#i'm gonna flee to a cave on a deserted isle somewhere now

[thatswhatwaterslidesoff]

ok since I have literal no chill here's a prompt ('cause I'm a mood for comfort + smoochy protective bf): something about that post with Zira nursing an old First-War injury to the leg that was borderline lethal, and Crowley finding out about it? Maybe it keeps bothering once he gets his body back after the Apocalypse That Wasn't, and Crowley comes to realize that one, he nearly lost /his/ angel before even meeting him and two, some of the despicable Hell gang Downstairs is responsible?

know what? i have absolutely no fucking chill either so here’s an accidental 4k+ long ficlet about aziraphale’s war wound and two traumatized old war veterans trying to cope in the aftermath of The First War and Armagedidn’t.

… i have nothing to say for myself

@coffeesugarcream

Aziraphale was many things. He was a lover of ancient books, prophecies of Armageddon (none of which turned out to be more hideous than what actually happened, despite the fervent imagination of humans, but that may simply be because he lived through it); he was a connoisseur of food and desserts and of wine. His skills in accounting were unparalleled. He was lovely and soft, by nature as well as by choice. However, under that initial softness, covered by tartan and too many layers of clothing, could be felt (and often would be, at every given opportunity, by Crowley) a steely pane of brawn that gave away his history as one of Heaven’s foot soldiers. That simmering warrior would always burn underneath, forever only to be brought out when the people he cared for were in dire need of it. This being said, the angel was also other things. A bit of a bastard, mischievous eyes, and secret smiles. He engaged in sin, which Crowley actively indulged in a benevolent way. The worst aspect of himself would probably be that he tended to keep things he should confide in Crowley to himself. Maybe it was pride or fear. His desire to protect Crowley, at all costs. He preferred not to look too closely. There were many things that had happened to Aziraphale that he kept to himself. His part in The First War was the main one, but neither of them talked about that with each other, ever unable to face the realities of that traumatizing battle despite eons of padding between then and now. 

In the aftermath of the Armageddon-that-wasn’t, there was too much of an adrenaline high for Aziraphale to think about the phantom pain in his leg whenever he took a step. Delirium overtook him once they arrived at Crowley’s flat. Everything was a blur of touch and skin contact, the demon’s soft hisses and desperate writhing under his influence, that too pale skin flushed against the backdrop of silk sheets.. There was a far more pressing matter consider, such as saving Crowley and himself from the wrath of the combined forces of Heaven and Hell. That sort of fell into place on its own, from their union. Then he had to beat the pain back with a huge stick because he needed to be flawless while impersonating Crowley. Once that was taken care of, both of them back in their own bodies, the rush of it all bleeding out of him, there was nothing left to distract him, and his mind cast back to when he was first placed in this plump and comforting vessel. It had taken him nearly a century for the old war wound to settle into an insusceptible hum at the back of his mind, something that bothered him very rarely when he was feeling particularly lonely or on those occasional days when he felt outside of himself.

He almost felt guilty realizing that Madame Tracy must have felt the wound brush against her soul, too, and didn’t wonder why she was so ecstatic to be rid of him (Okay, that may have had to do with the fact that he was going to kill Adam, but really. People are complex and Aziraphale was certain that the soul searing pain within the area of his corporeal thigh was one of the reasons, too.) The angel resolved to send her and Shadwell wine every New Year and cards of their holiday choice for the rest of their lives for all the inconveniences he put them through. But Madame Tracy and Shadwell weren’t the problem. The problem was keeping up face in front of Crowley. Well, it wasn’t a problem, per say. More of a dilemma. Oh, Aziraphale knew the charade couldn’t last long. He was simply hoping he could hide his pain for at least a decade. His reasoning was that while Crowley hadn’t explicitly said, Aziraphale could connect the dots. The only way Crowley could have had Agnes Nutter’s Book of Prophecies was if he had gone into the bookshop during the fire. Aziraphale couldn’t see Crowley in the pub that day, yet Crowley’s broken, wet voice told the angel everything he needed to know. I lost my best friend would haunt him into eternity. Yes, telling Crowley would definitely have to wait.

As it was, Crowley- wonderful, attentive, intelligent, observant Crowley- picked up something was wrong the night they went home on the First Day of the Rest of Their Lives.

Everything had been going so perfectly. They had eaten a glorious lunch at the Ritz, which turned into wine, and eventually into dinner. Life around them was cast in the deep oranges and purples of the sunset when they left the building. Instead of their usual postures, hands in front or in pockets, never touching, they allowed their hands find each others half way. They returned, hand in hand, to the Bentley, and Crowley took them for a drive with absolutely no destination in mind. The soft old serpent actually had the courtesy to obey the speed limits for him until they were in deserted streets, where he allowed himself to speed along winding roads. Aziraphale couldn’t complain, channeling anxiety into exhilaration that pulsed through his human veins. He wanted to feel it. Both of them did. What Aziraphale most definitely did not want to feel was the pain, blossoming slowly and all-encompassing down his leg and reaching to grip just under his hip. Unfortunately, in this case, he did not get what he wanted. By the time they rolled into Soho, Crowley parking in his usual space in front of the bookshop, Aziraphale had to make a concerted effort to ignore his soul enduring agony.

Crowley popped out first, eager, to open the door for Aziraphale and the angel smiled politely, crows-feet at his eyes tightening when he lifted out of the car. Crowley’s easy smile faded. Damn.

“Anything wrong?”

“No, no, course not. What would give you that idea? I’m quite fine. Thank you.”

Not for one second did either of them think Crowley believed that. They were too smart, knew each other too well. Crowley’s jaw twitched, clearly trying to control a deep-seated heartache.

“Really, m’dear. It’s alright.” Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand, quickly. His free hand lifted to brush the backs of his fingers along Crowley’s jaw, take his lean cheek into its warm palm. Soft whisper, full of conviction, he continued, “It will be. I am on Our Side now.”

The Truth of that statement rang through them both on a spiritual level. Something calmed in the demon, his face softening in a way that always made Aziraphale’s breath hitch, and his head instantly tilted into Aziraphale’s hand to nuzzle, pushing the angel’s palm away with his nose to steal a quick, chaste kiss to the sensitive flesh right in the center. His own sinewy hand caught Aziraphale’s to twine their fingers together.

Aziraphale swallowed the pain in his soul and in his heart. “This is simply something I need bear for myself. For a time.”

“‘Course, if you’re sure.”

So Crowley let it slide. Six-thousand years of history told him that Aziraphale wouldn’t tell him until he was ready, and Crowley had built up six-thousand years worth of patience set aside only for him. He was simply happy that Aziraphale was no longer pushing him away. These thoughts made Aziraphale’s heart ache, almost tempted to tell but he couldn’t, unsure why. To protect Crowley, maybe, or maybe to protect himself from memories long since buried away in an antique chest at the back of his mind.

While Aziraphale fiddled with the keys to the door, unwilling to use a miracle to open it, Crowley suddenly caught his wrist. Something just occurred to him, something that couldn’t wait after all.

“Wait, angel.”

Aziraphale paused. He looked up at Crowley’s face with fluttering lashes. “Yes?”

“You would tell me, if whatever is going on with you had to do with..” He flapped his free hand. “Downstairs. Right?”

“Oh. Yes, of course. It has nothing to do with that. I would have told you.”

Part of Crowley doubted that, but he believed him. Being a demon, he could usually sense lies- that sense was a lot stronger with Aziraphale, if mostly because the angel was a terrible liar. “Yes, alright. Fine. Good.” He slid his hand back into Aziraphale’s to entwine their fingers.

Aziraphale beamed, squeezed Crowley’s hand, and popped the door to the shop open with a shove.

Once inside, the door closed and locked itself. Ambient luster from street lights poured in through the windows. Crowley took off his sunglasses, hid them away in his coat pocket, shining eyes vulnerable to Aziraphale in the semi-dark of the shop. It made the angel’s heart overcome with untold happiness, desirous to close what little physical distance was left between them. They crashed onto the couch, it feeling far more intimate than the idea of the barely used bedroom upstairs, their hands held together. Lazily, the pair of them touched, fingers sliding up each other’s sleeves, bodies leaning heavily together, soft kisses to foreheads and cheeks, never going too far. They were too tired and that could wait. They had all the time in the world. For now. Eventually, they let their exhausted souls rest, and Aziraphale never slept so easily as he did when his body was fit up against Crowley’s, warm and safe. It wasn’t a heavy sleep. His incorporeal form throbbed, fire and ice in a war that would never be won. But he could push it away, focus on the steady, snuffling breaths of the demon beneath him.

In the next few days, Crowley hung around the bookshop. The steadiness of him made Aziraphale all smiles, caused him to be decent to some customers even! (Not that he was ever mean… never mean. Terse, at best. “Yes, Crowley, terse.” “Whatever you say, angel.”) Much to Crowley’s amusement. Crowley always made sure to cause enough distractions and haze the minds of those who got too close to the books the demon knew to be off-limits. His hardened occult heart melted at the telling delight on Aziraphale’s face that let him know these deeds were not going unnoticed.

Daily, Crowley would leave to care for his plants. Aziraphale would let his guard down, allow himself to grimace and work through the damage permanently etched into his being. There were no real pain killers for this sort of thing so he suffered quietly, just like in the Beginning. He would limp around the bookshop, taking inventory, occasionally needing to lean against a wall. Then Crowley would be back, hours later, with divine, expensive chocolates or a bottle of fine wine with a selection of cheeses from their favorite delicatessen down the street in Soho. Tonight was no different. The foul fiend slithered up behind him in one of the many isles of shelves, grinning face instantly meeting Aziraphale’s neck, as he held out a package, with a rich Devil’s Food Cake, wrapped in a small bow. Aziraphale nearly swooned. Whether it was from the sight of the dessert or from Crowley’s warm lips pressing a tender kiss to the curve of his throat, he wasn’t sure. “Oh, oh my- that seems scrumptious.” Quickly, he took the box from Crowley’s hand, placed it on the shelf in front of him and wheeled around to Crowley’s stunned face. Aziraphale placed his fingers delicately on Crowley’s sunglasses. “May I?” he asked.

Crowley nodded, “Mmhmm.”

With reverence, Aziraphale took the sunglasses off, folded them and placed them safely by the cake (The cake would keep fresh until it was ready to be eaten). He faced Crowley, stopping for a few moments to admire his luminous yellow eyes. Adoration hammered Aziraphale’s chest at the playful, loving look from within them, and he lurched forward. Their kisses were sloppy, full of tongue. Aziraphale’s hands slid up Crowley’s chest, hands mussing Crowley’s short but perfectly stylized hair. He gasped when Crowley’s sharp teeth bit his bottom lip, dragging away with a soft pop, immediately taking advantage of Aziraphale’s parted lips again.

Alright, it was Aziraphale’s own fault in the end that Crowley found out so soon. He just.. simply could not stop himself from touching Crowley now. Not now that it was okay. Now that it was safe. He was drunk from the mere thought. Memories of their closeness at Tadfield Manor and their heated night in Crowley’s flat after the world didn’t end caused his head to swim.

Right now, they had clumsily found their way onto the couch. Aziraphale’s grin was mad between their clashing lips, fingers of one hand curled into Crowley’s jacket, fingers of the other curled into the back of Crowley’s neck, desperate for him to be closer. He may have gotten overly enthusiastic when he swung his bad leg over Crowley’s thighs and he winced with a tight intake of breath.

Everything came to a halt. Crowley’s hands stilled at Aziraphale’s hips, face taking on the stiff expression he always got when he was being serious, careful with Aziraphale.

“Aziraphale. What-”

“No, no. It’s fine.”

“No. It isn’t.”

“Hush, dear.” Aziraphale tried to kiss Crowley’s lips again, desperate to move past what just happened but Crowley actually turned his face away, tilted his head back a bit, to keep his eyes on the angel’s face. Cold sweat was beading under the blond curls resting over his forehead. His normally steady body was trembling. Frustration settled deep in Aziraphale’s chest, and he growled. “Fuck.”

A series of emotions crossed over Crowley’s bared face, eyes naked to imprint the full depth of what the demon felt. First and foremost was anger- anger that Aziraphale had lied to him about this- the lying wasn’t even the problem (although in hindsight it probably should have been, but Crowley knew what he was getting into), it was what he had lied about- and Aziraphale felt a rush of shame. The next was deep, unabashed concern, his yellow-slit eyes widening a fraction, and he quickly shifted Aziraphale off of him, much to both of their discontent. Crowley snapped a comfortable leg rest into existence underneath the leg Aziraphale was clutching.

“Oh, thank you.” Aziraphale’s blush and small, pleased smile was almost enough to distract him. Almost.

Sympathy was next, as Crowley reached over to Aziraphale to cup his cheeks. He pressed their foreheads together. Something manic bubbled in Aziraphale’s chest, but he couldn’t push Crowley away.

“This wound isn’t physical. I would have noticed.” Crowley’s voice was a deep, hollow murmur.

“Yes,” Aziraphale shakily answered.

“Let me see?” It was a gentle request.

They both knew if Aziraphale said no, Crowley would back off. Suddenly, Aziraphale couldn’t deny him anymore. He swallowed and nodded, imperceptibly, brushing his nose against Crowley’s. Crowley took a shaky breath himself and reached out with his essence. Aziraphale shivered as he felt the occult quintessence of Crowley brush against his ethereal soul, allowing himself to bask in the scalding heat of it, foreign yet so strangely familiar to the undulating warmth of his own holy light. They both gasped, one laden with desire, the other marred with anxiety, and one of Crowley’s hands covered Aziraphale’s thigh. The link between them snapped shut, unceremoniously, neither sure who was responsible. Crowley hissed.

“Angel,” Crowley’s husky tone was strangled by a semi-furious growl. “That wound was near lethal. Had that been any different- Yu-you could.. have.. have been. Gone.” Ghosts of flames seemed to burst to life in the room around them in Crowley’s mind. He could smell smoke that was no longer there, hadn’t been for nearly a week. “How- why- you should have told me. I could have hurt you. Just now. What were you thinking?”

So Aziraphale told the truth, through a desperate, distressed giggle, “Frankly, my dear, I wasn’t.”

Crowley fixed him with an intense glower. He took a deep breath as he schooled himself, eyes closing for the first time in days when it didn’t involve kissing, then his eyelids flew open, yellow covering the whites of his eyes, in a fit of panic, mouth moving, incomplete noises tripping from his throat until he could muster up real words. “Did I hurt you? That night. In my flat? When we-”

“What, no!”

“Aziraphale-” Crowley hissed, body coiled, all anxious trepidation.

“No, my dear. You genuinely didn’t.” The angel hurriedly cut him off, then spoke calmer; “My mind was rather preoccupied.” And Aziraphale switched on his most innocent look.

The anxiety didn’t leave Crowley completely, but he did manage a snort. His jaw moved, teeth gritting under tight skin. “When?” he demanded. “Who?” Oh, someone was going to pay. Hell may be ignoring him but Satan help anyone who got in the way of him destroying whoever it was that did this to his angel.

“Oh, it was so long ago, really,” Aziraphale giggled again, nervous, worried, and Crowley swallowed.

“The War.”

There was a drawn out silence.

“Yes.” Aziraphale placed his hand on Crowley’s, who tried pulling it away, but the angel kept it steady, flattened the palm against his thigh. “The War.”

They were both trembling now, keeping eye contact. This was something they had once agreed never to talk about, long ago, when they nearly came close during one of their many drinking sessions that occurred after Rome. For six millennia, they had seen humans torture and maim each other. The two of them had actively participated in the Crusades. They had passively participated in the World Wars. None of those experiences would ever compare to the innocence they lost during The First War. Through the haunted fogs of his own memories, the wave of freezing cold realization crashed into Crowley’s mind, splashing unceremoniously to soak into the core of his heart and trickling the rest of the way down his spine.

“Y-you almos- We may not have-” The slits of Crowley’s eyes thinned into barely visible strips, heart pounding in his chest.

“But I didn’t!” Aziraphale hastily replied, brave in the face of Crowley’s mounting panic attack. He released Crowley’s hand, shifted in a way careful of his leg. Strong hands rested on Crowley’s chest, slid up to Crowley’s shoulders, and he pressed a chaste kiss to Crowley’s lips. He brushed his fingers into the candy-apple red locks of the demon’s hair to gently rest Crowley’s head against his chest. “I’m here, Crowley.” Crowley’s shoulders shook, breathing erratic, and Aziraphale stroked his hair and kissed his head, patiently waited the several long minutes for Crowley to calm. “I’m right here. Everything’s okay.” He continued to murmur reassurances until Crowley’s breathing steadied.

When Crowley’s voice came again, it was hoarse and wet. “I always wondered why you were posted to the Eastern Gate. Guess that answers that question.”

Aziraphale lifted Crowley’s head, wiping tears with his thumbs, “I was wounded. Wasn’t much use in Heaven, because of it, I’m afraid. Rather desperate to get away, actually. Not that I wanted to leave forever. Simply. Wanted to forget.”

Crowley nodded, swallowed, and instantly his anger resurfaced, full force, in the wake of his wrecked emotions. His eyes burned red at the edges, and Aziraphale tried desperately not to be hopelessly aroused by that feral countenance but decided he didn’t care. Holy Hell that look was hot on Crowley’s face, especially when it was displayed in the palms of his hands this way.

“Crowley, dear-”

“Ssspill it, angel. Who did thissss to you?”

“Dear-”

“Who?”

“Darling.” Aziraphale exerted some of his angelic will. He needn’t have bothered. The use of that term of endearment was enough to momentarily distract Crowley until he was narrowing his eyes again.

“Aziraphale. I am going to find who almost took you away from me.”

“It’s not like you would have know- Shit.” That was entirely the wrong thing to say.

Fresh tears sizzled at the edges of Crowley’s burning eyes. “No. I wouldn’t. That’sss the point, angel. Don’t ssssay that. Ever again.”

“Crowley, listen to me. It was a war. It’s not like it was personal-”

Crowley hissed. “That whole War was persssonal.”

“But that demon’s actions weren’t personal against me. I don’t even know who they were.”

The idea that he may have worked with the demon, maybe demons, who had done this made Crowley sick. He found himself running through every contact he had ever had with any and all other demons, tried to remember if any of them had ever taunted him about Aziraphale specifically. “Would you recognize them?”

Aziraphale’s silence was a hard tell, but he persisted. “Crowley. It was six-thousand years ago. If it hadn’t been me, it would have been someone else-”

“Would have been better if it had.”

With a patient look, worn from many years of use, Aziraphale let a smirk show. “My dear, while I find your usual show of gallantry to be very romantic-”

“Not meant to be romantic,” Crowley muttered, in a weak argument.

That made Aziraphale smile more. He couldn’t help it, he leaned over and kissed the corner of Crowley’s rouge lips. Crowley returned it briefly before Aziraphale could keep talking. “I would rather us not immediately start another fight with either Heaven or Hell this soon into our freedom.”

Thankfully, the angel’s logic pierced the veil of Crowley’s righteous fury and seemed to placate him into half-hearted mulishness. The rage would take some time calm, but he would make a concerted effort for Aziraphale. Anything, for his angel.

Crowley sighed, voiced a concern he’d been letting rest in the back of his own dusty mind. “They will come for us again, eventually, you know.”

“No, my dear. We don’t. Even so, it will be some time before then.”

Crowley gave Aziraphale a sharp look. Sure, okay, it may be some vague point on the future horizon. Still. They needed to be ready. But this was a conversation that could wait for another day. Maybe.

Waves of sadness washed into the places abandoned by the demon’s slowly receding rage. It threatened to consume him. He knelt down between Aziraphale’s legs and pressed his fingers hesitantly to the corporeal leg, where the wound ached beneath. Again, Crowley extended his soul to tickle against Aziraphale’s, waiting for consent.

“Yes?”

Aziraphale hummed, and Crowley laid his head on the leg. He felt Aziraphale’s essence become pliant, allowing Crowley to tenderly tend to the pain in Aziraphale’s leg at the source. An indecent noise escaped the angel, one hand instantly seeking purchase in Crowley’s hair.

“It feels like.. what I suppose muscle damage would be to a human, in this body. Much easier to handle, of course, than out of it.” Aziraphale speculated, out loud, needing to chatter. He carded a set of plump fingers through Crowley’s deflated hair. The demon sighed. His eyes scrunched closed, as he realized Aziraphale dealt with this in silence and he hadn’t noticed. He hadn’t noticed a damn thing. Crowley knew it was irrational, but he hated that he hadn’t been able to help somehow. Can’t entirely help now. He listened as Aziraphale slowly began again. “It,” he paused. “It struck me rather violently when I was discorporated. I hadn’t felt it full force in so long.” A weak laugh. Then silence.

Crowley worriedly opened his eyes and tilted his head to look at Aziraphale, whose eyes were wet, tears threatening to leave him.

“Oh, Crowley, I was so.. so terrified, back then. When it happened. During the whole fight. And then.. then.. I was faced with having to ki..ll-” Aziraphale’s voice broke around that last word, and the angel put his own fist to his mouth, biting down on the knuckles. “It hurt. So badly. But who was I to complain? Others were wounded worse. Gone.” The angel was biting down so hard to keep his emotions at bay, his knuckles were beginning to bruise. “I am so sorry, Crowley. I know we promised never to speak of this, but-”

Crowley sprung to Aziraphale’s side on the couch. “Shh, shh, shh.” He softly hushed. Very carefully, he lifted the angel into his lap, a cushion for Aziraphale’s leg surprised to find itself come into being out of Crowley’s sheer force of will. “Shh.” The demon intercepted the angel’s blemished hand and tenderly touched his thin lips to each knuckle. Sensitive, damaged skin healed itself in the wake of each peck. “Listen, Aziraphale. I don’t want you to ever feel frightened of talking to me, about anything, or to be frightened of me at all if being candid is what we’re doing right now.”

Quivery laughter twinkled through barely contained sobs, and Aziraphale gratefully hooked onto the change in subject. “My dearest Crowley. If your Hellish fury moments ago wasn’t enough to send me running hastily for the hills, then I’m sure nothing you do ever could.”

“Well, that ire wasn’t aimed at you, now was it?” Crowley nipped playfully at Aziraphale’s ear, hands rubbing the angel’s sides and back.

“One might still find such expressions frightening when faced in their direction.”

Crowley’s grin resembled a shark’s, fully pressed into Aziraphale’s soft cheek. He kissed it.

“I’m not afraid of you, my dear.” Aziraphale paused, sighed, when Crowley’s lips peppered kisses over the apples of the angel’s cheeks, nuzzling his nose into the soft skin as he went. When Aziraphale’s voice returned, it was steadier. “I don’t think I ever have been. I’m-mm-” He stole a kiss. “I’m afraid for you.”

“I’m more than afraid enough for the both of us, thanks.”

That reply made Aziraphale sniffle. One of Crowley’s hands snaked lazily up the back of the angel’s neck, pads of his fingers smoothing over and into Aziraphale’s downy, blond curls, twirled and bounced individual locks. The other hand, strong and slender, rubbed up and down Aziraphale’s injured thigh. Hazy warmth radiated from Crowley’s soul to keep Aziraphale’s pain at bay, continuous in his spiritual massage. Moments of this gentle comfort passed and the swell that was building within the angel was coming to a head. Aziraphale tilted his head back, screwing his eyes shut, continuing to thwart the swell until heated lips pressed openly onto the hollow of his throat. Something about that intimate touch caused his last defenses to crumble, a broken cry wrenched from the angel’s throat, and his tears fell freely. Aziraphale clung to Crowley’s lithe form, and the demon felt tears sting at the corners of his own eyes while the angel wept against his shoulder. They were both due for a good cry, he supposed, but the tears wouldn’t come for him, still too wrung out from all the crying he did last week. He forced himself to focus on the very real weight of Aziraphale’s corporeal form shuddering in his arms, to breathe in the scent of Aziraphale’s books, safe and sound, not a flame among them, the feel of Aziraphale’s angelic warmth through the skin of his vessel.

They had both survived. Somehow. They were alive and safe. Best of all, they had each other, with no one standing between them any longer.

Neither of them were sure how much time passed. It didn’t really matter. Not to eternal beings such as themselves. But eventually Aziraphale’s shudders calmed into trembles then, slowly, pacified altogether. He sniffed, using one thumb to rub at one of his own cheeks, used a minor miracle to clean the rest of his face.

“I rather feel I ruined the mood. So sorry, my dear.”

Crowley couldn’t help but smirk, huff. The smirk relaxed into a soft, fond smile and he shifted underneath Aziraphale so he could cup the angel’s face with both of his hands, long thumbs firmly smoothing over Aziraphale’s cheeks, under his eyes, along the soft curves of his jaw. He ghosted their lips together, breathy, “We’ll find it again.” His amber eyes, no longer red at the edges with rage or full with the threat of panic, met Aziraphale’s too bright, too blue irises before he caught the angel’s full lips half way in a deep kiss. Their essences remained intrinsically linked, bright red inferno and shining blue holy light blending into a beautiful burst of purple nebula within the aether.

Days later, when they were ready to be up and about again, Aziraphale found a well crafted, hardwood cane with a sharp metal dove on the handle. A sweet little smile tugged his lips and he looked at very coy Crowley, who lurked about the books, pretending to all the world as if he hadn’t spent the better part of the afternoon trollying around London to find it.

“I love it, my dear, thank you.” Aziraphale tightened his grip, possessively, on the length of the cane.

“Yeah, well, seemed your style.” Crowley spoke, voice gravelly to save face, and he wiggled his body. He slunk over and pressed a chaste kiss to Aziraphale’s lips. “Fresh air?”

“Yes. That would be lovely.”

They stepped out onto the pavement in tandem, grasped for each other’s hand, decided without speaking to take a stroll through St. James’ Park. They would take the Bentley, and Crowley would obey the speed limit again. For now. Aziraphale secretly hoped Crowley’s newfound respect for the laws of the road wouldn’t last, despite appreciating the sentiment. He needn’t have worried. Of course, it wouldn’t.

Aziraphale was many things. Book lover, food and wine connoisseur. Soft and lovely. Unflappable. Manipulative bastard. Warrior. However, there were two things that he took the most pride in over all of these other aspects:

Aziraphale was desperately, emphatically, irrevocably in love with Crowley. He had always been. Knew he was meant to be. Knew he always would be.

And Crowley loved him too.