's nape.

“You're sure?” Crowley whispered, his voice trembling with hope and fear. “You're really, truly sure?”

Aziraphale's eyes sparkled with something that might have been amusement, though it was softened by sheer affection. “Crowley, the fact that you’re so concerned about me being sure instead of just taking what you want…that tells me everything about who you are.”

Then Aziraphale was kissing him again. The blanket slipped to the floor as Crowley shifted closer, leaning up onto the sofa as their hands mapped the familiar territory of each other's bodies. His senses were overwhelmed by the warmth between them, the lingering taste of tea on Aziraphale's lips.

“I still feel like I have no right to want this,” Crowley confessed breathily against Aziraphale’s mouth.

Aziraphale pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, his hands framing Crowley's face. “Stop thinking about what you should or shouldn't want,” he said firmly. “Just...want me. The way I want you.”

They kissed for a long while, slow and savouring, and Crowley was hopelessly, stupidly dizzy with it.

It started slow and sweet, but Crowley could feel the heat building beneath Aziraphale's skin. The angel's fingers wound through his hair, nails grazing his scalp until it was almost painful, and Crowley responded instinctively, tongue delving between Aziraphale's lips.

Aziraphale made a sound in his throat – a cross between a gasp and a whimper – and Crowley felt it vibrate all the way down his spine. The hands that had been so gentle on his face suddenly fisted in Crowley's shirt, tugging him until their bodies collided at the hip, then chest, then everywhere at once.

Crowley's breath hitched as Aziraphale pressed closer, the hard line of his arousal unmistakable through the thin pyjamas. Crowley let his hands roam, thumbs stroking the bare skin at Aziraphale's waist where his shirt had ridden up. The angel arched into his touch, then broke the kiss with a high, needy sound.

“Crowley,” he breathed, “please…”

Crowley buried his face in Aziraphale’s neck, letting his lips wander from collarbone to jaw to the delicate shell of his ear. “Anything, angel. Anything you want.”

Aziraphale shivered. “You. I want you.” He pulled back just enough to meet Crowley’s eyes, pupils blown wide. “Take me to bed.”

Crowley swallowed hard, the last shreds of doubt still clinging to the edges of his mind. “You’re sure? It’s only Sunday…we don’t have to—”

Aziraphale kissed him again, fierce and demanding, hands clawing at the back of his neck.

“But that’s exactly why we should,” Aziraphale breathed against Crowley’s lips when they parted. “Not because of an obligation, but because we want to. Make it something that doesn’t belong to them, to Hell. Make it ours.”

Crowley nodded, throat tight. “If you’re su—”

“Do not ask me again if I'm sure,” Aziraphale warned him, but there was a smile in his words. “I think it’s fairly obvious that we’ve both been enjoying our…arrangement.” A slight flush coloured his cheeks. “So let’s stop treating it like something we have to endure and start treating it like what it is.”

“Which is?”

“Two beings who love each other, choosing to be together,” Aziraphale said, catching Crowley’s bottom lip with his thumb. “Not because Hell demands it, but because we want to.”

“Once we cross that line, once we make it about choice instead of obligation…”

“Then it becomes real,” Aziraphale said, his voice steady. “It becomes ours. And that's exactly what I want, Crowley. I want us to be real.”

Crowley closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the raw honesty of it. When he opened them again, Aziraphale was still there, still looking at him with all that love and certainty that made his chest ache in the most wonderful way.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah, I want that too.”

He didn't trust his legs, but as Aziraphale pushed himself up to standing, Crowley followed, taking his hand as the angel led him to the small bedroom.

Inside, Aziraphale turned to face him, and for a moment Crowley worried the spell would break – that the weight of what was about to happen would send one or both of them running. But Aziraphale only smiled, soft and unguarded, and reached for the buttons of Crowley's shirt.

Crowley stayed perfectly still as Aziraphale worked each button free with trembling hands. He shrugged his shirt off, letting it fall to the floor, and reached for Aziraphale's pyjama top. It came away easily, and he bent to kiss along the angel's torso, tracing where the claw marks had marred his skin before, until Aziraphale's breathing grew ragged.

They tumbled together onto the bed, a tangle of hands, mouths, and limbs. Aziraphale’s hunger was astonishing; he clawed at Crowley's back, nails scoring lines down to the waistband of his jeans, then tugged at his belt as if desperate to strip him bare. Crowley let him, let Aziraphale's shaking fingers work him free of his remaining clothes, touch him with trembling hands. When Aziraphale's pyjama bottoms slipped away, the air between them crackled with want and the ache of everything they'd denied themselves.

Crowley hooked a hand behind Aziraphale's knee and lifted, spreading him open as the angel gasped, face flushed and helpless beneath him. He knelt between pale thighs, watching Aziraphale's skin quiver, his cock already leaking against his stomach. When Aziraphale's hands fluttered up to cover his face, Crowley caught them, pinning them gently to the pillow.

“Let me look at you, angel,” he said, and Aziraphale obeyed, eyes wide and trusting.

Crowley bent and took him into his mouth, humming as Aziraphale jerked and moaned. He worked the angel open with slick fingers, slow at first, but when Aziraphale started to buck helplessly, Crowley gave him what he needed – pushing deeper, crooking until he found the spot that made the angel's eyes roll back and his hips arch off the bed.

“Ohhh,” Aziraphale breathed. 

Crowley pulled off with a wet sound. “Turn over for me, angel.” Aziraphale complied, trembling as Crowley's hands guided his hips. The first touch of Crowley's tongue against him made Aziraphale bury his face in the sheets, muffling a desperate sound.

Crowley licked into him, slow and deep, spread him open with shaking hands. He lost himself in it – tongue fucking him, moaning into him, hands gripping trembling thighs apart.

“Crowley, please…” Aziraphale whimpered, reaching blindly behind him. “I-I need you inside me.”

Crowley placed a line of kisses down the back of Aziraphale’s thigh. He watched as the angel tucked a pillow beneath his stomach and stretched across it, arching his back and raising his hips in offering. The sight nearly undid him.

He slicked himself and lined up, not bothering with slow or gentle – Aziraphale didn’t want it. He wanted to be claimed, pinned down and split open, and Crowley was more than happy to oblige.

He pushed in with a single, driving thrust, hands braced on either side of Aziraphale’s hips, holding him still as the angel moaned and shuddered. For a moment Crowley just stayed there, buried deep, letting the heat and tightness burn through his nerves. Aziraphale was trembling, breathless, clutching the sheets.

His thrusts were sharp snaps of the hips, fingers roving the angel’s body, touching everything he could. He wanted to erase every hand that had been there before, fucking him until there was no room for memory or fear, only this desperate, glorious now. Aziraphale met him thrust for thrust, moaning and shaking as Crowley pounded into him, the slap of skin on skin loud in the small room.

Aziraphale's head burrowed deeper into the sheets, and he let out a sound that was almost a sob. “Crowley,” he whimpered, “love, please…please—”

“My angel,” Crowley growled, bending to nip at the back of Aziraphale’s shoulder, soothing the mark with his tongue. “You’re mine.” The words startled him, but Aziraphale shuddered at them, his body clenching tight around Crowley’s cock.

“Yes,” Aziraphale gasped, “yes, yours, always.”

Crowley reached around and took Aziraphale's cock in his hand, stroking him in time with his thrusts. The angel was already close, his whole body trembling, and when Crowley kissed his neck and whispered soft endearments against his skin, Aziraphale came with a broken, desperate cry.

Crowley slid out and rolled the angel onto his back, savouring Aziraphale's whimper at the loss before sliding back inside in one long, shuddering motion. He wanted to see his face, to drink in every expression as he was filled and fucked. Aziraphale’s hands found Crowley’s face and pulled him down into a kiss – open-mouthed and messy, tongues tangling.

“Crowley...” Aziraphale gasped, wrapping his legs around Crowley’s waist, dragging him in deeper. “Don’t stop…”

Crowley kissed him again. “Never,” he murmured against Aziraphale’s lips. “Never stopping, not now, not ever.” He thrust into Aziraphale with everything he had, his control shattered. He felt the bright edge of his orgasm building as they made love – because that's what they were doing, wasn't it? What they’d always been doing. Possibly even since that very first time – and he pressed his forehead against Aziraphale's, their mouths meeting in frantic touches. He devoured the taste of the angel’s lips, loving each moment he could claim those kisses openly now.

“Look at me,” Crowley rasped, and Aziraphale, glassy-eyed and flushed, obliged. “We belong to each other, angel.” He choked on the words, overwhelmed. “I love you so much, Aziraphale. I can’t lose you, I—”

Aziraphale’s hands cupped Crowley’s face. “I love you too,” he whispered, tears wetting his lashes, “my demon, my darling…”

Crowley nearly sobbed, and then he was coming. Every muscle locked, his spine arched hard, and in the white-out of sensation, something inside him gave. He heard Aziraphale’s gasp as suddenly Crowley’s wings – black as night and scented with the memory of burning – burst into being, tearing through the air and unfurling across the width of the bed.

He shuddered, utterly spent, and collapsed over Aziraphale, pinning him to the mattress with the weight of his body and a shroud of black feathers. For a long time, neither of them moved. The only sound was their rough, ragged breathing as two bodies tried desperately to remember how to live inside themselves again.

After several minutes, Crowley pried himself up on shaking elbows, suddenly self-conscious at his lack of control. Aziraphale stared up at him, blue eyes wide with wonder, his pale hair shadowed against the pillow, and reached up with trembling hands.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered in awe. “They’re so beautiful.”

Crowley flushed, mortified yet oddly pleased. “Bet yours are nicer,” he muttered, trying to fold the wings tighter to his back, but they only beat out wider, stirring the air and sending a few black feathers loose.

Aziraphale caught one as it drifted, the size of his entire palm, and held it to his chest. “I wish I could show you,” he murmured, letting the tip of the feather stroke beneath his chin.

Crowley's gaze automatically darted to the band around the angel's neck. Of course. There was no way Hell would have let him keep that part of himself. The collar kept his wings locked away, just like his miracles.

Something dark and fiercely protective ignited in Crowley as he looked at it, still radiating chaotic energy as it registered their coupling. That hateful thing that kept his angel trapped and powerless. He reached out, pausing when Aziraphale gave the slightest wince as his fingers approached it, but when those blue eyes gave their assent, Crowley pressed forward, gently touching the metal.

“I’m going to get you out of here,” he said quietly, determinedly.

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “What?”

“I’m going to get you out of Hell,” Crowley repeated firmly. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the intricate workings of the collar. It was complex – like a puzzle written in a language he didn’t quite understand yet. But puzzles could be solved with enough patience.

“How?” Aziraphale whispered, his eyes bright with hope tempered by fear. “It’s not possible.”

“Anything’s possible,” Crowley said, fingers tracing the edge of the collar. The metal was warm from Aziraphale's skin, but beneath it, he could feel layers upon layers of binding, the power that held it in place. “It’s just a matter of understanding how it works. And I’m going to figure out how to get this off you.”

Aziraphale caught his wrist, stilling his exploration. “Crowley, no. You can't. If they find out what you're trying to do—”

“They won't,” Crowley said with more confidence than he felt.

“But what if something goes wrong?” Aziraphale's grip tightened on his wrist. “What if they punish you? What if they destroy you for this?”

“Then it'll be worth it,” Crowley said simply, cupping Aziraphale's cheek with his free hand. “Angel, you don't belong here. You don't belong in Hell, wearing that thing around your neck like some…” His voice broke slightly, and he shook his head. “You deserve to be free. To have your wings back, to choose where you want to go.”

“I want to be here with you,” Aziraphale said fiercely. “I don't need to be anywhere else.”

“But you should have the choice,” Crowley insisted. “You should be able to see the stars, feel sunlight on your face, and visit all those places that you dream about.”

Tears gathered in Aziraphale’s eyes. “And what about you? What happens to you when I’m gone?”

“That’s not important.”

“It’s the most important thing,” Aziraphale whispered urgently. “Crowley, I can’t leave you. I won’t. I’m…I’m happy down here, with you.”

Crowley’s heart ached to hear those words. He pressed a soft kiss to Aziraphale’s temple. “You don’t belong in this place, angel. It’s not safe,” he murmured into his hair. “My wards aren’t completely impenetrable. If Beelzebub ever decided to take you from me…” His breath caught; he didn’t want to think about the possibility. “...I wouldn’t be able to stop them.”

Aziraphale was quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing circles on Crowley's wrist. “You're really going to try this, aren't you? No matter what I say.”

“I have to,” Crowley said simply. “I love you too much to leave you trapped like this. You deserve freedom, Aziraphale. And I'm going to make sure you get it.”

“I love you too,” Aziraphale whispered, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “More than I can possibly say.”

Crowley gently shifted onto his side so they were face to face, his wings enveloping them in a cocoon of warmth. Aziraphale still held Crowley's feather against his chest like something precious.

“You can add that to your collection,” Crowley murmured with a tender smile, watching the way the angel’s fingers ran gently along the barbs. “Along with my jacket.”

“Hardly what I'd call a collection,” Aziraphale said softly, a blush colouring his cheeks.

“Well, what else would you like?” Crowley teased. “A lock of hair? A scale from my serpent form?” He slipped his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, pulling him close. “Anything you want in this world, angel.”

“I just want you,” Aziraphale said, cupping Crowley’s chin with his free hand, “here with me.”

Crowley’s wings tightened around them, the wall of black feathers creating a sheltered world that only held the two of them. In the warm darkness, with Aziraphale’s steady breathing against his chest and the angel’s fingers still clutching the loose feather like a treasured keepsake, Crowley allowed himself to drift into a peaceful sleep.

***

Crowley woke to the sound of the kettle gurgling in the main room, a soft noise that could have easily made him believe he was back on Earth. For a moment, he savoured the lingering warmth where Aziraphale had been pressed against him. His wings had folded back during sleep, leaving only the faintest scent of smoke in the air.

He could hear gentle movement – the clink of china and the rustling of fabric as Aziraphale moved around the kitchenette, trying not to wake him.

Pulling on his jeans and shirt, Crowley padded barefoot into the main room to find his angel making tea, fully dressed in his three-piece suit, waistcoat buttoned, bow tie perfectly centred; a splash of cream against the dark stone walls.

Crowley took a seat on one of the stools and sipped the tea Aziraphale had made for him. The angel joined, sitting beside him with their free hands intertwined on the countertop as they talked softly. There was something so perfectly ordinary about it, as though they were any couple sharing a quiet morning rather than a demon and an angel in the depths of Hell.

“Would you do me a favour?” Aziraphale asked, plucking a folded-up piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket.

“Course.”

He slid the paper along the counter, and Crowley noticed it had been torn from the address book. “Could you fetch a few things for me from Earth?” The angel's fingers brushed against Crowley's as he reached for the paper. “But without looking at what I’ve written?”

Crowley blinked. “You want me to get you some things…without knowing what I’m getting?”

“Please.”

“How?”

Aziraphale smiled. “Surely you have your ways.”

Crowley let out a soft laugh but took the paper and pocketed it without looking. “I guess I could figure it out. Why the secrecy?”

“It’s a surprise,” Aziraphale murmured shly, and Crowley knew there was no way he could resist that soft blush spreading across the angel's cheeks.

Which is how he found himself topside, awkwardly lingering around Nina’s coffee shop until the last of the morning rush stragglers had left. Nina was wiping down the countertop when Crowley entered and presented the folded-up paper to her.

She paused mid-wipe and slowly raised an eyebrow after he'd explained his request. “You want me to go to a shop and pick up some things for you?”

“Yeah.”

“Without you knowing what I’m buying?”

“Exactly.”

Nina set down her cloth and opened the list, scanning it for a moment. “You know they've got delivery apps for this sort of thing, right?”

Crowley shifted uncomfortably, running a hand through his hair. “He, uh, doesn't trust those apps...bad experience.” When she still didn't look convinced, he added quickly, “I'll give you two hundred quid. On top of whatever it all costs.”

“Seriously?” Nina asked incredulously. She gave him a long, appraising look. “What exactly is it you do for a living?”

“Oh, you know…business,” Crowley said vaguely.

“What sort of business?” Nina pressed.

“...traffic management, mostly.”

“Alright, fair enough. “ She looked him up and down, clearly not buying it, but shrugged. “Well, lucky for you, I need to go and stock up on milk before lunch anyway,” she said, tucking the list into her handbag with a shake of her head. “And I’m not exactly in a position to turn down two hundred quid.”

Crowley made a mental note to increase the number of patrons he tempted into Nina's shop as he slid the bank card he’d just materialised across the counter.

“So,” Nina said as she picked up the card, examining it briefly, “when you said ‘he’, is that this guy, then? The one we’ve spoken about?” At Crowley's nod, her expression softened slightly. “It went alright then? You apologised and made up?”

“We did,” Crowley confirmed, unable to help the smile that spread across his face. “Things are…good.”

“I’m glad,” Nina said, hitching her handbag onto her shoulder as they headed for the door. 

“There was a slight blip the other night, but we got it sorted,” Crowley found himself saying, unsure why he was sharing so much. Maybe it was just nice to talk to someone who didn't know how impossible their situation was.

“Oh yeah? What happened?”

Crowley paused, his brain scrambling for a human-plausible explanation. “We, uh, went out to a bar…and this guy tried to get handsy with him, so I…punched him.” He tried not to think about how much of an understatement that was.

Nina’s eyebrows skyrocketed. “You hit someone for touching him up?”

“Yeah, but that’s not the weird bit.”

“What’s the weird bit?”

“When we got home, he started acting strangely, sort of…trying to throw himself at me like he couldn’t help himself.” Crowley's cheeks reddened slightly.

Nina stifled a laugh behind her hand.

Crowley frowned. “What?”

“Sorry, but that’s quite funny,” she said with a grin that she wasn't bothering to hide anymore. “Your situationship got horny seeing you defend him. That’s classic.”

“My what?”

“Situationship,” Nina said with a shrug as she locked the door behind them and stepped out onto the pavement into the chilly London air. “That’s what he is, right? Or has he been upgraded to boyfriend?”

“Ngk.” Crowley bit out, his face flushing deeper. “We haven't...discussed it.”

“Although at your age, ‘partner’ is probably more accurate, right?”

“Right,” Crowley murmured, trying to ignore the fluttering sensation in his chest as the word settled there. Partner. It had a nice ring to it, actually.

He waved Nina off and killed time wandering Soho, trying not to think too hard about labels and relationships and the warm feeling that spread through him every time he thought about Aziraphale waiting for him back home. When Nina returned, she was laden with shopping bags, two of which she handed over. She'd even tied them closed with string so Crowley couldn't peek inside.

He thanked her, slipping her the promised two hundred pounds (which was likely closer to three hundred since he wasn't concentrating when he conjured the notes) and started making his way back towards the tube station. En route, he realised with a start that there was something rather crucial he needed to do, and ducked into an off-license for a box of chocolates.

Crowley returned to his quarters to find Aziraphale curled up on the sofa with a book.

“Right then,” Crowley said, presenting the tied bags with a flourish. “Your mysterious surprise items, as requested. Procured without a single peek, I'll have you know.”

Aziraphale's face lit up as he set his book aside and rose from the sofa to accept the bags. “Thank you, my dear.”

“What's all this about then?” 

“You'll find out soon enough,” Aziraphale said with a secretive smile. “But I need some time to prepare. Would you mind giving me an hour or so?”

Crowley blinked in surprise. “Hang on. Yesterday you were following me through Hell because you couldn't bear the thought of me leaving, and now you're desperate to get rid of me?” he said teasingly.

“I'm not desperate to be rid of you,” Aziraphale protested. “I just need some time to...arrange things. For later.”

“Arrange things,” Crowley repeated slowly, then grinned. “Right. Well, I suppose I do need to go and have a word with Furfur anyway,” he said with a sigh, rubbing his temples. “Make sure he's not going to say anything to anyone about what happened.”

Aziraphale's gaze dropped to the chocolate box in Crowley's hand. “Is that who those are for?”

Crowley felt his stomach plummet as the memory of that awful misunderstanding came flooding back – Aziraphale thinking Crowley had romantic feelings for Furfur, the hurt in his eyes when he'd realised Crowley had brought chocolates for both of them.

“Angel, no. It’s not…I mean, they’re not—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale interrupted gently, reaching out to touch his arm. “It’s alright. I understand.”

“You do?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said with a reassuring smile. “They’re just a bribe, yes? A way to placate him. It’s different.”

Crowley felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. “Right, yeah. Exactly.”

“Besides,” Aziraphale said, his expression turning slightly smug, “I caught a glimpse of the box you gave him when I was in his office. And the ones you brought me were far nicer.”

“They were,” Crowley said firmly. He paused, considering. “I put a lot of thought into choosing them, actually. I suppose I…” He pushed a breath out through pursed lips. “I suppose I might have been courting you, back then. A bit. Subconsciously.”

“A bit?”

“Alright, quite a lot,” Crowley conceded. “I guess it was pretty obvious, wasn’t it?”

“Quite obvious,” Aziraphale agreed cheerily, giving Crowley's arm a gentle squeeze. “Rather like how those books you miracled for me just so happened to all be from the romance genre.”

Crowley flushed. “That was unintentional.” 

“Of course it was, my dear,” Aziraphale said, patting his arm consolingly. “And I'm sure it was purely coincidental that half of them featured dark, mysterious men falling in love with innocent, bookish types.”

“That's...that's a very common trope,” Crowley spluttered.

“Mmm,” Aziraphale hummed, leaning up to press a gentle kiss to Crowley's cheek. “Well, I'm very grateful to your subconscious. Those books helped me understand what was happening between us.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale said softly, his voice warm with affection. “Though I think I understood what was happening in my heart long before my mind caught up.”

Something warm and tender unfurled in Crowley's chest. “Me too, angel.”

Aziraphale gave him one last radiant smile before steering him towards the door. He paused at the threshold to give Crowley a lingering kiss, leaving the demon slightly dazed and definitely looking forward to whatever surprise awaited his return.

Crowley could certainly get used to being sent off like that.

***

Crowley knocked on Furfur's office door, guiltily ignoring the splintered crack down the centre that he was almost certain was his doing from when he'd slammed it open so aggressively the day before. When the voice inside called for him to enter, he pushed through to find Furfur behind his desk, looking considerably more composed than the last time they’d met.

“Crowley,” Furfur said, glancing up from his paperwork with something that might have been relief. “Back so soon?”

“Wanted to apologise again,” Crowley said, settling onto the stool across from the desk. “For getting violent with you, grabbing you like that. Wasn’t my finest moment.”

He placed the chocolate box on the desk between them, noting how Furfur's eyes immediately fixed on it.

“Thought you’d like these,” Crowley continued. “As a proper apology.”

Furfur's expression softened as he reached for the box, his fingers lingering on the lid. “That’s…that’s nice of you. Didn't need to trouble yourself.”

“I wanted to,” Crowley said, watching Furfur examine the pictures of the chocolates printed on the packaging. “Look, I know my reaction to finding the angel in your office was over the top. I'm just very...protective of my property, and I'd had a rough day. Wasn't feeling myself.”

“Protective,” Furfur repeated slowly.

“You know how it is – you spend all that time training something, getting it to behave properly, then some brute comes along and damages it.” Crowley forced himself to speak casually, even as the words tasted like acid. “Make a demon get a bit…territorial.”

Furfur nodded, though his smile seemed forced. “Of course. Completely understandable,” he said, still drumming his fingers against the chocolate box. “Thank you for this.”

Crowley offered a half-smile. He wasn't entirely convinced Furfur was buying the performance, but the other demon didn't seem the type to go running to Beelzebub – at least not when it concerned Crowley. They'd always had an understanding, even if he wouldn't call it friendship.

Furfur also had connections, access to information channels Crowley lacked. The demon sat there for a moment, mind racing with possibilities. Perhaps...

“Actually, before I go,” Crowley said, clearing his throat. “I was wondering if you knew anything about that collar my angel wears. The one he’s had on since I acquired him.”

Furfur’s bushy brows rose slightly. “What about it?”

“I’m thinking it might need modifications,” Crowley said, adopting a business-like tone he knew Furfur would respond to. “Recent events have shown me that the current level of control isn’t sufficient.”

“Ah.” Furfur leant back in his chair, considering. “What sort of modifications were you thinking?”

“Something to better monitor his movements, perhaps. Maybe a way to prevent him from wandering too far from my quarters without permission.” Crowley shrugged, trying to appear thoughtful rather than desperate. “I'm not sure what's possible with that sort of mechanism.”

“Well, I would have signed off on some of the paperwork for its initial creation,” Furfur said, eyes rolling back as if trying to summon the memory. “Standard prisoner restraint protocols. But I'm afraid the technical details weren't really my area.”

“Any idea who would know more about the technical side?”

Furfur tapped his fingers against his desk, clearly thinking. “There are records, obviously. Specifications, enchantment details, that sort of thing. I could dig up some information, see what modification options might be available.”

“Great,” Crowley said, fighting to keep the relief from his voice. “I’d rather know what I’m working with before I make any official requests, you know?”

“That’s sensible,” Furfur agreed, and there was something almost eager in his tone. “Leave it with me, I’ll see what I can find.”

“Thanks,” Crowley said as he stood. “I appreciate this.”

Furfur rose as well, his chair scraping against the floor in his haste. “Think nothing of it. Always happy to help a colleague with...administrative matters.”

“Right,” Crowley said, giving a casual wave. “I'll let you get back to your work.”

As Crowley left the office, he could feel the weight of Furfur's intense gaze following him with every step until the door clicked shut behind him. 

***

After pacing Hell’s corridors for the better part of an hour – partly to give Aziraphale time for whatever mysterious preparations he was making, partly to process his conversation with Furfur – Crowley finally returned to his quarters. He encountered a few demons along the way who gave him a notably wider berth than usual, doubtless influenced by word of what he'd done to Asterik. Good. The more they avoided him, the better.

The wards parted at his approach, and Crowley stepped inside to find the room transformed.

Soft candlelight flickered from every available surface, casting warm, dancing shadows on the stone walls. One of Aziraphale's classical records played softly in the background, and the small dining table had been set for two with plates and cutlery laid out atop cloth napkins. At the centre sat an elaborate salad that looked like something from a high-end restaurant – crisp rocket and baby spinach, cherry tomatoes, what appeared to be fresh mozzarella torn into delicate pieces, and a sprinkling of fresh herbs. A loaf of crusty bread sat alongside. Even from the doorway, Crowley could smell the bright scent of basil and olive oil.

Aziraphale stood beside the table, beaming with pride but clearly nervous. “Welcome home,” he said softly.

“Angel...” Crowley breathed, taking in the scene with wonder.

“I wanted to do something special,” Aziraphale said, a blush colouring his cheeks. “A proper date. Like in those books you brought me. I know it’s not much given our circumstances, but…” He gestured helplessly at the room.

Crowley felt his throat tighten. “You planned all this.”

“Dinner dates always sounded so lovely in those novels,” Aziraphale admitted shyly. “I thought perhaps we could have our own version. Even here.”

“It’s perfect,” Crowley said, crossing the room to take the angel's hands in his. “I can’t believe you’ve done all this.”

“I wanted to show you,” Aziraphale said quietly, “that this isn't just about being trapped together anymore. I wanted to choose to be with you. Properly choose it.”

The evening that followed felt like it had been stolen from another life entirely. They dined by candlelight, talking and laughing like they were tucked up in some intimate restaurant in the heart of London rather than the depths of Hell. Aziraphale poured wine from a bottle Crowley had unknowingly provided earlier, and they shared stories and gentle touches across the table, growing pleasantly tipsy in the flickering light. It was unlike anything Crowley had ever experienced, and watching the flames dance in Aziraphale's blue eyes made him fall somehow even deeper in love.

“Perhaps there’s merit in those books after all,” Crowley said with amusement as he poured the last of the wine.

“Absolutely,” Aziraphale replied. “They’re quite educational. Did you know that meaningful eye contact during dinner is supposed to increase intimate connection?”

“Is that so?” Crowley asked, leaning back in his chair with a smile.

“Mmm,” Aziraphale hummed, meeting his gaze directly. “And sharing food is meant to create bonds of trust and affection.”

“Well then,” Crowley said, pushing his unfinished piece of bread across the table towards him, “we'd better make sure we're doing this properly.”

Later, they moved to the sofa, Aziraphale curled against Crowley's side as they shared the last of the wine from the same glass. The candlelight painted everything in gold and amber, and Hell seemed to fade away entirely. In this bubble of warmth and light they'd created together, they could have been anywhere.

Crowley was just thinking that he'd never been happier in his entire existence, that this moment was perfect and exactly what he'd never dared to hope for, when a sharp knock echoed through the room.

They both froze.

“Expecting someone?” Aziraphale whispered.

“No,” Crowley said grimly, disentangling himself from the angel. “Stay here.”

He opened the door to find Furfur standing in the corridor, a folder tucked under his arm and an oddly bright expression on his face.

“Furfur,” Crowley said, trying to keep the confusion from his voice. “I wasn't expecting a visit.”

“I have that information you asked for,” Furfur said, holding up the folder. “About those collar modifications.”

Crowley's hand itched to reach for the folder, but he could see how tightly Furfur was gripping it, how his body seemed to lean towards the doorway as if angling for an invitation inside. With an internal sigh, Crowley stepped back and waved him through the wards.

He watched as the smaller demon’s eyes swept the room, taking in all the furnishings, the music, and the candlelit dinner setting.

“Interesting setup you’ve got here,” Furfur said slowly.

“‘I like Earth comforts,” Crowley said quickly. “Picked up some human habits over the years.”

“Ah.” Furfur's attention settled on Aziraphale, who had risen from the sofa and was quietly clearing the empty plates from the dining table without looking their way. “I see you've put your angel to good use. Quite the little domestic, isn't he?”

“He has his purposes,” Crowley replied, hating every word.

“I'm sure he does,” Furfur said, and there was something in his tone that made Crowley's skin crawl. He turned to face Crowley fully, folder still clutched in his hands. “You know, Crowley, if you ever get tired of his company, I'd be happy to provide some...alternative entertainment.”

“Right,” Crowley said, genuinely bewildered. “Thanks for the offer.”

Furfur smiled and handed over the folder, his fingers brushing against Crowley's for just a moment too long. “The information you wanted is all in there. Specifications and modification procedures.”

“Appreciated,” Crowley said, eager to end the interaction.

Furfur hesitated, clearly reluctant to leave. “Well, you know where my office is if you need anything else,” he said, his gaze fixed intently on Crowley's face. “I'm always available for you.”

Crowley gave him an awkward wave as he departed, the wards sealing shut behind him. He set the folder on the coffee table and looked up to find Aziraphale watching him with an unreadable expression.

“That demon is in love with you,” Aziraphale said quietly.

“What?” Crowley spluttered. “No, he’s not. He’s just…helpful. Professional courtesy.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said patiently, giving him a look that suggested he was being particularly dense, “he came all this way to deliver something personally rather than waiting for you to collect it. And the way he was looking at you just now...he's completely smitten.”

Crowley opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again as pieces began falling into place. Furfur's frequent fumbling around him. The way he often blushed or stammered. His eager helpfulness whenever Crowley needed something, often abandoning his own work to assist.

“Oh,” he said weakly. “Oh, shit.”

“You can be remarkably oblivious about these things,” Aziraphale observed, taking measured steps towards him.

“I had no idea,” Crowley said, running a hand through his hair. “All this time, I thought he was just being friendly.”

He grunted in surprise when Aziraphale's arms suddenly encircled him, pushing him backwards until his back met the door with a dull thud. Before he could react, the angel's lips were on his, kissing him fiercely, pressing him against the wood as their tongues met. Aziraphale's hands fisted in the back of Crowley's shirt, and Crowley could only melt into him helplessly.

When they finally broke apart with shuddering inhales, Aziraphale's eyes were blazing with a possessive fire.

“I won't share you,” Aziraphale said quietly, his voice trembling. “I know I have no right to say that, I know our situation is impossible, but I can't. I won't.”

“Angel,” Crowley said softly, cupping Aziraphale's face in his hands. “Look at me.”

Aziraphale's eyes met his, bright and shimmering in the candlelight.

“There could never be anyone else,” Crowley said with absolute conviction. “Never. It's only you, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale's eyes fluttered closed in relief. “Good,” he breathed, then opened them again, meeting Crowley's gaze. “Because you're mine.”

And then he kissed Crowley again, softer this time but still full of longing, and Crowley thought dimly that he'd never been happier to be claimed by anyone in his entire existence.

Chapter Text

After such a possessive claim, there was no question of what would follow. Aziraphale and Crowley stumbled towards the sofa, hands tugging at clothing, fingers tracing skin in desperate, fluttering touches.

When they made love this time, it was different from the night before. Less frantic rutting, more soft devotion, a deliberate claiming. Aziraphale worshipped every inch of Crowley's skin with his mouth and hands, leaving marks that would fade by morning but served their purpose now: proof that Crowley belonged to him and no one else. And Crowley responded in kind, whispering endearments against the shell of Aziraphale's ear, telling him over and over that he was the only one, would always be the only one.

“Mine,” Aziraphale breathed into Crowley's neck as the demon positioned himself, his voice soft as a prayer.

“Yours,” Crowley gasped back as he slid home, savouring the slick pull of Aziraphale's body welcoming him. “Always yours, angel.”

Afterwards they lay tangled on the sofa, candlelight still flickering around them as the burnt-down wicks struggled not to wink out. The warm light caught their sweat-slick skin, painting them in gold. Aziraphale dozed against Crowley's chest, his breathing deep and even, one hand resting possessively over Crowley's heart. The angel looked so peaceful asleep, and Crowley took in every detail of his face: the sharp line of his cheekbones, the way his lashes cast shadows in the warm light, the soft pink of his lips.

I love you, Crowley thought, the words so fierce they almost hurt. I love you so much it terrifies me.

But alongside that overwhelming love was something else now – a cold, hard determination that settled in his chest like steel. He would get Aziraphale out of here, out of Hell. 

He didn't know what that would mean for them. Almost certainly Aziraphale would be sent back to Heaven, back to his previous position. But at least there he'd be safe. No threat of demons ready to attack or violate him.

Besides, Heaven had proved more than willing to send additional angels down to Earth since Sandalphon's discorporation. Maybe Aziraphale would be one of them.

They'd make it work, Crowley told himself. Even if he only got to see his angel once in a blue moon. Even if he had to start discorporating Sandalphon on a regular basis just for the hope of Aziraphale being sent down for a cursory blessing once every few years. It would be worth it, to know Aziraphale was safe, away from Hell's clutches.

He looked down at Aziraphale, curled in his arms, chest rising and falling slowly against him. He had never been as content as he was in this moment – the love of his life sleeping against him, their hearts beating the same gentle rhythm. But as much as this moment pleased his heart, he couldn't let that selfish want override what he had to do.

If he could guarantee Aziraphale's safety, keep him tucked away in his quarters, happy and cared for for the rest of eternity, he'd do it without question.

But he couldn't.

Asterik was one thing, but Crowley was not the most powerful demon in Hell, not by a country mile. Beezlebub could order his protective wards destroyed in an instant if the mood took them, and have Azriaphale dragged away kicking and screaming. 

His arms tightened involuntarily around the angel, who made a soft noise in the back of his throat, stirring briefly before settling back into Crowley's embrace with a contented exhale. Crowley's fingers grazed his forehead as he carefully brushed a pale curl back.

He couldn't take the risk. Even if he tried his best to stay on Beelzebub's good side, there was no telling what could happen. One bad mood from the Prince of Hell, one mistake from Crowley...or maybe something completely out of his control. Another demon could do something to please Beelzebub so much that they'd relegate Crowley's prize to them instead, deeming them more worthy. The good graces from discorporating Sandalphon wouldn't last forever, Crowley knew that. Even if he resolved to do it over and over again once Sandalphon was back on Earth, the novelty would undoubtedly grow stale.

No, the only guaranteed way to keep Aziraphale from harm was to get him out of here for good. Even if it meant giving up everything they'd built…and breaking his own heart in the process.

Slowly, he reached over to the coffee table and plucked up the folder Furfur had dropped off. It was tricky to read in the low candlelight, but it hardly mattered – there was little useful information inside. Mostly a collection of forms detailing the collar's creation, signed off by Furfur and a few other administrative demons. An infernal restraint requisition form, a binding apparatus work order, and standard documentation for a metaphysical suppression device. The details were scarce regarding the actual enchantments used, and there was absolutely no mention of removal procedures.

Crowley's hope for a quick fix died rapidly, but on the final page, the work order bore a name he didn't recognise. It was the asset certificate, stamped and dated by the demon who had created the collar in the first place. The headed paper indicated it had come from Foundry Level 12, Workshop 23-B. That's where Crowley needed to start.

He put the folder down and shifted, carefully extracting himself from beneath Aziraphale. But as he hurriedly pulled on his clothes, the angel stirred, pushing himself up.

“Crowley?” he murmured.

“I need to go and do something, angel,” Crowley said, unable to help himself from cupping Aziraphale's face, brushing his thumbs along those flushed cheeks. “I'll be back soon.”

Aziraphale's eyes darted to the open folder on the table, then back to Crowley, brows pinched with worry. “You're not going to do anything reckless, are you?”

Crowley pressed a kiss to the top of the angel's head. “I'm just going to talk to the demon in the foundry who originally forged the collar. Find out more about it.”

Aziraphale's hands clutched at the bottom of Crowley's shirt. “Do be careful,” he whispered.

“I will,” Crowley promised, tilting Aziraphale's chin up to plant a soft kiss on his lips. “Go back to sleep. I'll be home before you know it.”

He held him until he felt the tension in the angel's shoulders ease slightly, then tucked the folder under one arm and left his quarters before Aziraphale's warmth and anxious eyes could convince him to stay.

***

The lift that carried Crowley down was a crude iron cage that groaned and screeched as it descended into Hell's industrial district. Each level brought new, increasingly unsettling sounds. The clatter of typewriters and filing cabinets morphed into the rhythmic pounding of machinery. Then came the roar of furnaces, the hiss of steam, and underneath it all, a low, hollow moaning that could have been wind through caverns or something far worse.

By Level 8, Crowley's throat and eyes were burning from smoke that drifted through the corridors in lazy coils, the air thick and acrid. On Level 10, demons in leather aprons and soot-stained faces hurried past with wheelbarrows full of glowing coals and lumps of metal, and Crowley's shirt began sticking to his skin from the growing heat.

When the lift finally shuddered to a halt at Level 12, Crowley stepped out into a vast cavern filled with forges burning with flames of every colour imaginable: blue-white fire that hurt to look at directly; deep crimson that seemed to absorb light rather than give it off; sickly green fires that cast everything in an underwater glow.

The noise was overwhelming. Hammers rang against anvils in a rhythmless cacophony, engines hissed and wheezed, bellows fed fires until they roared like living beasts. Over it all, demons shouted orders and occasionally screamed when someone fucked up.

Crowley's sunglasses fogged immediately. He tucked them into his shirt pocket and picked his way carefully along the rivers of molten metal that flowed through channels carved into the floor, side-stepping geysers of steam that erupted periodically. The demons working here were different from their office-dwelling counterparts: bigger, more brutish, faces blackened by years of soot. They barely glanced at Crowley as he passed.

Workshop 23-B sat in a relatively quieter corner of the foundry, though ‘quiet’ was relative. A crooked sign above the entrance read ‘Speciality Bindings & Restraints’, branded into metal. Crowley stepped inside and fought not to cringe against the overwhelming heat; the forge at the centre burned so white-hot it would have melted the skin from a non-ethereal being in an instant.

The demon he was looking for – Hathan, according to the documents – worked at an anvil, hammering what looked like hand restraints. He was enormous, easily eight feet tall and wider than Crowley's outstretched arms. His skin was like old leather with a greenish tint, scars and pits running up his tree-trunk arms. Two massive horns jutted from his skull, which housed small, piggy eyes and a bulbous nose. Each time he brought the hammer down, steam rose from his wide nostrils.

“Oi!” Crowley called over the noise.

Hathan didn't look up, continuing to pound away at the restraints. Sparks flew, some landing on his bare chest and arms without seeming to bother him.

“I said oi!” Crowley tried again, moving closer. 

The demon's head snapped up, small eyes fixing on Crowley with annoyance. “Workshop’s closed,” he rumbled. “Come back tomorrow.”

“I’m not here for a commission,” Crowley said, holding up the folder. “I’m here about something you made. A collar.”

“Got a complaint? Take it up with my supervisor,” Hathan growled, bringing the hammer down with a particularly hard clang.

Crowley gritted his teeth. “It's not a complaint. I just want to ask about it.”

Hathan hammered a few more times, then dropped the tool with a grunt when Crowley refused to leave, wiping his massive hands on his leather apron.

“What?” he asked, clearly uninterested.

“Binding apparatus,” Crowley said, flicking open the folder. “One hundred and fifty-six years ago.”

Hathan stared at him, then barked out a laugh that sounded like he was coughing up phlegm. “You havin’ a laugh? Over a century ago, and you think I’d remember that? Made thousands of things since then.”

Crowley’s jaw tightened with frustration. “It was for a specific prisoner. High priority commission.”

“Don’t matter.” Hathan shrugged, picking up his hammer again. “Long fucking time ago. Memory’s not what it used to be.”

His dismissive tone grated on Crowley. He’d come all this way, ruined his clothes with sweat, for this?

“Well, how many collars have you made for angels?” Crowley snapped, wafting the folder so violently the furnace fire wavered.

That got Hathan’s attention. The hammer clattered to the floor, and he fixed Crowley with those small eyes, suddenly sharp and focused.

“Angels?” Hathan said, waiting for Crowley to nod. “Just the one. In all my time here, just the one collar made specifically to hold an angel.” He paused, his scarred face creasing in concentration. “Yeah, I remember that job now. Not your standard prisoner restraint. Needed to be able to hold a whole load of enchantments.” He wiped his hands on his apron, giving Crowley a long look. “What d'you want to know about it?”

“I…I need alterations made,” Crowley said, startled by how close he came to admitting the real purpose for his visit; the heat was fogging his brain. “So I have more control over where he can wander.”

Hathan snorted, then spat a gob of phlegm into the flame, where it hissed and dissipated into acrid smoke. “Unless you need the size adjusting, can’t help you. Enchantments weren’t my department.”

“Well, who enchanted it?” Crowley pressed.

Hathan shrugged his massive shoulders, giving Crowley a bewildered look as if the question was stupid. “Who d’ya think I am? I make things, then they get passed on. Don’t give a toss what happens to them once they leave this workshop.” He turned back to his anvil, picking up his hammer. “Was probably a curse-scribe. Check the binding records in the scriptorium.”

“Thanks,” Crowley said, the word coming out clipped.

“You the one they gave him to, then? The angel?” Hathan asked without looking up, but there was a new note of interest in his gravelly voice.

Every muscle in Crowley's body tensed. “You know him?” 

“Met him once to measure him up for the collar. Delicious thing.” Hathan's hammer paused mid-swing as he seemed to remember something. “Always meant to pay him a little visit down in the pits, never got around to it.”

Molton rage flashed through Crowley's vision. “Right,” he managed through gritted teeth.

If Hathan noticed the shift in Crowley's tone, he didn't seem to care. “Strange little creature, though. Didn't make much sense when I met him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Kept going on about tubes,” Hathan said with a dismissive grunt, resuming his hammering. “Bloody obsessed with tubes, he was. Wouldn't shut up about them. Made no sense at all.”

“Tubes?” Crowley repeated, genuinely confused. “What kind of tubes?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Hathan's voice rose over the clang of metal. “Something about them being under the ground, and people getting on and off them. Thought maybe he'd cracked, y’know? Happens to prisoners sometimes, especially the pretty ones.”

Crowley stared at him, understanding hitting him like a brick to the face. “The Underground,” he breathed.

“What?” Hathan turned his piggy eyes on him again.

“The London Underground,” Crowley said. “The tube system. Underground trains that run through tunnels.”

Hathan stared at him blankly. “Right. Why would an angel give a toss about underground trains?”

“I…” Crowley faltered. “I don’t know.”

“Huh,” Hathan grunted, already losing interest. “Whatever. Scriptorium, Level 6. That’s where you’ll find what you’re looking for. Now fuck off, I’ve got work to do.”

Crowley moved mechanically back to the wrought iron lift, but rather than riding it to Level 6, he found himself pressing the button for the residential district. He needed to see Aziraphale, needed to understand. Why would the angel have been asking about the London Underground? Why would he care about human transportation systems?

He hadn't realised his hands were shaking until he opened the folder, now sporting a fine layer of soot. It was dated with the year the collar had been made – undoubtedly the same year as Aziraphale's capture.

1863

The date hit him with a sharp clarity. 1863 – the year the London Underground opened, the world’s first underground passenger railway. Crowley remembered it well; it was not long after he’d awoken from his decades-long sleep and was reluctantly sent back to work.

But why would Aziraphale have been asking about it? What was his interest in something he'd never seen?

The lift groaned to a halt, and Crowley practically sprinted through the corridors to his quarters. The wards parted before he'd even arrived, as if sensing his urgency.

“Angel?” he called as soon as he stepped inside.

Aziraphale looked up from the sofa where he’d been reading, his face immediately creasing with concern. “My dear, you look dreadful. What happened?” 

Crowley stood by the door, still holding the soot-stained folder, his clothes clinging uncomfortably to his skin as he tried to find the words. How did you ask someone to recount what might be the worst day of their existence?

“I found the demon who made your collar,” he said finally.

Aziraphale nodded slowly. “I see.”

“He remembered you. Said you talked about tubes when he measured you for the collar. The Underground. The London Underground, angel.”

Something flickered across Aziraphale's face – pain, or perhaps old confusion.

“Angel,” Crowley said gently, crossing to sit beside him, “you were captured in 1863, weren't you? That’s the same year the Underground opened.”

Aziraphale's book slipped from his fingers, landing on the floor with a soft thud. His hands twisted in his lap, and for a moment, he looked exactly like he had all those months ago when Crowley first met him – lost and broken and trying so hard to be brave.

“Angel,” Crowley said, reaching for one of those fidgeting hands. “Why did you come down here? Was it to do with the Underground?”

Aziraphale stared vacantly into space, his face blank, but the hand in Crowley's trembled slightly. Crowley waited patiently, rubbing gentle circles into the back of his hand with his thumb as they sat in the lamplight.

“There were reports,” Aziraphale said eventually, his voice distant with memory. “In Heaven. Intelligence suggesting that the London Underground's opening would be catastrophic. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of deaths from structural collapses, fires, accidents.” He looked up at Crowley with those impossibly blue eyes. “But it didn't happen. The opening was a remarkable success.”

Crowley felt a cold dread settling in his stomach. “And?”

“I was curious,” Aziraphale continued. “How could all the intelligence be so wrong? Why had Hell's plans for mass casualties failed so spectacularly? I thought...I thought perhaps Hell knew something we didn't. Had some insight into why their anticipated harvest of souls never materialised.”

“So you came down here…” Crowley said hollowly as that cold dread spread to all his extremities.

“I assumed it would be a diplomatic mission,” Aziraphale said, a bitter laugh escaping him. “I thought I could simply inquire, gather information, and report back to Heaven. I was naive enough to believe in diplomatic immunity, in the old protocols between Heaven and Hell. I did try to get the mission officially sanctioned, but Gabriel wasn't interested. He told me to leave it alone.” He dropped to a whisper. “I suppose I should have listened.”

Crowley’s hands had gone numb. The folder slipped from his other hand, papers scattering across the floor.

“I just wanted to know why Hell hadn’t capitalised on the Underground disaster,” Aziraphale continued softly. “Why they let such an opportunity for chaos and death slip through their fingers. I thought perhaps they were planning something larger, something I could warn Heaven about.”

The room seemed to tilt around Crowley, his breathing becoming uneven. He remembered that day in 1863. The Underground’s opening, the panic in Hell’s ranks when their carefully laid plans began falling apart. The collapses that didn’t happen, the fires that mysteriously extinguished themselves, the accidents that were miraculously averted.

He remembered his own boredom, how casually he’d interfered. A support beam strengthened here, a gas leak sealed there, a faulty brake system mysteriously repaired. He'd done it almost without thinking, more out of spite for Hell's expectations than any grand plan to save human lives.

“Oh,” Crowley whispered. “Oh, fuck. Angel, I…”

“What’s wrong?” Aziraphale asked, taking in Crowley’s stricken expression with alarm. “My dear, you’ve gone white as a sheet.”

“It was me,” Crowley choked out, the words tearing from his throat like broken glass. “The reason the Underground opening was a success. The reason all those people didn’t die. I stopped it. I prevented everything Hell had planned.”

Aziraphale stared at him, his eyes tracking across Crowley's face as understanding began to dawn.

“I was bored,” Crowley continued, his voice breaking. “I’d just woken up from a long nap, and Hell was so smug about their big disaster plan. So I…I interfered. I prevented every single catastrophe because I was bloody bored and wanted to annoy the bosses.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

“You mean…” Aziraphale whispered.

“You came to Hell asking why their plans had failed because I’d sabotaged them,” Crowley said, each word a nail in his own coffin. “If I hadn’t interfered, if I’d just let Hell have their disaster, you never would have been curious. You never would have come here. You never would have been captured.”

Aziraphale's face had gone deathly pale.

“This is my fault,” Crowley continued, his stomach roiling as the horrible truth poured out of him. “Your capture, your torture, this collar, all of it. It's my fault. I'm the reason you're here, angel. I'm the reason you've suffered all these years.”

The silence returned like an oppressive shroud. Crowley closed his eyes, nails biting into the tops of his thighs as he waited for Aziraphale’s horror, his anger, his inevitable rejection. Because how could anyone forgive something like this? How could anyone love the being responsible for taking away their freedom?

Instead, Aziraphale's hand found his cheek, warm and impossibly gentle. “Oh, my darling,” he whispered. “You couldn't have possibly known what would happen.”

Crowley’s eyes opened. “But I should have—” he started, but Aziraphale’s thumb pressed softly against his lips.

“How could you have known that preventing that would lead to my curiosity? That my curiosity would lead to such folly?” Aziraphale’s voice was steady, resolute. “You saved lives that day, Crowley. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of lives. That’s not something to feel guilty about.”

“It is when it cost you everything!” Crowley shot up from the sofa, pacing to the other side of the room like a caged animal. He couldn't bear it – couldn't bear Aziraphale's forgiveness, his understanding. “Don’t you see? If I’d just minded my own business, if I'd let Hell have their chaos, you'd still be in Heaven. Safe. Free. You'd have your wings, your miracles, everything they took from you.”

“And thousands of humans would be dead,” Aziraphale said quietly.

“They’re dead now anyway!” Crowley snarled, raking his fingers through his hair as he doubled over. “This is…this is fucked. Everything. It’s my fault.”

“Crowley—”

“No.” Crowley straightened, eyes wild. “I’m going to fix this. I need information from the scriptorium. I'm going to break in tonight. I'm getting you out of here.”

“Crowley, please.” Aziraphale rose from the sofa, moving towards him slowly like he was approaching a spooked animal. “You’re upset. Don’t do anything rash—”

“This is my fault, angel. Can’t you see that?” Crowley shook his head, tears burning in the corners of his eyes. “This is my fault, and it’s my responsibility to fix it. I won’t let you suffer another day because of my stupidity.”

“It wasn’t stupidity,” Aziraphale insisted. “It was kindness. You prevented a disaster because it was the right thing to do.”

“The right thing.” Crowley let out a bitter laugh. “The right thing would have been to think beyond the immediate consequences. The right thing would have been to consider that every action has ripple effects.”

“You couldn’t have known—”

“Stop making excuses for me!” Crowley shouted, and Aziraphale flinched. The sight of that small recoil was a knife to Crowley’s heart, but he couldn’t stop himself. “I failed you before we even met. I failed you in the worst possible way, and I’m going to spend the rest of eternity making it right.”

He made for the door in three sharp strides.

“Crowley, wait—” Aziraphale reached for him, but Crowley was already at the threshold.

“I'm going to fix this,” he said without turning around, his hand on the door handle. “I'm going to fix everything I broke. I promise you that, angel.”

“Please don't go,” Aziraphale sounded small, frightened. “Not like this. Stay with me. We'll figure it out together.”

But Crowley was already gone, the door slamming shut behind him.

***

The scriptorium stretched before Crowley like a cathedral of secrets, its vaulted stone ceilings disappearing into dark shadows far above. Row upon row of towering shelves extended in every direction – some so high that demonic scribes used floating platforms to access the uppermost levels. It was an overwhelming labyrinth of information that mocked his desperate search.

And desperate was the right word for it; Crowley moved like he was possessed though the bound ledgers and scrolls, guilt and horror churning in his stomach. It was his fault. Aziraphale’s entire reason for being in Hell, everything he’d suffered, was his doing. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment, which only made his nausea worse as he yanked books down from shelves, throwing them open on tables in wild disarray.

He'd managed to slip past the outer doors, and the few scholarly demons hovering about were clearly too frightened to approach the agitated intruder. But now Crowley was overwhelmed by what he needed to do. Where did he even begin to look for binding records in a collection this vast? His hands shook as he pulled out drawer after drawer, scanning labels that meant nothing to him. ‘Binding Protocols – Historical’, ‘Restraint Devices – Obsolete’, ‘Punishment Accessories – Current’. None of it seemed right, none of it seemed like what he needed to free Aziraphale.

“Lost, are we?”

Crowley spun around. A tall, gaunt demon emerged from between two towering shelves, taking slow, deliberate steps towards him. With his black, soulless eyes, hollow, sunken face, and fat toad familiar croaking ominously atop his head, Hastur, Duke of Hell, was as unpleasant a sight as he'd always been.

“Hastur,” Crowley said, trying to sound casual as his pulse quickened. “Burning the midnight oil?”

“I could ask the same.” Hastur's void-like eyes glittered as they took in Crowley amongst the scattered files. “Bit outside your usual territory, isn’t it? What brings you to my domain?”

“Didn’t realise it was yours,” Crowley said. “Didn’t have you down as a big reader.”

“This level falls under my jurisdiction,” Hastur said with a crooked smile. “Little birdy told me someone was skulking about, acting strangely.” Crowley's gaze darted to the beady eyes watching from the shadows, which hurriedly looked away. “So, what brings you here?”

“Administrative business,” Crowley said, forcing lightness into his voice. “Paperwork never ends, you know.”

Hastur's smile widened, revealing teeth like broken tombstones. “Wouldn't have anything to do with that pretty little angel of yours, would it?”

Crowley kept his expression neutral despite the ice forming in his veins. “Don't know what you mean.”

“Quite the prize,” Hastur said, ambling closer. “Have to say, didn't expect them to hand you that particular piece of angel meat.”

“Oh?” Crowley’s hands curled into fists.

“Me and that lovely angel go way back,” Hastur said with a vile grin, circling Crowley slowly. “Had lots of fun together back in the day. Real sweet thing. Made the nicest sounds when you hurt him just right.”

Crowley’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached, but he forced out a laugh. “Always the poet, Hastur.”

“Yeah, well, he was something special. All proper and polite, even when he was sobbing.” Hastur's eyes glittered with malicious pleasure. “Used to beg real nice too. 'Please stop,' 'I'll do anything'—absolute music to my ears. Hope he's still got those manners.”

White-hot rage blazed through Crowley's chest, but he managed to hold steady. “He's been...accommodating.”

“Bet he has. Though I do have to ask…” Hastur leaned in with a leer, his breath reeking of sulphur, “...you actually using him properly? I mean, we broke him in real thorough. Taught him exactly how to please a demon. Hate to think all that careful training's going to waste.”

“I'm managing just fine,” Crowley said through gritted teeth.

“I'm sure you are. Thing is, though,” Hastur scratched his chin thoughtfully, “if you ever get bored with him, or if you want some tips on how to really make him scream…” His smile turned predatory. “I'd be happy to show you. Could even take him for a spin myself, for old times' sake.”

Something snapped inside Crowley. Before he could think, before he could stop himself, his hand shot out and slammed Hastur against the table, forearm pressed against the other demon's throat.

“Don't,” Crowley snarled, his voice little more than a serpent’s hiss, “ever fucking suggest that again. You don’t get to touch him or go anywhere near him. Ever. Got it?”

The resistance was immediate. Hastur's claw-like hands encircled his wrist, and Crowley could feel it: the taut muscles, the dark energy surging between them. Hastur wasn't like Asterik. And he certainly wasn't some lower-level demon Crowley could brush away with a flick of his wrist. They were evenly matched. Perhaps not in brains or imagination, but at least where it counted right now, in pure demonic strength.

Hastur's eyes had widened in surprise when his back met the table, but then they narrowed with interest, his mouth twisting into a knowing smirk. “Just as I thought,” he murmured.

Crowley realised his mistake immediately. He stumbled backwards, releasing Hastur with such force that a sheaf of records tumbled to the floor and scattered around them.

“I don’t like to share,” Crowley said, wincing at how rattled he sounded. “You know how it is.”

“Do I?” Hastur straightened his trench coat, still watching Crowley with sharp eyes. “Most demons couldn't care less who else uses their toys. Hell, half the fun is swapping stories afterwards. But you...you looked ready to rip my throat out.”

“Everyone's got their preferences,” Crowley said with a shrug he didn't feel.

“No, no, I don’t believe that, Crowley,” Hastur said, almost conversational to the point of menacing. “You see, I’ve been watching. Monitoring, you could say.”

Crowley’s blood ran cold. Of course. Anyone as high a ranking as Hastur would have access to the monitoring system on Aziraphale’s collar.

“Initially, I was disappointed,” Hastur continued, beginning to pace slowly around the scattered papers. “Months went by with no activity at all. Such a waste of a perfectly good angel. But then, curious thing, you developed a routine. Weekly sessions, regular as clockwork.”

“So I like a schedule, sue me,” Crowley managed.

“Though recently you've not been sticking to that schedule, have you? Getting rather a lot more use out of him of late.”

“Had some more time on my hands,” Crowley said weakly.

“That's not it though, is it Crowley?” Hastur began circling him again, each footstep carefully placed. “See, I've had reports. Concerning reports.”

Crowley froze. “What reports?”

“Reports that you've not been treating that angel the way you should. Seems you've been seen carrying rather unusual items through these corridors. Books, delicacies, various entertainments...” Hastur's eyes glittered with malicious delight. “What use are those for a prisoner?”

Crowley's mind raced for an explanation. “Keeps him docile. Happy prisoners are compliant prisoners.”

“Compliant?” Hastur's laugh was a choked wheeze. “And I suppose that's why you burnt Asterik to a crisp? For the sake of your prisoner management techniques?”

“Asterik overstepped,” Crowley said through gritted teeth. “I protect my investments.”

“Protect?” Hastur raised his eyebrows. “Interesting choice of words. Most would say ‘maintain’ or ‘preserve.’ But protect...that's what you do for something you care about, isn't it?”

The scriptorium felt like it was closing in around them. Crowley could hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears.

“And then there's the matter of your whereabouts,” Hastur continued relentlessly. “Spending an awful lot of time down here these days. Almost as if you can't bear to be away from him for long.”

“I monitor my assets,” Crowley said weakly.

“Assets,” Hastur mused. “Assets don't typically receive creature comforts, do they? Treats, recreational materials, whatever catches their fancy…” Hastur stopped his endless prowling, bringing his lips close to Crowley’s ear as his voice dropped to a whisper. “But lovers do.”

Crowley felt his world collapse in that single moment.

“You're delusional,” he croaked.

“Am I?” Hastur said, eyes widening with mock surprise. He smirked. “Because I think Lord Beezelbub would find this information fascinating. The demon who was awarded such a prize to defile has instead been pampering it.” He tutted disapprovingly. “They do so hate it when their gifts aren’t properly appreciated.” 

Hastur began walking away, his footsteps echoing in the vast scriptorium. As he reached the end of the aisle, he paused and looked back over his shoulder.

“Run back to your pet, Crowley,” he said with obvious satisfaction. “Because it'll be the last time you ever see him.”

The sound of his laughter followed him into the darkness, leaving Crowley alone among the scattered papers and the realisation of just how completely and utterly fucked he was.

Chapter Text

Crowley barrelled through Hell's corridors, shoving past any demon too slow to flatten themselves against the wall before he reached them. Every shadow housed watching eyes, every echo of his rapid footsteps announced his guilt to anyone within earshot.

How could he have been so bloody careless?

The question hammered against his skull with every frantic step, a relentless rhythm of self-recrimination. Everything that had happened – so much that could have been avoided if he’d just thought. He'd let Furfur into his quarters, and the demon had seen everything: the candles, the set table, the cosy setting. One (or possibly two) Disposable Erics had glimpsed inside too, witnessed the devotion he’d put into transforming his quarters from a cell to something approaching a home.

They'd all seen his feelings laid bare.

And that was just the tip of the iceberg of his stupidity. 

For months, he'd paraded through Hell carrying books, records, biscuits – countless little treats for Aziraphale. Never once considering who might be watching, what whispers might snake through Hell's gossip network. He'd been so desperate to bring light into that wretched place, so focused on coaxing smiles from his angel, that he'd forgotten the first rule of survival down here: trust no one, and assume everyone is watching.

Crowley had let himself forget.

He'd grown complacent, lulled by Beelzebub's favour and the protective wards around his quarters. But what good were wards when he'd already painted a target on both their backs? When his own actions had handed Hell everything they needed?

Hastur's words slithered back through his mind: reports. Demons watching, following, documenting every deviation from proper demonic behaviour. How many had noticed his increased time spent in Hell? How many had glimpsed him in the corridors with packages tucked under his arm, or seen the way he'd changed since acquiring his “prize”, becoming so protective?

He'd openly been performing his love affair for an audience who'd been taking notes.

The residential district loomed ahead. Crowley's stride hitched, terror clawing up his throat. Not for himself – he could handle whatever Hell threw at him. But for the angel waiting inside, whose only crime had been loving a demon too stupid to protect him.

The wards barely had time to recognise him before Crowley burst through, wild-eyed and shaking.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale was on his feet instantly, reaching for him.

“Angel—” Crowley's voice cracked as his hands flew to his hair, tugging until the strands stood in frantic spikes. 

Aziraphale’s face softened. “Oh, my darling. It’s alright. What happened wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t possibly have known that preventing that disaster would lead to my foolish decision to investigate Hell.”

Crowley frantically shook his head. “Angel, that’s not—”

But Aziraphale was pulling him close, arms wrapping around him. “I don’t blame you for any of it. Not for saving those humans, not for the consequences, and certainly not for my capture. You acted with kindness—”

“Aziraphale, stop!” Crowley wrenched himself free, hands planted against the angel's shoulders to hold him at arm's length. “This isn’t about that. This is about what’s happening right now. I’ve fucked it, angel. Completely fucked it.”

The gentle concern on Aziraphale's face shifted to confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Hastur.” The name came out like a curse. “Ran into him in the scriptorium. He knows, Aziraphale.”

Every muscle in Aziraphale’s body went rigid. “Knows what, exactly?”

“Everything.” Crowley's hands slid from Aziraphale’s shoulders to his throat, trembling fingers tracing the edge of that wretched collar. “He's been watching us. Having us watched. He knows this isn't...that it's more than it should be.” 

He gave the collar an experimental tug. Aziraphale lurched forward with the movement, a soft sound of protest escaping him.

“Crowley—” 

“No, we have to get this off you.” Crowley's fingers pressed harder against the metal, searching desperately for some weakness, some mechanism he'd missed. “Right now, before they come. If we have to be apart, at least you'll be free.”

“Crowley, it won’t work—”

“It has to!” The words tore from his throat, voice breaking as his fingers shook against the metal band. “There has to be a way. I didn't find what I was looking for in the scriptorium, but there has to be something…”

His fingers fumbled along the seam where the collar joined, feeling for catches that simply weren't there. The metal remained stubbornly solid, warm from Aziraphale's skin but otherwise unresponsive.

“Crowley, please.” Aziraphale caught his wrists, trying to still his frantic movements.

“No!” Crowley pulled free, returning immediately to his desperate examination. “There has to be a release mechanism. Some failsafe. What did they tell you when they put it on? What did they say about how it works?”

“Nothing useful,” Aziraphale said, hands beginning to tremble against Crowley’s. “Just that it would destroy me if I tried to remove it.”

Crowley closed his eyes, feeling for the enchantments woven into the metal. But whatever bound it in place was still beyond his understanding – he simply didn't know how to unravel it.

“Fuck!” His palm slammed against the wall, making Aziraphale flinch. “I should have looked harder. Should have burnt Hastur’s smug face off so I could keep searching—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice was firm but calm. “Look at me.”

Crowley turned towards him, eyes glistening. ”I can't get it off,” he whispered. “I can't free you.”

“My love—”

“You’ll be trapped forever because I was too stupid to protect you properly.” Tears were streaming down Crowley’s face now, his voice shaking. “And now Hastur knows, and he’s going to tell Beelzebub if he hasn’t already, and they’ll give you to someone who’ll hurt you and I—”

Warm hands cupped his face, forcing him to meet concerned blue eyes. “Breathe,” Aziraphale said quietly. “Just breathe.”

“I can't,” Crowley gasped. “Angel, I can't. I've ruined everything.”

“It’ll be alright,” Aziraphale murmured, thumbs stroking away Crowley’s tears. But the demon caught the slight break on “alright”, the fear bleeding through despite the angel's efforts to stay calm.

Crowley's breathing was still ragged as his hands came up to cover Aziraphale's where they rested against his cheeks. “I don't know how to fix this.”

Three sharp knocks echoed through the quarters.

They both froze, the sound cutting through their panic like they’d been doused with ice water.

“Crowley?” A flat, hesitant voice drifted through the door; one of the Disposable Erics. “Lord Beelzebub has requested your immediate presence in the Tribunal Chamber.”

Crowley’s hands tightened around Aziraphale’s as he fought to keep his breathing steady. The angel's eyes were wide with terror, fingers trembling beneath his touch.

“And the prisoner is to accompany you,” the Eric added almost as an afterthought.

All remaining colour drained from Aziraphale's face. Crowley leant forward until their foreheads touched, one hand cupping the back of the angel's neck as if he could anchor him to this moment, to safety.

A deeper voice rumbled from beyond the door, deeper and more guttural. “We know you're in there. Don't make this difficult.”

Crowley cleared his throat, wrestling his hitching voice into submission. “One moment. Just making myself presentable.”

He guided Aziraphale away from the door, leaning close to whisper urgently, “Listen to me. Whatever happens in there, I'm going to do everything I can to keep you safe. Do you understand?”

Aziraphale nodded, eyes wide but trusting.

“Change out of those clothes.” Crowley grabbed the white robe from the back of the armchair. “Put this on. More appropriate.”

Truth be told, naked would have been most appropriate for a prisoner, but Crowley wasn't entertaining that thought.

Aziraphale's hands shook as he fumbled with his bow tie, then the buttons on his waistcoat. Crowley turned to the mirror still standing against the wall, and with a quick gesture, he fixed his hair and removed the tear tracks from his face. 

When he looked back, his heart clenched. In the robe, the angel looked exactly as he had that first day he’d been thrown unceremoniously into Crowley’s quarters – petrified and fragile. 

Crowley went to him, winding his arms around the angel's trembling form and pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale whispered, hands clutching desperately at his shirt.

“Whatever happens,” Crowley breathed against him, “I love you.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes. “I love you too.”

The knocking came harder this time, impatient. They were out of time. If the demons outside had to force entry or enlist someone who could, things would go catastrophically worse. The door might as well have been made of paper for all the protection it offered now.

Crowley straightened and took a deep breath. When he opened the door, he shifted his entire demeanour. He banished the panicked, desperate demon of moments before and replaced him with the cool, collected Crowley that Hell knew and expected.

“Sorry to keep you chaps waiting,” he drawled, as if a summons from Beelzebub was a tedious interruption to his evening. “Shall we get on with it?”

The Eric clutching the summons scroll was flanked by two hulking enforcers. Mid-level by the look of them, all muscle and no conversation. Their beady eyes fixed on Crowley.

“Lord Beelzebub is waiting,” the Eric said, stepping aside.

“Of course.” Crowley strolled into the corridor as if he owned it, Aziraphale at his heels. “Lead on.”

They followed the Eric through Hell's twisting passages, the enforcers boxing them in from behind. Crowley maintained his façade of boredom, occasionally glancing at his watch or examining his fingernails as if this tribunal were nothing more than a minor social obligation.

But his stride faltered just slightly every few steps, a tell that anyone who truly knew him would recognise as pure, barely contained terror. The only being who would pick up on it was Aziraphale, just a step or two behind him.

As they walked, his mind raced through possible explanations for Hastur's accusations. He settled on one – risky, but it might work. He didn't like it one bit.

Behind him, Aziraphale’s soft footsteps were a comforting contrast to the harsh clicks of demonic claws on stone. Crowley didn't dare look back, couldn't risk his mask slipping, but he was acutely aware of every sound, every sucked in breath, every slight hesitation in his step.

The lift descended with mechanical shrieks, Hell's departments flashing past through the metal grating: administrative offices bleeding into punishment chambers, then the forges, before plunging deeper to where Hell's true business was conducted.

The corridor to the Tribunal Chamber was ancient black stone, glistening wetly as though it were a living, breathing thing. Torches burned in iron sconces, the light catching on jagged edges of stone.

Crowley could hear Aziraphale’s breathing behind him, controlled but too quick, trying desperately not to show his fear.

Massive obsidian doors loomed ahead, carved with writhing demonic sigils that seemed to shift in the torchlight. Hooded guards flanked the entrance, the glow of red eyes piercing through their shadowed faces.

The murmur of many voices leaked through the stone. The chamber was packed – Hell's bureaucracy eager for entertainment. Crowley's stomach clenched.

The Eric halted before the doors. “You proceed alone,” he told Crowley. “The prisoner waits here pending further instruction.”

“Naturally,” Crowley drawled, though his heart hammered against his ribs.

He turned to Aziraphale, who stood small between the guards, the white robe making him look fragile as parchment. Their eyes met briefly, long enough for Crowley to see the trust there, the absolute faith that somehow he would protect him.

It nearly shattered his resolve entirely.

Then the doors ground open, and Crowley stepped inside.

The Tribunal Chamber was a vast circular amphitheatre carved from polished black marble. Hellfire blazed in braziers around the perimeter whilst tiered seating rose on all sides, packed with demons of every rank. Their eyes glittered with anticipation as they watched Crowley's approach.

At the chamber's head, Beelzebub presided from a throne of twisted metal and bone, flies creating a living crown around their impassive face as their dark eyes regarded Crowley. To their right stood Dagon, clipboard ready; to their left: Hastur, whose satisfied smirk made Crowley's hands itch for his throat, and Ligur, another Duke whose very presence made his skin crawl.

As Crowley reached the chamber's centre, the crowd's murmurs died to absolute silence. Every eye fixed on him, waiting. Behind him, the doors shut like a tomb being sealed. 

Aziraphale was beyond them now, waiting with the guards whilst Crowley faced the greatest performance of his existence.

He lowered his head in a shallow bow. “You wanted to see me?”

Beelzebub's voice droned through the chamber, accompanied by the buzz of a thousand flies. “Duke Hastur has brought concerning allegations to our attention regarding your...stewardship of the prisoner.”

“Allegations?” Crowley let his tone settle into amusement, hands resting on his hips. “Perhaps someone could enlighten me as to what has you all so troubled?”

Hastur stepped forward with obvious relish. “Multiple witnesses report highly irregular behaviour in your treatment of the angel. Behaviour that suggests…” he paused for dramatic effect, “an inappropriate attachment.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd before settling into quiet again as Crowley clucked his teeth.

“Inappropriate,” he repeated. “In what sense?”

“That, Demon Crowley, is precisely what this tribunal intends to establish,” Beelzebub interjected. “You stand accused of developing emotional compromise that threatens Hell’s interests. How do you answer?”

Crowley’s dismissive laugh rang through the chamber. “Emotional compromise? I think you’ve misread the situation.”

“Have we indeed?” Hastur’s eyes glittered. “Then perhaps our primary witness can clarify matters.”

Dagon consulted her clipboard. “Call forward, Furfur, First Circle, Administrative Division.”

From the lower stands, Furfur was frogmarched by a larger, scaly demon to an elevated platform in front of Beelzebub and the Dukes. He stepped up onto the platform reluctantly, shooting anxious glances at Crowley standing several feet away.

“Furfur,” Hastur said, making the short demon wince, “you were seen paying a visit to Crowley’s quarters recently.”

“Yes. Yes, that’s right.”

“Tell us what you observed inside those quarters,” Dagon commanded, her pen poised over her clipboard. 

Furfur shifted on the platform, shooting another anxious glance at Crowley. The light from the nearest brazier made his nervous sweat gleam. “There were...Earth artefacts present. A dining table, candles, and what sounded like human music.”

“And did this strike you as unusual?” Hastur pressed.

Furfur's bushy brows furrowed as he seemed to choose his words carefully. “I don’t understand human artefacts myself. But given Demon Crowley's long-standing Earth assignment, it seems reasonable he'd collect such items. Many demons develop...attachments to their posting locations.”

Murmurs drifted through the crowd. Crowley kept his expression bored, but internally blessed Furfur for the deflection.

“What of the prisoner?” Hastur's voice silenced the din. “Describe Crowley's interaction with the angel.”

“They seemed…” Furfur hesitated, clearly struggling, “...comfortable with each other.”

“Comfortable how?” Ligur barked from beside the throne.

“I couldn't say exactly.” Furfur's voice strengthened with defiance. “I've no experience in prisoner management protocols.”

A few poorly concealed snickers arose from the gallery. Crowley maintained his impassive stare whilst his pulse hammered against his ribs.

“State the purpose of your visit to Crowley’s quarters,” Dagon commanded, pen poised.

“I was delivering documentation,” Furfur said, looking relieved to be on safer ground. “Demon Crowley had requested information about modifying the prisoner’s restraint collar. He wanted greater control following an incident where the angel had wandered off without permission.”

Hastur’s mouth stretched into an unpleasant grin. “Ah, we’re onto that little happenstance. You witnessed Crowley's reaction when the prisoner encountered Asterik, head of one of the punishment divisions, did you not?”

Furfur's fingers worried at his jacket hem. “I did.”

“Describe that reaction for the tribunal.”

Furfur shot another worried look at Crowley. “He was…displeased. But that’s understandable, isn’t it? He’d had his property damaged.”

“Displeased.” Hastur savoured the word like wine. “He completely discorporated Asterik over a minor scratch. Rather excessive for mere property damage, wouldn't you agree?”

The silence stretched taut. Crowley saw Furfur visibly swallow, the knotted tie around his throat rustling in the quiet. “Demon Crowley claimed possessiveness over his belongings. I saw no reason to doubt that explanation.”

“No reason,” Hastur repeated mockingly. “Or perhaps you simply lack objectivity where Crowley is concerned?”

Furfur's face flushed crimson. “I don’t know what you’re implying—”

“No implication. Merely observation.” Hastur's smile turned vicious. “Everyone knows you're pathetically infatuated with the defendant. Hardly makes you a reliable witness, does it?”

Cruel laughter erupted from the stands as Furfur's flush deepened. He opened his mouth to protest, but Hastur waved dismissively.

“You're dismissed. Try not to trip over your own tongue on the way out.”

Furfur fled the platform; jeers followed his retreat up through the tiered seating until a door slammed closed somewhere in the upper reaches of the chamber.

Beelzebub stretched in their throne, flinging one leg up and over the armrest. “Duke Hastur, as much as I enjoyed that, do you have actual evidence? You claimed Crowley was behaving with inflammable kindness towards the angel.”

Hisses and jeers cascaded from the stands. Crowley kept his expression perfectly neutral, almost bored. He knew this game. He couldn’t let them rile him, couldn’t show stress or discomfort, couldn’t give them anything to exploit. Just bide his time until the right moment.

“Indeed.” Hastur began pacing behind the throne, his dark stare fixed on Crowley. “There's the matter of the gifts. Countless reports of you ferrying treats from Earth: books, games, delicacies. Do you deny these were intended for the prisoner?”

Crowley slipped his hands into his pockets. “No, I don’t deny it. They were intended for the angel.”

The crowd's murmur intensified to hostile mutterings. Someone shouted “Traitor!” from the upper tiers. Beelzebub raised a languid hand, and silence fell like a guillotine.

“So you admit it,” Hastur sneered, clearly pleased. “You claimed to me that those trinkets keep the prisoner docile, yet he appears unmarked. Not one bruise or cut until his encounter with Asterik. Meanwhile, you spend more time in your quarters than on Earth assignments. One wonders what exactly you're doing with the angel if not inflicting proper suffering.”

More jeers erupted. Crowley held Hastur's shit-eating grin with steady eyes.

“For these reasons,” Hastur declared, voice rising theatrically, “I recommend Demon Crowley be stripped of his asset. The angel should be returned to the pits as communal property.”

The crowd roared approval. Crowley felt his jaw clench, muscles working as he fought the urge to scream. Stick to the plan. Keep calm. Wait for the moment.

Beelzebub's gesture silenced the chamber again. They exchanged glances with Dagon and Ligur before speaking. “Duke Crowley, before I render judgment and remove the prisoner from your custody, do you offer any defence for this unacceptable behaviour?”

This was it. Now or never.

Crowley had always been a rubbish demon – never taken pride in causing anything beyond mild irritation or annoyance in humans, never had the knack for causing true suffering or harm. But right now, everything depended on him convincing Beelzebub and the rest that he was not only as sadistic and cruel as they were…but even worse. 

He twisted his mouth into a demented smirk and chuckled softly. The chuckle built into full laughter, then hysterical cackling that caused him to double over.

Confused murmurs rippled through the stands. Dagon slammed her clipboard against her knee with a sharp crack.

The sound cut through Crowley's performance. He straightened, still grinning like a lunatic.

“You think what I’ve been doing is kindness?” Crowley sneered, running his tongue across his teeth. “Dear, oh dear. Why am I not surprised you couldn't recognise genius when it's staring you in the face? You really are a pathetic bunch of amateurs.”

A collective intake of breath swept the chamber.

Beelzebub's flies buzzed louder, a warning. “Explain. Now.”

“With absolute pleasure.” Crowley began pacing in a slow circle, addressing the crowd as much as the throne. “The problem with you lot is a complete lack of imagination. No artistry whatsoever. You think torture means breaking bones and tearing flesh. How wonderfully...pedestrian.”

He stopped, fixing Beelzebub with his most arrogant stare. “I, however, have devised psychological torture so exquisite, so perfectly crafted, that Hell has never witnessed its like. Physical pain breaks the body, yes, but what I'm doing?”

The chamber held its breath.

“I'm breaking his soul.”

Absolute silence. Even the flies seemed to pause their buzzing.

“Out with it,” Beelzebub commanded with a soft hiss.

Crowley let his mouth settle into a sickly smirk.

“I’ve made the angel fall in love with me.”

The reaction was immediate and explosive. The stands erupted with noise, demons roaring with laughter, others hissing with disgust, whilst a few looked genuinely impressed. Hastur's smug satisfaction crumbled into disbelief, his gaze darting between Crowley and the throne.

“Impossible,” Ligur snarled once the noise subsided. “Angels don't fall in love with demons.”

“This one has,” Crowley said smoothly, each word poison on his tongue. “Months of careful manipulation. Making him dependent on me for every comfort...until he couldn’t help himself.”

Forgive me, angel, he thought desperately. For making this sound sordid when it's the most real thing I've ever felt.

“How deliciously perverse,” Dagon murmured, making notes.

Beelzebub remained unmoved. “Explain how this constitutes torture.”

This was the crucial moment – the lie that would either save them or damn them both. Crowley channelled every scrap of demonic energy he possessed. He was not a good demon, but he was still a demon after all. 

“Because the poor, deluded creature believes I love him in return.” The words scraped his throat raw. “He trusts me completely, relies on me utterly. Built his entire emotional world around the illusion that a demon could care for him.”

“No angel would be that stupid,” Hastur sneered, but uncertainty flickered in his eyes.

“And when the time comes,” Crowley pressed on relentlessly, “I'll reveal the truth. That it was all an act. That every kindness was calculated. That I've been laughing at his pathetic devotion all along.” He spread his hands with theatrical satisfaction. “The devastation will be absolute. To realise that the demon he trusted, the one being he believed cared for him, was simply playing a long game. It will destroy him more completely than any physical torture ever could.”

The chamber erupted in surprised murmurs; even Hastur looked grudgingly impressed.

“And you feel nothing for the creature?” Ligur grunted.

Crowley let out a dismissive, if slightly disgusted, laugh. “Feel something for an angel? Please. He's useful entertainment. A toy that happens to be particularly satisfying to break slowly.”

The words burned like acid, but they had the desired effect. The begrudgingly appreciative murmurs continued, and the relief that washed over Crowley threatened to buckle his knees.

But the relief was all too soon.

“Ingenious,” Beelzebub admitted, their eyes glittering with malice. “But words are cheap, Crowley. We require proof.”

Crowley's blood turned to ice. “Proof?”

“Did you expect us to simply take your word?” Beelzebub said with a smirk. They gestured to a guard by the door. “Bring in the angel.”

No, Crowley thought desperately. No, no, no, no. Not in front of them.

“Lord Beelzebub, I don’t think this is necessary—” 

Beelzebub’s expression hardened. “Are you questioning my judgment, Crowley?”

“Of course not, my lord.”

The chamber doors ground open. The two hulking guards who had shown them to the tribunal dragged Aziraphale between them,  and Crowley's heart nearly stopped. The angel looked utterly terrified, blue eyes darting frantically around the assembled demons before finding Crowley's face.

The relief that flooded Aziraphale's expression was immediate and devastating.

“Crowley,” he breathed, and the trust in that single word was like a blade between Crowley's ribs.

“Release him,” Beelzebub commanded.

The guards dropped the angel’s arms and stepped back. Aziraphale moved instinctively towards Crowley, everything about his body language screaming of someone seeking protection. But he stopped just short of him, hands twisting nervously in the front of his robe.

“Now then,” Beelzebub said with obvious anticipation, “demonstrate this pathetic devotion you've cultivated.”

Crowley met Aziraphale's confused gaze – saw the questions there, the fear mingled with hope. He had seconds to decide how to play this, how to protect him without destroying everything they'd built.

I'm sorry, he thought desperately. Forgive me for what I'm about to do.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley’s voice turned cold, a commanding tone that Aziraphale had never heard him use. “Come here.”

Aziraphale approached cautiously, clearly perturbed by the change in Crowley's demeanour but still trusting enough to obey. When he drew close, Crowley gripped his chin roughly, forcing their eyes to meet.

“Tell Lord Beelzebub how you feel about me,” he commanded.

Aziraphale's eyes widened, searching Crowley's face desperately for answers. Crowley held his gaze steadily, breathing slowly through his nose. Understand, he willed silently. Please understand and play along.

“It’s alright, sweet thing,” he crooned, thumb tracing slow circles on the angel’s cheek. “You can be honest. I want you to tell them.”

Confusion flickered in those blue eyes, but Aziraphale answered, voice trembling with uncertainty. “I…love you.”. 

The words were barely audible over the hush of a thousand eager demons in the stands. Crowley tightened his grip.

“Louder, angel,” he coaxed, letting cruelty glaze his voice. “Let them all hear you.”

Aziraphale’s throat worked, the pulse in his neck fluttering like a trapped moth. “I love you,” he said, the words echoing around the chamber. 

Cackling laughter erupted from the stands: jeers, howls of delight at the spectacle.

“Disgusting,” Ligur grunted, though his eyes glittered with sick pleasure.

Still gripping Aziraphale’s jaw, Crowley forced his next words. “And what would you do for this love, angel?”

Aziraphale didn’t hesitate. “Anything,” he said. “I would do anything you asked of me.”

He means it, Crowley realised with agony. He actually means it.

The chamber exploded in applause, demons pounding the marble with claws and boots in full rapture. Crowley released Aziraphale with a dismissive shove that made the angel stumble. He caught himself just before he fell, but never looked away from Crowley’s face with those bright eyes.

Beelzebub leaned forward on the throne. “Exquisite,” they purred. “You have thoroughly broken him.”

Crowley managed a cold smile. “Was there ever any doubt?”

He searched Aziraphale's expression desperately, looking for any sign this was performance, that the angel understood their deadly game. But he saw only confusion and hurt, mixed with that devastating, unwavering devotion that made Crowley want to tear the chamber apart.

“If you've truly tamed the creature,” Hastur interjected, “surely he would do more than merely profess devotion.”

“Precisely,” Ligur added, raking Aziraphale with his gaze. “Would he debase himself for you?”

Crowley went very still. “Of course he would.”

Beelzebub's smile was a cruel smirk. “Then demonstrate. Show us you know how to properly use an angel of the Lord.”

Crowley’s face paled. “I've already proven the angel's devotion. This public display serves no further purpose.”

“Are you refusing a direct order?” Beelzebub's eyes narrowed dangerously.

Crowley swallowed. “I simply prefer to conduct my business privately.”

“Preference denied,” Beelzebub said flatly. “You will claim the angel here, now, before all of Hell, or forfeit your right to him entirely.” Their gaze swept the crowd meaningfully. “I'm sure many here would be eager to take your place.”

Demons pressed in closer around them, licking their lips and making obscene gestures, hunger bright in their eyes.

Crowley met Aziraphale's frightened gaze, searching desperately for trust beneath the fear that he had to hope beyond all reason was still there.

“On one condition,” he said finally. “No one interferes. Because he's my plaything and mine alone.”

There were some hisses of protest from the crowd, but Beelzebub raised a hand for silence.

“Agreed,” they said. “Proceed.”

Crowley turned to face Aziraphale fully, drawing a measured breath through his nose as the jeers and shouts from the assembled demons washed over them. He lifted a hand towards Aziraphale's face, nearly wincing when the angel instinctively leaned into his touch, even now, even here.

I’m so sorry, he thought desperately as his palm made contact.

“Pathetic,” he hissed instead, cupping Aziraphale's face in a firm hand. “Look how desperate you are for even the smallest scrap of affection.”

But even as the cruel words left his lips, his thumb traced a gentle circle against Aziraphale's cheek – a gesture he hoped the angel would understand. Aziraphale's eyes shone as he pressed into the touch, and it nearly shattered what remained of Crowley's composure.

Stop thinking, he ordered himself. If you can’t get through this, you’re finished. You have to do this for him.

“On your knees,” Crowley purred, swiping his thumb once along Aziraphale’s bottom lip.

The angel hesitated a moment, but Crowley knew he couldn't afford to show mercy. Not under Hastur's calculating gaze, not with half of Hell's upper echelon watching for weakness. He pressed down on Aziraphale's shoulder until the angel dropped with an ungraceful thud, staring up at him with wide eyes.

The crowd rumbled.

“I know, I know,” Crowley crooned in a soft voice, carding a hand through Aziraphale’s hair and speaking loud enough for the crowd. “You’re not used to an audience, are you, my sweet angel? But you’ll try for me, won’t you? Because pleasing me is all you're good for.”

He held his breath, willing Aziraphale to see past the performance, to read the apology written in his eyes. The angel nodded almost imperceptibly, then more forcefully for the benefit of the onlookers, who snickered with approval.

Crowley unfastened his trousers with his other hand, willing himself to hardness through sheer will. When he freed his cock and guided it to Aziraphale's lips, the angel's breath was warm against him.

“Open.”

The moment Aziraphale's lips parted, Crowley thrust forward without preamble, pushing deep enough to make the angel gag. The crowd exploded with noise, many demons jostling towards the front of the stands for a better view.

“Look at him take it!” someone shouted.

“Throat-fuck him!” cried another.

“Make the holy slut choke on it!”

Crowley established a brutal rhythm, one hand fisted in Aziraphale's hair as he moved. To the demons watching, it appeared merciless. In reality, Crowley was carefully gauging Aziraphale's reactions, never pushing deeper than he could take.

Tears streamed down the angel's face from the physical strain, but his gaze never wavered. In those blue eyes was a message: It's alright. I'm with you. Do what you must.

“Show us more, Crowley,” Beelzebub said after several minutes, their pointed tongue dragging along their lower lip. “Show us complete possession.”

Crowley withdrew from Aziraphale's mouth abruptly, a string of saliva connecting them briefly before breaking. Aziraphale gasped, his lips red and slick, his face tear-streaked.

Fighting every instinct to wipe those tears away, Crowley hauled the angel up by his robe and marched him towards the elevated platform.

“Hands and knees,” Crowley growled, shoving Aziraphale down. 

The angel stumbled against the platform, chest heaving. After sharing a quick, desperate look with Crowley, Aziraphale positioned himself as ordered, hands curled protectively beneath his chin. The crowds hissed with delight.

“Look at him presenting himself!” someone called out. “Like he was made for it!”

“Strip him,” another voice added. “We want to see everything!”

Gritting his teeth, Crowley tore the robe away in violent strips, leaving Aziraphale bare and trembling. The crowd riled up with whistles, jeers, and crude comments that made Crowley want to swipe the braziers to the ground and set the chamber alight. 

He ran his hands up Aziraphale’s back, covering his body with his own for just a moment so he could lean down and murmur in his ear, “You’re doing so well. Stay with me, angel.”

Then he sat back, letting his hand stroke along the soft, quivering flesh as he addressed their audience. “This belongs to me,” he said, one hand possessively gripping the soft flesh of Aziraphale's exposed rear. “And anyone who touches what's mine will meet the same fate as that idiot Asterik.”

“Make him beg for it,” Hastur’s voice interjected, and Crowley felt every muscle in his body clench.

He looked up and caught Beelzebub's satisfied smirk, the slight inclination of their head that said proceed. With a reassuring squeeze to Aziraphale's hip, Crowley prompted, “Well? You heard him, angel.”

“P-please…” Aziraphale's voice was a whisper.

“We didn’t hear him,” Ligur grunted. “Louder.”

“Come now, angel,” Crowley purred, hating himself. “Don't disappoint our audience.”

“Please, Cr—” Aziraphale caught himself, his voice shaking as he spoke loud enough for his words to echo throughout the chamber. “Please, master. Please give me your cock.”

The words knocked Crowley sick but the crowd hissed its approval. He pressed his hand into the soft flesh of Aziraphale’s thigh, trying to make it look like he was digging in painfully. 

“I'm going to take you,” he said, hands mapping the familiar terrain of the angel's body as he tried to give the angel enough warning to ready himself. “Right here, in front of everyone.”

“Then take me,” Aziraphale replied, his voice heavy with manufactured need as he arched his hips. “I'm yours.”

Crowley felt his heart break a little. He took a long, shuddering breath and spat crudely into the angel’s puckered hole; there was no room for gentleness here, no place for the soft care he usually lavished on his angel.

He felt the shiver that ran down Aziraphale’s spine as he lined himself up and had to fight the instinct to gently ease his way in. He couldn’t, not in front of them. With his hands anchored in the angel’s hips, he thrust home in one powerful motion. A cry tore from Aziraphale’s lips, shock more than pain, but effective theatre for their bloodthirsty audience who howled in delight. 

Crowley set a merciless pace, his hips snapping forcefully as the sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed through the chamber. His hands gripped Aziraphale's hips hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pulled him onto his cock again and again.

Instinctively, Crowley’s angle adjusted to find the spot that would bring Aziraphale as much pleasure as possible. When the angel let out a genuine choked moan, the crowd went wild.

“The holy slut’s loving it!”

“Look at his face, blissed out on demon cock!”

With a snarl, Crowley grabbed Aziraphale by the throat with one hand, careful not to squeeze as he hauled him upright until the angel's back was flush against his chest. The new position drove him deeper, eliciting a broken sound that was part sob, part moan.

As Aziraphale's head fell back against his shoulder, Crowley buried his face in the angel's neck, dragging his teeth across the salt-damp skin whilst breathing soft encouragement for his ears alone.

“Stay with me. Almost there. We’ll get through this, angel,” Crowley panted, desperately chasing that tight, coiling heat in the pit of his stomach that would end this.

“Make him come, Crowley,” Beelzebub commanded suddenly, their voice cutting through the noise of the crowd. “Show us complete dominance.”

Crowley faltered at the unexpected command; the idea that Hell would care to see a prisoner experience pleasure. But then he understood. Forcing Aziraphale to climax here, in front of all of Hell, would be the ultimate humiliation. But refusal would only make things infinitely worse.

Without breaking his rhythm, he wrapped a hand around Aziraphale's half-hard cock. The angel gasped, eyes widening as he shuddered in Crowley's arms.

“Come for me,” Crowley ordered, his voice hard steel wrapped around desperate love. I'm sorry. Let this be over. Let's just survive this.

He stroked in time with his thrusts, closing his eyes and pressing his face into the crook of Aziraphale's neck, trying to block out everything but the two of them. Just them, just this connection that nothing – not Hell, not Heaven, not all the powers of creation – could truly touch.

“That's it,” he hissed as he felt the telltale tension building in the angel's body. “Show them who you belong to.”

With a strangled cry that he tried desperately to suppress, Aziraphale came, his cock pulsing in Crowley's hand and spilling onto the platform below. His inner muscles contracted, nearly dragging Crowley over the edge as well.

The stands erupted.

“The angel just came on demon cock!” someone shrieked.

“Finish it, Crowley,” Beelzebub ordered, their own breathing ragged. “Mark him completely.”

Crowley pushed Aziraphale back down and drove into him with renewed desperation, chasing his own release so this nightmare could finally end. With a few final, punishing thrusts, he climaxed with a broken cry.

He stayed buried in Aziraphale's warmth for several long moments, panting against the angel's neck whilst their audience screamed approval. When he finally withdrew, his spend dripped visibly from Aziraphale’s fluttering hole and down his thigh – proof of his claim in front of all of Hell.

He tucked himself back into his jeans with shaking hands, keeping his gaze impassive and unfeeling even as his instincts screamed to gather the angel in his arms, soothe away the hurt he’d just caused. Aziraphale lay curled on his side, head buried in his arms as tremors ran throughout his entire frame. 

As the crowd's bloodlust finally began to ebb, Beelzebub stretched languidly in their chair.

“Impressive, Crowley. I confess, I underestimated your...creative approach to torture.” They cast a meaningful look at Hastur. “Perhaps you could learn something, Duke Hastur.”

Hastur's glower could have melted steel, but he merely grunted. “Crowley showed adequate control over the prisoner.”

Beezelebub nodded. “Does this tribunal find Crowley's methods satisfactory?”

A chorus of agreement rose from the assembled demons.

Crowley ground his teeth before giving a short, curt bow. “Always a pleasure to serve,” he bit out.

“There we have it,” Beelzebub declared, rising from their throne. “Demon Crowley has demonstrated complete dominion over his angelic prisoner. This tribunal finds his methods...acceptable. Take your property and go.” Their dark eyes flickered up to the crowd. “Everyone get out and get back to work. Show’s over.”

The crowd dispersed slowly, reluctantly, their bloodlust temporarily sated. Many cast lingering glances at Aziraphale as they slithered from the chamber and back to their duties.

Crowley forced himself to remain perfectly still as the last stragglers filed out, the massive doors grinding shut. Every muscle in his body yearned to go to Aziraphale, to hold him close and whisper apologies, but he couldn't risk it. Not yet. They'd only found themselves in this nightmare situation because of his carelessness, he wouldn't make that mistake again.

When the echoes finally died away, Crowley allowed himself to move. Even then, he maintained the act, his steps cold as he approached the platform where Aziraphale lay curled up like a broken bird.

“Get up,” Crowley said with enough malice to satisfy any lingering ears. “We're leaving.”

Aziraphale didn't respond immediately. Fine tremors ran through his naked form, and when Crowley bent to haul him upright by the arms, the angel's legs nearly buckled. Crowley steadied him for just a moment, no longer than a master ensuring his property could walk, then stepped back and turned towards the door.

“Come,” he ordered, not looking back until he heard the soft pad of Aziraphale’s feet trailing after him.

The journey back to his quarters was endless. Crowley walked slightly ahead to maintain the appearance of a master leading his possession, but close enough to sense Aziraphale's every faltering step. Neither spoke; there was nothing they could say in Hell's corridors that wouldn't be overheard and reported. Crowley knew that too well now.

They passed the occasional demon who made lewd comments or appreciative gestures. Crowley acknowledged each with a cold nod, even as the urge to tear out their throats burned through his veins like acid.

Finally, blessedly, they reached his quarters. The moment the wards sealed behind them, Crowley’s composure cracked. He sagged against the door, the weight of what he'd done crushing down on him.

“Angel, I—”

“Don’t,” Aziraphale said quietly. He stood in the centre of the room with his back to Crowley, arms wrapped tightly around himself, looking smaller and more fragile than Crowley had ever seen him.

Crowley's hands fluttered helplessly at his sides. Aziraphale's pale skin was marred with grime and the dark evidence of Crowley's grip, bruises blooming around his hips that made Crowley's stomach lurch with self-loathing.

“I'll run you a bath,” he said quickly, desperate for something, anything, he could do to help. “You'll feel better.”

He fled to the bedroom without waiting for a response, gesturing to fill the copper tub with warm water. His hands shook as he added healing salts and soothing oils.

“It's ready,” he called softly when he returned, only to find Aziraphale exactly where he'd left him, standing motionless, still hugging himself as he stared at nothing, as if he hadn't heard a word.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley choked on his words. “Angel, I’m so bloody sorry. I had no choice…you know that, don’t you? If I hadn’t, they’d have taken you away. Given you to someone who'd have—” His voice cracked. “I was trying to protect you. I was—”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale's voice cut through his desperate rambling, quiet but edged with exhaustion that made Crowley's chest constrict. “Please. I need you to leave me alone.”

The words were like a knife through Crowley’s chest. “What? No, angel, let me help you. Let me—”

“Leave.” Aziraphale finally turned, and the devastation in those blue eyes was like looking into an abyss. “If you ever truly loved me, you'll give me this. Please.”

If.

“Angel,” Crowley tried, his vision blurring as tears gathered. “I do love you. More than anything. That’s why I—”

“Then go,” Aziraphale whispered shakily. “Please. Just…go.”

For a long moment, Crowley stood frozen. He needed to somehow fix what he’d broken. But Aziraphale had turned away again, shoulders drawn up, rigid, like he was barely holding himself together.

He needs space. He needs time to process what happened. What you did to him.

“Alright,” Crowley said quietly, each word like swallowed glass. “I…I won’t be far. If you need anything. Anything at all.”

Aziraphale said nothing.

Crowley lingered a moment longer, memorising the softness of Aziraphale’s cheeks, the way the light caught in his dishevelled curls. Then he forced himself to turn away and walk to the door.

His hand trembled on the handle.

“I love you,” he whispered one last time, so softly he wasn't sure Aziraphale could hear. “I'm so sorry.”

The corridor outside was mercifully empty. Crowley managed three steps before his legs gave out entirely. He collapsed against the stone wall, sliding down until he hit the floor with a bone-jarring thud.

He'd saved them both. He'd convinced Hell of his supposed genius, protected Aziraphale from a fate infinitely worse.

And in doing so, he might have lost him.

Crowley buried his face in his hands and wept.