Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Under normal circumstances, Crowley quite liked receiving commendations from Hell. They were usually a reminder of hard work well done, and most often they simply involved a figurative pat on the back, and then Hell would leave him alone again. And it was always nice to know that, at that precise moment, you were worth at least something to the people Downstairs. For a demon, being paranoid was par for the course, but after a commendation arrived Crowley usually felt he had a little room to relax.

That was under normal circumstances. This was not one.

For a start, he hadn’t even done anything. It had actually made him a little sick to his stomach, truth be told, and after he’d been informed about it and seen what all the fuss was about, he’d gone immediately to the nearest place serving alcohol and parked himself there. If he had a human liver, he would have been dead. It was a shame. He’d liked Spain. Lovely weather.

He’d known he was in for it when Hastur had been sent to pick him up. In for what, he hadn’t been precisely sure, but definitely in for something. Maybe they’d figured out he wasn’t actually involved and were planning on doing something horrible to him for taking the credit. Sobering up hadn’t been any fun, but he wasn’t going to face his superiors drunk. Crowley had a strong survival instinct, and it told him that facing higher – or would they be lower? - demons while out of his wits was a truly terrible idea.

And now they were on their way Below. Beside him, Hastur was alternating between giving Crowley smug smiles and the occasional disappointed frown. Crowley was fidgeting. At least they were going by boat. Crowley had never gotten the hang of horses, and he doubted he ever would. Not that horses, even Hellish ones, could swim out into waters as deep and black as a starless sky.

A thick fog had swallowed them shortly after leaving shore, so Crowley didn’t notice their arrival until the boat bumped against the floor of a rocky cavern and stopped obediently, bobbing in the shallow water. Hastur gestured Crowley off first, and he climbed out with a grimace. The cave floor was wet, soaking his feet and dripping down over his shoulders and head from threatening stalactites that looked ready to plunge down from the ceiling and skewer him at any moment.

“Through there,” Hastur rumbled, gesturing toward an opening in the rear of the cave.

It would have been invisible to any eyes but demon, not because there was anything particularly mystical about the entrance, but because it was simply that dark. Crowley took a hesitant step toward it. He turned back. “Er, any idea what this is about?”

Hastur extended one grimy, threatening nail towards the opening again, and Crowley gulped. “Right.” He forced a weak smile. Then he entered the tunnel.

As he did so, it flared to life, or rather, sputtered to life, torches igniting along the damp walls and crackling weakly. Crowley startled, and then forced himself to relax. Or, at least, to be a little less tense. One could never truly relax in Hell, and even if they could, to do so would be a grave mistake. Literally. As Crowley made his way cautiously down the hall, the floor transitioning from rough rocky ground to smooth cobbled stone, he started to hear a peculiar sound. A bit of buzzing.

Oh no.

He rounded a bend, plastering the false smile more firmly to his face, and found the prince waiting for him. As always, her human guise was weak, weaker even than Crowley’s, in spite of the serpentine features. Beelzebub looked more insect than person, even in the mortal realm.

“Hallo,” Crowley managed, coming to a stop before the prince and wondering if he ought to bow. “It’s, uh, quite an honour to be called before you. To what do I owe-“

“Congratulazzzions, Crowzley,” Beelzebub interrupted him. She sounded bored, and more than a little like she was reading from a script. “You have performed a great servizz to Hell. The Inquizzition. Very good. The powerzzz are very pleazzzed with you.”

“Oh.” Crowley blinked. He hadn’t expected good news. Usually they did this sort of thing by mail, and that was the end of it. “That’s, uh…I mean, you know me. Happy to do my bit.”

“Our Mazzzter would like to reward you, Crowzley. It izz a rare and spezzial honour.”

“Er, thanks?”

Beelzebub stepped aside, revealing a wooden door behind her. Crowley hesitated, and then pushed open the door. Then he stared.

“Choozze whichever one you like,” Beelzebub said. “And then return from whenzze you came.”

Heart thundering in his ears, Crowley stepped into the room. It was large, equally dark – if not darker – and just as damp and unpleasant. It was lined with cages, small and cramped, and largely unoccupied. But the ones that were…

Crowley had known, or at least heard the rumours, that Hell was in possession of a few angels. Heaven sent them to Earth every so often, to spread goodwill and initiate miracles the same way Crowley was expected to spread damnation for Hell. Angels, from his limited experience, could be quite stupid, gullible, and naïve. He had been one once, after all, and he did have some memories of Heaven. With the exception of the archangels and a select few higher-ups, most of them bought the company line hook, line, and sinker. So it wasn’t any surprise to him that Hell was capable of finding an angel and overwhelming it enough to capture it. What did surprise him, now he was confronted with the truth of it, was that the whole idea turned his stomach.

He glanced back at Beelzebub. “Er, are you sure? I mean, it’s a very high honour and all, I’m flattered, really, but surely there are those, eh, better deserving? I’m not even sure what I’d do with an angel-“

“Whatever you want,” Beelzebub said. Her eyes narrowed, or at least gave the impression of narrowing. With insects it was hard to tell. “It would be unwizze to turn down a gift from your Mazzzter, Crowzley.”

“Right. Of course.” Lucifer had been fond of Crowley ever since that thing with the Garden and the apple, and losing that favour was the last thing Crowley needed. He swallowed hard and turned back to the room. He walked a little farther in. Beelzebub waited outside the door.

The cages were filthy. Animal droppings littered the floor, and mould and mud streaked everything. The angels themselves were in a pitiful state. Most didn’t bother to look at him, even as his footsteps echoed across the stones. The few that lifted their heads regarded him with hollow, watery eyes. They were as much a mess as the cages themselves, dressed in robes that had probably once been white but had long since turned brown. They were dishevelled, dirty, and sad. They did not glow with holy light. It wasn’t that they’d Fallen; even demons had a sort of unholy brightness that shone through them, visible to other angels and demons. It was an absence of light. An absence of hope.

Crowley turned off internal functions altogether. It wouldn’t look good if he was sick in front of a prince of Hell. Especially when this was supposed to be a sign of his favour.

He stopped in front of one of the cages and peered inside. The angel sat in the far corner, upright and hunched to avoid hitting its head on the metal slab that served as a roof. Its head was bowed, almost as if in prayer. “Hello,” Crowley said cautiously. He squatted down, loathe to be closer to the floor but feeling uncomfortable at the idea of towering over the angel.

The angel lifted its head and squinted at him. Its face was smeared with muck, its hair plastered to its head so thickly that it could have been any colour. But its eyes…Crowley’s breath would have caught in his throat, if he’d still been breathing. Blue eyes, piercing as the grey light of dawn, stared back at him. They probably would have been sharp, once upon a time. Now they blinked slowly, full of resignation.

“Hey,” Crowley said, even more softly. He wrapped his fingers around the cage bars for balance, wincing at their sliminess. “It’s alright.” The statement was absurd. There was nothing alright about this situation. He tried again, “How would you like to get out of here?”

The angel looked down again. It was already dwarfed in the tattered robes it wore, but it seemed to sink farther into them somehow. It gave the impression of shrugging without its shoulders moving at all.

It wasn’t a resounding yes, but Crowley doubted he would get more. There was something strange tugging at his mind. He didn’t put much stock in faith or destiny or even divine planning, really, but something outside him, beyond his scope, was telling him that if he had to take an angel home with him, it really ought to be this one.

He looked for a lock. There was one, very simple. Easy to stroke a finger over and unlock. It crumbled under his touch, dissolving into fragments of rusted metal. The door swung open. The angel curled into a tighter ball, pressing back against the bars. Crowley reached out a hand and withdrew it sharply when the angel flinched. Grimacing at what the water, shit, and dirt would do to his trousers, Crowley sat down on the floor. He waited.

For several long moments, nothing happened. Slowly, the angel lifted its head. Then it straightened up a little bit. Then it shifted, and Crowley heard a clinking noise. Arms surfaced from the bundle of fabric, manacled in thick cuffs etched with spell work. No wonder the angels weren’t glowing. Their shackles cut them off from the Host, leeching out their magic.

The angel shuffled forward a few centimetres, and then stopped. “That’s it,” Crowley murmured. He didn’t reach out again, but he did lay his hands, palms up, on his crossed legs, beckoning. “It’s going to be alright. Come on.”

It was a gradual process, but bit by bit, the angel approached, until Crowley was able to take it gently by the hands and stand up, drawing it up to its full height. It was a few centimetres shorter than him, possibly a little less. It was hard to tell with that slouch. “I’ve got you,” Crowley said, and regretted it as the angel winced and then stiffened. Crowley shifted his grip, keeping it soft, so he could wrap an arm around the angel’s shoulders. “Let’s get out of here, yeah?”

He spared one last glance behind him for the other angels. There were about half a dozen, maybe more. Had he allowed it to, Crowley’s stomach would have turned again. He swallowed reflexively, squashed down an unwanted feeling of guilt, and guided his new angel from the room.

Beelzebub closed the door behind him. It slammed, and the angel flinched and cowered. Crowley hesitated, and then said, “Er, thanks again.”

“Continue the good work, Crowzley. You may go.”

Crowley didn’t need telling twice. He led the angel out, taking care to steer him around rough patches as the stone floor turned back into loose rock. When he exited into the mouth of the cave, Hastur looked up. His face fell.

“Lucky bastard,” he growled.

“Yeah, that’s me.” Crowley didn’t look at Hastur. He helped the angel onto the boat. “Sorry you have to play ferry driver.”

“I volunteered,” groused the other demon as the boat pushed off. “Thought you were going to get a proper reaming. They don’t usually call lesser demons down for anything else.”

It was no secret to Crowley that Hastur hated him. That was pretty normal for demons, hating each other. Still, it would have been nice to be hated by a demon who didn’t outrank him quite so much. Hastur would be a formidable enemy if he ever decided Crowley were worth the effort.

Dawn was greying when the little boat came ashore again, and Crowley waved goodbye hurriedly and ushered the angel across the beach. He felt Hastur’s eyes on his back, boring holes into him, and grit his teeth. He just needed to get them inside before everyone was up. Crowley had a nice thing going with his neighbours, and he wanted to keep it like that. He didn’t need it getting out that he was sheltering some poor wretch. They’d probably take it the wrong way.

He got the angel to his rooms with little fuss. The angel kept its head down and allowed Crowley to drag it along, stumbling occasionally but always moving. Crowley steering it straight for the bathroom, locking his door behind him with half a thought, and sat it on the edge of the tub. Then he stepped back and eyed it. “Right.”

The angel slumped in on itself. It seemed to be trying to become very small. Crowley considered. Miracling away the dirt might have worked, but there was also a very high probability that his powers would scald the angel. That was the problem: demonic magic and angelic magic usually ran counter to each other, and it would take time and intricacy to separate the filth from the angel’s skin without hurting it. And contrary to what his demonic instincts should have been saying, Crowley didn’t want to hurt the angel. It wasn’t its fault that they were on opposite sides, and Crowley wasn’t a monster. Intentionally causing pain to something so pitiful seemed unnecessarily awful.

Besides. Crowley had always appreciated a hot bath. With a thought, the tub was full and heated. He scooted around the angel so he wouldn’t have to reach over it and tested the water with his hand. It occurred to him that after being stuck without powers, in the dark and the damp, anything too hot or bright might not be the best idea. He lowered the temperature a little and flicked a hand towards the curtains, which closed, blanketing the bathroom in a dim light.

“Okay,” he said, breaking through the silence. “First things first. Arms out, angel.”

The angel’s arms shot up, and Crowley blinked. He hadn’t expected it to be that easy. Carefully, he undid the manacles, and they fell to the floor in a clanging heap. The angel’s shoulders drew up, tense, and Crowley soothed, “It’s okay.” He pushed the chains away with his foot and examined the angel’s wrists. They weren’t red and raw, like he expected, but grey and flaky. There were clear signs that whatever wounds there had been, they’d been rubbed out, and the skin had built up layers of resistance. When Crowley traced his fingers over one, the angel whimpered.

“Sensitive,” Crowley noted. “Okay. Think you can help me get these robes off?”

Before the words were even out of his mouth, the angel was disrobing, fabric dropping to the floor in a puddle. Crowley wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting; the angel was a little pudgy, sexless, and just as grimy under the clothes. It stood there, trembling.

“Alright,” Crowley said, more to himself than anything. “Let’s do this.” He put a hand on the angel’s shoulder uncertainly, trying to decide how best to steer it into the bath.

The moment he touched it, the angel dropped to its knees. Crowley blinked, but before he could react properly the angel was fumbling with the lacing of his trousers.

“Whoa!” Crowley seized its hands, a bit harder than he meant to in his surprise, and the angel yelped and froze. Crowley released it, waited a beat to make sure the angel didn’t plan on making another dive for his crotch, and then knelt down. He shook his head, keeping his voice low. “We’re not going to do that, okay?” He didn’t even want to think about why that had been the angel’s first instinct. “That’s not…we’re not doing that. We’re going to get you in the bath, get you cleaned up. Alright?”

There was a pause, and then the angel nodded.

“Okay,” said Crowley. He stood up, and the angel rose too, more slowly. Crowley gestured to the tub. “It’s a bath. To clean you up.” He wondered when the last time the angel had been on Earth was. They had to have had baths, surely.

The angel got into the tub. It sat down in the water and did not move. Crowley perched on the edge. Part of him felt he ought to give the angel some privacy, but there was a creeping worry in the back of his head that if he left the angel alone, it really would just sit there until he came back.

He picked up the soap and lathered his hands. The angel startled when Crowley began to rub carefully at its shoulders and chest, but it relaxed as Crowley kept at it, his touch firm but gentle. Muck sluiced into the tub, and every so often Crowley miracled the water clean. As layers of dirt and mould were scrubbed away, the angel relaxed fully under his hands, eyes fluttering shut. It allowed him to dip below the waist, washing methodically without lingering. By the time its skin was clean to the neck, it looked positively peaceful.

“We’re going to wash your face and hair now,” Crowley told it. It blinked its eyes open again, watching him. “It’s alright,” Crowley said. “Eyes closed so I don’t get soap in them.” The angel obeyed.

Finally, Crowley circled around the back of the tub. “Lean back,” he instructed. He got the angel’s hair wet first, which wiped away some of the layers of sludge, and then he was able to work it out a bit more. He was surprised to find it turn white as he cleaned it, nearly the colour of freshly fallen snow, and even wet he could feel a distinct curl to it. He took a moment to run his fingers through it, enjoying the feeling, and then felt guilty all over again. He forced himself to focus.

“All done,” he said eventually. “Let’s get you dry.”

Out of the water, the angel’s skin was rosy. Crowley towelled it down, fluffing up the curls. It still hadn’t said a word, and it allowed itself to be moved out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. Crowley sat it on his bed and went poking through his closet. He didn’t have much in the way of clothes; he preferred to make them with his thoughts. He didn’t want to put the angel back in the tattered robe, even if he did miracle it clean and whole, but he also didn’t own anything that wasn’t darkly coloured, which felt all wrong for the angel. He settled for wrapped it up in his sheets – which were white – and promising he’d find it something to wear that afternoon.

He didn’t know why he wasn’t just miracling something up. It was odd, but he ignored it.

“I don’t know if you sleep,” he said after a moment, “but you can if you like. Just don’t…run off anywhere, alright? I’m going to go out and get you some things.”

The angel blinked at him.

“Right.” It was like talking to a wall. A scared, skittish wall. Crowley left the house.

Crowley’s neighbours had never much cared about what kind of business Crowley did (which, in actuality, was nothing really, except for what he did in the service of Hell). It wasn’t that sort of neighbourhood. It was the sort of neighbourhood where being out after the sun set wasn’t highly encouraged, unless you were looking for the sorts of things that the local church considered sin of the highest order. Hypocritical of them, really, Crowley thought, because a fair few of them liked to indulge in the sins they preached against, although there were always those who were actually very devout. Human nature. Funny thing, really.

Regardless, Crowley didn’t want to leave the angel alone too long in a neighbourhood like that. He went into the first seamstress shop he could find, told her what he wanted, and was out again as quickly as possible. The garments wouldn’t be tailored to the angel, but they would fit, and they were better than a sheet.

The sun was shining overhead. Crowley could hear laughter from the bathhouses. He could also hear all sorts of other things going on behind them, but that was nothing new. It was a nice day, and Crowley allowed himself a moment’s pause, turning his face upwards and basking in the sun. He’d been to China a few centuries ago and from that journey acquired a pair of glasses with smoky quartz crystals obscuring the eyes. It was one of his favourite innovations so far, because it meant he could go out and about in public without the church hounding him over his unusual eyes, even if they did mutter about his foreign fashion sense.

Part of him wanted to find a nice place in the bathhouses to stretch out in the sun. Several had open roofs, exposed to the light, and he could find a nice stone bench to take a little nap, with the added bonus that it translated into automatic temptation points, especially after he took his clothes off. But after a minute he forced himself to continue on. He had more pressing matters to attend to.

The angel wasn’t sleeping, per se, when Crowley re-entered his house, but it had crawled properly into the bed, curling up beneath the covers so that no part of it was visible, leaving a large lump in the middle of the mattress. Crowley shifted a portion of sheet, and blue eyes squinted open, and then closed again. Crowley replaced the sheet and sat down on the edge of the bed.

“I got you some clothes,” he said. He laid them in a neat little pile at the foot of the bed and patted them. “Not sure how well they’ll fit, but I think I got okay sizes. You can wear any of them you like.”

There was no reply. The lump didn’t even stir.

Crowley hesitated. “I don’t know if you’ve got any interest in eating, but I’ve got some food in if you’d like.” Still no response. “I’ll just be in the other room if you need me.” He stood up. The angel didn’t move. Crowley walked to the door and glanced back over his shoulder. A pair of eyes peered out at him from under the sheets. He watched them for a minute, and then shut the bedroom door.

In the living area, Crowley sank down onto the sofa and buried his face in his hands. He blessed and then scrubbed at his eyes. He sat back with a long sigh and stared up at the ceiling.

“I’ve got an angel in my house,” he said aloud. It sounded mad. If Crowley had heard any other demon say something like that, he’d have rolled his eyes and had a private laugh about posturing. If you’d told him even yesterday that Hell would be so pleased with his work, work he hadn’t even done, work he had hated, that turned his stomach at the sheer horror of human accomplishment, that they’d give him an angel, and that Crowley would bathe that angel and tuck it into bed and buy clothes for it, Crowley would have asked what kind of salts you’d been inhaling.

“I have an angel in my house,” he said again, just to see if it sounded less bizarre the second time. If anything, it sounded more.

He slumped down, sliding onto his back and stretching out along the sofa, knees bent so he could tuck his feet beneath the cushion on the end. He let his arm dangle over the side, drawing idle patterns against the wooden floor. There was an angel in his house. But what the Hell was he supposed to do with it?

Well. He was sure Beelzebub had a few ideas. Hastur too, probably. It occurred to Crowley that if Hastur knew about the angel, other demons would probably find out soon enough. He wondered if that would be a problem, but he wasn’t too concerned. Supposedly, this was a gift from Satan himself. Even demons like Hastur would have to respect that. Hopefully.

The angel probably had a few ideas too, based on the way it had reacted. Crowley shuddered. It had occurred to him that there weren’t all that many uses a demon of his stature could have with a magic-drained angel. But the thought of doing…that brought bile to the back of his throat. It wasn’t that Crowley was opposed to sex. He understood the practice, had watched humans enough to get a sense of how and why they enjoyed it, and while he’d never engaged in coitus with any of them, he had masturbated a few times, just to see what all the fuss was about. Sex, in Crowley’s opinion, was pleasant and satisfying in the way a well-prepared meal could be pleasant and satisfying, but it wasn’t something he felt the need to seek out.

And then, of course, there was the fact that anything Crowley did to the angel along those lines wouldn’t really be sex at all, and that thought made him queasy. Crowley liked to think he was an alright bloke. A demon, of course, but not a particularly evil one. Just one doing his job. He’d once been an angel, after all, and even his Falling hadn’t changed all that much about him. Doing anything like that to the angel would be a punishment to the both of them, and Crowley never punished himself if he could avoid it.

So that was obviously out. He didn’t need a servant. Any housekeeping could be done with a thought or a wave of his hand. He doubted the angel had any special skills Crowley could utilize, what with it having been locked in a cage for who knows how long. It would be a long while before the angel’s magic recharged and it reconnected with the Host, so Crowley couldn’t even use that. Not that he could think of any need for angelic magic. His own served him just fine.

That was a thought. As the angel regained power, it would reconnect to the Host. It could take years, decades even, but what were decades to immortals? The Host probably wouldn’t want it beforehand, but after he could probably turn it over to them. Tell Hell it escaped if they asked. If they cared.

So, he’d keep it until it powered up again, until it could miracle for itself. Then he’d turn it quietly over to Heaven, and neither side would be any the wiser. He could continue his life on Earth the way he liked.  But what to do with it until then?

And round and round it went.

The fact of the matter was, Crowley needed an angel like he needed a kick in the teeth. He sighed and turned over onto his stomach, burying his face in the crook of his elbow. There was nothing for it. If nothing else, he could leave it in his house and hope it found some way to amuse itself. Yeah, that’d be alright. In the meantime…

Crowley pushed himself up off the sofa. From the kitchen he fetched a block of cheese, some bread, and a pair of apples. Crowley always kept apples in the house. It amused him, and a basket of them didn’t make a half-bad centrepiece. He had some nicer things in, but he applied the same logic of heat and light to food: too much would probably overwhelm the angel.

He carried his bundle into the bedroom and dropped down onto the end of the bed. The pile of clothes hadn’t moved. Neither had the lump under the covers. He got comfortable and tore a hunk of bread off the loaf. He took a couple bites and waited.

The lump stirred. Eyes appeared again. Crowley leaned back against the bedpost, stretching out his legs and nudging the food in the angel’s direction. “I know we don’t have to eat,” he said, “but I’ve always liked it. One of the little pleasures in life, you know? It’s good. I promise.”

Blue eyes blinked doubtfully.

Crowley shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He took another bite of bread, then tried the cheese. It would have gone better with a little wine, but Crowley had drunk all of his, and he hadn’t thought to acquire any more.

Something occurred to him. “I’m not trying to tempt you into anything,” he told the lump. “That’s not what it is. I’m not looking to make you Fall, or whatever. I just thought, since you’re going to be here for a while, that I might as well be hospitable.”

The only answer was a little twitch of the covers.

“I’m Crowley, by the way. Anthony Crowley. The first name’s just for the humans, of course. Everyone just calls me Crowley. You got a name, angel?”

The eyes narrowed slightly.

“I’ve got to call you something,” Crowley said. He bit into one of the apples. It was sweet, just a little bit tart, and he wiped the juice away before it dripped down his chin. He licked it off the back of his hand and then regarded the angel. “Any preference? You don’t have to give me your real name, if you don’t want.”

Two blinks.

“A pronoun?” Crowley asked doubtfully. “I know it’s all a bit iffy for angels. It is for demons too. I use he, mostly. ‘Cept on special occasions. You want one? He, she, they? Or I can keep calling you ‘it’ if you like.”

Another blink.

“Tough crowd,” Crowley muttered. Not that he blamed the angel. He polished off the apple, decided against consuming the core, and reached out to the lump. His hand touched what he was pretty sure was a leg, and he patted it gently. The angel didn’t go stiff, which was a slight improvement. “You’re safe here,” Crowley said. “I promise.” He stood up. “I’m going to leave the food, alright? Feel free to try it. Or not. Up to you.”

He’d done his bit. So long as he locked up, he could probably leave the angel alone for a few hours, and that sun really was tempting. Crowley made his way to the bathhouses. The ones nearest his house, if he was being honest, were little more than brothels, but that didn’t bother him. He found a nice bench, the stone warm from soaking up the sunlight, and he disrobed, smiling vaguely at the feeling of eyes on his nude form. He stretched himself out on the rock lazily. He didn’t mind the eyes that watched him greedily. They were alright by him. And anyone who tried to approach him, hoping for a bit more than looking, would find they changed their mind at the last second, and wander off in search of some other source of pleasure.

When Crowley came home, after the sun had started to set and the rock he lay on was no longer comfortably warm, he expanded the sofa and drew up a blanket and a few fluffy pillows. He would have made a full bed, but he didn’t have the room. After the day he’d had – the month he’d had, really – he deserved a bit of sleep.

Before he went to bed, he checked on the angel. The bread and cheese had disappeared, possibly under the covers, hopefully into the angel’s stomach.

The apples had not been touched.

***

Crowley woke up feeling strange. He wasn’t sure how to phrase it better than that: he felt strange. Unsettled. Like he was being watched.

He opened his eyes, and it took a great deal of effort on his part not to startle. The angel was perched on the end of the sofa-turned-bed, arms wrapped around its knees. It had put on some of the clothes Crowley had left out, and the pale tunic and britches made its pink skin and white hair stand out even more sharply. Crowley pushed himself up on his elbows and blinked the sleep from his eyes. “Er, hi?”

“Aziraphale.”

Crowley goggled. He sat all the way up. “What?”

The angel tilted its head. It looked wary. “Aziraphale,” it said again, in a light and careful voice. “My name.”

“Oh.”

Aziraphale sat down, crossing its legs under it and looking a little more relaxed. “You’ve been asleep for four days.”

“Oh.”

“Is that normal for a demon?”

“For this demon it is.” Crowley scooted back so he could lean against the pillows and remain upright.

Aziraphale watched him with caution. “I could have escaped.”

Crowley resisted the urge to snort. The angel was powerless and alone in a world it was completely unfamiliar with. “Where would you have gone?”

Rather than answer, Aziraphale looked away. Its shoulders drew up again, like it was trying to sink into its collar. “I could have killed you.”

Crowley lifted an eyebrow. It’d take a fully-powered angel to kill him properly, and even then only a highly ranked one.

Aziraphale noticed the mistake. “Discorperated you?” it corrected.

“But you didn’t.”

“I could have.”

Crowley eyed Aziraphale’s hands. They were plump and delicate, like the rest of the angel. Even with the marks from the manacles hidden by puffy sleeves, it looked about as prepared to kill him as Crowley was prepared to join a church choir. For the sake of argument, he asked, “Why didn’t you, then?”

Aziraphale hesitated. It didn’t appear to have an answer. It rocked back a little, picking up a pillow and hugging it to its chest. “Why haven’t you hurt me?”

Crowley tried not to be offended. He was a demon, after all, and the angel had been held captive by demons. He couldn’t really blame it for being a bit wary. It didn’t seem suspicious, at any rate, which was a plus.

“I told you,” he said. “You’re safe with me.”

“But why are you being…nice to me? You’re a demon, aren’t you?” Aziraphale’s voice was hesitant. It looked half-afraid of retribution for even saying the words.

Crowley stroked a hand back through his hair. “Yeah, I’m a demon. Said that already. But it doesn’t mean I have to treat you badly. It’s not your fault we’re supposed to be enemies. And it didn’t seem right to hurt you after everything you’ve been through. Overkill, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale blinked. “It…didn’t seem right,” it repeated slowly.

“That’s what I said.”

“But…you’re not supposed to do right. Isn’t that the whole point? Angels do right, and demons do wrong?”

It had a point, and Crowley gave that due consideration. “I guess,” he said reluctantly. “Technically that’s right. Correct, I mean. But I dunno. There’s what I do for work, sure. Somebody’s got to do it. Your side made those rules when they cast us all out.” It wasn’t a fresh wound anymore, and he didn’t stutter over the words. He did, however, feel that familiar pang of the rare occasions he spoke about Falling. He cleared his throat. “But that isn’t really me, you know? It’s not personal. It’s just my job.”

Aziraphale blinked at him. Crowley swallowed hard and looked away.

“You’re very odd,” Aziraphale said eventually.

Crowley snorted. “Yeah, I get that a lot.” He stretched, his mouth opening in a long yawn that revealed fang-like teeth and an inhuman tongue. “Glad you’re feeling more sociable now. Wasn’t sure what I was going to do with a mute lump of angel hogging my bed.” He paused. “Are you, uh…still going to want the bed?”

Aziraphale gave half a shrug. It patted the expanded sofa. “I’d be alright out here. If you wanted to trade. This seems quite comfortable, and I’m not really one for sleep anyway.” It looked abruptly nervous again, before its expression closed off. Crowley wanted to ask, but he wasn’t sure he should pry. The angel had been through a Hell of a trauma, in the most literal sense of the word.

He stood up, rolling his neck and working out some of the sleep stiffness from his joints. “Are you hungry?”

“I shouldn’t be.”

Crowley frowned. “Shouldn’t be?”

Aziraphale looked worried. “I’m an angel. We don’t…that is…” It squirmed and then admitted, “I believe I am. I shouldn’t be, but…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Crowley said, although he was now slightly worried himself. “Let me get dressed, and I’ll take you out for something. Get you out into the city a bit. Sound okay?”

“Alright,” Aziraphale agreed.

Crowley blinked, and his rumpled clothes shifted, updating themselves and smoothing out the wrinkles. He grinned. “Ready.”

He hadn’t thought to get Aziraphale shoes. Feeling slightly guilty for reasons he couldn’t explain, Crowley miracled up a pair of boots and helped the angel lace them. On his knees, he remembered something. He looked up. “Er, not to pressure you or anything, but humans in this part of the world can get a little touchy about gender. Especially about people not having one.”

“Oh.” This appeared to be news to Aziraphale. Crowley was still trying to pinpoint when Hell must have captured the angel, and he was beginning to suspect it had been a lot longer than originally anticipated. Aziraphale tilted its head. “And you picked male?”

Crowley shrugged. “Usually. I do female sometimes, when I’m in the mood, but usually it’s male.” He didn’t have a gender, strictly speaking. Certainly not in the human sense. He didn’t have a sex, either, so it wasn’t like there was anything to compare it to. He, like every other angel and demon, simply was. But humans could be so picky sometimes. “It’s just a sort of feeling, I guess. Been around humans long enough to develop a preference. I feel male most of the time, or at least as close to male as it’s possible for a demon to feel.”

“I see.” Aziraphale considered this. “The options are male and female, I presume? Or do I have other choices?”

“Well…” There were other choices. Sometimes quite a lot of other choices, depending on the region, the culture, and the year. But to truly play it safe – which was of the utmost importance to protecting an angel so weak it actually felt hunger – there were only two choices Crowley felt comfortable suggesting. “If you want to blend in, it’d be best to pick one of the two. At least in public. In private, you can do what you like.”

Aziraphale hummed, apparently satisfied with that answer. “Is there a benefit to one over the other?”

The angel really had been out of the loop. Or possibly not in most of the places Crowley had been. “Women are having a Hell of a time. Especially here, especially now. If you want to be taken seriously, male would probably be better. But really, it’s up to you.”

“Male, then, I should think. At least in public.” The angel’s features shifted, almost imperceptibly. Angels and demons couldn’t manipulate their Earthly vessels drastically, but there was some room for adjustments. Aziraphale’s features had been perfectly neutral before. Now they were ever so slightly different, somewhat soft but in a way that suggested masculinity, if an untraditional sort. He smiled faintly at Crowley, who realized he was staring – and still kneeling - and stood up quickly, breaking eye contact.

“There’s a little place around the corner,” he mumbled. “I think you’ll like it.”

It wasn’t until they walked out together that Crowley remembered the neighbours. He caught a few interested stares and reflexively put out an aura of menace. It was a tricky thing for him to do. Crowley could be frightening, but he had trouble with menace.

“I meant to ask,” he said to the apparently oblivious angel, who was too busy shielding his eyes from the sunlight to notice any odd looks, “what’s with the speech thing?”

“I don’t think I understand the question.”

Crowley waved a vague hand. “You were basically mute yesterday. Today you’re talking like…like…” The analogy escaped him. He shrugged. “Proper. English accent, too.”

“I’ve always spoken like this,” Aziraphale said. “I just…didn’t speak much. For a while.” The tension was back. Crowley wanted to kick himself.

He gentled his voice, approaching Aziraphale with the verbal equivalent of approaching a skittish horse, “You said I was only asleep four days. Seems awful fast to recover from a trauma.”

If Aziraphale was any tenser, he would have vibrated. “Who says I’ve recovered?” he said.

“You seem alright.”

“Seem being the operative word. I find I am in what I’m sensing…hoping is a relatively safe environment, and I am compartmentalizing. You haven’t done anything to hurt me, and none of the demons I’ve met were much for playing the long game.” He swallowed and looked at the ground. “Well, they were. But they liked to start right in even when they did. You let me speak candidly. You bathed me and fed me and clothed me, and when I tried to…” Aziraphale stuttered and trailed off. He looked caught between shame and fear. Crowley touched his hand lightly, and to his astonishment the angel actually relaxed a little and found it in himself to continue. “That, more than anything, convinced me of your character. I spent a great deal of time turning it over in my head. You could have taken advantage of me. I would have let you. I would have engineered it myself, if I thought it would spare me excessive cruelty. But you said no. You said you wouldn’t. And I believe you.”

“Funny world,” Crowley said. “When angels believe demons.”

As the words left his mouth, he suddenly worried Aziraphale would take them as a threat. He didn’t. The angel gave him a rueful smile of agreement. “Funny world,” he echoed.

The place Crowley had intended to visit really was just around the corner. It was a little bakery, owned by a family who’d lived there for generations and who had passed down the recipes faithfully for years. Crowley could tell. He’d come back to visit several times just to have their food. The breads themselves were good, but the pastries were sinful. Or divine, depending on your point of view.

They smelled it before they reached the end of the street, and Aziraphale’s eyes popped open in wonder. “Is that…?”

“Smells good, doesn’t it? Tastes even better, I promise.”

They entered the shop, although not before pausing a moment so Aziraphale could linger over the window displays. Crowley was pretty sure the angel was actually salivating.

The current owner’s daughter, who Crowley was expecting would take over in a decade or two, greeted them with a smile as the bell rang above the door. “Good morning, Señor Crowley.”

“Morning, Catalina.” He set a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “This is my friend Aziraphale. He’s come to stay with me for a while, and I just had to introduce him to this place.”

“A pleasure,” Catalina said, turning her smile on Aziraphale. “Any friend of Señor Crowley is a friend of my family. He practically keeps us in business, he’s here so often.”

“What can I say? You’re just that good.” Crowley dropped his hand in favour of peering at the rows of pastry on display. “Who’s in the kitchen this morning?”

“My father, mostly. I helped a bit before we opened.”

Crowley hummed in delight. He glanced back at Aziraphale, who lingered in the centre of the shop, eyes darting between Crowley, Catalina, and the baked goods. Crowley straightened up. “I’ll take one of everything.”

Catalina blinked, but it wasn’t the first time Crowley had done this – he really liked the pastries, and nothing he conjured ever tasted half as good – and she set about wrapping up one of each of the pastries on display. Aziraphale frowned and tilted his head in confusion. Crowley shrugged, “This way you don’t have to make a decision right away. Whatever you don’t want, I’ll eat.”

“A practical plan,” Catalina chirped cheerfully. She handed Crowley the bundle and he fished the money he owed her out of his purse. He never really worried about money. He always had enough.

They stepped back onto the street. “Come on,” Crowley said. “There’s a little garden a street over. We can eat there.”

Aziraphale followed obediently, and his footsteps faltered only slightly as Crowley directed them towards an ornate church. He led Aziraphale around the side, and sure enough, flanking the back was a small but lush garden, with blooming flowers and a few vegetables still on the vine. Crowley settled himself in the grass and began unwrapping the parcel. He glanced up at the angel. “You going to sit down or what?”

Gingerly, Aziraphale took a seat. “This is a church,” he said. “Holy ground.”

“Technically, it’s just the inside that’s holy ground.” If Crowley leaned back against the stone walls, he could feel the divinity buzzing through it, a bit like a massage. “I’m alright out here.”

Aziraphale toyed with the edge of the cloth that Crowley had spread out, the pastries strewn haphazardly across it. He eyed the nearest one. Crowley nudged it closer. “Go on, then. You’re the one who needs to eat.”

Aziraphale snatched the pastry and bit into it. His eyes popped open, and he moaned. Crowley stiffened and then forced himself to relax. He hadn’t known an angel could make that sort of noise.

“This is delicious,” Aziraphale said, polishing it off in a few bites and then licking the crumbs from his fingers. Crowley watched his tongue dart out and swallowed hard as Aziraphale popped his thumb into his mouth to suck the butter from it. He seized a pastry and chewed it fiercely.

“I thought these were mine?” Aziraphale said mildly, picking up another.

“Yeah, well,” Crowley spoke through his mouthful, “’m not gonna let you have all the fun.”

Around Aziraphale’s third pastry, he warned, “Don’t eat too fast. We don’t know how your stomach is going to take it.”

“Oh?”

“Just saying. It’s weird enough that an angel needs to eat. Don’t need you hurting yourself because your body wants moderation.”

“You’re just saying that so you can finish them off yourself,” Aziraphale teased. Already he was much gayer than he’d been yesterday. Or rather, four days ago. Or, Hell, even this morning. His eyes sparkled in the sunshine, and Crowley found himself transfixed.

“Nah, I think I’m done,” he said. “We can wrap them up and take them home.”

“What do you normally do all day?” Aziraphale asked. He sat back, drawing shapes in the grass.

“Depends. I like to lounge. Sometimes I go to the bathhouses. Work, obviously. You know, tempting people, inspiring wrath or envy, that sort of thing.”

“How so?”

“I…er, what?”

Aziraphale blinked placidly at him. “How do you inspire those emotions?”

Honestly, it wasn’t difficult. Humans had a tendency to get themselves worked up over anything. Take Crowley’s time in the bathhouses, for example. Crowley didn’t think lust was any particular sin, no matter what the church said. But it counted, because of the way people thought about it. All Crowley had to do was disrobe, and people started to fantasize. And then they felt bad, and then went to church, or they cheated, or they took out that frustration in other ways. It was up to them to decide, and all too often they made bad decision, decisions that nudged them just a little in the direction of Hell.

He did real work, of course. Corrupting priests, turning potentially benevolent monarchs into tyrants, that sort of thing. Petty stuff, too. Breaking cart wheels and the like, although that admittedly sounded less impressive, even if it made people furious, which was always a sure-fire way to make sure the circle of damage was just a little bit bigger. Crowley liked to think himself modern. He liked to think in broad terms.

He also didn’t particularly want to explain any of that to the angel. He shrugged. “It’s not hard. Humans do most of the work one way or the other. Doesn’t take much of a push to make them act particularly sinfully. Or virtuously, for that matter. They do most of the heavy lifting, so to speak.”

It was hardly a satisfactory answer, but Aziraphale didn’t push. Instead, he asked, “Are you going to, eh, work today?”

“Nah.” Crowley leaned back on his hands, tilting his chin up to the sky. “I’ve just got a commendation. Doubt they’ll be looking too closely for a while, so I can get away with slacking off a bit.”

“What for?”

Crowley gave him a quizzical look.

“The commendation,” Aziraphale clarified. He hesitated, and his voice shook a little when he said, “It must have been particularly evil, if I was your reward.”

Crowley stared at him. His stomach turned and threatened to dislodge everything he’d eaten. He tamped it down. He suddenly wanted a drink. Or possibly to cry. Only one of those things befitted a demon, and it was the one he couldn’t do at the moment. He settled for the other.

Aziraphale stared, shocked, as Crowley pulled off his glasses to wipe at his watering eyes. “Sorry,” Crowley said, his voice a little thick. “It’s stupid. It’s fucking stupid.”

“You’re crying.”

“Can’t always help it,” Crowley muttered. “Stupid bodies have a mind of their own sometimes.”

“Yes, but why are you-“

“I didn’t do it.”

“What?”

“The Spanish fucking Inquisition.” Crowley’s fingers dug into the ground, dirt pushing up under his nails. He pulled out a fistful of grass, then regretted it and smoothed his hand over the ground again as if to pat it back in place. He didn’t look at the angel. “They gave me a commendation for it, but I didn’t do it. They did it themselves. They just…thought up all those horrible things themselves and then did them to lots of people.”

“If you didn’t do it, then why did you take the credit?”

“Because that’s what I do!” Crowley burst out. He hurled his sunglasses at the wall. The crystal shattered. He buried his face in his hands. “That’s what demons do! If something horrible happens, and we get credit, we take credit for it, even if we didn’t do it, because we are awful, evil, horrible creatures and if we don’t take credit we take the blame anyway so it doesn’t fucking matter.”

There was a whimper. He froze and looked up. Aziraphale’s eyes were wide and his neck was disappearing into his shoulders. His breath came in shudders, but otherwise he looked like a statue, tense and immobile. Crowley’s stomach plunged. He sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout.” He scooped the broken pieces of his glasses into a loose pile and they repaired themselves. He picked them up and toyed with the stems. “Please don’t be scared. I’m sorry.”

Slowly, Aziraphale’s shoulders crept down. “I’d like to go back now,” he said quietly.

“Alright.” Crowley stood up. He offered out a hand to help Aziraphale, but the angel shied away, and Crowley withdrew, instead sliding his sunglasses back on and hugging the parcel of leftover pastries. He was probably squashing them, but he didn’t care. It curbed the urge to reach for Aziraphale. They kept over a foot of distance between them all the way home. Aziraphale curled up on the sofa, his back to the room, and Crowley set the bundle on the table in case the angel wanted them later. He went into the bedroom and closed the door.

As it clicked shut, Crowley rested his forehead against the wood and let out a shaky breath. They’d been alright. The angel had brightened, had opened up, had even gotten comfortable. And Crowley had ruined it.

He sat down on the bed hard. There was a mirror in the corner and he stared into it. He didn’t look frightening. Nice clothes, not quite those of a nobleman but certainly somebody of means. Flowing red hair. Odd smoky glasses.

Slowly, he reached up and drew them off his face, revealing blazing yellow eyes to the mirror, pupils slitted like a snake’s. Demonic eyes.

He hissed at the mirror, baring fangs, a forked tongue flicking out. Then he stopped. His head drooped. Of course Aziraphale had been scared. Crowley could pretend he wasn’t that bad all he liked, but at the end of the day, the signs were in his face. He was a demon, a wicked, evil thing. He’d shouted, and in doing so revealed his true self.

Crowley curled up on the mattress, not bothering to climb under the covers as he tucked himself into foetal position. He hugged his shins and pressed his forehead into his knees, closing his eyes. Across the room, the mirror shattered.

***

Demons don’t dream in the traditional sense of the word. Even demons who sleep don’t truly dream, and Crowley was no exception. But he wasn’t really sleeping, more half-dozing as his mind drifted in slightly incoherent thought, and so it didn’t matter that he wasn’t really dreaming. The effect was more or less the same.

Crowley slithered along the ground, his scales glinting in the dim light. Water dripped onto his back and rolled off, giving him a shine against the cool rock. His body ached. He’d been crawling for so long.

His tongue flicked out, tasting the air. There was a warmth somewhere just ahead of him, in sharp contrast to the freezing ground. He followed the heat, not even minding as his belly began to burn where it touched the stone floor. He had to reach the smell, the forbidden fruit hanging just a little out of reach.

Crowley unhinged his jaws and swallowed Aziraphale whole.

His mind snapped back to him like a rubber band, and he jerked upright. He rubbed at his throat, nearly cutting off airflow – not that he was breathing – and swallowed hard. It wasn’t real.

He hauled himself off of the bed, crouching by the shattered mirror and lifting a few jagged pieces. His fragmented reflection watched him, and he hissed slightly when a slip of the finger nicked the skin, a drop of blood welling to the surface. He sucked it into his mouth and righted the mirror, shards melting smoothly into one pane again. He glanced out the window. It was dark out, well into the evening.

At the bedroom door, he hesitated. He pressed his ear to the crack, but there was no sound from the other side. He couldn’t make out anything. Steeling himself, he turned the knob.

Aziraphale was still on the sofa, but he had at least shifted positions. No longer curled up with his back to the room, the angel had made himself comfortable, propped up against the seatback. He was staring at his lap, and it took Crowley a moment to realize why.

“You found the books.”

The angel startled, and then relaxed. His hand fell between the pages, a finger marking his place, and he looked up. “I hope that was alright?” he asked tentatively.

Crowley shrugged, folding his arms behind him in what he hoped was a casual gesture. He leaned back against the doorframe. “It’s fine,” he said. “I’m not really using them.” He had never been much of a reader. Crowley had books because it was a sign that he was privileged enough to be well-educated and literate, and because he liked to collect things the church disapproved of. “I, er, probably ought to mention that pretty much anything on those shelves is highly condemned by religious leaders. Some of them are apparently worth a one-way trip Downstairs.”

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale said. “There’s nothing sinful about books.”

Crowley wasn’t sure he agreed. He’d seen some pretty explicit pieces of literature – and art – in his time. Apparently, the angel hadn’t gotten to that shelf yet.

He hesitated. Aziraphale seemed cautious, but he no longer looked frightened. “You don’t have to stay with me, you know.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. Crowley rubbed the back of his neck. “There’s a couple churches ‘round here that would probably take you in, I mean. Can always use more priests in times like these. If you wanted to leave.”

“I don’t.”

Crowley wasn’t convinced he’d heard right. “What about-”

“It’s in the past.”

He stared, incredulous. “Just like that? I scared you. You were terrified.”

Aziraphale bit his lip. “I don’t like that you shouted,” he allowed. “It…upset me. But after a bit of thought, it occurred to me that you were shouting because you were angry that a wicked deed was being attributed to you. That’s not especially demonic behaviour, in my understanding.”

It wasn’t, Crowley thought. His stomach was roiling like a shipping vessel in a storm. “So what? Doesn’t change what I am.”

“It doesn’t,” Aziraphale agreed. He closed the book on his finger and tilted his head. “We’ve met before, you know.”

“What?”

“When you took me from that cage, that wasn’t the first time we’d met.”

Crowley wracked his brain trying to remember. If it had been sometime before he’d Fallen, memory was probably a lost cause. Most of that was fuzzy, indistinct. But after… “I can’t remember you,” he said.

“Do you remember Eden?”

He did. He remembered being sent up to make trouble, pointing out how surely if the fruit was so obviously accessible it must have been meant for eating, and the first humans who had agreed and taken a bite. He remembered watching the first storm rumble in the distance, clouds gathering and darkening out the once-bright sky. And he remembered a flaming sword.

“That was you?”

“I guarded the Eastern gate,” Aziraphale said softly.

“You gave away your flaming sword so the humans could protect themselves.”

“I shouldn’t have.”

Crowley frowned. He’d thought rather highly of the angel for giving the sword away, even if the memory had been a bit dim. “Why not?”

“Because it got me sent to Earth permanently, to watch over humans since apparently I liked them so much.” Aziraphale’s voice took on a note of bitterness that surprised Crowley, “And the next time I saw a demon, after meeting you, I foolishly thought I could trust them.”

“You’ve been Hell’s prisoner since Eden.” The words sounded unreal, even when he said them aloud.

Aziraphale gave a sharp nod and looked at his lap. His knuckles were bone-white. “If I hadn’t given the sword away-“

“If you hadn’t met me, none of that would have happened,” Crowley said. Horror was sinking into his veins like ice. “If I hadn’t been there, they wouldn’t have eaten the apple. You wouldn’t have given them the sword. We wouldn’t have spoken. You would still be in Heaven.” Heaven was boring, in Crowley’s opinion, but it was nothing, nothing, to being an angel trapped in Hell. “I’m sorry I didn’t remember.”

“I wanted very badly to hate you.”

“You should.”

“I don’t.”

Slowly, Crowley took a seat at the far end of the sofa, keeping a safe distance between himself and the angel. Aziraphale watched him. “I don’t hate you,” he said again. “At first, I hated you for making me let my guard down. Then I hated myself for being tricked when I should have known that no demons could be trusted. When I saw you again, I thought you might be back to taunt me. To laugh at me for being so gullible, to reveal your true nature at last.”

Crowley swallowed hard and looked away.

Aziraphale’s hand reached out to cover his. Crowley stared at it, unblinking. “You did reveal your true nature,” Aziraphale said. “When you stopped me trying to pleasure you. When took care of me. When you cried in a churchyard because you thought you were evil. You are not evil, Crowley. You might not be Good, but you are not evil.”

“I could still be tricking you,” Crowley mumbled. “This could be an elaborate scheme.”

“Is it?”

“No.”

“I believe you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Please don’t be dismissive,” Aziraphale said. His hold on Crowley’s hand tightened. “Listen to me. I was captured, held prisoner, tortured. I do not trust easily. So when I say that I trust you, it is no small act. It is Biblical. Something inside me, something ineffable, tells me to trust you, so I do.”

That touch was the only thing keeping Crowley together. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry about all of it. I’m sorry I made you more trusting and I’m sorry about what Hell did to you and I’m sorry that I’m the one needing comforting when you’re the one who ought to be getting it.” A demon, nearly weeping. A demon, apologizing. To an angel, no less. Crowley made miracles happen every day, but this was a Miracle with a capital M.

Aziraphale stroked the back of his hand with his thumb. “Apology accepted.” He withdrew, and Crowley felt abruptly very cold. “I would like to stay with you, if you’re still willing. I will understand if you want me gone, and I’m sure I can recover in a church somewhere, but I would prefer it if I could stay.”

“Probably best if you do,” Crowley admitted. “If you leave, and Hell finds out, they’d put us both through the wringer. And…I’d worry.”

Aziraphale smiled. It was thin and uncertain, but it was a smile. He reopened the book and settled back against the sofa. With trepidation, Crowley settled by his feet, making himself comfortable. A hand landed in his hair, and he melted as it stroked through his long, wavy locks, scratching from his scalp all the way to the ends in a soothing repetition.

He did not stir again until the rumbling of Aziraphale’s stomach forced them to move. The angel seemed very put out about it, marking his place in the book and reaching for the bundle of leftover pastries instead. Crowley sat up and stretched. “I can make us some tea, if you’d like.”

Aziraphale looked at him in confusion. “I don’t think I’ve ever had it.”

“I think you’ll like it.” Crowley stood up to prepare the water. He didn’t do it entirely by thought. He could have, but tea, like pastries, always tasted a little bit better when it was handmade. He brought two steaming cups back to the sofa and gave one to the angel.

In short order, he gave the other one to Aziraphale as well, because the angel did like it. He liked it very much. And Crowley watched him drink it, and read his books, and Crowley smiled.

They established something of a routine. As with food, Aziraphale found that he required sleep, and so Crowley arranged his day around the healing angel’s needs. They’d wake up in the morning and share breakfast, then go for a walk so Aziraphale could explore a little corner of the Earth he’d been absent from for so long. They’d eat lunch in whatever restaurant they found, sometimes one Crowley knew and sometimes one he didn’t. They’d return home, and Aziraphale would read well into the evening, devouring shelf after shelf of Crowley’s books – although the demon managed to steer him tactfully away from the pornography – to the point where Crowley would have to drag him away for dinner or, more commonly, Crowley would curl up next to Aziraphale with a book of his own and they would eat on the sofa together.

When he’d gotten the books, he hadn’t intended to read any of them. But now that he had someone to discuss them with, Crowley found reading to be alright. He liked the theatre better, but you couldn’t go to the theatre every night.

Along with the routine they’d established, Crowley had found time to call in a favour. There was a priest or two who owed him, and when he’d paid them a visit they were more than happy to help him in order to clear their debt.

“How were the shops?” Aziraphale asked upon his return. “You were gone longer than I expected.”

It took Crowley a moment to remember his deception. “Actually,” he said, setting a carefully wrapped parcel down on the dining table, “I might’ve fibbed a little. I didn’t go to the shops.”

Aziraphale looked up from his novel and frowned. He closed it, setting it down on the sofa and approaching Crowley with trepidation, stopping several feet away. “You lied?”

“I didn’t want you worrying.” Crowley nudged the package in the angel’s direction, hesitant to touch it too much. “I got this for you.”

“A present?”

“A precaution.”

Aziraphale’s frown deepened. He picked up the parcel and unwrapped it. Nestled in layers and layers of brown paper was a delicate chain. Aziraphale lifted the necklace to the light, examining it, and his eyes widened as he realized what was attached to it. Swinging from the end like a tiny crystal pendulum was a miniscule vial, corked but full to the brim.

Crowley cleared his throat. “It’s holy water. I, er, called in a favour to get it.”

Aziraphale curled his fingers around it and clutched it to his chest. “That was incredibly dangerous, wasn’t it? If I recall correctly, holy water is toxic to demons.”

“It’s not enough to kill me,” Crowley pointed out, although even just the sight of the vial made him uneasy. “It’ll hurt like Hell if it splashes me, but you’d need a good deal more than that to do serious damage. I just wanted you to have it. Just in case.”

“In case another demon comes for me?”

“In case you ever feel unsafe.”

Aziraphale tilted his head and understanding dawned in his eyes. “In case you ever frighten me again, you mean.”

Crowley shrugged and stared at the floor, and then startled when Aziraphale’s hand touched his. He looked up, and found the angel staring at him in earnest. “Thank you,” Aziraphale said. “I doubt I’ll have any use for it, but I know you must have gone to a great deal of trouble procuring it. And you did it for me.”

“I want you to feel safe with me,” Crowley mumbled. “You don’t exactly have your powers to protect you, so…”

Aziraphale squeezed his hand. Then he lifted the chain over his head, allowing it to fall around his neck. He tucked the vial beneath the collar of his tunic. Crowley relaxed the moment it was out of sight, and Aziraphale smiled. “Come now,” he said. “I’m almost done with my book, and I want you to read it when I’m finished. There are a few scenes I’ve a mind to discuss.”

***

“So, uh…I probably ought to get back to work.” Crowley watched Aziraphale’s reflection in the window, rather than face the angel head on.

Aziraphale had been with him for nearly two months. They had their routine, and as far as roommates went, Crowley had no complaints. Aziraphale didn’t snore when he slept on the sofa-turned-bed in the living room, Crowley didn’t care about money so it didn’t matter that Aziraphale didn’t pay rent, and the conversation he got was well worth sharing a living space. For the most part, Aziraphale wasn’t skittish any longer; he still jumped on occasion if Crowley moved too quickly or surprised him, and loud or aggressive sounds when they were out in public could make him go very quiet and hurry home, but otherwise he seemed remarkably well adjusted. He was tactile, allowing Crowley to rest against his side when they read on the sofa, holding his hand – even in public sometimes – and brushing against his elbow or shoulder at opportune moments. Crowley drank in the casual touch like a starving man; demons did not trust one another, and touch between them was rare. To have safe, unabashed physical contact was something Crowley hadn’t realized he’d wanted until Aziraphale came into his life.

Sometimes, the angel even ate apples.

But it had been two months, and Crowley couldn’t get away with doing nothing forever. Not if he didn’t want to risk the wrath of Hell.

They were in a little restaurant, a repeat but one which Aziraphale was particularly fond of. He liked the wine. In the window, Crowley watched Aziraphale lift his glass to his lips and take a slow, thoughtful sip before he answered. “Work?”

“You know.” Crowley winced and gave a helpless shrug. “Demonic stuff.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale’s tone was indecipherable, but Crowley had to assume he didn’t approve.

“Nothing big,” he said quickly. “The…Inquisition bought me some time, I’m sure. I doubt I’ll have to do anything really Evil for a long while. Not until you’re better, anyway.” The angel’s abilities were far from coming back full force, but his aura was starting to glow again, a weak and fuzzy thing but there all the same. “It’ll just be petty stuff. So I can say I was doing something if they ask.”

“I see.” Aziraphale’s reflection stared pensively into his wine glass.

Sod it. Crowley turned away from the window and looked at Aziraphale properly. “Hey.” He put his hand on the table, within reaching distance, where Aziraphale could see it. “You want to come with me?”

Aziraphale stiffened, clearly offended. “Just because we’re friends doesn’t mean-“

“I’m not saying you should, you know, be tempting people,” Crowley said, pretending that his insides weren’t squirming with pleasure the way they did every time Aziraphale used the word ‘friend.’ “The opposite, in fact.”

“The…opposite?”

“You’re an angel, aren’t you? What’s an angel supposed to do when they see a demon wiling, huh?”

Aziraphale blinked. A small smile was beginning to curve at his lip. Crowley grinned back, prompting him with a quirked eyebrow.

“They thwart,” Aziraphale said.

“Well, there you go, angel,” Crowley said. “Can’t promise it’ll be particularly impressive wiling, but if you tell Heaven that you were attempting to thwart a demon even when you were practically powerless, I’m sure they’ll be very impressed.”

“I…expect they will.” Aziraphale didn’t look as excited about the prospect as Crowley expected, but he was still smiling, which was a win in Crowley’s book. “Although I’m not sure what you mean by ‘attempting,’” Aziraphale said sternly, but with a twinkle in his eye. “I rather think I’ll be quite successful at it.”

“Oh, I dunno. I’ve had a few millennia of practice,” Crowley teased. “Against a powerless angel? Hardly seems like a fair fight.”

“Should I expect a demon to fight fair?” Aziraphale asked mildly, but without any heat.

“Oh, ouch.” Crowley clutched dramatically at his heart. “That hurt, angel. I’m a demon of my word, you know that.”

“I do.” Aziraphale placed his hand over Crowley’s on the table, and Crowley’s insides did another happy flip. Bodies. They really had a mind of their own sometimes.

Crowley cleared his throat to avoid any suspicion. “That’s sorted, then.” He drew his hand back reluctantly to signal the server that they were ready to leave. Aziraphale polished off his wine and smiled behind the rim of the glass.

They walked out into the street together. As Aziraphale took Crowley’s elbow securely in hand, Crowley teased, “Keeping an eye on me already?”

“As you keep saying, I am an angel. A demon could get up to all sorts of trouble if I don’t keep you very close.”

“Keep saying?”

“Calling me ‘angel.’ You’ve taken to doing it rather a lot.”

“I honestly hadn’t noticed.” He pretended it didn’t alarm him, keeping a neutral façade even as warning bells sounded in the back of his mind. He certainly hadn’t meant to call Aziraphale that. And he had a suspicion it had less to do with the literal application of the word than his own more selfish reasons. Reasons he’d been working very hard to ignore. “I can stop, if you’d like.”

“I like it,” Aziraphale said. “The other demons…Down There, they called me angel sometimes. When they spoke to me at all, rather than around me. But it didn’t sound the same.”

Because it wasn’t. Crowley shrugged, even as he squashed something ugly down into the pit of his stomach. “Suit yourself.” To change the subject, he added, “I thought you were supposed to be keeping an eye on me?”

“I am!”

“Yeah?” Crowley grinned. Behind them, the man he’d stuck out his foot to trip shouted a curse at them as he picked himself up off the ground.

Aziraphale covered his mouth in surprise, eyes wide with barely suppressed mirth. “You wicked thing! You were distracting me!”

“Maybe just a little.”

“That hardly counts! It’s not evil to trip someone. It’s just rude!”

“You don’t know that.” Crowley elbowed the angel gently in the side, wiggling his eyebrows. “For all you know, that man has done heaps of bad things in his life, and that curse was the last straw that damned his soul.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened further, more considering this time, and he looked over his shoulder and then back to Crowley. “You don’t think…”

Crowley shrugged. “Little dings in the soul add up, angel. There’s getting to be too many people in the world. If you try for big acts of evil that fell only a few, Hell would hardly ever get anyone down there. Which, I suppose, would be good for you lot,” he added, “but not so great for those of us doing our jobs. Hell isn’t exactly known for forgiveness.”

“I think I understand.”

“Makes your job easier, though.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Aziraphale said mildly, and Crowley yelped as he was jerked sharply to the side by Aziraphale’s hand, just out of the way of another victim of a well-placed shin. “If a series of minor ‘dings’ to the soul can send one to Hell, it stands to reasons that minor buffs and polishes will work in the opposite direction.”

“Nice to have someone who understands the theory.”

“Not popular in your neck of the woods?”

“Nah. It’s all about the craftsmanship to them. Art, I’ll grant you, but not a practical business model. A particularly wicked sinner or a particularly devout saint is all well and good, but it doesn’t quite bring in the numbers you need. And I do alright, I guess. Alright enough to keep the Powers That Be happy, anyway. And it doesn’t hurt to have Lucifer’s personal favour.”

Aziraphale looked at him curiously. His free hand drifted to his chest, where Crowley knew the little vial rested beneath his tunic. “Oh?” his voice was careful.

“For Eden,” Crowley explained.

“Ah.” Aziraphale’s hand fell to his side again. “Yes, I suppose causing the ‘fall of man’ would earn one some respect Down There.”

“Didn’t mean to cause the ‘fall of man,’” Crowley muttered. It was just a dumb apple.

“I know you didn’t, my dear.”

Crowley blinked and raised his eyebrows. Aziraphale blushed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from.”

“It’s alright,” Crowley said. “I don’t mind.”

“It’s just, angels are beings of love, you know, and affection is-“

“I said, it’s fine, angel,” Crowley interrupted him. He covered Aziraphale’s hand on his elbow and squeezed meaningfully. “You like being affectionate. It’s what friends do.”

Aziraphale relaxed and smiled. “Yes. Quite.”

Crowley didn’t have a soul, and if he had, he suspected it would have been tarnished beyond repair ages ago. Still, as Aziraphale smiled at him, Crowley could almost hear the little ping of something twisted and burnt becoming just a bit shinier.

It was tremendous fun, Crowley had to admit. He and Aziraphale strolled around town, not unlike their usual routine, and Crowley would try to trip people, or flash yellow eyes at passing babies to try and make them cry (babies irritated just about everyone, so a crying baby was always a win, even if it made Crowley wish for earplugs), or use his powers to topple fruit carts. And Aziraphale would pull him out of the way before anyone could get hurt, or smile and wiggle his fingers at the baby to stop the crying, or shoot him a reproachful-but-not-really look and make him stop so Aziraphale could help right the fruit cart and buy any of the fruit that had been damaged. They were fairly neck in neck, as far as wiling and thwarting went, so no one really got hurt, and Crowley was alright with that. He even had to commend the angel, who when Crowley had been distractedly chewing on one of their pieces of fruit had managed to aid a small lost child in returning to her mother.

“Not that I would have done anything bad to it,” Crowley had added. “It wasn’t that lost.”

Aziraphale just smiled patiently, and Crowley felt another ping where his soul ought to have been.

“Come on, angel,” he said, offering out his hand and twining their fingers together when Aziraphale took it. “That’s enough for today. Let’s go home.”

“You were going easy on me, weren’t you?” Aziraphale asked as they made their way back to the flat.

“Maybe a little,” Crowley said. “You don’t have your powers back yet. Wouldn’t be any fun if you had no chance of thwarting me.” He ushered Aziraphale over the threshold first, and then strolled in after him, shedding his outer layers onto the floor. They disappeared before they hit the ground. Aziraphale pulled off his shoes more neatly, leaving them by the door, and draped his light cape over the back of a chair.

“I’m glad to hear your fun prevails in the face of practicality,” Aziraphale teased, settling on the sofa. Crowley immediately sprawled beside him, his legs draped across Aziraphale’s lap.

“I aim to please.” Crowley wriggled, getting comfortable, and Aziraphale poked him. Crowley wriggled more just to make a point.

“Really, now,” Aziraphale admonished. “Keep squirming like that, and I shall banish you to the bedroom, and you can eat supper alone.”

“You know I don’t have to eat, right?” Crowley said. “It’s hardly a dire threat.”

“Isn’t it, though?”

Crowley studied the angel’s face. His eyebrows were raised, but otherwise his was a mask of neutrality. Crowley couldn’t be certain if he was serious, even in jest. He stopped squirming, and Aziraphale smiled and patting his leg. “There, now. That wasn’t so difficult.”

“One would think you’re in charge, here,” Crowley mumbled, closing his eyes as he settled in for a light doze. With the return of Aziraphale’s aura came holy, angelic heat, like a well-lit rock on a summer’s day, and with the seasons slowly creeping towards autumn Aziraphale was a lot better than a rock to lounge on. It was like leaning against the church, feeling the radiating power, although dimmer and softer and more comfortable to sprawl across. A church didn’t pet his hair.

“I was under the impression I was,” Aziraphale answered. He shifted, wrapping one arm around Crowley to support him, and picking up his latest book with the other. Crowley clung to him like a snake to a tree, nestled about the sturdiest branches for fear of falling.

“Yeah, you are,” Crowley agreed. He pressed his face into Aziraphale’s neck, trying to get closer to the warmth, and the sound he made when Aziraphale’s hand stroked up and down his back was almost a purr. Not quite. He was a snake, after all. But almost.

That night, Crowley dreamed of clouds beneath his feet, stinging at his bare soles. A breeze cooled his skin, but his eyes burned as he squinted up, up, up, staring at huge, locked gates. He wound his fingers around pillars of pearl, shaking desperately even as the skin on his hands peeled and flaked and turned red with blisters.

A pair of strong arms encircled him from behind, still warm but in a softer way. They pulled him back. “Let it go, my dear.”

He released the gate, tears welling in his burning eyes, half-blind from the light. “Let it all go,” the voice whispered in his ear, “and I will be here to catch you.”

Crowley awoke sometime later in his bed, the memory of the dream dancing just beyond his conscious mind. He lifted his head from where he was buried in the mass of pillows and blankets and stared through the open bedroom door. Beyond the doorway, he could see Aziraphale, curled up in a tight ball in the centre of the massive sofa bed, not touching the pillows but swaddled in a blanket. His curls spilled across the sofa like a fluffy halo. He glowed a little brighter.

Crowley shoved his mess of pillows to the other end of his bed and settled on his side, facing the door. He watched for every movement, every flicker across Aziraphale’s face, and hoped his dreams were as peaceful as he looked until Crowley once again succumbed to sleep.

When he returned to consciousness properly, Aziraphale was already up. The angel smiled at him as Crowley hauled himself reluctantly out of bed. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Very well,” Aziraphale said. “I had a lovely dream.”

“Yeah?” Crowley asked. He leaned against the doorframe and watched Aziraphale with half-lidded eyes as the angel ate his breakfast. “What was it about?”

“Oh, this and that.” Aziraphale took a bite of bread and patted the sofa beside him. Crowley took the invitation and slithered next to him, getting comfortable. He took the pastry Aziraphale passed him and bite into it without complaint. “I don’t remember much of it,” Aziraphale continued. “But I do remember this lovely warmth enveloping me.”

“Must have been about Heaven, then,” Crowley said, and almost grasped the tendrils of his own dream. It slipped away, and he shook his head, trying to clear the sleep out of it.

“Must have been,” Aziraphale said absently. He licked a few crumbs off his fingers, and Crowley looked away. Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice. “What shall we do today, then? More thwarting?”

“If you’d like.”

“I think I would.”

“After breakfast, then.”

“Agreed.” Aziraphale took another bite, and again licked crumbs from his hand. Crowley felt his own tongue twist and flicker, and clamped his jaw firmly shut, lest it get any ideas. Ideas like taking Aziraphale’s plump hands in his own, so that his own tongue was the one licking across that broad palm.

He swallowed hard, squashed that though into a tiny ball, and shoved it down with the rest of the guilty thoughts he’d had about the angel. Aziraphale was his friend. Aziraphale had been taken advantage of by Hell. Aziraphale was an angel. There were a plethora of reasons why Crowley couldn’t afford to think like that. Humans were rubbing off on him, he thought. Maybe living in close quarters with an angel was invoking instincts he’d long since forgotten about. He just couldn’t figure out if they were Heavenly or Hellish instincts, and he would rather not find out.

“You’re feeling better, aren’t you?” he asked in lieu of anything better to say. “Your aura’s coming back, anyway.”

“I feel stronger,” Aziraphale said. “Not…not strong enough to do much of anything. I doubt I could turn a book page from a foot away. But it’s coming back to me.” His expression turned morose, and he rubbed absently at his wrists.

Crowley hadn’t gotten rid of the manacles. Part of him had wanted to, had wanted to utterly destroy the blasted things for causing such utter pain for someone he was beginning to care quite a lot about. But as with the holy water, Crowley believed in taking precautions, and a powerful magical artefact was a powerful magical artefact. He kept them in a chest under his bed, where he hoped Aziraphale would never find them.

“You’re going to be okay,” he said, aware the platitude meant little. “Your powers will come back, and you’ll be an angel again.”

“I was a Principality, you know.”

“No kidding?” Crowley’s memories of Heaven were distant and fuzzy – by his design, and His – but he was pretty sure Aziraphale would have outranked him. He cocked his head. “Hang on. Thought you guarded the eastern gate of Eden.”

“I did.”

“Thought that was the cherubs. You know, ‘and He placed cherubims’ and ‘flaming sword that turned every which way’ and all that? That way outranks Principalities, doesn’t it? No offense.”

“None taken,” Aziraphale said graciously. “I wasn’t the only angel in Eden, if you recall.”

“Only one I spoke to,” Crowley said.

“Yes, well, as a Principality I was really there to guard His paradise. And the first people, of course. The tree of life was the cherubims’ responsibility, specifically. His Knowledge and all.”

Crowley snorted. “Fat lot of good they did.” He couldn’t even recall seeing any angels guarding the tree itself. He’d always thought it had been a little easy. But that was ineffability for you. He tried not to think about it too hard.

“Quite,” Aziraphale admitted. He finished off his breakfast and stood up, smoothing down the wrinkles in the shirt he wore to sleep in. Crowley turned away as Aziraphale, without shame, stripped down to his undergarments and began dressing for the day. Behind him, Crowley heard Aziraphale continue, “Where do you think we should go for the day? It’s a big city. Lots of places for you to get up to trouble.”

“Dunno,” Crowley said. “Think there’s a wedding at a church a few blocks away.”

“You can’t enter the church.”

“No, but I can scare away the horses pulling their carriage without them in it. If I time it right, I can probably even get a puddle to splash the bride’s dress.”

“There hasn’t been any rainfall. No puddles. And not even you can control the weather.”

“No,” Crowley said, with a gleam in his eye. “But I’ve got a bucket.”

They went to the wedding. A horse kicked Crowley, and he ended up with his foot stuck in the bucket. Aziraphale didn’t lift a finger.

Crowley sulked on the church steps while Aziraphale blessed the couple – figuratively speaking – and wished them good fortune and lasting love. Crowley tried to look put out. He contemplated leering at a bridesmaid suggestively, but he’d never much liked that, and Aziraphale was a lot more interesting to look at anyway. The woman in question had ended up patting his shoulder as she passed and, when Crowley had looked up, startled, she had stage-whispered to him, “It’s alright, love. You’ll get him.”

Crowley gaped at her as she walked away to rejoin the rest of the wedding party. “Everything alright?” Aziraphale asked, apparently done with his angelic business as he approached Crowley. He knelt before him on the steps and tugged experimentally on the bucket.

“Yeah, fine,” Crowley mumbled, still watching the woman with a frown. With a vague thought, the bucket popped free in Aziraphale’s hands, and the angel sat back hard on his heels.

He turned, following Crowley’s line of sight. If Crowley had been watching him, he would have noticed a peculiar expression cross the angel’s face, fleeting as a summer breeze. “Do you know her, my dear?”

Crowley shook his head. “Never met her. She just said something odd to me, is all.”

“What did she say?”

Crowley blinked, shook himself out of his stupor, and then looked at the angel. Aziraphale’s eyes were open and honest and too damn blue. Crowley opened his mouth and then closed it again. “Er, nothing. It was nothing.”

Aziraphale glanced between him and the retreating woman, almost out of sight down the street. “If you were…interested in her, I wouldn’t stop you. Really interested, I mean, not just after temptation.”

“What?” It took a moment for Crowley to understand what Aziraphale was implying, and then his eyes popped wide behind his glasses. “Good lord, angel, no. No, nothing like that.”

“Oh.”

“I mean, humans aren’t really my thing. For sex, I mean. Especially not women.” He wasn’t good with women. He had no idea why. As a demon, he’d assumed he wouldn’t care much, but somehow he did. Women just didn’t appeal to him, even more so than humans in general terms.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said again. “I see.” He studied Crowley curiously, almost hesitantly. “I, ah, was under the impression that lust…”

“Is not my area of expertise. Or interest. Not with people.”

“With…demons, then?”

Crowley made a face, “Go- Sat-, somebody, no.” He never had gotten the hang of that expression. Maybe someday he would. “No,” he said again, “not with demons. It’s…look.” He didn’t know why they were talking about this. He didn’t know why Aziraphale cared, other than that they were friends and it had been millennia since the angel had been on Earth, and sex had barely been around back then. He fumbled for words. “It’s…sex feels good, right? That’s the general consensus. And I’d be interested if there was someone worth being interested in, because it feels good, and I like feeling good. Why exist on this Earth if you don’t allow yourself to feel good every now and again, yeah? But there’s never…I mean, humans just feel wrong, and it’s not like demons are good company to let your guard down in. So I don’t…” He was babbling. He stopped himself. “Can we not talk about this?”

“If it makes you uncomfortable.”

He was a demon. It shouldn’t have made him uncomfortable. But Aziraphale was right there, and he was an angel, and he was the first being on God’s green Earth or in Hell who had actually made Crowley curious about what sex might feel like if you’re weren’t in it alone.

Without his permission, he found words leaving his mouth. “Do you ever think about it? Sex, I mean.”

Aziraphale stiffened a little. His voice was careful, and he didn’t meet Crowley’s eyes when he said, “I thought you didn’t want to talk about this.”

“I don’t.” Crowley didn’t miss the way Aziraphale’s hand twitched towards his own neck before the angel stilled it. “I’m sorry. I’ll shut up.” He stood and offered Aziraphale a hand up off the stone steps. “Come on, angel. Let’s go see if there’s anything else around for me to get up to mischief with.”

Aziraphale allowed himself to be led, and Crowley was gratified when the angel threaded their fingers together of his own volition. As they descended the stone steps, Aziraphale said, very quietly. “I don’t think about it. Not if I can help it.”

Right. Crowley cursed himself for bringing it up. He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. “You’re not there anymore.”

“No. I’m not.” Crowley was fairly certain it wasn’t his imagination that Aziraphale was clinging to him just a little tighter. “I’m with you.”

Crowley pushed another ball of guilt deeper into his gut and forced a smile. “Come on,” he said again. “Let’s go.”

They went to the park. Not the church garden Crowley had shown Aziraphale, the one where he had cried, but a proper park, with trees and a big fountain. Proper cities had parks, in Crowley’s opinion. He never liked to be in a city without one.

There were a few birds splashing in the higher levels of the fountain. Children splashed in the lowest level and played games on the multicoloured tiles lining the walkways, supervised by parents or nannies or older siblings. A handful of church officials were conversing, their heads bent together, near the short hedges lining the entrance. A pair of lovers sat on a far bench, twined around each other, oblivious to the rest of the world. They were all opportunities for mischief, but Crowley’s heart wasn’t particularly in it at the moment.

Aziraphale brushed a hand over a sturdy sapling as they strolled past, admiration in his voice. “They’ll look beautiful in bloom.”

“They will,” Crowley agreed. He glanced at the lovers, who were weaving daisy chains for each other. He could almost picture Aziraphale like that, a crown of flowers in his hair, angelic powers keeping them eternally fresh and green. Daisies to compliment his complexation, and for the angelic whiteness, of course. Forget-me-nots for his blue eyes.

And for the more literal, thought Crowley. This thought he did not push into his stomach, but locked it carefully into the back of his mind for safekeeping. That thought was dangerous, but in more important ways, it was safe.

Aziraphale had stopped, and was stroking the tree bark appraisingly, cooing to it. “I can feel it,” he said happily.

“I can see that.”

“I mean the way it feels,” Aziraphale said. He rested his forehead against the thin trunk and closed his eyes, still smiling. “It loves the sun and the fountain. It loves the children that pick its fallen flowers from the ground to wear in their hair. It loves the other trees, their roots entwined, sending messages that only they can understand.”

Crowley stared at him. Tentatively, he rested his hand on the tree. He couldn’t feel any of that. It wasn’t for demons to sense that sort of thing. He’d been able to, once. Been attuned to the love and joy of the world around him, as well as the fear and the pain. Now, he could only feel the latter. He had to infer the rest.

“Good for the tree,” he said.

Aziraphale opened his eyes and turned that beaming smile on Crowley. “You know what this means?”

“Er…that we should be nicer to plants?”

“No.” Aziraphale paused. “Well, yes. But that’s not what I meant. Sensing emotion in the surrounding world…it’s the most basic of angelic abilities, but it was something I could not do. Not with the shackles. This means I’m regaining strength.”

“We knew that, though.”

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale blushed. “It feels nice all the same. To exist in a world, unable to feel it, is like being empty. It’s almost unbearable for an angel.”

Crowley looked away, and Aziraphale seemed to realize what he’d said. He covered Crowley’s hand with his. “I didn’t mean-“

“It’s fine,” Crowley said. “I’m used to it by now.” He offered a weak smile. “I’m glad you’re happy, though.”

Aziraphale’s own smile softened. He removed his hand. “Let’s move on.”

“Yeah. Good idea.”

They crossed the park. Crowley didn’t so much as think harsh thoughts in the priests’ direction. If Aziraphale noticed, he didn’t comment.

The angel continued to glow brighter. It wasn’t that he was manifesting Heavenly light – to do so would have taken great strength and seared Crowley’s flesh if it touched him, as all things holy did – but his aura was nearly bright enough to shine instead of simply flickering. Or maybe that was simply the way he was illuminated by the setting sun.

Crowley found a potted plant sitting on his living room windowsill the next day. It was a tiny thing, with twitching vines and just a handful of thick leaves, and Crowley had not been the one to put it there. He squatted down to be on eye level with it – well, eye and frond level – and gave it a suspicious look.

“You’d better be good for Aziraphale,” he muttered, more to himself than to the plant. “He needs all the good things he can get.”

In straightening up and turning away, Crowley missed the miniscule quiver of the plant’s leaves.

Aziraphale looked sheepish the next time Crowley caught him in the same room as the plant, which migrated between the bathroom, living room, and bedroom windowsill depending on the position of the sun and the wind. “I would have asked first,” he said, blushing faintly, “but I didn’t think there was any harm. It’s just one plant.”

“Don’t worry about it, angel,” Crowley told him. “It’s all good.”

***

It took about a month of low-grade wiling and thwarting across the city before Aziraphale made the suggestion. It was a hot day, likely to be one of the last hot days before the summer slipped comfortably into the chill of autumn, and there was a heaviness in the air. Crowley hadn’t wanted to go out at all; he had hardly gotten out of bed in the morning, dragging himself through the humid air like the world’s most human-shaped reptile. The floor was cool, and laying against the wooden boards was a lot more comfortable than being wrapped in blankets.

Aziraphale had observed him from the sofa bed, peering over the side at the slowly undulating demon. “That doesn’t look very comfortable.”

“More comfortable than you’d think.” Cold stone would be better than cool wood, but there weren’t any in his flat. He’d have to change that if the weather kept up, he thought. “Go back to sleep, angel. It’s too hot to wile.”

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale said. “Evil never sleeps.”

Crowley waved a dismissive hand and buried his face in the floorboards. Against them, he mumbled, “No, but low-grade wickedness is inclined to take a holiday every now and again. I’m entitled to a day off.”

Aziraphale nudged him with a careful foot, and Crowley slid a little on the floor. He squinted one reproachful eye up at the angel, who said, “We could go to the bathhouses. You mentioned once you liked to go there, but as far as I’m aware you haven’t been since I arrived.”

“Went once,” Crowley muttered, closing his eyes again. “Was fine. You like bathing here, and I don’t need to.” Napping against the angel’s warmth was a lot nicer than napping on a warm rock, even with the temptation points.

“If ever there was a day to indulge, it would be today.”

“You’re an angel. Not supposed to indulge.” The words were a little slurred. Crowley was seriously contemplating falling asleep right there.

Aziraphale nudged him again. “Some allowances can be made for my condition. Besides, I meant other people would be indulging. You’d hardly have to lift a finger.”

“Fine,” Crowley groaned. He pillowed his head on his arms. “We’ll go later. There’s a nice place across town I think you’ll-“

“Why don’t we go to one of the ones nearby?”

“You know the shelf of books I told you not to touch?”

“Of course.”

“Same reason.”

Aziraphale tilted his head. “Lovemaking is perfectly natural, even if doing it publicly is a little unorthodox, so-“

Crowley’s head shot up, and he cut the angel off, “Did you read them?”

“I skimmed a few of the better written ones. Literature is literature, even if it’s about-“

“It’s not lovemaking, angel, it’s fucking. And I thought you weren’t interested even in thinking about that.” It had been a safety bar across Crowley’s lap for the past few weeks.

Aziraphale coughed discreetly. “Yes, well…it’s different.”

“How? Fucking is fucking, angel.”

“How would you know?”

“Because I’ve been on Earth for thousands of years,” Crowley pushed himself upright, like a cobra. “There’s fucking, and there’s lovemaking, and what goes on in those books? In the bathhouses? That’s definitely fucking. Especially when money’s involved.”

Aziraphale’s resolve wavered. He bit his lip. Crowley slithered all the way up, into a sitting position. “You won’t like it, angel. Trust me. If you really want to go, we’d be better off going across town.”

There was a moment of silence between them. Crowley watched Aziraphale carefully, tracking the changes in his expression. He appeared to be thinking very hard. His fingers drummed absently against his thigh, and Crowley found his own hand subconsciously mimicking the pattern on the floor. He stopped it. Eventually, Aziraphale said, “Wouldn’t it be prudent to go somewhere with more opportunity for sin? And for redemption, of course.”

“It’s hardly a place for redemption. Not without considerable more power than you’ve got. It’d take a bloody miracle. Hell, it’d take a dozen!”

“Still.”

“Why is this so important to you?” Crowley burst out, frustrated.

“Because I want to see what it’s like!”

They stared at each other. Neither had shouted, per se, but it was louder than either of them had ever been, save one obvious incident. Aziraphale looked as surprised as Crowley felt. He swallowed and lifted his chin. “I was held in cage for millennia. I did not get to see the way humans interacted with each other, the way love evolved from the very earliest days of humanity. Instead, I was treated to bastardized versions of it, versions which still haunt my dreams on bad nights, and which some days I feel I cannot scrub from my skin.”

“I didn’t…” Crowley didn’t know what to say. He wished he’d known the angel was still struggling that much. He wished he knew how to help.

Aziraphale took a deep breath. “I want…I need to see there are alternatives. However crude. I need to know that I was not misremembering the early days of humanity, of goodness and love.”

“Okay.” What else could he say to that? He nodded. “Alright. If that’s really what you want.”

“It is.”

“You’ll tell me if you want to leave?” Crowley pressed. He leaned forward. “If anything, anything at all, upsets you or makes you want to go, all you have to do is tell me, and we’ll leave.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Understood.”

“Alright.” Crowley hauled himself up from the floor. “Give me some time to get ready, and then we’ll go.”

“Of course, my dear. And thank you.”

Crowley waved a hand, not quite dismissive, but bordering on uncomfortable. He stepped into his bedroom and closed the door. He closed his eyes. He tried not to curse and was only marginally successful.

“Shit.”

He hadn’t intentionally been avoiding the bathhouses at first. It’d just been unnecessary, and Crowley had been keeping an eye on Aziraphale, and they’d been bonding, and it hadn’t seemed like the sort of place to bring an angel. Aziraphale needed to bathe, like he needed to eat and sleep, but Crowley had a tub and it made more sense to let him do it at home. Aziraphale maintained some minimal control over his Earthly body – it wasn’t really a power to do subtle manipulations, more a sort of built-in setting – but Crowley had no idea if that extended all the way to genitalia, which the angel would definitely need to blend in. And he doubted being naked surrounded by strangers would appeal to Aziraphale. The angel had odd ideas about modesty, especially in front of Crowley, but he thought the assumption was a fair one anyway.

Then, of course, as they’d gotten closer, Crowley had started to think that maybe avoiding the bathhouses for his own sake was the best course of action. He hadn’t manifested genitalia since Aziraphale had started talking, and given that Crowley didn’t always have the best control over his body, it seemed safer not to risk it. The pile of thoughts in the pit of his stomach was still growing, no matter how hard he tried to tamp down on them, and the last thing he wanted was for Aziraphale to take a physical reaction the wrong way.

He still had a choice. He could stay home. Put his foot down and say he wasn’t going. But he hated the idea of denying Aziraphale something that seemed so important to him. Nor could he let Aziraphale go alone. There were many places in the city that Aziraphale went without him – the bakery down the street, libraries and bookshops, occasionally to the market or a store to pick up something they needed – but in that part of their neighbourhood Aziraphale was liable to get hurt. He was beautiful, and he had an angelic naiveite to his appearance that people were bound to try taking advantage of. Crowley couldn’t leave Aziraphale to fend that off for himself.

He sighed and fetched his glasses.

The walk over, he was tense. Aziraphale had tried to hold his hand, but Crowley had declined, for fear he’d crush the angel’s fingers in his grip. He knocked his fist against his thigh, keeping an eye on the side streets as they passed. But there was no trouble.

The bathhouses were crowded. Aziraphale hadn’t been wrong about indulgence. As they found a secluded corner to strip, Crowley muttered to him, “You know you need genitals, right?”

“I am aware.”

“Just checking.” He pointedly did not look, and so missed Aziraphale’s careful appraisal of Crowley’s body as well.

He wasn’t the only one. Crowley always drew stares, and today was no different. He was lean and lightly muscled, and his long red hair shone in the sunlight, even tied up as it currently was. He expected the looks, and he did his best to tune them out, instead scanning for people who might be looking at Aziraphale instead. There were several, eyeing the angel like a decadent desert. Crowley resisted the urge to shield him from view.

He took Aziraphale’s hand. “Let’s find somewhere to sit.” And like magic – which it was – a corner of one of the pools opened up for them. Crowley hissed in pleasure as he sank into the cool water. Heat might have made the human aspects of him unpleasantly fuzzy and sleepy, but cold activated similar but less uncomfortable qualities in his serpentine self. He helped Aziraphale down in after him. “Alright?”

“Fine,” Aziraphale said distractedly. He too was scanning the room, although he looked uncertain. “It doesn’t look like a den of iniquity.”

A chuckle bubbled out of Crowley’s throat, surprising him. He nudged the angel with his shoulder, then sobered as the skin contact sent sparks skittering down his arm. He put a safe distance between them and cleared his throat. “It is. Trust me. You’ll see.”

“Everyone appears to be…bathing.”

“Well, a lot of them are.” Crowley wriggled in the water. “It is a bathhouse.”

“You said-“

He pointed out a couple of men on the opposite wall, a few apparently chaste inches apart. One of their arms moved under the water, disguised by the gentle lapping of the pool. “They’re not washing each other.”

“How can you-“

“Trust me, angel. I know what an underwater handjob looks like.” He didn’t add that they’d never sounded very comfortable. Soap helped, of course, but water was hardly adequate lubrication against the friction.

Aziraphale looked again, with a little more trepidation. One of the men, the one receiving the handjob, caught them looking and grinned. Aziraphale turned scarlet – Crowley tried in vein not to notice that the blush crept down his neck nearly to his shoulders – and stared straight down.

“Sure you’re-“

“I’m fine,” Aziraphale snapped. Crowley blinked. Aziraphale took a deep breath, and some of his tension dissipated. “I’m fine,” he repeated. “Truly.” He hesitated, “Isn’t it a little unsanitary?”

Crowley shrugged. “I’m pretty sure that’s not their concern. We can get out if you want.”

“No, I’m…I’m good here.” Aziraphale glanced around at the pools of people. Some of them were more obviously copulating than others, usually the ones tucked away in secluded nooks at the back of the house. Crowley counted several people leaving who were likely merely stepping behind the house for a slightly fuller experience away from quite so many prying eyes.

“It’s not love, angel,” he said quietly. “Sex can be for love, but this…

“There’s love here.” There was certainty in Aziraphale’s voice and doubt in his eyes. “I can feel it.”

Something in Crowley’s chest twisted violently. A lump swelled in his throat. He swallowed around it, but when it didn’t go down he choked out a soft, “Maybe.”

“Can’t you-“ Aziraphale cut himself off, sounding both frustrated and apologetic. “I can feel it,” he insisted again. He straightened, pushing away from the wall a little, and Crowley resisted the urge to scoop him back as the angel waded a few steps deeper into the water. The sunlight glinted off his curls. He looked like a cherub, shining in the sun. Not a traditional cherubim, fiercest and highest ranked of the angels, but the human misconception, soft and small and precious. Crowley’s hand twitched, reaching out to touch, and he grabbed it with his other, pulling it back and crossing his arms across his chest.

Aziraphale glanced back, and Crowley tilted his head. “What are you looking for, angel?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale admitted. He returned to Crowley’s side, sinking low in the water. “I’m not sure what I was expecting.”

“It’s too damn hot,” Crowley muttered. “Lots of people, but no one’s up to much. Told you. It’s not worth the effort.” One of the lookers had finally gotten up the courage to approach, half-swimming half-walking in their direction. The glare Crowley sent him, even devoid of any Hellish power, even with the sunglasses, was enough to make him skitter off in the opposite direction.

“Perhaps you’re right.” Aziraphale closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall. He was practically radiating distress.

Crowley watched him, keeping his eyes carefully above water level. “Look,” he said softly. “What happened to you wasn’t love.”

“I know that.”

“It wasn’t even a perversion of love. It was power and control, plain and simple.”

“To defile an act like that…” Aziraphale’s face took on a pained expression, his closed eyes scrunching tighter.

Crowley allowed himself the freedom to touch. He shifted sideways until his shoulder brushed Aziraphale’s. “You’ve seen love, Aziraphale. You’ve felt it. In the trees and the plants. In Catalina for her father. In that newlywed couple you blessed.” In me, he added silently, against all odds. “This one thing can be an act of love. Of course it can. But you don’t need to see that to know that love still exists.”

When a tear leaked out of the corner of Aziraphale’s eye, Crowley’s heart plummeted. He’d made it worse. But…Aziraphale was smiling. It was weak, but it was a smile. He opened his eyes, head turning to the side where it lay back against cool tile so he could look at Crowley. The demon startled as, under the water, Aziraphale’s hand found his. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve got nothing to apologize for.” Crowley stared at their joined hands, distorted by the rippling water.

“I dragged you out of the house on a fool’s errand.”

“Nah,” Crowley shook his head. “Not a fool’s errand. A hope.”

“An unnecessary one.”

“It was necessary,” Crowley said. “To you.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were too soft when Crowley met them. He was suddenly glad for his glasses. Aziraphale released his hand, and Crowley forced himself not to chase after the touch. His hand lingered, floating in the water, the ghost of Aziraphale’s fingers against his.

“We can go, if you’d like,” Aziraphale said. “I’ve seen enough.”

“Sure,” Crowley agreed. “Or we can bathe first. Properly, I mean. Up to you,” he added hurriedly, hoping Aziraphale didn’t get the wrong impression. “It’s just, since we came all this way, saves the need later.”

“All this way,” Aziraphale scoffed affectionately. “You just don’t want to leave the water yet, don’t you?”

Crowley flushed faintly. “Well, there is that.” He was comfortable. The sun beat down on his face, frizzing his hair and reminding him of just how unpleasant it would be once he stepped out again.

“Fine,” Aziraphale agreed easily. “We’ll bathe first, my dear. Then home. Have you got soap?”

“With our stuff.” Crowley reluctantly hauled himself out of the water. “Hang on. I’ll be right back.”

He fished the bundle of soap from their pile of clothes and returned swiftly, before anyone could get any ideas about the angel being left alone. He slithered back into the water and passed Aziraphale the soap.

They were silent for several minutes, enjoying the water and each other’s company. Then, Aziraphale remarked, “Your body is more attractive than mine.”

Crowley choked on a breath and sputtered. “Come again?”

Aziraphale cast him a casual glance. “Your body,” he repeated. “Your Earthly vessel. It’s well shaped. More so than mine, I should think, judging by the number of looks you’re getting.”

So, the angel had noticed. Crowley wasn’t sure how he should feel about that. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“No?”

“I mean, I’m alright,” he said. No sense in false modesty, and with the exception of his eyes people usually did find him attractive. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, angel, but you’re getting plenty of stares yourself.”

Aziraphale blinked. A shade of nervousness coloured his voice. “Really?”

“Well,” Crowley back-peddled, “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about them chasing you or anything. Just. You know. Looking. You’re nice to look at.”

“You really think so?”

“Course. ‘Specially this century. Me, I’m skin and bones, but you’ve got some fat on you. Sign you’re eating well. Means you’re well-off. People like that these days.”

“Oh.” Was it his imagination, or did Aziraphale sound disappointed? “And, what about you?” the angel intimated. “I know by demons standards I’m probably not much…”

Crowley smiled, even as something curious and slightly queasy churned in his stomach. “Fishing for compliments, angel?” he teased, to hide any concern in his voice. “That’s vanity.”

Aziraphale blushed, and Crowley dared, “And any demon who doesn’t think you’re nice to look at’s got their priorities the wrong way ‘round.”

“Oh?” This time Aziraphale’s voice was much more enthusiastic.

Crowley nodded eagerly. “You’re gorgeous, angel. Proper Renaissance painting in action.”

Aziraphale’s blush deepened, and Crowley’s heart leapt. He caught it and shoved it firmly back in place. He cleared his throat and schooled his expression. “I’m not so jaded I can’t know when a friend’s attractive.”

Aziraphale’s smile lost a sheen, but Crowley, having busied himself with the soap, didn’t notice. “Well, thank you all the same,” Aziraphale said. “You’re very…tempting yourself.”

“That’s the point, innit?” Crowley stood up fully and shook himself out. “I’m ready to leave when you are.”

“I’ll be just a minute.”

“Alright. I’ll get our stuff.”

He made it halfway across the floor before he heard a tiny squeak that made him pause. He turned back, and his expression darkened, his lips curling in a snarl. One of Aziraphale’s admirers had finally decided to press his advantage, darting towards the angel once Crowley’s back was turned. He boxed in Aziraphale with his arms, grinning broadly. Crowley was too far away to hear him, but he could imagine the kind of suggestive thing likely dripping from his lips.

He stalked back. “Excuse me.”

The man looked up, head tilted, eyebrow raised. The smirk was still firmly affixed to his lips. “Excuse us,” he said. “I believe we were talking.”

“Yeah, well, you’re done.” Crowley grasped Aziraphale’s forearm and hauled him out of the water, the angel stumbling along with the touch. Crowley shoved Aziraphale’s clothes at him and blocked the angel with his body, crossing his arms and glowering. “Get dressed, angel. We’re going.”

“He yours then?” the human rose from the water, hips cocked out, matching Crowley’s aggressive stance. His cock was half-hard between his legs, and Crowley resisted the urge to curse it with a plague of boils.

“He’s sure as Hell not yours.”

The human glanced around Crowley, where Aziraphale was squirming quickly into his tunic and britches, and took a step closer. “How much?”

Crowley stiffened, and he spat, “What?”

The human jerked his chin at Aziraphale. “Pretty face like that, guy like you all defensive over him? I’m guessing you don’t like people touching the merchandise.”

Rage flared to life inside Crowley’s body. It wasn’t so much what the man thought of him – Crowley knew he gave of certain unscrupulous vibes, and people drew conclusions based on the context – but to assume that of Aziraphale had him seeing red. He seized the man by the throat, lifting him slightly off the ground and squeezing. “He’sss not for sssale,” Crowley snarled, unable to help the hiss in his voice.

“Crowley.”

He glanced back. Aziraphale, now dressed, looked distressed, brow furrowed as he looked between Crowley and the man he was choking, the latter of which was turning slowly purple, his eyes bulging in panic. The fire died. Crowley loosened his grip, and the man collapsed to the floor.

“He’s not for sale,” Crowley said again, without the hiss but no less fiercely. “Touch him again and you’ll lose the hand.”

He turned his back on the human, feeling eyes watching the drama unfold, and murmured, “Let’s go, angel.”

Aziraphale needed no further encouragement. Outside the bathhouse, as they made their way swiftly home, Aziraphale asked, “Are you alright?”

“Feel like I should be asking you that question.”

“I am…fine,” Aziraphale said, with slight hesitation. “He attempted to rub against me, but you deterred him before he could go any farther.”

Part of Crowley screamed at him to go back and finish what he’d started. He ignored it. “I’m sorry I frightened you.”

“You didn’t.”

“But-“

“I was afraid you’d kill him,” Aziraphale said. “You were defending me, and I appreciate it, but killing a human, even a vile one…” He shook his head. “I didn’t want you in trouble.”

“Trouble never sticks to me for long, angel.”

“All the same.”

And Crowley understood the sentiment behind it. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing back a few strands that had escaped the tie and plastered themselves to his face. “Let’s not do that again,” he said eventually.

“Agreed.”

“Next time you want to see love in action, I’ll take you to the theatre.” They reached their door and Crowley unlocked it without reaching for his key, nodding the angel inside.

“I’d like that,” Aziraphale said. He greeted the plant on the windowsill by stroking a hand over its leaves and smiling, and then he looked back at Crowley. “He thought you owned me, didn’t he? That man. He thought I belonged to you.”

Crowley stomach turned. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it. “Yeah. He did.”

“He’s not entirely incorrect.”

“Aziraphale-“

“Hell gave me to you as a present.  While I’m confident you wouldn’t…whore me around? It would be correct to assume that, in general terms, you own me.”

“It’s not like that!” Crowley protested. He pushed off the door and pulled his glasses off. “Please tell me you don’t think I think of you like that.”

“I don’t.” Aziraphale gave him a small smile and sat down on the sofa bed. Crowley gingerly sat opposite him. “You’ve given me agency, encouraged me to view myself as a free individual. You’ve even offered to help me go elsewhere if I wanted to leave. Those are not the actions of a captor, even a benevolent one.”

Crowley privately thought there was no such thing. “I don’t own you, Aziraphale. No matter what Hell says.” I’m yours, he thought. I’m yours far more than you’ll ever be mine. There wasn’t much space left in the pit of his stomach for forbidden thoughts, so Crowley allowed it to linger, even as his heart clenched.

“I know,” Aziraphale said. He folded his hands in his lap, and Crowley watched them rather than the angel’s face, so he saw when Aziraphale released one to cup Crowley’s cheek and lift his head to meet his eyes. “I know,” Aziraphale said again. “And that is why I trust you. That is why we are friends.”

Crowley resisted the urge to press into the touch, to wrap himself in Aziraphale’s warmth until he baked like a demonic crescent roll. He swallowed hard. “We are,” he said. “Friends. Equals.”

Aziraphale inclined his head in acknowledgement. He let go, and Crowley’s cheek tingled where the touch had been. He stood up. “Thank you for bringing me out today.”

“You’re…welcome.” Crowley watched Aziraphale turn to the kitchen to prepare lunch. He lingered in his seat for a long time, until well after the kettle boiled. The conversation might have been over, but bits of the day stuck in Crowley’s head, held there with the weight of the heat pressing down on him. Or maybe the pressure was unrelated to the weather. Either way, Crowley was suffocating.

***

Aziraphale, as it turned out, loved the theatre. Specifically, he liked to read the play they were preforming in advance, note the line changes as they watched, and speculate after if the adaptation lived up to the spirit of the prose. It seemed an awful lot of work in Crowley’s opinion, but it made the angel happy, and so Crowley engaged in the speculation and analysis without complaint.

Fall faded rapidly into winter. They weren’t close enough to the mountains to truly get snow, so it was the cold and the rain that drove them to stay indoors, shuttering the windows against the weather. The plant withered and likely would have died, but Crowley knew Aziraphale would mourn it quite badly, given how distraught he was at the rest of nature being blanketed in a grey death, even a temporary one, and so brought it in from the windowsill, where it wouldn’t be getting any sunlight anyway, and maintained it with some minor miracling in a miniature temperate zone. If Hell asked, Crowley could say it was for his own comfort. Not that he thought they’d care. Making a little heat and light wasn’t the sort of miracle that drew attention.

Caring for a sick angel might have. Even with his gradual recovery, Aziraphale was still dangerously close to human in his body, and had gotten sick a few weeks after the rain had started in earnest. It had begun with a fever that Crowley cursed himself for not noticing – he ran too hot, and angels usually did too, so he’d assumed it was one more step in Aziraphale’s healing process. It had been followed by chills, shaking, and an inability for Aziraphale to keep food down. At that stage, Crowley had panicked. He’d seen people die from sicknesses like Aziraphale’s, and he had no idea what would happen if the angel was discorperated in his state. It was even possible, although he did his best not to think it, that as he was, a death for Aziraphale might be permanent.

He couldn’t use his magic. Crowley had tried, once, in a fit of desperation when Aziraphale’s fever had violently spiked. His attempt to cool the angel, to ease the ravaging temperature inside his body, had resulted in nasty burns where Crowley’s hand had touched him, so bad they had made Aziraphale – somewhat delirious at that point – shriek and cry out in agony. A salve from a nearby apothecary had aided in their healing process, but the act itself had served no purpose. Crowley’s attempt had hurt Aziraphale, but it hadn’t done anything to stop the sickness. He was limited to the human options. He did his best to keep Aziraphale’s temperature stable, held him as he shook and cried, and alternated between keeping him supplied with what little food and fluids Aziraphale could stomach and changing out the bucket when Aziraphale threw it back up again. He gave him the recommended medicines. He hoped – not prayed, never prayed – for the right kind of miracle.

“It’s going to be alright,” he told Aziraphale over and over, stroking the angel’s damp curls. Aziraphale was gaunt, his skin deathly pale and grey. He hardly opened his eyes. “It’s going to be alright,” Crowley said, and tried to believe it himself.

Aziraphale had been with him for six months, give or take a few weeks. It occurred to Crowley that he didn’t know what he was going to do without him.

The thought had stopped him cold in the middle of emptying another bucket of Aziraphale’s sick. He’d frozen in the middle of the living room floor and nearly lost his grip on the handle. Half a year, he’d been caring for, living with, an angel of the Host, and Crowley could no longer reasonably imagine his life without him. He’d been picturing moving from Spain – he was getting tired of Spain and the rotten weather – and assumed Aziraphale would accompany him. He’d imagined the seasons shifting, years and decades rolling by, and greeting each new and exciting change of Earth with the angel by his side. He’d anticipated centuries of playful wiling and thwarting, the mock-battle evening as Aziraphale regained his strength and his angelic powers. He’d almost started to take it for granted.

It was a fantasy. Aziraphale would leave him. Even if (when, Crowley forced himself to think, not if, when) he made it through the sickness, one day Aziraphale would be a fully-fledged angel again. He would return to the Host, to Heaven. He wouldn’t need a demon hanging around. He might not even want it.

Crowley had swallowed hard and turned off his internal functions so he didn’t add to the mess of sick in the bucket. He steeled himself, emptied it properly, and returned to Aziraphale’s side. The angel had opened his eyes just a fraction, smiled weakly at him, and closed them again. “You’re too good to me, my dear,” he’d whispered in a hoarse voice.

“No,” Crowley had said, rubbing Aziraphale’s arm and fighting back the tears threatening to override his command. “No, angel, I’m not. You deserve all the goodness in the world.” Crowley couldn’t offer that, but he could offer a sliver. It would have to be enough.

Two weeks in, Aziraphale started keeping down what food he ate. By the end of the third week, his fever broke. He still looked gaunt and sallow and exhausted, but he was conscious with renewed clarity. Clear enough, anyway, to question his surroundings.

“This is your bed.”

Crowley shrugged, assisting the angel in sitting up against the pillows. It wasn’t raining, so he’d opened the window to let a little light and fresh air in. The burns on Aziraphale’s forehead were shiny and scabbed in the light, but they didn’t appear to bother the angel anymore, save for an occasional mild complaint that they itched. “You needed it more than I did. Wasn’t going to make you kip on the sofa while you were sick.”

Aziraphale frowned, which made his face look even more sunken. “Crowley, when was the last time you slept?”

The day before Aziraphale had gotten sick. “I’m a demon, angel. I don’t need sleep.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest, but Crowley cut him off with forced cheeriness, “Of course, if you hadn’t gotten better soon, I might’ve kicked you out anyway. Took you long enough.”

It was clear Aziraphale heard the relief in his voice from the way he smiled. “Well, thank you all the same. You may have it back now, of course.”

“I’ll take it back when you’re all better.”

“I feel fine.”

“You look like Hell, angel, and I should know.” Crowley shook his head. “Another few days of bedrest, and then we’ll see. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re hardly my doctor, my dear.”

“Oh no?” Crowley raised his eyebrows as he fluffed Aziraphale’s pillow. “Pretty sure I was the one playing nursemaid to you these last few weeks.”

Playfulness sparkled in Aziraphale’s eyes. “I will have to concede to that. You took very good care of me, I’m sure.”

“How much do you remember?”

Aziraphale’s expression turned contemplative. “Not much,” he admitted. “I believe I was rather delirious for a good while, and sleeping was easier than wakefulness. It must have been difficult for you.”

Crowley frowned, incredulous. “Difficult for me? I wasn’t puking my guts out, angel.”

“No. But it’s not in a demon’s nature to tend to a sick angel. If, ah, angels ever were to get sick beyond this particular instance.”

Hurt bled from Crowley’s heart and across his expression. What did Aziraphale think he’d been doing before?

As if reading his mind, Aziraphale hastened, “I’m not saying you didn’t care for me before. But there is quite a difference between-“

“There’s no difference,” Crowley said flatly. “You’re my…friend. Friends take care of each other. In sickness and in health.” He schooled a wince at the word choice.

Aziraphale did not catch it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just hate the thought of being any kind of a burden on you.”

“It’s forgiven,” Crowley said. He would forgive Aziraphale a lot more than prejudice. Six months didn’t override millennia of torture, no matter how good those six months were. “How are you feeling, angelically speaking?”

“You mean, did my illness set back the recovery of my angelic nature?”

Crowley nodded. Aziraphale tilted his head up, as if thinking about it. “I don’t think so,” he said eventually. “At least, I don’t think I’ve gotten any worse, even if I haven’t gotten any better.”

“Your aura still looks alright. Getting brighter all the time.” It was beautiful. It was like staring into a dawning sun. It wasn’t painful to look at, per se, but it was uncomfortable for a demon to face head on. Crowley didn’t care. He’d take the discomfort any day just to watch Aziraphale shine.

Aziraphale beamed at him. “You think so?”

“Yeah, angel, I do.”

“My ability to miracle still seems beyond me, even for minor things. But I feel slightly more in control of myself. Less hungry. Less tired.”

“That might be because your stomach’s still a little sore from the sickness,” Crowley pointed out. “And you did just sleep for nearly three weeks straight.”

“We shall see,” Aziraphale said. “At any rate, I’m feeling more myself than I have in quite a while.” He gave Crowley a hopeful look. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of getting a cup of tea?”

Crowley laughed and stood up. “I’ll make you one.”

“And a book, perhaps?”

“Any one you like. Even the erotica, if you want.”

It was a minor tease, but Aziraphale blushed faintly and shook his head quickly. “The novel I was working on before will be fine, thank you.”

“Alright, angel.” Crowley went to prepare the tea.

Aziraphale stayed bedridden for two more days, reading and drinking tea that Crowley fetched for him. He didn’t sleep, and only ate a little, and when it didn’t seem to have an adverse effect on his health, Crowley took it as another sign that his angel was returning to divinity. By the third day, Aziraphale looked as if he’d never been sick at all, once against rosy cheeked and brilliant, and Crowley couldn’t have kept him in bed if he wanted to. The angel insisted he’d been inside quite enough, and since it wasn’t raining outside Crowley didn’t bother to suggest confinement to his flat. He did insist on a cloak for each of them, which Aziraphale agreed to.

The chilly air nipped at them. Few people were about, and the ones who were appeared more fabric than people, bundled up even more than the angel and demon were. Crowley had never quite understood it. He’d been to much colder climates where people wore the same or less, as if the cold didn’t matter to them. But humans could be inexplicable, so he usually chalked it up to that.

“We should go somewhere nicer next winter,” Aziraphale said. “Someplace warmer, I should think. Or, if it has to be cold, at least somewhere with proper snow. I’d like to see snow, I think.”

“You’ve never seen snow?” Crowley asked, incredulous, before he remembered. “Right. Not a lot of snow in the beginning, was there?”

“There was not,” said Aziraphale tactfully, glossing over Crowley’s error.

“That settles it,” Crowley said. “Next winter, somewhere with snow.” There would be a next year, he thought gleefully. He felt greedy, hoarding the minutes and hours, but a demon was allowed to be greedy. And there were worse things to covet than time with someone he loved.

They stopped by the bakery on the way home. Catalina greeted them warmly, remarking on how long it had been since she’d seen them. “It’s rare I don’t see you every few days!” she said. “I was starting to wonder if you’d left the city!”

“We’d never leave without saying goodbye,” Crowley promised her, grinning. “Not without buying something for the trip.” He shook his head and nodded towards Aziraphale. “He was sick. Fever, you know how it is this time of year.”

She nodded solemnly.

“So I spent the last couple weeks taking care of him. Barely had time to leave the house for medicine. And food,” he added, as an afterthought.

Catalina smiled. “You have a very good man, Señor Aziraphale,” she told the angel.

He smiled back, and then at Crowley. The fondness in his eyes tore at Crowley’s heart. “I do,” the angel said. “One could not ask for a better friend or companion.”

Catalina tittered slightly at the last word, and Crowley shot her a look, although it wasn’t especially harsh. She returned it with pointed, raised eyebrows, and Crowley held back a sigh. Were humans really that perceptive? It seemed everyone could sense his feelings but the object of them. Which was alright by Crowley. He was a demon, after all. And loving a demon, at least any more than they loved any other living thing because their purpose was to love, was something an angel would never do.

They got a bag of Aziraphale’s favourites, and Crowley thanked Catalina and told her to give his regards to her father. They left the shop, bell tinkling behind them.

“I will miss her,” Aziraphale said as they strolled down the street. “She’s such a lovely young lady.”

“Yeah, she’s a peach,” Crowley agreed. “And smart, too.” He’d also miss her when he left Spain. And humans led such fleeting lives; he couldn’t be sure she’d still be alive the next time he returned. It was why he’d never had many friends on Earth.

Aziraphale pressed a little closer to him, and Crowley glanced at the angel, eyebrows raised. Aziraphale flushed faintly. “I was cold. You’re warm.”

“Oh. Yeah. It’s the Hellfire.” The joke fell a little flat, but Aziraphale smiled anyway.

“It’s nice,” he said.

Crowley obligingly wrapped an arm around the angel’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, angel,” Crowley said. “I’ll keep you warm.” For now, anyway. Until Aziraphale didn’t need it anymore.

As they prepared for sleep that night, Aziraphale asked, “I suppose you’ll be wanting your bed back, then? Now that I’m fully recovered?”

Crowley hesitated. He’d nearly forgotten. He’d slept on the sofa bed the last two nights, pleased to finally feel safe enough to do so. It smelled like Aziraphale, and Crowley had buried his face in the pillows and allowed himself to be smothered in the angel’s scent. It had put him to sleep faster than anything.

“You can keep the bed if you want,” he said eventually, trying not to sound reluctant. “I don’t really care one way or another.”

“I couldn’t possibly take your bed from you.”

“It doesn’t matter to me. It’s plenty comfy out here too.”

Aziraphale frowned faintly at him, and Crowley gave in. He didn’t need Aziraphale questioning exactly why Crowley was so okay with sleeping on the sofa. He retired to his bed and left the bedroom door open. Through it, he could hear Aziraphale settling in for the night, and saw when the angel extinguished the light. Crowley lay back against his familiar comforter, familiar pillows, and stared at the ceiling. He folded his hands on his chest. His eyes didn’t want to close.

He turned over onto his side and pressed his nose surreptitiously into the pillows. Aziraphale’s scent, like old books and lightning, caught him by surprise. It shouldn’t have. It was fainter than in the living room, but Aziraphale had spent the last several weeks sleeping in his bed. Even changing the bedding, he’d spent the last few nights. Crowley closed his eyes and breathed it in, his body finally relaxing as sleep washed over him and gave way to dreams.

He was in a garden and he was digging a hole. His fingers scrabbled at the ground, moving handful after handful of cold, wet dirt. It pushed up under his fingernails and coated his skin. He could taste it in his mouth. Around him, the grass and trees were buried in earth as he pushed it out of the hole, stretching down deeper and deeper until the bottom fell out, until he couldn’t see any farther down it. Crowley strained, trying to make out the bottom, and fell forward. He clawed desperately at the sides, but without anything to grasp he fell down, down, down into the Earth. He screamed and struggled and tried to force out his wings to fly out, but he found them absent. He kept falling.

He woke up with a jolt, panting from exertion. He sat up. At the end of the bed, Aziraphale sat, watching him with concern. Crowley rubbed at his eyes. It was still dark out. “What time is it?”

“Very late,” Aziraphale said. “Or very early,” he amended. He hesitated, “Are you alright? You were screaming.”

“Sorry.”

“Were you having a nightmare?”

“Demons don’t dream.”

Aziraphale gave him a look, although some of the effect was lost to the worry in his eyes. “You know that’s not true,” he said. “Maybe not in the human sense of the word, but angels who sleep experience something akin to dreaming. I must assume it is the same for demons.”

“Fine, whatever,” Crowley mumbled. He drew his knees to his chest, rocking slightly and trying to even his breathing. “Yeah. I had a nightmare.”

“May I ask what it was about?”

“Does it matter?” Crowley snapped, and then regretted it as Aziraphale gave him a reproachful look. “Sorry,” he sighed. “I’m still a little on edge. I was dreaming about falling.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “You dreamt about Falling?”

Crowley quickly shook his head. “Not capital F Falling. Not…not my actual Fall. Just…I was falling down a hole and I couldn’t fly out. My wings wouldn’t work.”

“That sounds awful.”

Crowley rubbed at his back. He couldn’t reach quite where his wings would manifest if he brought them to the physical plane, but he was close. It didn’t feel any different. With a hesitant glance at the angel, Crowley released them, shoulders rolling back as they expanded from within, black and glossy but with the feathers in disarray. Crowley liked to keep his wings well-groomed, but what with having an angel around he wasn’t sure if Aziraphale would appreciate a demon grooming his wings in the middle of their flat, so he’d kept them hidden. Manifesting them released a tension he hadn’t been aware of, and he chanced a look at Aziraphale. The angel didn’t look disturbed. He looked curious.

Crowley offered him a wry smile. “It was just a dream. They’re still here.”

“I can see that. They’re a bit of a mess, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, well…” Crowley shrugged. “Been that sort of year.”

“Would you like-“ Aziraphale began, and then stopped. Crowley tilted his head, frowning in confusion, and Aziraphale took a breath and started over, “I could help you groom them, if you’d like.”

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up somewhere into space. He blinked, and then blinked again. “You want to groom my wings?” Wing grooming was…intimate. It required incredible trust, not just in having your back to the person grooming you, but also in the sense that as a manifestation of their true form on the physical plane, wings were incredibly delicate and sensitive. You had to have complete faith that the person grooming you would not take advantage of that fact. It wasn’t that Crowley didn’t trust Aziraphale – quite the opposite – but for the angel to even offer…

Aziraphale coloured faintly and nodded. “If you’d like,” he couched again. “You might also find it soothing, I think. When you go back to sleep.”

He had a point. “Alright,” Crowley said. He patted the space behind him and wiggled a little farther down the bed. Aziraphale took the offered spot, and Crowley shuddered at the angel’s careful first touch to his feathers.

Immediately, Aziraphale’s hand drew back. “I didn’t-“

“It didn’t hurt,” Crowley reassured him. He flexed his wings and pushed them back into the angel’s hands. “It’s just been awhile. They’re a little sensitive.”

“I’ll be gentle.”

“I have no doubt.”

Aziraphale’s hands moved methodically, almost rhythmically, carding through the feathers as he straightened them out. A few knocked loose from the pressure, and Aziraphale murmured apologies when Crowley hissed at the slight sting. Crowley found himself relaxing under Aziraphale’s touch, the anxiety of the dream leeched away with every stroke. “That feels really good,” he mumbled, his eyelids drooping. “You’ve got great hands, angel.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley could hear the blush in his voice. He smiled and glanced back over his shoulder to confirm. Aziraphale’s eyes were fixed on his task, but his cheeks were indeed red. Crowley twitched the wing between Aziraphale’s hands, and the angel looked up at him. Crowley’s grin widened, and Aziraphale returned it with a smaller smile.

Crowley turned back around. “You know, when you’re done…I don’t know if you can manifest yet, but if you can…I could…return the favour?”

Aziraphale’s fingers didn’t even pause. Crowley had expected at least a tremble. Honestly, he’d half-expected a very quick and very flat “no.” Instead, Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully. “I haven’t attempted manifesting my wings,” he admitted. “I wasn’t sure how I would handle it if I found myself without them, even temporarily.”

“Well, we don’t have to.”

Another hum from the angel. “I’d like to. I’d like to try, at least. When I’m finished.”

The warmth from Aziraphale’s hands burrowed through Crowley’s back and into his heart. He allowed his head to fall forward against his chest, closing his eyes as he relished the simple feeling of another’s hands on him, on arguably the most intimate part of him. This was better than handholding. Infinitely so.

Finally, Aziraphale pulled back. “They’re done.”

Crowley twisted around against, flexing and expanding his wings in an attempt to see as much of them as possible. They somehow looked even shinier than before, and the feathers fell in neat rows. Aziraphale picked up a fallen one and twirled it between his fingers absently. “Did I do alright?”

“You did great,” Crowley said, marvelling. “Better than I usually do.”

“You have beautiful wings,” Aziraphale said softly. He stroked the plume of the feather in his hands. “They’re really quite stunning.”

“You really think so?” Crowley had despaired at his wings when he’d first Fallen. He’d thought them ugly, had kept them hidden. He’d gotten used to them over the centuries, but he’d never really considered them beautiful.

“I really do,” Aziraphale said sincerely. He met Crowley’s eyes and set the feather back against the bed.

Crowley cleared his throat, aware of the shift in the air. “Why don’t you pop out your wings, and I’ll fix them up too?” He drew his in, tucking them a little closer to his body but not vanishing them altogether in a show of solidarity. He turned so he was facing the angel and waited.

It took a moment. Aziraphale looked hesitant, and then strained as he concentrated, and then with some visible effort his wings spread, lifting from his back and draping over the bedspread. Crowley fought the urge to wince. His wings had been a bit messy, but Aziraphale’s looked a wreck. They were dull and almost greyish, full of dangling and bent feathers. They drooped.

Aziraphale drew a wingtip into his lap and stroked it, biting his lip. “They look a fright.”

An understatement. “You haven’t had them out in millennia. That was bound to build up.” Crowley made a grabby gesture at Aziraphale. “Come on, turn around. We’ll get them fixed up in no time.”

Without hesitation, Aziraphale turned his back on Crowley and pushed his wings into the demon’s hands. Crowley’s heart skipped a beat, then decided to stop altogether, content to remain in the moment. Crowley took a deep breath, resisting the urge to bury his face in the plumage and inhale or worse, to lick the feathers and scent them properly. He began to work at the most obvious places, warning, “This might hurt a bit” as he started to pluck at the feathers that were clearly a lost cause.

Aziraphale did wince and grow tense, relaxing only when Crowley rested a hand on his shoulder and promised, “We’re done with that bit. Should feel better from here.”

“They’re rather grey, aren’t they?” Aziraphale murmured, sounding nervous. Crowley didn’t blame him. Colour was the only distinguisher between the wings of angels and the wings of demons. For white to look grey, for someone who hadn’t Fallen, who didn’t know what the change looked like, was plenty to cause concern.

“It’s fine,” Crowley told him. “It’s just because they haven’t been taken care of. Look.” He carefully bent the bit he’d been working at into Aziraphale’s line of sight. Without the messy, broken bits in the way, the grey was already starting to look white again. He felt Aziraphale relax fully. “See?” he said. “They’ll be nice and snowy again when I’m done with them.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes as Crowley worked, and then Aziraphale said, “It does feel very nice.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Crowley pressed his thumb into a particularly sensitive part near the juncture where wing met back and delighted at the shiver that ran through Aziraphale’s body. “Nice and relaxing.”

Aziraphale hummed an agreement. Crowley could sense the angel getting drowsy, could see it in the gradual slump of his shoulders and the evening of his breathing. “Don’t fall asleep on me,” Crowley murmured, nudging him gently. “Stay awake a little longer.”

The sound Aziraphale made was a cross between a huff and a murmur of acknowledgement. The angel gathered a pillow to his chest, hugging it and resting his head against it. “Have you ever groomed anyone else’s wings?” he asked after a minute.

“Nah,” Crowley said. He carefully dug his fingers into a particularly stubborn spot. “Demons don’t really…I mean…”

“I understand.”

“Yeah. What about you? I know it’s different in Heaven. Obviously.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No. I mean, yes, it is different. But no, I never groomed anyone else’s wings. There wasn’t anyone in Heaven I was particularly close to.” He paused, thinking. “Well, I suppose Gabriel might have counted. But he was my superior. It wouldn’t have been appropriate.”

Crowley held in a snort. He remembered Gabriel, alright. A pompous prick, with entirely too much ego. That sort of pride belonged on Crowley’s side of the street. But he didn’t contradict Aziraphale, making a noncommittal sound. “Almost done.”

When he finished, Aziraphale flexed his wings, admiring the now-neat rows of shining white feathers. “Thank you,” he said earnestly. “It means a lot.”

“Means a lot that you’d let me.”

They studied each other for a moment. Crowley drew his wings back in and Aziraphale did the same. The demon sprawled out on his mattress, chin on his forearm, and watched the angel. He yawned, even though he didn’t really need to. “I think I’ll go back to sleep now.” It was still a long way from morning, the sun still firmly below the horizon.

“Me as well.”

Neither of them moved.

“Well, goodnight,” Crowley said.

“Goodnight.”

They stayed staring at each other.

Finally, Crowley said, “You know, the bed’s big enough for two, I reckon. And it really is more comfortable than the sofa.”

“It is,” Aziraphale rushed to agree. He toyed with his hands. “But I’d hate to crowd you.”

Crowley crawled lazily under the covers and patted the space beside him. “Not crowding. There’s plenty of room.” When Aziraphale continued to dither, Crowley said with amused forcefulness, “Get in, angel.”

Aziraphale slid under the covers.

Crowley closed his eyes and settled on his stomach. He heard Aziraphale shift, getting comfortable, and then turning onto his side so his back was to Crowley. Crowley opened one eye and studied the angel’s motionless form in the dark. Aziraphale had let Crowley groom his wings. Then he’d apparently already fallen asleep, sharing a bed with a demon. If that wasn’t trust, Crowley didn’t know what was.

He closed his eyes, and this time his sleep was blissfully free of dreams. When he woke up, Aziraphale was still curled up beside him, sound asleep and smiling.

It became the habit. The sofa bed returned to being just a sofa – still a comfortable one, but no longer really large enough for a full-grown man, or man-shaped-being, to sleep on comfortably. Crowley and Aziraphale still chose to lounge on it in the evenings, reading books or napping or sharing conversation over tea, but as the chill of winter began to recede and the air nosed hopefully in the direction of spring, Crowley found that whenever he got up to go to bed, Aziraphale would wait a beat, and then follow after.

It was honestly nicer than he’d expected. He’d assumed that sharing a bed with Aziraphale would be difficult, and he was only marginally correct. It was no more difficult than being around the angel was in general, and Crowley devoted a great deal of effort to keeping his internal functions largely shut off, sure that Aziraphale could hear his thundering heartrate every time the angel shifted nearer. More than once, they’d ended up pressed together in the middle of the night, usually with Crowley snuggled against Aziraphale’s back, although occasionally with Aziraphale draping a comfortable arm around Crowley’s waist. They didn’t speak on it. It simply was.

Crowley didn’t comment on the fact that Aziraphale needed increasingly less food, and had stopped needing to bathe altogether, but maintained the same amount of sleep. Aziraphale’s aura settled into a level shine, and while he still couldn’t miracle yet, he seemed far more at home in his sense of being. Crowley didn’t bring up Heaven. By now, if Aziraphale wanted to return to the Host, he probably could, and would certainly be able to the moment he regained his powers. Crowley felt almost cheated. He’d selfishly hoped Aziraphale’s recovery would take longer. Decades, or even a century wasn’t an unreasonable assumption. But Aziraphale was bouncing back with remarkable speed, and Crowley found he couldn’t be all that unhappy about it. Not when Aziraphale seemed so happy.

Aziraphale didn’t bring up Heaven either, so Crowley contented himself that Aziraphale didn’t feel ready to leave just yet.

Their walks resumed properly once the weather began to clear up. The sun pushed away the rain, and although the chill did not dissipate entirely, it faded until it was once again comfortable to be outside. Crowley returned the plant, still thriving, to the windowsill, and let it bask in the sun.

They found themselves in the churchyard again, the first one Crowley had shown Aziraphale. Crowley sat back against the stone wall, legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle as he watched the angel examine the garden soil and the first flowers that were beginning to sprout. Aziraphale stroked tender fingers over the petals, and Crowley warmed the earth with a touch, so that the flowers burst into proper bloom under Aziraphale’s fingertips. It made the angel laugh in delight.

After a while, Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder, and caught Crowley looking. He sat back on his heels and smiled. “You seem pleased.”

“I just like seeing you happy. It’s a good look on you, angel.”

Aziraphale flushed. “I am happy,” he said. “I feel…good. Content.”

“I’m glad.” Crowley stretched and wriggled against the wall, enjoying the warm, buzzing sensation. “I want you to be happy with me. I know it sucked, how you got here, but you’re my best friend. I wouldn’t change that for anything.”

“I wouldn’t either,” Aziraphale agreed. He looked almost…shy. “I know you didn’t want me here in the beginning.”

“Because I didn’t want an angel slave.” The word soured Crowley’s mouth, his lips twitching down.

“And you did not get one. But I still thank you for giving me a chance, even if it was only at the bequest of Hell.”

Crowley winced. “You make it sound like I was doing you a favour.”

“Weren’t you?” Aziraphale raised his eyebrows and rested his hands on his thighs. “You would have left me in Hell, given the option. You left the other angels.”

Crowley tensed, tucking in his legs and wrapping his arms around them. He tried not to think about the other angels, still trapped in Hell in filth and squalor. There wasn’t anything he could do. He couldn’t face off against the princes, which is exactly what he’d have to do to get them out. It would be a suicide mission, and he had an angel on Earth who needed him. No, there was nothing he could do for them. It didn’t entirely stop the guilt, but the thought eased it a little. And Aziraphale was right. Before he’d laid eyes on the angel, he’d tried to get out of it. He’d been alright with leaving them all there, so long as he didn’t have to participate.

Aziraphale must have read some of this in his expression, because he said more gently, “I apologize. I wasn’t trying to upset you.”

Crowley sighed. “You didn’t. Not really. Just…thinking about it, I feel like that wasn’t the same person I am now. I mean, I know it was, but…” He trailed off, helpless to explain.

Aziraphale nodded anyway, like he understood. He smiled reassuringly at Crowley and went back to the flowerbeds. Crowley slumped back against the wall and watched him.

When they got ready for bed that night, Aziraphale snuggled up to Crowley without hesitation. Crowley froze, but he couldn’t resist the invitation. He turned onto his side and wrapped his arms around the angel, burying his nose in Aziraphale’s curls. He understood the gesture for what it was. Aziraphale wanted to be there. Crowley wanted him there. There was no ill will, no blame for how it had happened. There was guilt on Crowley’s part – there would always be guilt, he suspected, and he was alright with that – but there was no blame.

Crowley closed his eyes and held Aziraphale a little tighter. It was going to be alright.

***

Crowley found himself dreaming of heat. Not overwhelming, scorching heat, the kind that burned at his skin or his scales, blinding and searing him, but a pleasant warmth that washed over him in waves, pulsing rhythmically. It concentrated between his legs, and Crowley moaned and shifted, hips arching up slightly as the heat morphed into something more tangible, something wet and suctioning that sent sparks of pleasure skittering through his body. The sensation reminded him of masturbation, or of the few (or rather, more than a few) stray thoughts he’d had of Aziraphale, squashed deep into his stomach to avoid dwelling on how it might feel to card fingers through soft, white curls as he felt Aziraphale’s lips on him, or his beautiful hands, pumping at flesh in an all-too-human way.

Still basking in the dream, he reached a hand down to the heat between his legs, and found a grip on a head of silky hair.

“Aziraphale,” he breathed. Then he blinked. He jerked all the way awake, fingers still buried in the angel’s hair as he pulled Aziraphale off his cock. The cock that he was manifesting without making an intentional effort. His very hard, positively dripping cock, wet with Aziraphale’s saliva as the angel’s tongue darted out to lick his swollen lips, looking up at Crowley guiltily. Crowley grabbed the sheets and yanked them across his lap, releasing the angel, who sat back on his knees. “What the fuck, Aziraphale?”

“I…I thought…”

“You thought, what? That you’d accost me in my sleep?”

The shock on Aziraphale’s face was evident, as evident as the same feeling burning in Crowley’s chest. His heart pounded in his ears and, unfortunately, in his cock. “It wasn’t like that!” Aziraphale protested.

Crowley rubbed a hand at his face. It wouldn’t do to yell at the angel. Aziraphale looked hunted, curling in on himself, unsure in a way Crowley hadn’t seen him in months. And if Crowley was being honest, it wasn’t like the touch was unwelcome. If it had been, he would have gotten rid of his erection the moment he’d woken up, instead of letting it tent the sheets. He adjusted his leg to hide it, and when he spoke again, his voice was calmer. “I’ve told you before, angel. We don’t have to have sex.”

“But I wanted to.”

Crowley stared at him, and Aziraphale squirmed. “You’ve been wonderful to me,” he said softly, a touch of defensiveness in his voice. “You’ve made me feel safe and at home. You told me you liked when I was happy, that you liked when I felt good. I wanted…I wanted to make you feel good.”

“There are a lot of ways to make me feel good besides sucking my cock in my sleep!” Crowley closed his eyes at the outburst and sighed. “How did you even get me to manifest, anyway? That’s not supposed to happen.”

Aziraphale studied the bedclothes and shrugged. “I’m not entirely sure. I just…took what I remembered of sex, and rubbed until something happened.”

Like a damn genie. Figured if anyone could do it to him, it’d be the angel. Crowley resisted the urge to groan. “Alright,” he said. “I can’t believe I have to say this, but Aziraphale, you can’t just go around sucking people’s cocks. Especially not while they’re asleep.”

“But-“

Crowley cut him off. “You get that there’s a lot of shit between us, right? We’ve talked about this. I basically own you. You might be regaining your strength, but you’re still practically powerless, and without that I could take advantage of you any time I wanted.”

“But you don’t take advantage of me.”

“No. Because we’re friends, and because I’m not an arsehole.”

Aziraphale bit his lip and looked up at him from under his eyelashes and oh boy was that not helping Crowley’s erection go down. “I’d let you,” Aziraphale said softly. “If you wanted.”

“That’s the problem, angel,” Crowley said gently. He leaned forward, propping his hands on the bed. “I don’t want you to ‘let me’ do anything. And I don’t want you to try to have sex with me because you think it’ll make me feel good.” It would, but that wasn’t the point. “You get that I can’t consent when I’m asleep, right?”

Aziraphale’s guilty expression deepened, and Crowley reached for his hand. “Hey. It’s alright. I’m not, you know, traumatized or anything. Just don’t do it again, okay?”

“Okay.” They were both silent for a moment, and then Aziraphale whispered, “It’s just you, you know.”

“Come again?”

Aziraphale lifted his chin, staring Crowley right in the eye, yellow to blue. “You made it sound like I would do…that…to anybody. I wouldn’t. I just thought…” He trailed off, as if searching for words, and then continued, “You make me feel good. You make me feel safe. I haven’t had opportunity to feel that way in actual millennia. But it’s more than that. I want you. In a way I didn’t quite think I was capable of wanting another being. In every way, really.” Aziraphale swallowed hard. Crowley was frozen. “I thought…I thought, based on what you’ve told me, about sex, about…about us, that maybe you wanted that too. I’m sorry I didn’t ask first, and I’m sorry it upset you. But I don’t want you thinking I just did it because I felt I owed it to you or because I was worried about my place in your life. I wanted to do it because you make me feel good, and I wanted to make you feel good as well.”

Crowley’s heart melted. He beckoned the angel closer. “Come here.” When Aziraphale scooted forward, Crowley scooped him into his arms, pressing his forehead to Aziraphale’s. “You’re right,” he said softly. He’d been keeping it in so long that to admit to how he felt was almost painful, but if Aziraphale had spoken first, if an angel could confess that he wanted a demon, it ought to have been easy the other way around. It wasn’t, but Crowley couldn’t stop now. “I want you too,” he said. “In…in whatever way you’ll have me.”

“So then why…”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Crowley said quickly, sensing Aziraphale’s growing confusion and distress. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea. Us having sex.”

“Why? Because I’m an angel and you’re a demon? You’re not like them, my dear.”

“Aren’t I, though? Deep down?”

“No.” Aziraphale shook his head firmly. He took Crowley’s hands in his. The marks the magic-dampening cuffs had left on his skin had long since disappeared from his wrists, like they’d never happened. “You’re different. You care. That matters.”

“Not enough.”

“You wouldn’t be taking advantage of me. I want it. I’d like it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I think about it.” Aziraphale’s voice was a tease, taking on a coy note that sounded wrong and turned Crowley’s stomach. “I do,” he said, “and sometimes I touch my-“

“It’s not the same.” Crowley pulled away from Aziraphale before the angel could complete that thought. “Thinking you want it and actually wanting it, they’re not the same.”

“How will I know if we don’t-“

“I said no, Aziraphale.” Crowley couldn’t look at him. If he did, Crowley thought, he might cry. “Please. Leave it alone.”

Aziraphale moved back, shoulders slumping. His head bowed. “Very well,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I won’t do it again.”

“Thank you.”

Aziraphale lingered for a moment longer, and then he padded from the room. Crowley could hear his footsteps beyond the door, pacing just a few away and then returning, the sound of the angel sliding down against the wall next to the door and sitting there. Then silence.

Crowley turned onto his side. His erection brushed against the sheets, insistent, and he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to will it away. Even when he turned on his powers, the stubborn thing didn’t budge. Hating himself, Crowley reached between his legs and closed his fist around the hard flesh. It took less than a minute to bring himself off, white spurts spilling over his hand and sticking to the sheets. Crowley miracled the mess away and tried to pretend he hadn’t been picturing big blue eyes and soft white curls.

When he finally emerged from the bedroom, Aziraphale was still sitting against the wall. Neither of them said anything. Crowley offered Aziraphale a hand, helping him up from the floor, but he didn’t look the angel in the eye. Their entire relationship had been turned on its head. Aziraphale had basically confessed he loved him, something Crowley had assumed was a distant, foolish fantasy. And it had been all wrong. They’d done it wrong. And Crowley didn’t know where they were supposed to go from here.

They didn’t talk about it. Not that first day, while Aziraphale shot Crowley guilty looks and Crowley tried to pretend he didn’t see them. Not that first week, as they walked hand in hand down to the park with the fountain and the blooming trees, and Crowley forced himself not to hold too tight, afraid that clinging to Aziraphale would make it all worse. Not even that first month, as spring sprung in full force, and every night Aziraphale hesitated just a heartbeat longer than he used to before climbing into bed next to Crowley, before cuddling up to him and murmuring words of love before drifting off to sleep, words that stuck in Crowley’s throat when he tried to return them. They didn’t talk about it. They pretended everything was alright.

And then, one month, one week, and two days after the Incident, while Crowley was fussing with the plant on the windowsill, debating if he ought to get a bigger pot for it, and Aziraphale was sitting on the sofa reading, the angel looked up from his book and closed it with a sharp snap. “We’re not alright, are we?”

Crowley looked at him. The gaze Aziraphale levelled on his was placid and unblinking, but after nearly a year of living with him Crowley could feel tension beneath the surface. He sighed, and sat on the windowsill, drumming his fingers on the flowerpot. “No,” he said. “We’re not.”

They stared at each other. Then Aziraphale looked away. “It’s my fault. What I did-“

“Angel-“

“No, I should have asked, I should have known better-“

“It’s not like you’ve had the best sex education,” Crowley pointed out. It was enough to give Aziraphale pause. He continued, “And I’m not blaming you. But that’s why we couldn’t…” He sighed and shook his head, running his fingers through his hair and brushing it back off his shoulders. “It’s fucking complicated, and neither of us really knows how to handle that.”

“I do love you.”

“I’m not doubting that, angel.” Crowley swallowed hard at Aziraphale’s hopeful look. The lump was back in his throat, the one that blocked the words every time no matter how much he wanted to say them. He offered the next best thing, “And you mean the world to me, Aziraphale, you know that.”

“I know.” He looked crestfallen, but not surprised.

Crowley’s heart twisted. He longed to reach out, but something kept him glued to the window ledge. Aziraphale looked equally incapable of movement, and the living room stretched between them like a desert.

“I don’t know how to get over this,” he said softly. “I don’t know how to put it behind us.”

“It’s not something we can just…miracle away,” Aziraphale agreed. He hesitated. “Do you still want to be with me?”

Crowley goggled at him. “Of course I do!” he said. “Why would you even-“

“Love does not mean compatibility, and it’s clear-“

“The thought of being without you is like…is like…” Crowley cast around for an apt metaphor. They weren’t human. He couldn’t say without food or air or water. They didn’t need those things. He settled lamely on, “it’s like not eating the apple, right?”

Aziraphale blinked at the odd comparison. Crowley hurried on, “We talked about it, remember? About whether it was right or wrong?”

“I…remember…”

“But it doesn’t matter,” Crowley said insistently. There was something building in him, some sort of pressure that he hadn’t noticed until it had started bubbling, something that needed to be released. He couldn’t speak fast enough. “It doesn’t matter if it was right or wrong, Good or Evil, because the point is that it just is.” He took a breath, one long, sharp inhale. “It’s ineffable. Unexplainable. Unreasonable by any logical sense, because we knew it wasn’t supposed to happen but it did, and looking back it was the only logical thing that could have happened. And that’s us, isn’t it? Not Good. Not Evil. Not right or wrong. Just…just us. We just are. It’s ineffable, but it’s the only thing that makes any sense.”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to stare. The book in his lap had fallen to the floor, quite forgotten. Slowly, like he was still processing all the words, Aziraphale said, “That’s…surprisingly poetic of you.”

“Is it?” Crowley asked, a little delirious. He felt like a great weight had been dragged from him, and now his insides were very light and bubbly. It was an unusual feeling, and he wasn’t sure how well his body was coping. He felt a bit dizzy.

Aziraphale nodded. He smiled, thin and tight and uncertain, but it was a smile. “I think your metaphor is apt. I can’t explain it either, but I could no more turn away from you than a flower could forsake sunlight.”

“Some flowers grow better in the dark,” Crowley mumbled.

Aziraphale stood up, crossing the room in several long strides, and Crowley rose reflexively, and startled when Aziraphale kissed him. It was inelegant, unpractised, and there was slightly more tongue than Crowley had anticipated the angel knowing what to do with, but it was firm and confident nonetheless. They broke apart, less than an inch, and Aziraphale said, “I grow better in your light. Dark or otherwise.”

Crowley rested his forehead against Aziraphale’s and closed his eyes. “And I’m better in yours,” he said softly. “I’d burn a thousand times for you, just to be close to that light.”

“I pray that you never have to,” Aziraphale returned. He clutched at Crowley’s hands, cradling them between their bodies. “I don’t want to return to Heaven,” he confessed.

Crowley’s eyes flew open, and he straightened up in shock. “Really?”

“Really.” Aziraphale looked uncertain. “I’m not sure what sort of angel that makes me, quite frankly, but I don’t. I don’t want to Fall either. I just…I want to stay on Earth. With you.”

“Do you think that’s even possible?” Crowley asked. His heart was caught between singing and fear. “Can you stay on Earth without falling? Won’t Heaven come for you eventually?”

“They might,” Aziraphale acknowledged. “And I would tell them that my heart is here. That I have work to do on Earth.” He squeezed Crowley’s hands and gave him a mischievous smile. “They need not know that my heart is with you, rather than the humans.” He paused, and amended, “Not just the humans.”

Crowley laughed. “Yeah, yeah. You love humanity too. I get it.” He sobered a little. “And what about Hell?”

“What about it?”

“They’ll find out eventually. That you’re still here and free. I’ll be punished.”

Aziraphale rubbed his nose against Crowley’s. “We’ll find an excuse. That I tricked you. That you’re trying to recapture me, but we’re evenly matched. Something they’ll believe that might spare you.”

“Sparing people isn’t in Hell’s nature,” Crowley said, but he couldn’t help smiling. Even the vial of holy water, still hanging from its chain around Aziraphale’s neck, couldn’t bother him. It hadn’t in a while.

“We’ll make it work,” Aziraphale insisted. He kissed Crowley again, more chastely this time. “No more shutting me out?”

“I’ll do my best,” Crowley promised. There was still a lump in his throat, but it was shrinking as some of the guilt drained from his body. “We’ll figure it out as we go.”

Aziraphale nodded, accepting the answer, and smiled.

***

“I put in for a transfer,” Crowley told Aziraphale as the angel walked into their flat. In his arms was a bundle of books, and his aura was bright as ever. Still no miracles, but neither let it concern them too much. Aziraphale seemed largely recovered, totally in control of his body and without any of the human needs he’d been susceptible to before. They still ate and slept occasionally because they enjoyed it, but not doing either freed up plenty of time for the theatre and books and whatever else tickled their fancy. Besides, once Aziraphale started miracling, Heaven would notice, and they were both content to let it lie a little longer.

“Any idea where they’ll send you?” Aziraphale asked, pushing the door shut behind him. He kissed the top of Crowley’s head as he crossed the room, setting the books on the table. Crowley nudged a few black candles out of the way with his foot. Getting in touch with Hell could be, well, Hell. They could always contact you, but it took a lot more effort the other way around. The ritual had worked, but he’d been forced to wait two hours before they connected him properly.

He shrugged. “I put London as a preference. I think you’ll like it there. Very up and coming. But we’ll see. They could send me anywhere.” He couldn’t really go anywhere Hell didn’t send him, but he didn’t let it bother him too much. There was nothing he could do. Insisting would put unwanted attention on him, and he didn’t want to bring that down on Aziraphale. Or, frankly, himself. “You’ll come with, right?” he asked.

“Even if they send you to Australia,” Aziraphale promised with a smile.

Crowley hummed, pleased. “I hate dealing with management, though. You’d think it’d get better over the years, but it doesn’t.”

“It is Hell,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“Eh,” Crowley said noncommittally. He sprawled further on the sofa, taking up the whole thing with little effort. “Wish they’d invent a better way to communicate. I’m sick of incense and chanting.”

“I don’t mind the incense,” Aziraphale said, nudging Crowley’s head so the demon would lift it. He did, and Aziraphale sat down, taking Crowley’s head in his lap and stroking his fingers through his long, red hair. Crowley made a sound that was definitely not a purr, and Aziraphale chuckled.

Crowley closed his eyes and relaxed further into the touch. He could never get enough of Aziraphale touching him. They’d talked about sex again, after things had gotten back to normal, and mutually decided that holding off for a few years (“Maybe even a few decades,” Crowley had said, remembering with unease the day he’d brought Aziraphale home and knowing it would be awhile before he’d be able to get the image out of his head) would be best. It would give them time to truly get acclimated to each other, and they could settle into it more gradually. It would be better for both of them, they’d agreed. But in the meantime, Crowley still drank in every one of Aziraphale’s touches.

“They’ll definitely let me move, anyway,” he said eventually. “It’s been, what, almost a year?”

“In two weeks, I believe.”

“Which means it’s been even longer since the Inquisition stuff started, and that’s been running without my intervention…well, the whole time, but they think it’s been for awhile now. They’ll know I don’t need to stay.”

He was getting itchy. Spain was starting to get under his skin in a physical way. And there were other demons to consider. Any rumours Hastur might have started would definitely have spread by now, and Crowley wasn’t eager to be a sitting duck if other demons decided to chance punishment for the opportunity to get their hands on a real live angel. A move would buy them some time, at least.

Aziraphale smoothed his hand over Crowley’s shoulder and scratched at his scalp. “You’ve gone very tense, my dear.”

“Just thinking about Hell again. Keeping you safe.”

“We’ll be alright,” Aziraphale said patiently.

“Yeah, probably,” Crowley allowed. He stretched up for a kiss, and Aziraphale obliged him. “I’m just being paranoid.”

“It’s in your nature.”

“We both know nature’s a load of bollocks.” Crowley grinned.

Aziraphale gave him a light swat. “Language, dear, really.”

“You don’t like me swearing, angel? Does it offend your Heavenly sensibilities?”

Aziraphale muttered something affectionate that sounded an awful lot like “irritating serpent” but which gave the impression of doubling as a term of endearment. “If you don’t desist,” he said, “I shall simply have to find a new conversational partner.”

Crowley snorted. “Nah, you’d miss me too much. Besides, you swear all the time when you’re drunk.”

“I do not.”

“Do too.”

“Do not.”

Crowley laughed and stretched up to steal another kiss. Against Aziraphale’s lips, he mumbled, “Do too. And with impressive imagination.”

“Hush, you,” Aziraphale swatted him again. “Will we be packing our things when we go, or do you plan on leaving them behind?”

“I usually leave most of it,” Crowley said. “Couple of things I like to keep, but honestly it’s a lot easier to just let it all go and get new stuff somewhere else. But if there’s anything you want to take, we’ll do that.”

“The books?” Aziraphale asked hopefully.

Crowley grinned. He’d expected that. “Wouldn’t dream of leaving those behind. You’d mope.”

Aziraphale didn’t deny it. He was rather attached to Crowley’s book collection. Even the explicit ones.

They – well, Crowley – got the message a few days later in the form of a large black dog with glowing red eyes, which set the letter down on the front stoop and stared at Crowley, who was blocking the doorway to keep Aziraphale out of sight, and drooled until the demon found the courage to pick up the folded parchment from between its massive paws. Then it licked its chops once, cocked its head like it was contemplating the taste of demon flesh, and trotted away into the night, disappearing into the blackness with a growl and a flick of its tail. Crowley shut the door and opened the envelope.

“We got London,” he confirmed for Aziraphale. “They want me there as soon as possible.” As soon as possible would mean by horse or by boat. Crowley wasn’t looking forward to either. Given the choice, he would pick boat a hundred times over. It was usually faster, it wasn’t like he could get seasick, and he really wasn’t very good with animals. As he read on, he was glad to see Hell confirming his hopes. Hopefully his angel liked the ocean.

There wasn’t all that much left to do once the order arrived. They packed up what had quite frankly become Aziraphale’s book collection, a bundle of Aziraphale’s clothes because the angel disliked the idea of simply wishing them into being, and strapped the plant to the top of the pile. Crowley had considered leaving it behind, but it had become almost a pet, and he found the he, possibly more so than Aziraphale, was reluctant to be parted from it.

“Be glad I like you,” he’d muttered to it. “Wouldn’t be worth the effort otherwise.”

The caravel boat was small and black and empty when they boarded with their things, but Crowley had expected nothing less. It’s was one of Hell’s, after all, and probably held together with demonic power, given the way Aziraphale winced when he set foot on deck.

“Alright?” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale nodded, although he looked a touch unsteady. The boat pushed away from the dock without their assistance, and Crowley held on to the railing to keep his balance. Going on a proper sailing vessel might have been opportunity for Hellish mischief, but Crowley was glad the urgency allowed a more private traveling opportunity. He’d warned Aziraphale that there was a chance Hell would be looking in on the ship (even without a crew, driven by magic, Hell would be able to reach them on the boat), and that their behaviour would have to be adjusted just in case, but otherwise the roughly seven days it would take to travel from Spain to England could be considered approved time off. Additionally, on a traveling ship this size, the average speed was only four knots, which would take well over two weeks – far too long to be on the ocean in Crowley’s opinion – and at most could only go eight knots safely. The power of Hell could push the boat a good bit faster, so the ship averaged about ten knots for the duration of their travels.

He wondered idly if the rose war he’d heard about was still going on in England. He hoped not. The last thing he wanted was to be embroiled in the middle of another war. They turned his stomach almost as much as the Inquisition had, and they could be terribly messy to boot.

He pulled a parcel free from his belt and wrapped it. Aziraphale joined him by the railing, watching the landmass disappear behind them, and took the pastry the demon proffered to him. Catalina had nearly cried when they’d come to say goodbye. Her father had too, called out from the kitchen so Crowley could shake his hand. They told him and Aziraphale that they’d miss their business, that they’d so rarely had such pleasant and consistent customers, and to please visit anytime they returned to the city. Crowley doubted he’d be sent back before the older man was dead and Catalina was a very old woman, but he promised anyway.

Crowley bit into his own pastry and turned around so he could lean back against the rail, leaving Spain behind. “So,” he said conversationally. “What do you want to do now?”

Aziraphale considered. “Why don’t we go inside the cabin?”

The angel had tensed when they’d discussed the potential acting that might be required of them, but he’d relaxed almost instantly when Crowley had promised that, under no circumstances, was he going to bring out the manacles.

“At this point, we don’t need them,” he’d said, apologetically. “They’ll just think I have you well-trained.”

“Brainwashed,” Aziraphale had mumbled, and Crowley had to admit he was right. He’d given Aziraphale lots of kisses then, soothing him, and they’d let it go. They decided Aziraphale would ask Crowley’s permission before doing things, and that would be plenty for Hell to think he had the angel under his control. It was stupid, but it was play acting, and Crowley had told Aziraphale that he would never say no.

“I mean, unless you make a really stupid request,” he’d added, “like jumping overboard. But you know. Anything else is fair game.”

They retired to the cabin. It was cosy, with a little bed in the corner and their things stacked along the wall. On an ordinary ship, there would have been rations below deck, and fresh water, but the hull of this boat was empty as far as Crowley was aware. Aziraphale picked a book out of the pile and Crowley moved the plant as close to the tiny window as possible. Then they settled on the bed together to wait out the journey.

Even without the manacles, being surrounded on all sides by a construct of evil took its toll on Aziraphale. It was clear by the second day, when the angel admitted to a headache that he hadn’t been able to shake since coming aboard, and Crowley apologized and massaged his temples and back and did his best to keep Aziraphale comfortable.

“I’m sorry I’m such a bother,” he said on day four, and Crowley shushed him.

“You’re not a bother, angel,” he said. “Not to me.” He kissed the top of Aziraphale’s head and pressed his nose into the curls. “Hang in there. We’re halfway through.”

“Is London very nice?” Aziraphale asked, burying his face in the crook of Crowley’s neck. He was very pale, paler than normal even, and shaking slightly. His aura had a sickly quality to it.

Crowley held him close. “Last time I was there it was. Pretty nice, anyway. Bet it’s come on a ways since then. It’s been a couple hundred years. You’ll like it, I promise.”

“Mmm. I trust you.”

Crowley gave him another kiss. “Go to sleep, angel. I’ll wake you up when we get there.”

Aziraphale obliged, and although Crowley couldn’t ensure it with his powers, he felt confident that his presence helped keep the angel’s sleep peaceful and untroubled.

Late on day eight, as the sun sank past the horizon with a yawn, they bumped against something. Crowley peered out the window, and when he saw the docks beyond it he nudged Aziraphale. “Wake up, angel. We’re here.”

Aziraphale roused slowly, blinking sleep out of his eyes and stretching endearingly. “Here?”

“London. Our new home.”

Aziraphale brightened. Now that he was within range, Crowley banished their things to the flat he knew was waiting for them and took the angel’s hand, leading him onto the deck. Aziraphale laced their fingers together and leaned his head on Crowley’s shoulder as the moonlight hit them, bathing the docks in a dull blue glow. Farther down, they were busy, crammed full of ships and calling sailors and passengers disembarking, but it all seemed so far away from them. Crowley and Aziraphale stepped off the ship, and as it drifted lazily away from the docks again, they set off into the city.

They didn’t make it farther than the row of warehouses that lined the docks. As they passed, a voice called out from the shadows, slow and malicious and dripping like a spilled pitcher of syrup. “Hail Satan.”

Crowley froze. Next to him, Aziraphale stilled, his shoulders hunching as his eyes darted around for the source. Out from the shadows and into the lamplight stepped a lurker. Hastur.

“Er, hail Satan,” Crowley returned hesitantly. He glanced around, trying not to make it obvious that Aziraphale was his main concern. The angel looked abruptly very frightened. “Sorry,” Crowley said, “I don’t, ah, remember being informed that you were meeting me?”

Hastur smiled like a knife, short and deadly and glinting in the moonlight. “Just a friendly visit,” he nearly cooed. “Just a little…check-up. It’s been a year, after all. Certain people are very interested to know what you’ve been up to.” He leered at Aziraphale, who shuddered and pressed closer to Crowley’s side.

“I’ve been fine.” Crowley’s voice was like ice. His grip on Aziraphale’s hand could have crushed bone, and he released it, balling his hands into fists instead. “Not much to do in Spain. That’s why they transferred me.”

“And the angel?” Hastur asked, half sour and half sweet. “Have you been enjoying it?”

“Ah…” Crowley glanced at Aziraphale, and then back to Hastur. He took in his love’s nervous countenance and the senior demon’s predatory gaze. He was going to have to do something, he realized. Something he’d warned Aziraphale about. Something he really didn’t like.

He forced his body to relax and allowed his lip to curl in a sneer. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” He felt Aziraphale start beside him, and nudged the angel a little behind him, hoping he got the message.

Hastur read the challenge for what it was and took a step towards them. “I would,” he said, “like to know. I would like that very much.” The words weren’t subtle. The tone even less so.

“Too bad I don’t share.”

“You should,” Hastur’s face, not at all pleasant to begin with, turned downright nasty. “You should share it. Your betters haven’t gotten a try, but somehow you get to have it.”

“He’s mine.” Crowley pushed Aziraphale farther behind him, baring his teeth at Hastur. With barely any effort, they’d sharpened into fangs, long and deadly looking, matching his fierce yellow eyes. Like a serpent poised to strike, Crowley snarled at the demon opposite him, “Lucifer bequeathed him to me.”

“Our Master gave you a toy,” Hastur hissed back. “One you don’t deserve.” His lip curled up. “You’re too soft. Earth made you soft. You like it here too much.” He licked his lips with a sticky, wet tongue. “Bet you haven’t even tasted it, have you? Weak, pathetic angel, all ready for the taking, and I’ll bet you haven’t even stuck your-“

“Shut up!”

“You even let it loose. Did you feel bad for it?” Hastur taunted. He was advancing now, heedless of Crowley’s fighting stance. “Did you want it to love you? Did you want to wait for it to beg for you to fuck it like-“

Whatever had originally been about to come out of Hastur’s mouth, what came out instead were several teeth, hitting the ground with little clicks as they bounced. Crowley’s fist had caught Hastur square on the jaw with every ounce of demonic strength he could channel into a human body. Hastur screamed with rage, “You bastard, I’ll kill you! And when you’re dead, it’s mine, you hear me? The angel is mine!”

 “Crowley-“ Aziraphale’s voice was high with fear.

Crowley shoved him back a few steps, hating the roughness. “Get out of here, angel.”

“I won’t leave you.”

“Aww, how sweet,” Hastur growled, swaying back to his feet as he faced Crowley again. “You’ve got it house-trained. Even better. Bet it’ll cry when I-“

Without conscious thought, Crowley was shifting, and what landed on Hastur was a serpent, massive in size, black and red and vicious as it coiled around him with alarming speed, squeezing to pop. Hastur’s form collapsed, a mess of writhing maggots washing over Crowley’s serpentine form. Crowley hissed and rolled, trying to squash as many of them as possible as he wrestled with the flood of maggots, tiny mouths biting at his scaly flesh, tearing at him even as he tried to-

“Enough!”

Crowley and Hastur both cried out in pain as light burst around them, beaming like a thousand suns, hot and burning. Crowley’s snakeskin began to smoke. Hastur, in maggot form, cried out as he shrivelled and fried. Aziraphale extended a hand, panting with exertion as he shone with Heavenly force, his true form and more bleeding through his Earthly vessel. “Enough,” he said again.

The maggots that were Hastur tried to squirm out of the light and screamed as they curled into crisps. Crowley’s eyes burned, and his skin peeled and flaked. He shifted back, collapsing to the ground and squeezing his eyes shut. The light danced behind his eyelids, and then went out. The burning cooled, although a sting remained.

“I’m so sorry, my dear.” There was anguish in Aziraphale’s voice. Crowley squinted one raw eye open, looking up into the angel’s haggard face. He didn’t have to look far. Aziraphale had collapsed to the ground with the effort, too weak to remain standing any longer. He looked gaunt, like his life had been drained out of him, and Crowley suspected that if he’d kept it up another few seconds, it would have. Dark circles ringed his eyes, which were half-open and straining with even that effort, not shining blue but the weak grey of a fleeing fog. “I’m so sorry,” he said again, “I didn’t mean to hit the both of you, but he was all over you and I couldn’t-“

Crowley reached out a scabbed hand and, with some difficultly, took Aziraphale’s. His joints screamed in protest as he curled his fingers around the angel’s, and his skin peeled at the touch. “It’s alright,” he said, and then coughed. “Pretty sure you just saved my life, you gorgeous Principality, you.”

“He’s not…”

“Dead? Nah.” Crowley allowed himself a few seconds on the cold, moist ground, and then grunted with the effort of hauling himself upright. “He’ll need a new form though, and those take ages to get.” He reached for Aziraphale, supporting as much of the angel’s weight as he could manage. They leaned against each other. Aziraphale’s finger traced weakly over Crowley’s arm, his hands tender against the burned and mottled flesh. “We’ll be alright for a while,” Crowley wheezed, before remembering he didn’t need breath. “Hell’s gonna know I let you loose, though. They probably won’t be happy. Even if I say you were protecting me, Hastur outranks me and-”

“One thing at a time,” Aziraphale soothed. He really did look awful, worse even than Crowley felt. The glow of his aura, which hadn’t even had time to recover from the damned boat, was almost non-existent. “I really am sorry I burned you.”

“I started it,” Crowley joked weakly, remembering Aziraphale’s illness over the winter and what’d he’d accidentally done. He staggered a little and braced himself against a wall. “So much for the holy water, huh?”

Aziraphale’s hand went to the chain around his neck. He looked guilty. Crowley narrowed his eyes. “Spit it out, angel.”

“I, er, threw it away.”

“What?”

Aziraphale drew the chain up from under his tunic. The vial was still full, but when Aziraphale uncorked it and poured it over the back of Crowley’s hand, the water dripped harmlessly to the ground. Aziraphale recorked the empty vial and bit his lip. “I couldn’t carry it knowing it might hurt you,” he said. “Even on accident. But it meant so much to you…”

“It’s alright angel.” Crowley smiled. It split his lips, and he winced, covering them with a peeling hand. “Let’s get home, yeah? I think I’m going to sleep for a year after this.”

Aziraphale laughed. “I think I might join you, my dear. After that effort, I think whatever of my power I regained might well and truly be gone again.”

“Alright then,” Crowley said. “A nice long sleep all around.” He offered out his arm, and Aziraphale took it and together, one nearly-fried demon and one exhausted angel limped towards their new home.