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Healing is a painful process. Arduous, taxing, and agonizingly slow. Often it feels even worse than what broke you in the first place. Though in hindsight, it isn't. It just feels that way in the moment because you're rewinding the situation, facing it once again in order to mend it. Someone can reach out to you, or you can reach out to someone, and they can help you heal. But it's always your own decision in the end to go through with it. To keep holding on. To not fall back into that pit of darkness, to take that helping hand and never let it go. But the best part of everything is what patiently awaits for you at the end - freedom.
Crowley doesn't notice the holy weapon piercing his upper abdomen at first, too busy still holding up his own infernal weapon as he watches the body of the powerful entity before him slowly start to crumble, a triumphant, wicked smile painted across his lips, adrenaline and victorious exhilaration coursing through his veins after a long, hard-fought battle against Heaven's tyrant. Then it hits him like a freight train. Pain so poignant it makes the world seem to bend. He stumbles a few steps back, dropping his weapon as his mind catches up with the sensation. The pain throbs violently, rapidly spreading like poison from his abdomen down to his every limb. He stops breathing as a weak attempt to stop it, but it doesn't help much. He just stands there, limbs shaking until his wobbling legs collapse. He grunts at the shock of pain that shoots up his body as his knees hit the ground and he falls limply on his side, mouth gaping helplessly like a fish out of water. The pain courses through his entire body, and it’s worse than any torture he’s ever endured in hell or anywhere. He's been whipped, burned, shot, cut in half, dismembered, had his bones repetitively broken, and worst of all, been forced to write a five hundred page essay on why demons should never do good deeds. And of course, he's been stabbed before. Quite a common occurrence during his first centuries on Earth. But never has he ever come close to a holy weapon of this caliber before. Holiness so venomous it stings and burns right through his very soul, chafing at it, tearing it, corroding it bit by burning bit, slowly disintegrating the delicate fabric of his essence. He wants to scream, but finds himself voiceless, so he just lies there motionless, ichor oozing out of his wound, pooling around him, collecting in his mouth, and trickling down his cheek.
It feels like hours -though it must've been just a couple minutes- before he is found. A familiar voice calls out to him in the distance, a voice he knows as well as his own. It sounds pained and desperate, and he wants nothing more than to run to it and soothe its owner’s woes until there's nothing left but gentleness in the world. The voice sounds way farther than it is, for in an instant, there are soft hands carefully scooping him up, cradling him close, surrounding him in warmth. His eyes try to focus on the blurry figure above him.
“...wley,” The echo of his voice reaches him. “Crowley, oh God Crowley answer me,” he pleads.
A different kind of ache crushes his chest. It's fine, everything is fine. I took care of it, he wants to say. His mouth twitches, trying to form words, knowing they could very well be his last.
“Angel,” he manages to whisper. “My angel…”
“Yes, yours, always yours,” Aziraphale weeps as he strokes his face with a shaky hand. “H-hold on for me. Please hold on for me. I’ll-I’ll do something-”
A sudden rush of warm liquid blocks Crowley’s throat and he starts choking as a thick stream of ichor drips down the side of his mouth.
Aziraphale whimpers, frightened out of his mind as he holds up his head a bit more to let the fluid flow down more easily to prevent him from choking. “Crowley, stay with me, please stay with me, I need you,” he cries as he leans down to press a desperate kiss to his forehead.
Crowley coughs and gasps softly. His lips tremble as a small grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. At least he'll die knowing he was loved in return. Yeah…It was worth it. It had all been worth it. He can rest now. He wants to comfort his angel, tell him everything will be fine now. No one will ever bother or threaten or harass him anymore. He'll be free. He’ll be happy. That's all he's ever wanted for him. He tries to convey all of this with a delicate touch as he makes the insurmountable effort of lifting his hand to his angel's chest, above his erratically beating heart. He wants to stay, he’d love to stay, but he has no strength to keep fighting anymore. He's fading, fading, fading. Just gotta say goodbye…
“A-angel,” he gasps as he looks up at the fading figure before his eyes, intent on looking at him one last time. “I lov-” his vision fades to black, along with all his motor functions.
His hand slips off the angel's chest as his eyelids fall closed. His mouth hangs slightly open, the rest of his sentence dying on his tongue as he goes completely limp in his angel’s arms. Aziraphale watches with utter terror in his eyes.
“No. No! No! No! NO! Crowley! CROWLEY!” he desperately shakes his frail frame. “Wake up! Don't do this! Stay with me! Stay with me! Stay with me, please! ” He sobs and lets out an anguished cry. “Crowley! Crowley! ” he shouts, giving in to a relentless flow of tears, his whole body shaking with the force of grief. “Crowleyyy…” he whimpers, holding him closer as he weeps with his forehead pressed against his, his tears falling onto his slack, pale face.
“You can't take him,” he gasps. “You can’t take him,” he mutters through clenched teeth, growing more agitated, tasting bitterness on his tongue as a sudden wave of vicious rage overcomes him. “ You can't take him! ” he yells at the infinite vastness above him. “Have I not given you enough?!” Tears stream down his cheeks as his eyes start glowing a bright, dangerous, pale hue, cold and unforgiving. “I swear, if you take him from me, I will take down Heaven and Hell with me, his voice, booming and defiant as it is, doesn't reach Her. It never has. But it reverberates throughout the entirety of time and space, echoing through every living thing, making the fabric of reality shudder at the threat of being torn apart by the fury of a single grief stricken angel.
As if in response, a light shudder stirs the frail body in his arms and he snaps back to attention at the movement.
“Crowley?” he mumbles, a flame of hope igniting in his chest, his eyes wide and still brimming with tears, the icy fire in them dimming slightly as he brings his entire focus back to his demon. “Crowley, can you hear me? It's me. I…” he searches his pale face for an answer, but only finds the eerie silence of his stillness.
His mind despairs for a moment, hesitating as he ponders on every possible outcome. If he thinks too much, waits for too long, he will die. If he just prays hard enough to a God who is deaf to all his endless pleading, he will die. If he tries a miracle to save him, there is a great chance his body won't be able to withstand it, and he might die. If he does nothing, he will certainly die. Aziraphale squares his jaw as he comes to a resolute decision.
“I’m going to try- no. I’m going to heal you. I don't know how this may result, but it's our only chance,” his voice breaks as he strokes his face with the gentleness of his fragile hope. He closes his eyes and presses a lingering kiss to his cold forehead before pressing his own forehead against it. “This might hurt. I’m sorry,” he whispers.
In one swift motion, he pulls out the holy weapon from his body, throwing it aside before lightly pressing his glowing hand to the wound, throwing all his energy and focus into healing him, his eyes lighting up again, glowing bright with the force of his exertion. Ichor gushes in bright streams from the gaping wound for a moment, and he doubles down his efforts, pouring all his strength into reaching the core of the damage and preventing it from spreading any further. Crowley’s body starts convulsing as it reacts to the healing process, having adverse effects against the caustic force of the blessing. Aziraphale holds him closer, willing himself to go through with this. With one jerk of his head, Crowley’s eyes snap open as violent wave after wave of agony wracks his body. A sharp, strangled cry escapes his lips. He squeezes his eyes shut tight as he tries to hold back with all his might until he can't take it anymore and he lets out a piercing, blood-curdling scream, kicking and thrashing against the arms restraining him.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I have to do this, ” Aziraphale mumbles desperately, holding him against his chest tightly. “Please hold on for me. Please.”
Crowley keeps screaming and screaming, kicking violently as he desperately tries to free himself, pounding his fist against the floor, his body convulsing as the pain seeps into his bones, drilling into every nerve, its scathing corrosiveness winding around and around his chest and abdomen until he feels like he's being set on fire for the first time all over again. He screams and screams and cries desperately for reprieve, but the pain only increases.
“I'm so sorry,” Aziraphale weeps quietly as he does his best to keep himself focused on his task, extracting out as much of the holy essence in the demon’s battered body as he can, desperately watching for the wound to get smaller. Faster damn it!
“STOP! STOP! STOP! STOOOP!” Crowley yells, sobbing violently. “ANGE-EL STOO-OOO-OP,” He begs, crying uncontrollably, kicking hard against the ground as he writhes in sheer agony.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, my love, it'll be over soon, just please hold on. Please hold on for me, don't go, ” Aziraphale mumbles over his own tears, holding him tighter to his chest as he forces himself to keep focused on extracting all that vile holiness.
It goes on for much longer than any of them would have liked. The process is harrowing, arduous, and straining. The agony reaches a lethal point, and Crowley’s soul teeters on the verge of slipping away into the welcoming arms of oblivion, despairing for a way out, but he fights with all his might to stay, holding on with all his strength for his angel. For him, and their freedom, their future, their happiness. He fights for him.
His screams pierce Aziraphale’s eardrums and every vessel in his heart, and it is torture. The torture of causing pain to the one he loves more than anything. The torture of having to, or having to lose him. The torture of not knowing for sure whether it’ll actually work or not, if it'll heal him or just end up killing him faster. He starts falling apart, almost giving in to Crowley’s pleas for him to stop but he can't. He can't. He loathes having to hurt him, but it's either this or the end of him. The end of Them. The end of Everything. For what is life without Crowley? What is life at all if not Crowley? So he holds himself steady and pushes through, exerting his power beyond anything he ever thought himself capable of.
After what feels like an eternity, he finally extracts the last drop of toxicity, Crowley’s screams having died down to mere sobs, the pain no longer excruciating, slowly receding into a more tolerable sting. Aziraphale holds out a little longer as he finishes shutting the wound completely. Once he's done, he drops his hand to Crowley’s side, letting out a weary grunt as the blinding glow of his eyes finally fades, panting as he bows his head in utter exhaustion, his brow slick with sweat.
“Done,” he gasps. “Done. We’re all done, my dear, it's over,” he breathes heavily as he threads a shaky hand through his sweaty, crimson locks.
“Nghh,” Crowley lets out a quiet whine, half from relief and half from the remaining sting.
He's still shuddering in his arms, eyes unfocused. Half-consciously, he turns his head to his side and slowly curls into his chest, sobbing quietly with his face pressed against his waistcoat, no sound coming out of him except for the occasional tiny, muffled whimper.
“Shhh, I’ve got you. I’ve got you, my love, I’ve got you,” Aziraphale whispers as he gently holds him closer, and Crowley lets out another little whimper at the words ‘my love,’ exceedingly overwhelmed with love, relief, pain, comfort, and millennia of repression.
“I'm so sorry it had to hurt. But we're going to be okay now. No one’s going to hurt us ever again.” Aziraphale mutters through his own tears as he delicately strokes his hair.
“Nnn…C…cold,” Crowley whispers, barely audible.
Aziraphale wordlessly holds him up with one arm as he shucks off his coat and carefully wraps it around the demon. He carefully pulls him up closer to his chest as he surrounds him with both arms, his hand cradling his head gently. He lets Crowley weep silently into his chest, quietly crying along with him, tracing little soothing circles on his back with his fingertips until his body stops shuddering and his sobs cease.
“Let's get out of here, dearest. Let's go home,” he mutters eventually.
Crowley sniffles as he slowly turns his head and blinks up at him blearily. “Home?” he whispers.
Aziraphale lovingly wipes a few of the tear streaks from his reddened cheeks with his thumb. “Our bookshop?”
Crowley stares at him dazed, his exhausted, foggy mind looking like scattered puzzle pieces of gruesome images from the last few hours, with only a few pieces placed together - the image of Aziraphale.
“Oh,” he sighs, understanding nothing, still too out of it to grasp the weight of Aziraphale’s words, what he's implying. “Kay,” he whispers and attempts to sit up. “Nnnghhh,” he winces as a sharp pain pulls at his upper abdomen, feeling like he’s being pin pricked all over by a thousand needles.
“Nonono, don't move,” Aziraphale gently coaxes him to lie back on his arm. “You need rest.”
Crowley shakes his head weakly. “‘M fine. Help me stand up,” he rasps as he tries to sit up again. “Ngk!” He winces sharply again, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Crowley, please stay still. You're in no state to be moving yet,” he says as he gently cradles him closer to his chest.
“Angel,” he protests.
“Let me take care of you. You've always taken care of me, let me be the one to do it for you this time,” he mutters gently.
Crowley lets out a long, shaky sigh. “Fine. ‘F you ‘nsist,” he croaks out as if giving in to a favor he's doing for him and not the other way around, his eyelids heavy, too tired to put up a fight.
Aziraphale runs his fingers through his hair again soothingly. “Sleep, my love, I’ll carry you,” Aziraphale whispers, slowly standing up, holding him safely in his arms.
Crowley’s eyes finally droop closed as he slips into a deep sleep, his body slumped against his angel as he's carried away to safety.
Aziraphale locks the front door of the bookshop and draws the blinds closed with a snap of his fingers. Then he takes Crowley upstairs to lay him down on the bed of his room, removing his boots, briefly pausing to caress the instep of his foot. He unbuttons his thoroughly stained, ragged shirt to properly inspect the spot where the wound had been. The shirt sticks to his abdomen, so he takes great care to lift it off and aside. The wound is gone, but the whole area is still a complete mess with ichor slowly drying on his skin. He exhales a tired sigh and fetches a wet, warm cloth to gently wipe all that stickiness off, along with his neck and the corners of his mouth from where it had dripped. He then miracles the rest of him clean and fresh, mending his tattered clothes in the process. Just to make sure, he scans his body one more time in search of any other cuts or bruises from the battle before he buttons up his shirt again. Thankfully, they’ve all been healed away too. After some consideration, he looks down at his own stained clothes and miracles himself clean as well, with a fresh set of clothes. He then spends the rest of the day closely monitoring him without ever so much as glancing away.
The sun moves across the sky, dipping into the horizon and giving way to a poorly lit sky where stars hide behind the noise of the city until dawn rises again. Aziraphale watches him like a hawk as he worries his lower lip purple and waits for him to wake up. He’s placed his bedroom’s armchair right next to his bed, to be at his aid at any second. A book rests on his lap, but he hasn't read a single word since they came back, not daring to tear his eyes away from his demon. In the afternoon of the second day, Crowley’s lungs decide to welcome oxygen again, taking his first tentative breath since he went to sleep. Aziraphale watches the minute rise and fall of his chest with hopeful eyes and exhales a long sigh of relief, taking his hand and pressing a firm kiss to it, holding it close to his face as he traces small circles with his thumb into his palm. With his stillness and his lack of breathing, it had been difficult to tell if he was alive, his heartbeat and weakened essence having been the only signs for a day and a half. Aziraphale had kept his fingers pressed to the pulse point on his neck the entire time, finding comfort in its cadence, the steady rhythm soothing him, granting him the promise of seeing those bright, golden eyes and that disarming, wicked smile again soon. Still, Aziraphale doesn't relax, steadfast on keeping watch over him as daylight turns to dusk, dusk to midnight blue and back to a new dawn void of sunlight. The hours crawl by on the third day, the stiff, stifling air thick with tension. Crowley keeps breathing steadily, so Aziraphale breathes with him, sitting there beside him for the rest of eternity if need be. He doesn't have to wait for long though.
Crowley wakes up with a start, falling back into the waking world with abrupt force, his heart hammering against his ribcage as flashes from the battle blur and fade in his mind. He pants as he looks around the unfamiliar room.
“It's alright, dear, we're alright. I’m here,” Aziraphale says in a gentle voice, catching his attention. He stares at him with bright, surprised eyes, unable to hide his elation at seeing him awake once again.
Crowley’s eyes stop their desperate search and turn to stare back at him. Aziraphale’s warm, gentle expression washes away the fright in them, his breath slowing down. “W-where are we?” he rasps.
“In the bookshop, my room,” he gives him a soft smile.
“Oh,” he glances around once more, taking it in slowly this time, taking note of the warm, yellow walls, the packed, messy bookshelves, the charmingly cluttered desk with a framed picture on it - their 1941 magic act. He pretends not to see it, a light flush creeping up his cheeks as he glances away to look out the window on his left, at the glow from the street light seeping in.
“You’ve been here before, I’m sure,” Aziraphale says. “Only a couple times though.”
He thinks for a moment, combing back through his memory until it clicks. “Oh, right. New Year's, 1969,” he croaks. “We came upstairs, we were gonna go watch the fireworks from the rooftop, but you stopped here to get a coat.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale mutters, smiling at the fond memory.
“Then, this other time when you hid me in here because Gabriel was making a surprise visit. But it was dark then, the lamp wasn't on,” he remembers.
“Oh, right. Sorry about that time,” he says with a hint of embarrassment.
“‘S’alright,” he gazes back at him with tired eyes and offers a tiny smile.
The fragile vulnerability in his gaze makes a knot in the angel's throat and Aziraphale does his best to return the smile as he shifts in his seat. “Um. Would you like to have something? Water? Tea? A snack?”
“No, thanks,” his voice scratches against his frayed vocal chords. “Or…maybe water, yeah,” he says, feeling his mouth dry.
“Alright,” Aziraphale reaches for the tartan water bottle on the bedside table, unscrews the cap and hands it to him, miracling a straw in.
“Thanks,” he whispers as he takes the bottle. Before his lips reach the straw, Aziraphale’s hand slides behind his head and gently tilts it up for him. “Ngk. Y-you don't have to,” he protests, but lets him anyway as he sips from the straw. He's thirstier than he had thought, downing almost the whole bottle before handing it back.
“How are you feeling?” Aziraphale asks as he lowers his head back onto the pillow.
“Sore,” he licks his lips, looking up at the ceiling. “‘nd exhausted. But better. Loads better,” he sighs.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Aziraphale mutters, his eyes getting misty.
Crowley doesn't miss the slight waver in his voice. He gazes back at him, catching the glimmer in his eyes, and wordlessly holds out his hand. Aziraphale’s watery eyes look down at it and he hesitantly takes it in both of his, cradling it like a treasure. He blinks, and a single tear rolls down his cheek. His lower lip wobbles as he brings Crowley’s hand up to it, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to his knuckles. Crowley watches, feeling crushed by the weight of his tenderness. Aziraphale trembles as he closes his eyes with his hand pressed against his face, holding back tears.
“Hey,” Crowley whispers, stroking his cheek. “It's alright.”
“I almost lost you,” he says in the tiniest voice, on the verge of breaking.
“But you didn't. I’m here. I’m right here,” he mutters. “You saved me.”
Aziraphale sniffles. “And you saved me ,” a sad, little grin tugs at the corner of his lips.
“Of course. Always,” he whispers, tracing little circles along his jaw. “And we saved humanity. And us…”
Aziraphale gives a tiny nod before squeezing his eyes shut and letting out a shuddering breath, shaking as he fights his tears.
Crowley’s eyes soften. “Hey…no, Angel. Come here,” he whispers, sliding his hand to the back of his head to pull him close.
Aziraphale slowly lays his head down on his shoulder, hiding his face there as he cries silently.
“Shhh…it's okay. I’m okay. We're okay,” Crowley buries his nose into his soft, fluffy curls as he snakes his arm around his shoulders and cards his fingers through his hair with his other hand, occasionally tracing little circles with his fingertips as he massages his scalp. He feels the angel start to calm down after a while, no longer shaking and only sniffling from time to time.
“Better?”
“Yes,” Aziraphale whispers, nuzzling his shoulder. “Thank you, dearest,” he says as he slowly lifts his head back up.
Crowley stares at him with naked longing in his eyes. He swallows dryly. “So uh…Now that the world is safe and everyone is free and everything…A-are you gonna stay here? On Earth?”
“Of course I will. Where else would I go?” A slight crease furrows his brow.
Crowley shrugs, glancing away. “Dunno. It's a big universe. You could, I don't know, go off with other angels, explore other galaxies, whatever.”
“Earth is my home, Crowley,” he says gently. “... You are my home,” he adds after a moment, reaching for his hand again.
Crowley’s eyes snap back to him, a mix of hope and incredulity etched onto his features. He glances down at their joined hands and back at his face. His lip quivers, trying to form words. He finds his bravery at the squeeze of his hand.
“Nnh...Back out there, when you healed me. You…you called me your love,” he mutters.
“I did…You are ,” Aziraphale’s face mirrors his agonized longing in those stormy blue eyes.
A soft little sigh escapes his lips. “W…what does that mean?”
“It means...It means that wherever you go, I will follow,” he clasps his hand in both of his again. “It means you're my whole world,” love and longing pours out of him, painting his entire face in burning starlight. “It means…I want a future with you, if you’ll still have me. With no fear, and no restraints. Out in the open. Free ,” he whispers the last word.
Crowley trembles as his eyes blur with unshed tears, his pupils starting to dilate. “What if you regret it?”
Aziraphale frowns slightly. “A six thousand year old wish? Impossible,” he shakes his head.
He bites his lower lip. “I can't be the angel you want me to be,” he mutters.
Aziraphale shakes his head, his frown deepening. “I don't want you to be an angel, Crowley. I only asked because I thought it was a way to keep you safe and happy. I-I thought that if we both went back to Heaven, we could have been together and have changed things, but-but I was wrong, I wasn't thinking right, I was panicking,” he tries to discreetly wipe a tear from his cheek. “But I just wanted you to be happy. That's all I’ve ever wanted. I want you for you , and I only want your happiness,” his eyes are screaming.
“You make me happy…” There's a tremor in his voice as tears threaten to spill from his eyes.
“Then be with me,” He squeezes his hand.
Crowley’s lip quivers. “And you won't leave?” he asks in the smallest voice, his pupils blown wide, looking scared as a child. He knows it, and he hates it, and he doesn't care.
“Never,” he shakes his head, leaning down to kiss his forehead. Crowley closes his eyes at the contact, letting a few tears spill. Aziraphale presses his own forehead against his. He opens his eyes. “Never again. The only reason I did was because I had no real choice, Crowley, you know that. And I had to protect this. Us. The world. This new freedom we’ve so desperately craved and needed.”
Crowley nods slowly. “And you did,” Crowley whispers, a stray tear escaping the corner of his eye, the ghost of a grin grazing his lips.
“We both did,” he gently wipes his tear with his thumb. “With your help, and everyone who supported us,” Aziraphale lightly strokes his cheek with his free hand.
His light touch tickles his skin, and it's so soft he feels he could live hanging on those fingertips forevermore. Crowley hesitates to say the words caught in his throat in fear that speaking them out loud would undo them. But he does anyway.
“We're free,” he whispers, the words sounding alien, like a blatant joke. And yet it isn't. It's real. “We're really free.”
“We're free,” his angel repeats with a gentle smile, nuzzling his nose. Then he finally throws all caution to the wind, the thought of holding back anymore unbearable. “Crowley, I love you.”
His words hit him like lightning, electrifying his entire being down to every atom. Crowley shudders as he lets out a tiny, strangled gasp, tears flowing freely from his eyes. “I love you-mm! ”
Aziraphale captures his lips, and once the sensation settles in, his whole being fills with thunderous relief and a sense of coming home for the first time. The angel claims him for himself, his lips gentle yet unrelenting as he drinks from his mouth his warm taste and soft sounds, his one oasis in the middle of a vast, unforgiving desert. Aziraphale tugs his lower lip between his teeth and sucks on it gently, tracing his tongue along its inner side. Crowley moans softly into his mouth, kissing him with an agonized need, nipping and sucking on his lips in return. He winds his arms around his shoulder and waist to bring him closer onto the bed. Aziraphale half climbs on top of him as he props himself up on his forearms on either side of him and lifts one leg onto the bed, settling his knee between Crowley’s legs as he slips his hands under his back with utmost care.
Aziraphale dives into his mouth and Crowley welcomes his tongue, savoring it like it's the finest delicacy, the finest vintage, addicted to its taste, its warmth, its sweet slickness and the way it glides against his own as if it had been made for this and this alone. Aziraphale lets out little sighs and quiet moans and Crowley captures and swallows every single one. His hands explore the expanse of his angel’s back, slowly running them up and down, testing its soft give, pressing them along his sides, squeezing gently, tracing nonsensical patterns all over and raising goosebumps across his skin. Aziraphale moves a hand up to his hair, gently combing it back and massaging his scalp, his fingers drowning in those soft, red curls. They share slow, gentle kisses, silly kisses, needy kisses, soft, chaste kisses between all the more heated and ravenous ones with blatant disregard to the passage of time, getting lost in all their loving touches as the minutes dissolve away.
“Lie down with me?” Crowley whispers eventually, lips still clinging onto his.
Aziraphale nods and drops one last kiss onto his lips before snapping away his day clothes, replacing them with his tartan pyjamas. Crowley grunts softly as he scoots over for him while Aziraphale turns off the lamp on the nightstand.
“Oh, dear. Let me help you-”
“It’s fine, angel. ‘S just soreness,” he groans as he settles back down, a task so monumental it leaves him panting softly.
Aziraphale pouts. “Don’t over exert yourself,” he admonishes as he slides in beside him, laying on his side to face him.
“‘M not,” Crowley grumbles.
Aziraphale snuggles up to his shoulder. “Wouldn't you be more comfortable in your pyjamas?”
“Oh,” he says as he takes one look down at the clothes he’s been wearing for days now. “Yeah, good point,” he snaps his clothes away, replacing them with fine, silk, black pyjamas. He lets out a long sigh of contentment. “Much better.”
“Mm,” his angel nuzzles into his shoulder.
Crowley smiles down at the sight of him, having the strange urge to capture this precise moment in time and keep it locked in a special place forever. “Can I? Uh,” he hesitates.
“Hm?”
“...Can I hold you?” He mutters, his voice uncharacteristically shy.
“Wouldn't it hurt?” Aziraphale frowns in concern.
“Nah, not if. Hm…” he thinks of what position would be most comfortable and less likely to press into his soreness.
“How about I hold you?” Aziraphale offers.
Crowley hesitates, a light flush creeping up his cheeks. “Alright.”
Aziraphale smiles and slowly slides an arm under him, carefully pulling him close so he can lie on his chest, on his side so nothing presses onto his chest or abdomen. “How’s that?”
“Mmphm,” Crowley replies as he nestles his head against his chest and drapes an arm around him, feeling like he's floating on clouds. The fluffiest cloud.
Aziraphale chuckles quietly as he brings his other hand up to caress his hair. Crowley revels in the warmth and gentle give of his body beneath him, in the tender touch of his hand, the reassuring arm around him, in the comforting rhythm of his heart and the slow rise and fall of his breathing. They share a comfortable silence for a moment as they take the time to simply feel each other, delighting in their little nest of comfort, finding peace in the gentle darkness of the room.
“Since when?” Crowley suddenly breaks the silence, knowing he would understand his question.
“Hm…it’s hard to tell, if I’m honest. But I knew there was something about you that just. Captivated me. From the moment we met, and I watched you create all those stars…” he briefly sounds far away, like going back to that precise, precious moment in time.
Crowley smiles softly, the memory of starlight ticking his fingers. He presses a lingering kiss to his chest.
“Then when I saw you again in the garden, and we weathered that first rainstorm together,” he continues as he keeps stroking his hair. “I don’t know why, but I just. Knew. There was something special about you that would have a hold on me for a long, long time. Even if I had never seen you again, I know I would've thought of you for the rest of my days.”
“Hm,” Crowley smiles earnestly, something warm and fluttery stirring in the pit of his stomach. He squeezes him gently.
“How about you?” Aziraphale asks.
“The garden. I mean, I didn’t know know, but. I guess I felt something similar,” he nuzzles into him. “That was the first time anyone had been kind to me since before the Fall. And I knew I wanted to see you again. And again. And again.”
“Oh, my Crowley,” he whispers into his hair and kisses the top of his head. “I love you so.”
“I love you too,” he whispers, squeezing him gently again, the words feeling so liberating on his tongue, like taking a breath of fresh air for the first time.
He presses soft kisses to his chest until his eyelids droop closed, his angel’s soothing hand carding through his hair and the gentle beat of his heart lulling him to sleep.
A few days later, Crowley has significantly recovered, now being able to sit up and move around at last, though there's still some soreness around the area where the wound had been.
They lie on Aziraphale’s bed one lazy morning. Aziraphale’s lips brush feather-light kisses along the long, thick, golden scar between Crowley’s ribs, careful to not apply any pressure as he showers his skin with tender love and care. He sees the scar as both a curse and a blessing as it smiles mockingly at him, a reminder of his failure to protect his love, a reminder of what he could've lost, but it also reminds him of the precious life he saved, thankful to see the proof of his survival etched onto his skin in gold. So he kisses it, reverent and solemn as he worships him from head to toe, hoping that way to heal the parts of him he couldn't heal with miracles alone. Crowley watches him with love pouring out of his eyes as he gently caresses his soft curls, obsessed with twirling them around in his fingers, ruffling them up, and then combing them back down. Aziraphale smiles softly as he moves lower, slowly trailing kisses along his belly down to his hip.
What once was a dangerous game, a mortal threat to their very existence, is now their safe haven and their very reason to live. To live an eternity safe in each other's arms, barely paying any attention to the decades and centuries flying past them, too busy being lost within one another to notice the existence of time.