Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It had been a full week since the end of the world. People went through their daily lives, perfectly unbothered by the post-apocalyptic climate that ruled over the world; not that they would find this Wednesday particularly different from their pre-apocalypse ones. All in all, the world was turning and people were going about their daily business, completely unbothered by recent events most were not even aware of. The angel Aziraphale however, currently alone and pacing about restlessly in his bookshop, was finding himself at a loss, completely unable to go back to his usual routine.

He’d spent the first two days of his new life with Crowley, neither of them entirely willing to let the other out of their sight for some time, and everything had been fine. Positively lovely. Quite grand actually. And then Crowley had left, to take care of his plants, and his flat, and whatever else he could possibly be doing; he hadn’t specified. And Aziraphale was, in a way, stuck; had been stuck since the demon had gone and left him alone with a growing feeling of unrest. It was a twisted knot in his stomach that pressed against him, smothering and overpowering. It left him feeling nauseous, on edge, and everything else was starting to be a bit too much. Too many sensations, too much stimuli, too many thoughts… 

Without Crowley there to distract him, the angel had been left with and empty shop and a very busy mind, conflicting thoughts taking up residence. There were a lot of them, roaming around, fighting for the frayed edges of his attention, latching on with an iron grip. He couldn’t concentrate. He couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t do anything right. His work desk, frequently left in a state of disarray and a general mess of novels, and notes, and journals, and letters, and manuscripts, and scrolls, and so much more, usually had some faint notion of collusion. Novels all related to some kind of research, newly acquired manuscripts waiting to be perused, worn books waiting to be bound anew. But there was none of this. Aziraphale’s work space was currently nothing more than a mess of paper and ink. There was no rhyme to it, no meaning. Every so often, he would find himself opening a new book, desperately hoping it would retain his attention for a few hours and allow him to lose himself in the words… Every time, the volume would find itself added to the discarded pile mere minutes later and the angel was barely holding back from screaming in frustration. As it was, Aziraphale was stuck, and pacing restlessly near his desk.

The bookshop was veiled in darkness, a puddle of yellow light spreading out from a small reading lamp illuminating barely a corner of it. It had been this way since Aziraphale had closed all the blinds in a frantic hurry two days ago; the occasional figures walking past the windows setting his nerves on fire for a reason he couldn’t quite begin to explain. The shop itself had been closed since the day Crowley had gone. Around Aziraphale, emerging from the sea of general clutter and covering what little empty space remained, were abandoned mugs, their contents left untouched for the majority. Coffee, and cocoa, earl gray, floral blends of all kinds, green tea, chamomile tea, lavender tea, peppermint tea, more coffee… Not to mention about a dozen wine bottles, most of them empty.

Aziraphale had ran out of mugs about a day ago. Every hour or so, when the feeling inside him grew suffocating once more, he made his way to the shop’s backroom to put the kettle on, looked at his empty mug shelf, remembered where they’d gone, then spent a few minutes going back and forth, wringing his hands together (Should he miracle a new mug? Should he miracle an existing mug clean?), before inevitably deciding he couldn’t possibly justify such a ridiculous use for a miracle, emptying the kettle, and going back to pacing in front of his desk; the feeling in his chest sticking to him like wet clothing.

He could feel the hair on his head, his scalp tingling with an itch he can’t seem to scratch. His clothes, a comfort, his armour against the world, were now too tight; every stitch, every crease, every brush of the fabric against his skin like sandpaper; his bowtie choking him. His entire corporation felt completely wrong, like an ill-fitting leather suit. 

Aziraphale whimpered despite himself, desperate for some form of relief from the assault, willing away tears from where they stung in the corner of his eyes. He stopped pacing. He felt dizzy. What was the matter with him? He’d never lost control over his human body like this before. His breathing erratic, he made a few tentative steps back and forth between his bookshelves and the backroom before finally giving up and heading for the small flat on the second floor. He needed to do something, change something. He entered the rarely used bedroom, turned on the light, wincing as the room was now too bright, and reached for his dresser.

Washed out fabrics stared at him from within it. Ghosts of eras long gone; mementos preserved in a wooden box. Pressed suits, and an abundance of whites and cream-colored cloth were laid out diligently. Pins, and medallions, and embroidered pieces adorned with wings stood innocently inside the drawers. Aziraphale’s hands were frozen on the handle. Memories attached to the garments seemed to have been ripped from the fabric and all that was left was… Heaven. He shut his eyes tightly, but the thought remained. This was an Angel’s wardrobe. He was wearing an Angel’s clothes. He was still one of Heaven’s Angels.

He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to think about Heaven and Angels being wrong about the Plan. He didn’t want to think about what else Heaven could’ve been wrong about. If Heaven wasn’t an absolute… If Heaven wasn’t right… If Heaven wasn’t good… And yet, this was the one truth he knew for sure: no matter Heaven’s intentions, the directives had long ceased to originate from the Divine Plan. And he’d been complicit with it all! How many times had he wronged humanity under the notion that some things had to be done for the greater good? He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want— he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Aziraphale slammed the drawer shut, heart racing. He had to get away from it. Had to get away from all this wrongness. His eyes fell onto his signet ring. He jerked it away from his finger as if it had suddenly burned him, clenching his fist so tightly around it that the tiny metal wings cut into his palm, drawing a few drops of blood.

Aziraphale felt sick. He dropped the ring and barely heard it clatter and roll onto the floor as he clawed at his suit frantically, riding himself of layers that felt like someone else’s hand against his skin. Clothes pooled around him on the ground as he stood, half-dressed, his breathing out of control, undoing his bow-tie. He made to throw it away. Faltered. Looked at the tartan fabric and lowered his arm... The tartan had never belonged to Heaven, it was a piece of himself. His knees threatened to give out and he reached blindly for the bed behind him, nearly collapsing on the dusty covers.

He stayed still for a long moment, then gently smoothed out the bow-tie between his fingers; an apology of sorts.

There was a knock at the door. The loud noise yanking Aziraphale out of his thoughts. He felt dazed.

“Aziraphale! Are you in there?” a familiar voice called out and Aziraphale dropped the bowtie on the bed, scrambling to his feet in a hurry. Realising his clothes were strewn about the floor, he snapped his fingers, then shuddered, fabric pressing once more against his skin.

“Co—Come in,” he managed and winced as it came out a faint croak.

Chapter Text

Crowley could feel the change as soon as he got close to London. Something was wrong... He’d been away for a few days, taking care of loose ends. Mostly, he’d been making sure that any contingency plans he’d set in motion right before Armageddon didn’t happen wouldn’t end up blowing up in his face... Again.

He’d gone back to his flat two days after the Trials, having taken a well-deserved nap at the bookshop, and realised he’d not confirmed his continued existence in the allotted 48 hours time frame. He’d had to rescue several plants from certain death after tracking them down to an unmarked garbage disposal about five blocks from his flat. Miraculously, they’d all gotten out relatively unscathed from the ordeal. Unfortunately, his most recent acquisition, a spider plant cutting Crowley had pocketed while buying new gardening shears, was now under the impression that the demon cared for them. Thankfully, nothing else had happened to his flat yet.

He hadn’t been very keen on leaving Aziraphale’s presence so soon, but he’d needed to make sure everything was in order and had figured the angel might like some breathing room to process things. In retrospect, he wasn’t so sure it had been a good idea after all. Now that he was close enough, he could feel Aziraphale’s presence. Well, smell him, really. And something was wrong. The angel’s usual scent was hidden under waves of vinegar and rust. It left Crowley with a sour taste in his mouth. His stomach dropped.

Aziraphale was in danger.

“Call Aziraphale,” said Crowley, foot somehow pressing down harder on the overworked gas pedal.

“Calling ‘Aziraphale’,” confirmed his phone’s voice assistant.

The phone started ringing. First ring. Second. Third. Fourth…

“Come on, come on, come on .”

The line disconnected without being picked up.

“Shit.”

Swerving to the side and grinding to a halt, Crowley parked his car on the side of the road in a hurry and got out the door. He walked forward as he snapped his fingers, taking one step on the side of the highway, then another, in front of the bookshop.

The outside looked as it always had. Old, somewhat dingy, but perfectly intact. The drawn shutters and sign flipped over to ‘closed’ might’ve seemed strange in broad daylight, but Crowley thought little of it; it wasn’t that unusual for Aziraphale. He stepped inside, not bothering to knock. The door opened for him, as it always had. He looked around and was about to call out the angel’s name when he noticed the state of the shop. Something wasn’t right…

Crowley took a step forward and cursed under his breath, barely avoiding tripping over a substantial stack of books left in front of the door. He waved the books back to their respective bookshelves, opening the closed blinds with the same movement.

He couldn't help but gawk at what the light revealed. Aziraphale was known to clutter spaces easily, but the bookshop was in a complete state of disarray.

Crowley was almost certain there were more books in piles on the floor or on furniture than there were on the shelves. Plates and mugs containing the dubious remains of what had once possibly been edible were strewn about the place. Most of the furniture seemed to have been moved around a bit. An entire shelf had been dragged almost two meters away from its usual location. The shop was somehow even stuffier than normal and the —frankly impressive— amount of dust that was usually artfully scattered in strategic areas was either floating like curtains in the window light, or gathering in dust bunny herds on the floor.

He drew in a breath, tongue flickering out distractedly, and grimaced at the strength of the smell. It was overpowering; vinegar and rust completely eclipsing the usual comforting combination of both the shop's and Aziraphale's normal scent. The angel was most definitely in here; had been here for a while. What could have happened? What if he was too late?

He quickly searched the first floor and found it empty. So was the second floor. After looking behind every shelf and storage door, the only place left to check was the flat. He’d never gone inside; had never known Aziraphale to hang out there much, if at all, and had certainly never been invited in.

‘He can kick me out later if he wants,’ Crowley thought, hand resting on the handle, before turning it and heading inside.

The flat was dark, and cramped. What was presumably a living room simply looked like a large storage closet. There was a door to one side, which Crowley figured was most likely a bathroom, and a narrow corridor to the other, ending up at another door. It was slightly ajar and light was streaming from behind it, harsh lines stretching into the corridor.

Worried of what he might find, Crowley knocked against the door frame.

“Aziraphale! Are you in there?”

There was a suddenly rustle of cloth and the air pressure changed at once. Crowley could taste the faint hint of a miracle. There was only quiet for a second, then a small, strangled noise. Crowley’s brow furrowed and he barged in to find… Aziraphale, alone, standing in the middle of his bedroom.

The angel was staring intently at the floor, face flushed. He stood straight, but appeared somehow smaller than usual, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. His waistcoat was buttoned wrong, his bow-tie loose.

Crowley gave him a once over, trying his best to remain calm. He was seething.

Of course. Those bastards…

He opened his mouth to talk and stopped. The faint tang of iron was now mixing with the oppressive scent. His eyes widened behind his glasses.

“Are you alright? What happened? They didn’t touch you, did they?” Crowley asked, a bit frantic, circling around Aziraphale.

Aziraphale finally looked up. He seemed miles away, swaying ever so slightly on his feet. His bow-tie came loose.

“What?” he croaked out. “Crowley, what are you talking about?”

“So… they didn’t come here then?” Aziraphale seemed so genuinely confused that Crowley’s sudden bout of anger was ebbing away, leaving him restless but no less worried; he could still smell blood. If no one else had been in contact with the angel… Crowley wasn't sure what to think. He kept pacing about, scanning the room for any kind of danger.

“Who didn’t come here?” Aziraphale asked again.

“...Other angels?” Crowley said slowly, cringing internally at his words, deeply regretting speaking too soon. If he’d been wrong about his assumption, this was probably a very wrong thing to mention. 

Aziraphale went rigid. “Why would any of them come here? Crowley, did something happen?”

“What? No! I thought something happened to you!” He could see a droplet of blood running down Aziraphale's fingers.

“Why would anything happen to me? I’ll have you know I’m perfectly alright.”

Crowley stopped pacing, standing still behind Aziraphale. He took in a slow breath. 

“You’re bleeding,” he pointed out flatly.

Aziraphale eyes widened and he quickly brought his hands in front of himself, covering his injury with his other hand.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he answered, looking away.

“There’s also blood on the floor, angel,” Crowley said simply, indicating speckles of red on the hardwood.

Aziraphale flinched at the name, then shut his eyes tightly for a moment, hoping his reaction had somehow gone unnoticed. It hadn’t. They were both silent for a moment. Aziraphale knew Crowley must be observing him. He kept still, resisting the increasingly overwhelming urge to flee or scratch at his neck and arms. Crowley circled back around to face him.

“Alright, out with it. What’s wrong?”

“I— I’m not… There’s nothing wrong dear boy, I assure you.” Aziraphale wringed his hands together, breathing unsteady. He was trembling.

Crowley barely held back from sighing in exasperation. He kept his expression firmly neutral with an ease only attained by practicing how to look cool for a few thousand years. He’d somehow forgotten how bloody minded the angel could get when avoiding a sensitive subject, but he was determined not to rise to the bait and lose his temper. Aziraphale was already on the edge enough as it was, no need to aggravate it. Besides, it would only give the angel a reason to push Crowley away and lock himself in to spiral further. 

Crowley was suddenly glad he’d kept his glasses on. He’d rarely smelled such strong panic on Aziraphale and he knew the angel would be able to read him as easily as one of his favorite books if he could see his eyes.

Not that Aziraphale was looking at him. He was busy staring at the demon’s necktie. His own tie was still loose, hanging around his collar.

“Aziraphale, your bloody bow-tie’s been undone for the past five minutes and you haven’t even noticed,” Crowley said, words coming out much softer than he’d meant to. “Here, let me…”

“Don’t,” Aziraphale snapped at him, the words slicing through the quiet, as he snatched Crowley’s wrists before he could even touch the fabric. Aziraphale let go, just as quickly, as if burned by the contact.

Crowley froze, shocked by the contrast between the angel’s previously almost catatonic state and this sudden outburst. He slowly lowered his arms while Aziraphale’s face burned bright with shame, the angel’s hands tugging sharply at his own sleeves.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I’d rather not…” he said, voice barely above a whisper yet again.

The room fell quiet for a moment. Crowley was contemplating what to say when he heard Aziraphale sigh loudly, then speak, voice barely audible even through the silence.

“I’m afraid you’ll think me awfully silly for this…”

Crowley removed his sunglasses, slipping them in his jacket’s pocket.

“I’d never think that…” he said, barely swallowing back the term of endearment that threatened to spill from his lips just in time, remembering Aziraphale’s earlier reaction. “Not for something that’s bothering you.”

"I'm not even entirely sure how to explain it…” He sighed again. “It's my clothes you see. Well, partly, but I started thinking and— and— and nothing felt quite right anymore. There’s this terrible itching and the collar is a bit tight and—"

“Is that why you came in here?” he interrupted before Aziraphale could lose himself in his rambling. “Should I let you change and come back afterwards?”

“I— I can’t. I haven’t a single thing to wear…”

Crowley blinked slowly. “Aziraphale, I know for a fact you’ve kept all the clothes you could over the years.”

Aziraphale glanced briefly towards something behind him. Crowley turned around, noticed the dresser and headed towards it. He looked inside each drawer, grimacing at some of the fashion choices present and smiling momentarily at the fond memories some of the other clothes held.

“See?” He shut the drawers. “Plenty of choice. Nothing modern, but that’s never stopped you before.”

“Well, yes, but that’s— it’s…” Aziraphale’s words became an inaudible mumble. Crowley couldn’t glean a single word of it.

“...What was that last bit?”

Aziraphale’s expression quickly went from frustration to defeat. He darted out his tongue to wet his lips, mouth opening and closing on words that refused to come forward. The frustration was quick to reappear.

“It’s the wardrobe of an Angel, Crowley,” he said wretchedly. “Not— Not that there ever was, as such, a uniform, but I have always dressed in a way that Heaven would find respectable and I, well...” he trailed off.

Crowley kept quiet, trying to make sense of what he’d just been told and to piece together the bigger picture. His lack of response pulled a small, self-deprecating laugh from Aziraphale.

"I'm being ridiculous, aren’t I…” Something cold and terribly sad flashed in the angel’s eyes, gone in an instant as Aziraphale righted himself, smoothing down the front of his jacket and quickly fixing his bow-tie. His hands were still trembling. Crowley blessed himself at the sight, scrambling to think of something, anything to keep Aziraphale from clamming up again. 

“Dear me, and I haven't even offered you anything this whole time. Would you like some tea? I'll just head downstairs and put th—"

Crowley blocked the exit by pushing the door fully closed before Aziraphale could slip away and blurted out the first thing he could think of. "What if I give you something of mine?"

Aziraphale stopped, thrown off balance by the suggestion. "I— I'm not sure I follow…"

"I’m saying you could wear some of my clothes," Crowley proposed again, with entirely faked confidence, immensely grateful for this unexpected epiphany.

Aziraphale frowned slightly, then stared at Crowley.

"I couldn't possibly…" he stammered.

"Course you can. Here." Crowley snapped his fingers and a pair of black pyjamas was wished into existence, folded neatly on top of the bed.

The pyjamas were made of soft black flannel, and several sizes bigger than the demon’s actual silk nightwear, but it was, technically, his. He hadn’t lied. After all, he’d just woven the outfit from the aether himself. He decided it definitely counted. 

As it was, pyjamas also happened to be completely inadequate for the time of day, but Crowley figured Aziraphale wouldn’t notice. Not that he had any intention of bringing the angel outside while in such a state. In any case, Crowley wasn’t trying to overwhelm him even more than he already was. Simple flannel would serve his purpose much better than fancy silk or anything more complicated. 

"Now let's get you out of these before they fall off by themselves.” He hesitated for a moment. “Is it alright if I touch you?"

"...Yes. Yes, that’s fine— but I’m quite capable of dressing myself Crowley," Aziraphale added the last part in a hurry, belatedly realizing what the question entailed.

"I know." He rested a hand on Aziraphale’s arm and took a few steps, leading him to walk backwards to stand in the center of the room.

Losing his balance, Aziraphale quickly grabbed Crowley’s arm to steady himself. He let go with a small wince.

“Shit, completely forgot about that. Let me see.” Crowley took the angel’s hand between his own. There was a small jagged cut in the middle of his palm. It had stopped bleeding by now, and dried blood had stained Aziraphale’s fingers.

“Entirely my fault…” Aziraphale attempted to explain. “Cut myself on my ring. Careless of me, really. Not quite sure where it ended up after I threw it…”

Crowley frowned at the admission, but bit back any retort that came to mind. He raised Aziraphale’s palm and blew softly on it, the skin becoming unmarred and all traces of blood vanishing. He curled Aziraphale’s fingers and pressed a small kiss against his knuckles on impulse. He held his breath for a moment, releasing the hand, unsure if he’d overstepped any boundary, but, for a brief moment, Aziraphale face lit up the tiniest amount.

“Right, well that’s dealt with,” Crowley coughed self-consciously, electing to go back to his original plan before he could dwell on what he’d just done.

The bow-tie was the first to go, a slight tug on the fabric enough to have it come undone. Crowley pulled it out from under the shirt’s collar, careful to avoid brushing Aziraphale’s neck. He folded it then stepped away to set it on the bed. Aziraphale eyes were shut tightly when he came back. Crowley took it as a good sign. The cardigan was soft under his fingers as he slipped it off Aziraphale’s shoulder. He shook it slightly to straighten it out and laid it down on the comforter. The waistcoat and shirt were unbuttoned with care, watch fob tucked away in its rightful pocket.  Every piece he removed, Aziraphale drew in a shaky breath. 

Before long, Crowley was kneeling on the floor, unclasping garters, then lightly tapping the angel’s ankles and waiting for him to raise each of his feet in turn, to slip off his socks. The rust and vinegar taste was still strong in the air, but Crowley could finally smell hints of Aziraphale’s usual scent underneath it. He rose back up to his feet. The angel was clad only in his underwear now. His trembling had lessened somewhat. A tear was rolling down his cheek. Crowley gently wiped it off with his thumb and Aziraphale’s eyes blinked open.

“Hey. Back with me then?”

“Mhm,” Aziraphale confirmed vaguely.

Crowley shrugged, mostly to himself, then reached for the pyjamas’ top. The angel followed him with a glance, eyes unfocused.

"Really now,” Aziraphale said, voice scratchy. “I can—"

"Nope. Gimme your arm." Aziraphale looked as though he might object, but held his arm out regardless.

With only the two pieces of clothing, it was much faster to dress Aziraphale than undress him. Crowley took care of the ribbon at the trousers’ waistband last. He tied it in a neat little bow, fastening it so it would be snug, but not tight. 

"There, all done. How's that?"

Aziraphale stroked the fabric between his fingers and sighed in apparent relief. "It's… much better. Thank you."

“Now let’s sit you on the bed before you fall over.”

“Hhm? Oh… Yes, it might be best.”

Aziraphale dropped himself on the comforter without much finesse, sinking in the plush mattress. The cloud of dust that rose up from the bed went unnoticed by Aziraphale. Crowley grimaced and snapped it out of existence. Aziraphale slumped ever so slightly, hands in his lap, eyes half-lidded, looking about ready to fall asleep.

Crowley left him be, deeming better to give the angel a bit of space after having essentially manhandled him for quite a while. He turned his attention to the discarded clothes instead, shaking out invisible wrinkles and folding them meticulously. Once he’d formed a neat bundle, he laid out the bow-tie on top of it and carried it to the dresser. His boot hit a small object as he walked, sending it skittering to the corner of the room. Crowley laid the clothes out carefully in a drawer before crouching down, trying to find what he’d accidentally kicked. Something glinted on the floor. He snatched it up, then frowned. It was Aziraphale’s signet ring. Blood stained the edges of it. He wiped it off and slipped the ring in an inside pocket of his jacket, deeming it best to deal with it later.

On the bed, Aziraphale stared vacantly towards the ground, shaking fingers rubbing at the cuff of his sleeve. What little awareness Crowley had managed to stir in Aziraphale had slipped away again. Crowley thought about the bookshop and the state he’d found Aziraphale in when he’d arrived and winced. Letting the angel slip away and start overthinking again did not feel like a good idea.

He dimmed the lights with a wave of his hand and made his way to the bed, an idea taking shape in his mind.

“Move up a bit.”

There was no answer.

“Aziraphale,” he tried again, with a bit more success. “Move up a bit, I’ve got an idea.”

Aziraphale sluggishly crawled his way up the bed.

“Hang on…” Crowley stopped him, before he could sit against the headboard.

He reached out, taking a small decorative pillow and fluffing it. He repeated the process with the rest before taking out the regular pillows, giving them the same treatment, and arranging the lot of them to form a plush nook. Satisfied with it, he led Aziraphale to recline against the pillows. Aziraphale stared at him as he stood back up and tugged down his jacket where it had hiked up.

“Don’t leave. Please,” Aziraphale said.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Crowley assured him. “Jusst wanted to do thisss.” He changed shape as he spoke, forked tongue stumbling over sibilants, clothes dissolving into black red scales as he quickly reformed into a large nest of coils on the floor, yellow eyes shining bright in the center.

Taking a moment to reassess his limbs, or lack thereof, Crowley slowly slithered onto the bed, tentatively brushing Aziraphale’s legs with the end of his tail.

“That’ss alright, yeah?”

“Oh, of course. You can take whichever shape you prefer.”

“Not me. I meant touching you. Sss’not too much is it?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale shook his head. “No, it isn’t too much.”

“Tell me when you want me to sshove off.”

He draped himself over and around Aziraphale, nudging behind him to rest part of himself against his neck and shoulders, his head hanging in the air near the angel’s middle. The bulk of his tail trailed between the pillows and the curve of Aziraphale’s lower back to end in coils over his legs. He settled, waiting to see if it was too much and if he was going to be dropped unceremoniously onto the floor, but Aziraphale only fidgetted for a moment until they were both comfortable. Crowley let his head rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder and squeezed a bit tighter, tongue flicking in the air, checking for any new kind of distress. 

Aziraphale found comfort in certain textures and pressure, that much Crowley had figured out a long time ago. The angel had a tendency to wear the same weighty jackets in any context (or bulky fabrics in earlier times), often fiddled with his clothes or accessories when stressed, and kept a heavy afghan close at hand in the shop. Crowley was currently operating under the notion that Aziraphale might unwind with a bit of additional weight on his shoulders (strictly in a literal manner, of course) and, so far, his theory seemed accurate.

A hand came to rest on Crowley’s spine and he froze, but Aziraphale merely started rubbing his thumb against his scales, the way he might with his ring or the edge of his coat. Crowley relaxed into it. The touch was warm, the repetitive motion soothing the both of them. Aziraphale’s hands had finally stopped shaking.

Despite himself, Crowley drifted off slightly. The room was quiet and bathed in a dim light. Under him, Aziraphale was a warm, cozy presence; much better than any sunning rock could hope to be. Most importantly, the angel was safe, his steady breathing rocking Crowley’s body while his hand kept petting his scales. While he would never say it outloud, the demon had to admit it felt rather nice. 

Some time later, awareness came back to Crowley in lazy stretches. He had no idea how much time had passed. The atmosphere of the room had changed somewhat, but he couldn’t tell how exactly. Aziraphale mumbled something. Crowley raised his head from where it had been perched on Aziraphale’s shoulder. He tasted the air and was met with renewed notes of distress coming from the angel. Concerned, he slid forward, hoping to see Aziraphale’s face better. The angel’s eyes were shut tight, his brow furrowed; the opposite of the calm he’d started to show earlier. His hand was still stroking Crowley’s scales, but there was a restless quality to it.

"The crusades... That's what it reminds me of..."

The words sounded like an afterthought and would've been easy to miss, had Crowley not be paying attention.

"That's what it was, wasn't it?" Aziraphale continued, voice unsteady. "One more pointless fight for control under false pretenses... And all that time I believed it must be right; that it must be good. Unlike humans we truly fought in the name of God."

Aziraphale laughed bitterly, his hand holding on to Crowley rather than petting. Crowley coiled tighter around him in return.

"They’d called Armageddon a Holy War. Fought in the name of greater good." Aziraphale paused. "What greater good?" he spat out. The words were laced with venom. "What would they even know of greater good if they know nothing of goodness? Of kindness, mercy, or love? None of them were ever down here; watching people suffer because we did what was right ."

Power crackled in the air. Aziraphale started to glow, eclipsing the room's dim light. Crowley felt the energy rippling against his scales, his every instinct telling him to dart away to safety.

"Just another crusade! No better than all the others!"

"Azssiraphale..." Crowley warned quietly. The angel was almost burning to the touch.

Aziraphale gripped the comforter under him. The thread creaked, fabric nearly tearing. Crowley rested his head on the angel's chest, ignoring the stinging heat. The wave of power receded gradually, the room growing darker once more.

Aziraphale hiccupped a breath. "If... if most everything I've ever followed— If it wasn't... If I wasn't... H— How many times have I done the wrong thing? Crowley, what if all this time... And all this suffering... I'm no better than any of them. I— I really must be a bad angel..."

Crowley quickly raised his head to look directly at Aziraphale.

“You’re not, you’re really not. Aziraphale, you jusst helped ssave the world and everyone in it. You defied all of Heaven so you could ssave people. You’re not a bad angel. Never have been. Couldn't be.”

Aziraphale seemed doubtful, but didn't argue. His eyes were shining with tears that wouldn't fall. Crowley stopped talking for a moment. While being a snake had its advantages, he was finding that serious discussion was not one of them. Somewhat reluctantly, he untangled himself from Aziraphale and retreated to the empty side of the bed. He shook himself out of his snake skin, shape shifting back to his approximation of a human form. He arranged himself on the comforter, sitting cross legged at Aziraphale’s side.

Aziraphale was wringing his hands together, pointedly looking away from Crowley.

“Do you want me stop calling you ‘angel’?”

There was no answer. Crowley waited for a moment.

“I'm not sure I deserve it,” said Aziraphale, stringing the words together with painstaking reluctance.

“That's not what I asked and you know it...”

“I...”

“Aziraphale, as far as I’m concerned, you're the only one of your lot who really deserves that title. ‘Sides, I’m not about to start giving those wankers pet names.”

The ghost of a smile tugged at Aziraphale’s lips. “...I had wondered about that, you know.”

“Do you want me to stop then?”

Aziraphale took in a shuddery breath. “No... I don't think I do.” He seemed calmer after the sudden outburst, finally having confessed what troubled him. 

They stayed quiet for a while. The silence felt companionable rather than tense. Crowley was staring openly at Aziraphale. The angel was fiddling with the edge of his shirt’s sleeve, glancing at the dresser from the corner of his eyes every so often.

"Yeah that's probably not helping, is it?" Crowley said after the fifth time he caught him glancing towards it. On impulse, he snapped his fingers and the entire dresser fizzled out of existence.

"Wh— Crowley!" Aziraphale’s head snapped back to him, face painted with indignation.

"It’s fine,” he brushed off Aziraphale’s concern, secretly glad his sudden action had taken the angel out of his head. “Sent the whole thing to my flat. I figured you’d keep looking at it. Thought it might be better."

"Crowley, there's a noticeable empty space against that wall now,” Aziraphale complained, pointing accusingly at the lack of furniture. “I fail to see how that would help me to stop looking."

"Hang on..." Crowley snapped and a large wooden dresser filled the space. "There, you can have mine for now," he explained away without prompting, hoping the angel wouldn’t remember from his brief visit to his flat that he did not actually own one.

"Hardly a perfect fit for the room," Aziraphale muttered.

"Angel, it's dark wood. It works with everything."

Aziraphale shot him a pointed look. "And how am I meant to dress myself tomorrow then?"

Crowley waved off the comment. "I'll figure something out when we get there, don't worry."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at him. 

"I don't trust your sense of style that much my dear."

"Oh come on, I just wear black. You wear tartan ."

"Exactly."

"Fine," he relented, knowing how pointless it was to argue. "How about we go shopping then?"

Aziraphale tensed up. "Right now? I'm, you see, I'm not sure—"

"Not now," Crowley cut him off before he could start fretting again. "Tomorrow. In the afternoon. We can even have dinner wherever you want before that."

"Oh." Aziraphale paused to think. "Well, I suppose that sounds agreeable. I imagine you have a shop in mind? Only it's not a mall or one of those —oh, what's the word— outlets, is it?"

"Nothing like that," Crowley assured him. "Although, that would be fun. Maybe some other time, if I want a turn. You could hold my bags for me," he said, grinning.

"Do I look like a pack animal to you, Crowley?"

"Well, as the Americans might say, sometimes you can be a right a—”

"Oh shut it, you fiend," Aziraphale said, smacking Crowley lightly on the arm. "I'll consider it."

"I'll hold you to it. Now lie down a bit lower, I wanna get comfy."

Aziraphale complied to the request, albeit a bit confused by it. Crowley smirked at him, then lay down with his head resting on the angel's chest. Aziraphale raised his head and tried to find purchase on his elbows to look at him.

"Crowley, what are you doing?"

"I'm taking a nap," he said, closing his eyes.

"Really now… And how am I meant to get up?"

"Can't," Crowley argued. "I wouldn't have a pillow anymore."

Aziraphale gave him a mildly disappointed look, not that Crowley noticed it. "What am I supposed to do then?"

Crowley shrugged. "Could sleep too. Already in pyjamas an' everything."

" You dressed me in these."

"Just humor me angel. Only for a little while."

Aziraphale sighed. "...I wouldn't even know where to begin."

"Easy. Just gotta close your eyes and relax a little. Helps if you slow down your breathing and heart rate a bit. You'll like it, I promise. S'cozy."

"I'll try, but I doubt I'll manage."

Aziraphale's breathing evened out after only a few minutes, the angel falling asleep before Crowley could even start feeling a bit drowsy. He hadn't been certain it would work, but sustained stress and the aftermath of a serious adrenaline rush were some potent sleep aids. Crowley set an alarm on his phone with a quick snap of his fingers and curled up even closer to Aziraphale's side.

They would be ok. He'd make sure of it.

Chapter Text

As promised, Aziraphale got to choose where they had dinner on the next day. They’d ended up ordering takeout from a small Lebanese restaurant nearby and ate in the bookshop still dressed in pyjamas; an idea that had thoroughly scandalized Aziraphale’s standards when proposed, and that he’d giddily taken part in.

Aziraphale still seemed tense despite his clear delight over the meal and his passionate engagement in discussion, but Crowley was glad to see it was nowhere near the level of frantic panic he’d walked in on the day before. He’d been a bit worried of what Aziraphale’s reaction to a modern clothes’ shop might be however —painfully aware that the angel’s most recent outfit, and all the ones before it, had been tailor made— and so had made arrangements in the morning. Arrangements that had involved a few texts, and a rather transparent bribe.

They remained upstairs for the most part until it was time for their errand. The bookshop was still an absolute mess and Crowley figured it wouldn’t hurt too much to avoid it a bit longer. He did open a few windows however, clearing out the smell of distress that still permeated the space and helping the shop seem a tad less suffocating. He found out at the same time that the weather outside was pleasant and a quick search on his phone confirmed it looked to stay that way.

They agreed walking was in order, leaving the Bentley and its favorite set of wheel clamps behind. He’d remembered leaving it on the side of the road sometime last night and had miracled it in front of the shop. Crowley patted the hood of his car apologetically as they passed it in the street. The place they were heading for stood on the fringe of Soho. It was called A Stitch in Time, an aptly named shop that offered primarily handmade vintage clothing, but also fabrics, supplies, sewing classes, and just about every existing tailoring service, save for anything shoe related. It was, also, usually closed on Saturdays, but the store was currently open, courtesy of the owner who knew Crowley (and now expected a month’s worth of rent money and knowledge related to a particular sewing technique that had gone out of use over two centuries prior as compensation).

A bell jingled as Crowley strode inside with purpose and a significant amount of exhilaration. Aziraphale trailed behind him like a duckling, glancing around the near empty shop as if the mannequins on display might come to life and badger him like underpaid vendors below their sales quota.

In the back, a young woman was leaning casually on the counter beside the store’s cash register. She nodded politely at them, a knowing smirk on her lips, before getting back to her sudoku. Crowley waved briefly in response, shepherding Aziraphale further along, navigating between shelves and racks boasting an array of fabrics and colors of all kinds. Glancing behind him, Crowley noticed the angel reaching tentatively towards a corner of cloth dangling over a shelf. Aziraphale stroked it with a finger and immediately grimaced, quickly retracting his hand and rubbing his fingers against his trousers, then acting as if nothing had happened. Crowley adjusted his sunglasses, as if worried they might betray the fond look he was hiding behind the lenses, and kept walking. He stopped once he’d reached a small fitting room. It was, more accurately, a simple curtain secured to the ceiling with plastic clips in the back corner of the shop.

“What now?” Aziraphale was looking around, a bit lost. “Should I ask that young lady for help do you think?”

“I think, that you should just stand right here and let me take care of everything.”

“If you insist. I can’t say I’m familiar with the proceedings of these kinds of places.”

“Oh this is nothing. Just wait ‘till I show you a real fashion store,” he said and Aziraphale seemed mildly put off by the prospect. “No offense, Dahlia,” Crowley added, a bit louder.

The woman shrugged at her counter, not bothering to look up from her puzzle. “You’re the one paying.”

“Sure am.” He grinned. “Alright, sit tight angel, I’ll be right back.”

He slipped back between shelves as Aziraphale sat down on a small ottoman.

Crowley ventured through cramped rows of fabric interspersed with a few outfits. In terms of actual clothes, there weren't that many options. What was there was mostly to be used as reference; the shop mostly dealt with on-demand tailoring after all. But what he'd really wanted was inspiration. And on that front, the place delivered.

He quickly found a few items he liked and set them aside. In his own, humble, opinion, everything the shop had to offer, and so much more, would look great on Aziraphale, but he limited himself to things the angel would be most likely to enjoy wearing. It wouldn't do to tire him out immediately with strangely fitting garments and uncomfortable fabrics.

After a while, he'd accumulated what he felt was a decent, but not overwhelming selection. He'd also crafted a few pieces of his own to finish incomplete outfits. However, none of the clothes he'd found would ever fit the angel in their current state. Only a few pieces had been made in different sizes, and most of others seemed to have been made according to the same kind of fit; that is to say, not Aziraphale's.

This would've been an issue for anyone other than Crowley, who simply glared at the clothes until the fabrics were rightfully bullied into an appropriate fit. Satisfied, he gathered everything in his arms and made his way back to the dressing room.

He dropped his bounty onto Aziraphale's unsuspecting lap with a grin. The angel startled, but recovered in a flash, delighting in what he'd been offered.

“These look lovely Crowley." He seemed to think of something and suddenly frowned. "But, are you certain these will do? Only they haven’t been fitted to my measurements.”

“It’s off-the-rack angel,” Crowley brushed off nonchalantly. “It’s all pre-set sizes. I just picked one I thought would fit you, is all. You can try on other sizes later if those don’t fit.”

“I see. That’s quite clever.” Aziraphale smiled at him; Crowley thought the shop seemed just a bit brighter. 

Aziraphale gathered up the clothes that had been dropped on him with much more care than what was needed, then stepped inside the fitting room. 

“I shan’t be too long,” he said, pulling the curtain closed.

Crowley sat down in the now empty seat. “Take all the time you need.”

After several minutes waiting for the curtain to be pulled open, it became apparent that Aziraphale was trying on the clothes one after the other by himself. Crowley sorely regretted not telling the angel about the concept of showing off outfits. Feeling somewhat bored, he clicked his heels together, boots turning into shoes, turning into high heels, then back again. He stopped. If Aziraphale was getting a new outfit, he could very well have one too. And if he could draw any unwanted attention away from him by doing so… Well, it wouldn’t really be a hardship, he’d always enjoyed showing off after all.

Deep in thought, thinking over fashion choices, he stood up, eyes closed, fingers itching. After a moment he tugged on what might’ve looked like an invisible thread, pulling his new creation from the aether and dressing himself from the bottom up in one sharp movement.

The high heels were back, black and delicate. In place of his jacket and tight jeans, he now wore a silk shirt and mini skirt ensemble. The shirt was charcoal grey with an open collar and a plunging neckline ending right above his sternum. Long, slightly puffy sleeves dripped down his arms with cuffs that ended in frills. Strips of black lace ran along the entire sleeves, while more of it framed his upper chest. A few inches of the same lace lined the bottom of the tight black silken miniskirt hugging his frame. The shirt’s bottom was tucked in the high waisted skirt. To complete the look, a silver ear cuff shaped like a snake curled around his ear, its head hanging above his shoulder.

“Oh my. You make quite the striking figure, my dear,” said Aziraphale, having come out of the fitting room without Crowley noticing.

Crowley didn’t deflect or refute the compliment, too busy staring back at Aziraphale. The angel was sporting a light brown colored blouse, buttoned up to the collar. Triangle shaped lapels framed a tartan bow tied neatly around his neck. The sleeves were long and puffy at the cuffs, the waist of the blouse was tucked inside a baby blue circle skirt that ended below his knees. The visible portion of his legs was clad in nylons and he’d swapped his Oxfords for white and brown saddle-shoes. Crowley only recalled giving Aziraphale the blouse and skirt, but he was glad for the initiative; he thought the outfit looked particularly flattering on Aziraphale.

“You look great angel.”

Aziraphale's eyes lit up at the compliment, delighted. “Oh, how nice of you to say. I wasn’t sure about it. I don’t think I’ve truly worn a skirt in centuries... But you were right about the size, it all fit perfectly,” he ended with a small wiggle.

“Mhm,” agreed Crowley absentmindedly, still admiring. He snapped himself out of it. “It’s comfortable, right? You feel alright in it?”

“Oh yes, although I might be tempted to look for a coat to wear over the blouse. But not today. That’s quite enough shopping for one day, I’d say.”

“Yeah, of course. How about I pay for these and we go feed the ducks?”

“Oh, what a lovely idea.”

The owner raised an eyebrow at the “not quite from her store” selection of clothes currently worn by her customer, but punched in a number at the cash register under Crowley insistent stare nonetheless. Crowley suspected she might have grossly overcharged him.

They exited the shop to the jingle of the bell and made their way to Saint-James' park in comfortable silence, enjoying the sounds of the city and each other. Neither of them expected to be disturbed and, as such, they were left completely alone; no one crossing their path and a section of railing near the duck pond was left completely devoid of people.

Crowley leaned against the railing, crossing his legs in what looked like a casual position, but was really just the best way he'd found to remain upright without twisting an ankle in heels. A warm breeze passed them by and Aziraphale’s skirt threatened to fly up. It got a glare for its trouble and settled down immediately (Crowley's own skirt was simply too tight to attempt anything).

Making good on his promise, Crowley snapped his fingers and raised a bag of fresh peas that had miraculously found itself in his possession, offering some to Aziraphale. The angel was staring at the water, hands poised upon the railing. He shook the bag and Aziraphale took notice after a moment, smiling broadly at him. Aziraphale took a handful of peas, tossing most of them to the ducks that had started approaching and popping the rest in his mouth, humming in delight. Crowley refilled Aziraphale’s hand, then tossed some peas out to the ducks himself.

The birds filled the area, splashing around frantically, pecking at the water and quacking for more. Crowley held out the bag, letting Aziraphale feed the ducks to his heart’s content. He gazed at the angel’s hands in the meantime. They were lovely, as always; well maintained, and looking ever so soft. Crowley thought they would be the perfect hands to hold. But there was something… Something missing... 

“Oh,” Crowley realised. “Nearly forgot.”

“Hhm?”

He put the bag of veggies on the ground, then reached out and grabbed something out of thin air. He considered his closed fist for a moment, planning what he’d meant to say. After a moment he opened his fist. Aziraphale's signet ring was resting on his palm. The angel deflated slightly at the sight.

“Oh, you found it… Well, I suppose…”

Aziraphale held out his hand reluctantly. Crowley took his own hand away, holding it against his chest and closing it around the ring.

“Nope, I’m not giving it back." He adorned his index finger with the ring (his own pinky too small for it), then splayed his hand against his silk shirt, showing off the accessory. "Looks great with my outfit, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale simply stared, puzzled. “Crowley, what are you trying to do?”

Crowley sighed dramatically. “Fine, here.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then pulled something else from the empty space in front of him. “You can have that one.”

He placed something in Aziraphale's offered palm. Aziraphale looked down to see a silver ring, the same size as the one currently worn by Crowley. It was a delicate, yet sturdy looking thing; a silver snake entwining on itself, small citrine eyes shining in the sunlight. Crowley took it once more, then raised an eyebrow at Aziraphale, who seemed a bit confused for a moment before catching on and nodding. Having been granted permission, Crowley gently slipped the ring on Aziraphale's pinky. The angel stared at it mesmerized, running his fingers over the little grooves and twists in the metal.

“See? Now this one’s mine, and that one’s yours. Nothing angelic about them. Or demonic, I guess." He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter what they were before. From now on, they can just be whatever we want them to be.”

Aziraphale frowned, pondering quietly. Crowley carefully gauged his reaction, trying to figure out if his message had been clear enough. After a short while, Aziraphale smiled, taking Crowley's hand in his own. He rested his head against Crowley’s shoulder. 

“Whatever we want to be… I suppose I like the sound of that.”