Chapter Text
That something swells, swells and swells inside Crowley’s chest and then it’s simply too much. He can’t hold it in any longer.
“’Ziraphale”, he manages before his breath catches in his throat, his overflowing feelings mangling words into sobs. The angel stiffens, then squeezes Crowley’s middle gently before lifting himself upright, emotion – concern, pity? No, not pity, never that – creasing his forehead.
“I’m here, I’m here”, he murmurs softly, smoothing back some of the stray hairs that had fallen on the demon’s face. He brushes his thumb over a cheekbone. “My dear, I’m so sorry for making you worry.”
Crowley grimaces and makes a strangled sound. What good are appearances, anyway, what good has it ever done to pretend he doesn’t care? (Plenty, as long as their lots are concerned, but that doesn’t seem to matter at the moment.) What’s certain is that it doesn’t do good for his heart. Not for Aziraphale’s, either. Unable to form words, he snaps his fingers and the miracle cleans the dried, crusty blood off of the angel’s wing, leaving the feathers white and pristine again.
Aziraphale sighs, grateful, and presses a hand against the small of Crowley’s back. His smile is watery but so, so fond. “Thank you, dearheart.”
Crowley swallows the lump in his throat with a whimper and gathers the angel into his arms, one hand cupping the back of Aziraphale’s neck, the other snaking under the pair of wings and the angel curls into him, effortless, not unlike a puzzle piece finding its proper place. Crowley buries his nose into divinely soft hair. Even Aziraphale’s scent is warm: the softest whiff of cardamom, parchment and wool. He inhales, exhales, inhales again and as he slowly calms down he makes a decision.
“We could stay. Just a while longer”, he says, voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. They’re safe, and warm, and together. It will be fine. “Angel?”
Aziraphale sniffles and grips the demon’s robe. Their reality is weighing heavily on his shoulders but he thinks he can overlook it. He has to. He doesn’t want to leave.
“We can stay”, he murmurs and cannot help smiling at the relieved hum he gets in response.
As soon as they exit the hovel they’ll be going their separate ways once again like so many times before and neither of them – especially Crowley – is ready for it yet. He’s never ready, if Crowley is completely honest, never ready to part with the warmth that is Aziraphale, so he’ll be damned if he doesn’t take the chance to hold onto him for a little longer.
It’s not enough but he will manage.
He always does.