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He dreams of the end of the world. The entire sky fading to black, as though someone has wrapped a blanket haphazardly around the earth. He dreams of the road beneath his feet cracking open and brimstone spewing forth in acrid clouds. Fire raining down from heaven. He dreams of legions of demons clawing their way up from hell, of hordes of angels descending in spotlights of holy light, and of humans, terrified, running for their lives.
Sweat beads on his forehead, his jaw clenches tight, his unnecessary heart thuds against his rib cage, as the image of dying humans littering the streets of Soho replays in his mind. A soft whimper pushes through his gritted teeth.
In the dream, he stands on the road, rage-fueled sparks fly from his clenched fists, and his wings stretch out, protecting the humans huddled behind him. He is the last one here who is standing for Earth and those who live on her. After all his years on her face, he will not let them take her without a fight.
But the worst is coming. He sees the angel, his Angel, running towards him. Reaching for him. Trying to stand with him. Caught in the crossfire between heaven and hell. Wreathed in a swirling tornado of hellfire that is rapidly turning his angelic wings to ash.
Crowley bolts upright in the bed, eyes wide and staring in the darkness, wings spread in the same protective stance he had held at the end of times that now haunts his dreams. Still caught in the grips of the nightmare, his chest heaves with unnecessary and yet absolutely required gasps, something like a prayer barely audible beneath.
The spell only breaks when Aziraphale sits up beside him and catches him in a warm embrace. Immediately, Crowley’s muscles unlock, his wings fold in, and he collapses into Aziraphale’s arms.
“Hush, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs, tone impossibly soft, impossibly sweet, impossibly compassionate. His wings unfold, surrounding them in another layer of protection. Cocooned, safe, Crowley puts his hands on Aziraphale’s chest. The skin beneath his palms is soft and warm and shifts with each gentle breath Aziraphale takes.
He speaks without realising he was going to. “I saw you die.”
“I know.” Aziraphale tips his head to the side and Crowley eagerly buries his face into the space that the movement presents. Nestled in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, Crowley inhales through his nose. Breathes in the smell of the angel. Of home. “It’s a lie, my dear. I didn’t die. You didn’t die. We won.”
Hot tears squeeze between Crowley’s lashes. He knows this is true, he knows they defeated the second-coming-that-didn’t-end-up-coming, but the nightmare has claws that cling to the edges of his mind.
Inside the shield of Aziraphale’s wings, warm in the tenderness of Aziraphale’s arms, Crowley feels most of the tension remaining from the dream ease away. He stops pressing quite so firmly into Aziraphale’s corporation. A sigh eases from his lips.
“There we go,” Aziraphale says. “I have you. I’ll always have you.”
“I l-love you,” Crowley says, hiccoughing through tears that are still sliding down his cheeks.
In the darkness, Aziraphale’s smile literally lights up the room. Even though Crowley can see in the dark, he admires the way the glow plays on the pale skin of Aziraphale’s shoulders, how it catches in the white curls of his hair. Crowley presses parted lips to the curve of Aziraphale’s neck, tasting the place where the pulse jumps beneath the skin, completing the sensory confirmation that Aziraphale is here.
“I love you too, Crowley.” They pull away from each other, just enough that Aziraphale can turn his head and their lips can meet. It’s a chaste kiss, nothing like the absolute raw passion they often fall into. This is domestic and routine and perfect. Crowley pours his love into the connection between them, and feels Aziraphale’s adoration flow back in return. They lie down, together, naked and entwined, and Crowley drifts back to sleep in the arms of his angel.