happy Holidays, EdosianOrchids901!
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go_exchangeUnpacking
RATING: T
TAGS: Hurt/comfort, chronic pain, south downs cottage, referenced past torture and captivity, touch starved Crowley, caring Aziraphale
SUMMARY: Turns out the “moving” part of moving in together is the easy bit.
A/N: Huge thank you to fenrislorsrai for the beta!
Two Weeks After It All Nearly Ended
Crowley’s entire life is boxes. Cardboard boxes filled with miscellany, wooden crates and the books they protected, stiff fabric boxes, delicate doilies piled high within, more Regency snuff boxes than he cares to think about. Boxes as far as the eye could see. He stands in the middle of the cramped den and looks out at the precarious towers of boxes and cannot believe this is his life. It hadn’t felt real five nights ago when, more than a few snifters past tipsy, he mentioned the cottage property he’d owned out on the Downs for the last three centuries[1] and watched as Aziraphale’s entire face lit up.
Before he’s quite realized what’s happening, they’re agreeing that it might be nice to get out of the city for a few years. Aziraphale won’t sell the shop, of course, that’s been his home far too long to be abandoned so suddenly. It’s just that they’re both feeling more than a bit jumpy after their trials and something deep in Crowley’s chest aches for quiet.
So, they agree and they start packing boxes and in barely a blink, Crowley finds himself standing in the middle of the living room absently rubbing his sore hip and wondering just how they’re going to fit all these boxes into the cottage without Crowley losing his blessed mind. It’s an easier problem to consider than the question of how exactly things are going to work come nightfall when Aziraphale realizes there is only one bedroom. Crowley doesn’t think he sleeps, but sitting up in bed and reading with a warm drink feels like exactly the sort of indulgent comfort that his angel would enjoy.
The door opens behind him and Aziraphale blows in on the early autumn breeze.
“Have you figured out where I’m setting this down yet?” he asks. Crowley turns to see what he means and chokes on non-existent spit. Aziraphale is carrying an entire sofa with one arm while the other hangs loose at his side. He raises an eyebrow at Crowley’s sputtering before leaning around him and looking at the living room.
Crowley takes the hint and snaps, shoving all the boxes to the edges of the room, stacked neatly along the walls. The look Aziraphale gives him makes something hot and squirmy take root in his gut. He turns away, discomfited.
The couch thumps against the hardwood as Aziraphale sets it down. “I believe the only thing remaining is your plants, my dear.”
“Right.” Crowley stops rubbing his hip and nods. They make their way back outside to where the plants fill the entire backseat of the Bentley. Crowley picks up a large ceramic pot, spins on his heel, and nearly collapses as his sore hip spasms unexpectedly. “Shit,” he hisses.
“Crowley?” Crowley doesn’t want to deal with the questions behind that, so he stalks forward, banishing the twinging hip through sheer force of will.
It takes a few trips to get all the plants into the small conservatory at the back of the cottage. Aziraphale goes to bring the last few in while Crowley makes sure none of the larger ones block sunlight from the others.
“All right, you’ve all managed to not fuck up enough that I’m giving you a chance here,” he hisses to the room at large, “I expect you to keep it up. No slipping, you hear me? I will not tolerate—”
“Do you think, perhaps, we could leave off the torment until at least tomorrow, dear?” Crowley jumps, though he tries not to show it. He’ll need to get used to not having the reliably creaky floorboards in the bookshop to track the angel. “Let everyone enjoy our first night in our new home.”
The sentiment is new enough, impossible enough, that it renders Crowley’s ability to sneer or protest entirely inert, reducing him to a wordless gesture of ambiguous capitulation. He glares at a scratch on the baseboard.
“Do you want, ah, takeaway? For dinner?” He hates how awkward this feels. In London it was so easy to tempt Aziraphale into pulling out his trove of restaurant menus, a dance perfected over the course of decades. But here? He’s not even sure what options the village at the bottom of the hill offers. Was this a mistake? What will happen if Crowley is too awkward? If he can’t make this transition quickly and smoothly enough?
What happens if Aziraphale realizes exactly what he’s saddled himself with? What he gave up Heaven for? What happens—?
“I think, perhaps, a walk to town? We drove through so fast before, I’m afraid I wasn’t able to read the restaurant names through the motion blur.”
Crowley finds his coat[2] and shoves the cottage keys into his pocket and then they’re walking side by side down the winding path to the front gate. Just as they reach the main road[3], Aziraphale drifts closer to Crowley’s side. He reaches out, his fingers barely brushing Crowley’s before Crowley jerks away, startled.
Wait. No. That was—
Crowley looks down at their hands, held carefully apart now. His fingers burn where Aziraphale had touched them. A glance up tells him that Aziraphale is looking ahead, seemingly unbothered by Crowley’s reaction, but that does nothing to stop the roiling acidic recrimination that bubbles through Crowley.
What the fuck is wrong with him? What right did he have to pull away? To act like Aziraphale couldn’t touch him however he liked, whenever he liked and Crowley wouldn’t thank him for it?
He flexes his fingers. Perhaps he could… reach out. Take Aziraphale’s hand. He wouldn’t need to apologize then, wouldn’t need to ever address his unacceptable reaction. They’re only halfway to the village, there’s still time to fix this.
But, he can’t make his hand move.
The village at the bottom of the hill can only be called quaint, though it makes something in Crowley’s chest scoff to think it. As soon as they start passing the buildings on the outskirts, Aziraphale begins making little cooing noises. The houses are all darling and adorable and oh Crowley look at that, they have chickens! His enthusiasm is hopelessly charming and a wonderful distraction from the way the dull ache in his hip has shifted to a radiating stab with every step he takes.
For a few seconds, he entertains the idea of telling Aziraphale that he’s hurting. He knows he’s been short and snappish all day and worse, he knows that Aziraphale can see it. Aziraphale doesn’t deserve that from him. Never, but especially not today. He’d been right, this was their first day in their new home. Crowley refuses to fuck that up more than he already has.
When they reach the restaurant, Crowley slides past Aziraphale to open the door and hold it for him. As he passes by, Aziraphale shoots a look at Crowley from beneath his eyelashes, lips pressed together and corners of his mouth curling upward. The breath catches in Crowley’s chest.
Fuck, he loves Aziraphale so much.
The hostess greets them brightly, her bubblegum pink hair shockingly vibrant in the dim light of the restaurant. Crowley has always been proud of unnatural hair dye, it was one of his and the low grade rage that it incites in stogy assholes had been great for his quarterly reports.
“Hello there,” Aziraphale replies. He glances at Crowley quickly and then back to the girl. “My partner and I have just moved in up the lane and—”
The rest of what he says is lost to the static that fills Crowley’s mind.
Partner.
Partner.
He can’t— Aziraphale had never— He’d just said that, easy as you please! As if he, they, hadn’t spent the last six thousand odd years doing absolutely everything they could to avoid anyone thinking they even knew each other, much less liked, or—and it still almost hurts to think it—love one another.
Crowley cannot believe that this is his life.
Aziraphale glances back at him again. He must see something on Crowley’s face because he raises one eyebrow and asks, “All right, dear?”
Crowley realizes that he’s entirely missed the hostess leading them to their table. She’s standing off to the side, politely not staring at them in the very pointed way that only customer service workers ever seemed to perfect. So, Crowley drags a smile up from the depths of his chest and says, “Of course, aren’t I always?”
Aziraphale’s face flattens, expression vanishing behind a mask of British Doubt, and Crowley thinks perhaps he’s done it. He’s upset Aziraphale badly enough that he’s going to turn around and say, ‘no, actually this was all a terrible mistake. I’ll just call up Heaven and—’
Then, Aziraphale smiles at him, skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling. “What are you thinking about having? Ms Green here has kindly recommended the Wellington and you know I always preferred the dish to the man, so I might take her up on that.”
The idea of eating something so heavy makes Crowley feel vaguely nauseous. He’s about to say so, but Aziraphale keeps talking.
“I know you don’t like such heavy meals when it’s cool out, perhaps the cod? I spied a fish stew on the specials menu as we passed by.”
“Stew sounds good,” Crowley says. “I’ll take whatever red you’re having, though.” He’s not in the mood for a delicate drink.
Maybe it should feel uncomfortable to be so Known, but in the moment it soothes the twisting, tangled anxiety in his chest into something he can push deep enough to ignore.
Aziraphale’s hand rests on the tablecloth. Crowley stares at it as a waiter comes by and Aziraphale gives him their order. It’s halfway between them, as if Aziraphale had reached for the candle at the center and given up midway.
Crowley bites his lip, scrapes together the dregs of his courage, and reaches out, taking Aziraphale’s hand in his own in full view of anyone who might care to look.
Aziraphale’s conversation with their waiter stutters before continuing as if nothing had happened. Except, as he speaks, he turns his hand around in Crowley’s and interlaces their fingers.
Crowley doesn’t try to hide his smile. Aziraphale’s hand is hot in his own, his fingers broad and calloused where Crowley’s are slim and pointy. It’s almost enough for him to ignore the way the ache in his hip has migrated to his thigh muscle.
When they leave the restaurant, the sun is just beginning to dip towards the horizon, the whole world gone to gold. Crowley’s hair, when Aziraphale dares to look at it, is ablaze, his cheeks flushed and warm. Being out in public together feels so rare and precious, Aziraphale doesn’t want it to end[4].
“I was thinking we might take a short walk before going home,” he proposes, hoping his voice sounds casual. “You mentioned something about an outlook?”
Crowley shrugs, hands shoved as deeply as they could go into the pointlessly tiny pockets of his jeans. “S’up there somewhere.” He jerks his head towards the opposite side of town. “Can probably make it before dark, if you want.”
It’s impossible to read Crowley’s expression past the sunglasses and set grimace[5], but he’s angled his body towards Aziraphale and his brow is smooth, so Aziraphale decides that he’s not opposed to the idea.
“I would,” he says. Then, he hesitates for a moment, worried about another rejection, before deciding to throw caution to the wind and holding out his hand for Crowley to take. To his great joy, Crowley extracts one hand from its pocket and takes him up on the offer. His blush is dark enough to be visible even in the fading light.
The village is not large, they’ve hardly walked for five minutes before the last of the buildings peter away. The narrow lane twists as it climbs its way upwards. Light breaks through the leaves on the trees that line the lane, sending bright patches dancing across the pavement. At his side, Crowley ambles slowly, seemingly content to go at Aziraphale’s pace for once[6].
His hand is cool in Aziraphale’s.
The trees slowly give way to low shrubs and then tall grasses. They’re just exiting the treeline entirely when Crowley stumbles, toppling to the ground with a sharp cry. His grip on Aziraphale’s hand yanks him off balance, nearly pulling him down as well.
“Shit!”
“Oh! Crowley, are you all right?” Aziraphale stoops, sliding a hand under Crowley’s closest elbow in an attempt to support him.
“Fine, shit—I’m fine,” Crowley snaps. He waves Aziraphale off and starts to stand, only for his leg to crumple beneath him as soon as he tries to put weight on it. “Blessed fucking potholes.”
“Here, let me help you.”
“I’ve got it.” Crowley starts to shrug him off but Aziraphale has had enough. He lifts one hand and snaps.
Crowley hits the couch in their living room with a thump. Startled, he shifts to stand, but Aziraphale is crowding into his space, pressing one hand against his chest and holding him in place[7]. He’s staring up at Aziraphale with wide eyes, breath short, when Aziraphale’s expression softens.
“Where do you hurt?” he asks, and it breaks something in Crowley because he doesn’t think anyone has ever asked him that before, not and wanted to actually hear the answer.
He swallows and licks his lips, but his mouth is too dry and his heart too fast to find the words.
Aziraphale’s hand slides up his chest to the base of his throat and then around. He stills, cupping the side of Crowley’s neck. He smiles, small and fond.
“I apologize, my dear. I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just, oh Crowley, you didn’t see your face. You didn’t just fall, you’re in pain and it was enough that you couldn’t hide it, and then I realized that you’d been in pain all evening and I hadn’t noticed. I thought you were acting a bit oddly because this is all so strange, but now I think that maybe I hurt you by suggesting that we walk and you were too kind to say no to me.”
“Not kind,” Crowley says on reflex. Aziraphale’s thumb strokes the front of Crowley’s throat[8]
“Of course, not kind. Indulgent. You always indulge me.” Aziraphale lets him go and turns to one of the piles of boxes, pulling it open and beginning to rummage through it as he goes on, “This is all so new, I worry I’m a bad par— A bad friend because I should have seen that you were—”
The urge to soothe, to fix things for Aziraphale, finally allows Crowley to unstick his tongue and say, “It’s not a new injury.”
Aziraphale freezes. He turns to face Crowley, expression very blank.
“What?”
Crowley looks up at the ceiling, silent. Aziraphale pulls a throw from the boxes and returns to Crowley’s side.
“What do you mean, Crowley?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Crowley—”
“Really. Aziraphale, leave it.”
Aziraphale shifts, opens his mouth and closes it again. Then, he drapes the throw over Crowley’s lap[9] and stands once more.
“I’ll get you a drink.”
And then he’s gone, retreating to the kitchen where the boxes with their favorite wines are waiting to be organized.
The night goes on. Aziraphale is charmed by the way Crowley’s pale cheeks flush darker with each drink he has, eyes bright and mouth wide as he tells a story he’s told many times before[10]. Aziraphale sits next to him on the couch, just as drunk as Crowley and hyper-aware of the scant space between their thighs. He wants to touch, to feel the solidity of Crowley’s body and know for sure that this is real.
But, Crowley had flinched earlier when Aziraphale tried to take his hand. He’s not upset about it. Or, well, he is a little upset, but he also knows that this is all happening rather fast and Crowley likes fast, but only when he’s entirely in control. More than that, Crowley was hurting and Aziraphale had no desire to inadvertently do anything that might make it worse.
“Still miss those pies,” Crowley is saying. “E’ryone else adds too much, erg, what’s the thing?”
“Fruit?”
Crowley jabs a finger towards him. “That’s the thing! Fruit! Too much of it.” Crowley sounds so sure that Aziraphale nearly finds himself nodding along before he realizes exactly what he’d be agreeing to.
“It’s an apple pie, dear.”
“Doesn’t mean it has to be all apples, angel.” He groans and, to Aziraphale’s pleasure, reaches up to remove his sunglasses. Tossing them onto the closest box, he jabs his knuckles into the meat of his thigh, mouth set in a sharp grimace.
Aziraphale sets his own drink down. He won’t ask, won’t press Crowley again, not when he put up such a firm boundary before and when the alcohol has lowered his barriers so much. But, oh, he wants to.
Crowley rolls his head on the back of the sofa, staring up at Aziraphale, eyes half-lidded.
“Wasn’t your fault, you know,” he says.
Dread trickles down Aziraphale’s spine. “What?”
Crowley jabs a finger into his thigh. “This. Not your fault.”
“Crowley, I don’t understand. You mean it’s not from the walk earlier?”
“Mmmh, yeah, that but also before. The Me-me bit of it, not my corporation.” He blinks sleepily, a small smile crossing his face. “Didn’t expect to survive at all. Hell, I didn’t even realize I was calling you, if I’m being honest.”
“When did you call….” Aziraphale trails off as he remembers the only time Crowley could be talking about, when he was injured and in pain and scared and he’d called for Aziraphale. He had broken the circle Crowley was trapped in and made sure he was comfortable in a trusted inn, obvious wounds healed, before he’d left to take care of both of their jobs and give Crowley time to recover. He hadn’t known Crowley was injured in any way save the physical.
“I— I never realized you still suffered—”
Crowley makes a dismissive noise. “S’exactly why I never said anything,” he groans. “It’s not suffering. Not really.”
“You fell earlier, I’m sorry dear, but that doesn’t usually mean everything is fine.”
“Yeah, well, it’s hard to heal when it keeps getting re-hurt. But it doesn’t always hurt, I’m not always in pain and anyway,” he pauses his serious expression lifts, eyes crinkling as he smiles. “And besides that, it’s different now. I never have to go back there. Maybe… maybe it’ll actually get better now.”
Aziraphale’s heart aches. His fingers itch. He wants to touch, to soothe, but the thought of how Crowley had flinched away earlier stops him. He doesn’t want to push Crowley’s boundaries when they’ve just been talking about the abuse he’d endured.
“What?” Crowley asks and Aziraphale almost laughs. Of course Crowley can tell he’s holding back.
“I— I would like to help,” he says, hoping to frame it as a desire and not a request. “But, I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable.”
Crowley stays silent, clearly not expecting that.
“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale rushes to say. “I shouldn’t have said anything, that wasn’t—”
“Yes.”
“—what you…. What did you say?”
“Yes, please,” Crowley says very deliberately. He glances at Aziraphale and then away. “I’d— I’d like that.”
Aziraphale nods, “Of course.” He sets his drink aside and turns back to Crowley and then stops, unsure how to proceed. They sit in mutually awkward silence for a few seconds before Crowley snorts and twists, shimmying himself around and throwing his legs across Aziraphale’s lap. He holds himself stiffly, uncomfortable but trying very hard not to be.
Aziraphale places one hand on top of Crowley’s thigh. Crowley hisses quietly and moves Aziraphale’s hand, shifting it over and up to where the pain radiates from. His other hand has a tight grip on the throw. Casting about for something that will help Crowley relax, Aziraphale remembers a flier he’d seen posted on a bulletin board in the village.
As he starts to press his fingers into the tight muscle, he says, “I saw that the primary school is putting on Hamlet in a few weeks. Perhaps we could attend?”
“Aziraphale, I think I would rather teach Warlock maths again.”
Aziraphale laughs, delighted to find that Crowley has started to relax, legs settling heavier on his lap. “Now really dear, that’s a bit dramatic.”
1. No, he’s not sure either why he bought it in the first place. Something about the crooked beams and lead lined windows and huge garden bordered by crumbling stone walls called to him in ways he’s never had the words to explain. It’s too dark to be Heaven, too cluttered and close, but the pale walls and soft clover mean it can’t be Hell either.↩
2. It’s still September, but the breeze so close to the coast is constant and chilly enough to make Crowley regret anything less than three layers.↩
3. Deserted, of course. Crowley might not have known why he bought this place, but he had taken care to ensure that no creeping developments ruined the pastoral tranquility over the years.↩
4. He knows time together is no longer a limited resource, but it’s only been two weeks and his heart has not yet caught up with reality.↩
5. Crowley’s default expression, no matter his mood.↩
6. In a very literal sense: Crowley’s default walking pace is a fair sight faster than Aziraphale’s and so he often finds himself rushing to keep up.↩
7. His hand is so warm. So broad. So real.↩
RATING: T
TAGS: Hurt/comfort, chronic pain, south downs cottage, referenced past torture and captivity, touch starved Crowley, caring Aziraphale
SUMMARY: Turns out the “moving” part of moving in together is the easy bit.
A/N: Huge thank you to fenrislorsrai for the beta!
Two Weeks After It All Nearly Ended
Crowley’s entire life is boxes. Cardboard boxes filled with miscellany, wooden crates and the books they protected, stiff fabric boxes, delicate doilies piled high within, more Regency snuff boxes than he cares to think about. Boxes as far as the eye could see. He stands in the middle of the cramped den and looks out at the precarious towers of boxes and cannot believe this is his life. It hadn’t felt real five nights ago when, more than a few snifters past tipsy, he mentioned the cottage property he’d owned out on the Downs for the last three centuries[1] and watched as Aziraphale’s entire face lit up.
Before he’s quite realized what’s happening, they’re agreeing that it might be nice to get out of the city for a few years. Aziraphale won’t sell the shop, of course, that’s been his home far too long to be abandoned so suddenly. It’s just that they’re both feeling more than a bit jumpy after their trials and something deep in Crowley’s chest aches for quiet.
So, they agree and they start packing boxes and in barely a blink, Crowley finds himself standing in the middle of the living room absently rubbing his sore hip and wondering just how they’re going to fit all these boxes into the cottage without Crowley losing his blessed mind. It’s an easier problem to consider than the question of how exactly things are going to work come nightfall when Aziraphale realizes there is only one bedroom. Crowley doesn’t think he sleeps, but sitting up in bed and reading with a warm drink feels like exactly the sort of indulgent comfort that his angel would enjoy.
The door opens behind him and Aziraphale blows in on the early autumn breeze.
“Have you figured out where I’m setting this down yet?” he asks. Crowley turns to see what he means and chokes on non-existent spit. Aziraphale is carrying an entire sofa with one arm while the other hangs loose at his side. He raises an eyebrow at Crowley’s sputtering before leaning around him and looking at the living room.
Crowley takes the hint and snaps, shoving all the boxes to the edges of the room, stacked neatly along the walls. The look Aziraphale gives him makes something hot and squirmy take root in his gut. He turns away, discomfited.
The couch thumps against the hardwood as Aziraphale sets it down. “I believe the only thing remaining is your plants, my dear.”
“Right.” Crowley stops rubbing his hip and nods. They make their way back outside to where the plants fill the entire backseat of the Bentley. Crowley picks up a large ceramic pot, spins on his heel, and nearly collapses as his sore hip spasms unexpectedly. “Shit,” he hisses.
“Crowley?” Crowley doesn’t want to deal with the questions behind that, so he stalks forward, banishing the twinging hip through sheer force of will.
It takes a few trips to get all the plants into the small conservatory at the back of the cottage. Aziraphale goes to bring the last few in while Crowley makes sure none of the larger ones block sunlight from the others.
“All right, you’ve all managed to not fuck up enough that I’m giving you a chance here,” he hisses to the room at large, “I expect you to keep it up. No slipping, you hear me? I will not tolerate—”
“Do you think, perhaps, we could leave off the torment until at least tomorrow, dear?” Crowley jumps, though he tries not to show it. He’ll need to get used to not having the reliably creaky floorboards in the bookshop to track the angel. “Let everyone enjoy our first night in our new home.”
The sentiment is new enough, impossible enough, that it renders Crowley’s ability to sneer or protest entirely inert, reducing him to a wordless gesture of ambiguous capitulation. He glares at a scratch on the baseboard.
“Do you want, ah, takeaway? For dinner?” He hates how awkward this feels. In London it was so easy to tempt Aziraphale into pulling out his trove of restaurant menus, a dance perfected over the course of decades. But here? He’s not even sure what options the village at the bottom of the hill offers. Was this a mistake? What will happen if Crowley is too awkward? If he can’t make this transition quickly and smoothly enough?
What happens if Aziraphale realizes exactly what he’s saddled himself with? What he gave up Heaven for? What happens—?
“I think, perhaps, a walk to town? We drove through so fast before, I’m afraid I wasn’t able to read the restaurant names through the motion blur.”
Crowley finds his coat[2] and shoves the cottage keys into his pocket and then they’re walking side by side down the winding path to the front gate. Just as they reach the main road[3], Aziraphale drifts closer to Crowley’s side. He reaches out, his fingers barely brushing Crowley’s before Crowley jerks away, startled.
Wait. No. That was—
Crowley looks down at their hands, held carefully apart now. His fingers burn where Aziraphale had touched them. A glance up tells him that Aziraphale is looking ahead, seemingly unbothered by Crowley’s reaction, but that does nothing to stop the roiling acidic recrimination that bubbles through Crowley.
What the fuck is wrong with him? What right did he have to pull away? To act like Aziraphale couldn’t touch him however he liked, whenever he liked and Crowley wouldn’t thank him for it?
He flexes his fingers. Perhaps he could… reach out. Take Aziraphale’s hand. He wouldn’t need to apologize then, wouldn’t need to ever address his unacceptable reaction. They’re only halfway to the village, there’s still time to fix this.
But, he can’t make his hand move.
The village at the bottom of the hill can only be called quaint, though it makes something in Crowley’s chest scoff to think it. As soon as they start passing the buildings on the outskirts, Aziraphale begins making little cooing noises. The houses are all darling and adorable and oh Crowley look at that, they have chickens! His enthusiasm is hopelessly charming and a wonderful distraction from the way the dull ache in his hip has shifted to a radiating stab with every step he takes.
For a few seconds, he entertains the idea of telling Aziraphale that he’s hurting. He knows he’s been short and snappish all day and worse, he knows that Aziraphale can see it. Aziraphale doesn’t deserve that from him. Never, but especially not today. He’d been right, this was their first day in their new home. Crowley refuses to fuck that up more than he already has.
When they reach the restaurant, Crowley slides past Aziraphale to open the door and hold it for him. As he passes by, Aziraphale shoots a look at Crowley from beneath his eyelashes, lips pressed together and corners of his mouth curling upward. The breath catches in Crowley’s chest.
Fuck, he loves Aziraphale so much.
The hostess greets them brightly, her bubblegum pink hair shockingly vibrant in the dim light of the restaurant. Crowley has always been proud of unnatural hair dye, it was one of his and the low grade rage that it incites in stogy assholes had been great for his quarterly reports.
“Hello there,” Aziraphale replies. He glances at Crowley quickly and then back to the girl. “My partner and I have just moved in up the lane and—”
The rest of what he says is lost to the static that fills Crowley’s mind.
Partner.
Partner.
He can’t— Aziraphale had never— He’d just said that, easy as you please! As if he, they, hadn’t spent the last six thousand odd years doing absolutely everything they could to avoid anyone thinking they even knew each other, much less liked, or—and it still almost hurts to think it—love one another.
Crowley cannot believe that this is his life.
Aziraphale glances back at him again. He must see something on Crowley’s face because he raises one eyebrow and asks, “All right, dear?”
Crowley realizes that he’s entirely missed the hostess leading them to their table. She’s standing off to the side, politely not staring at them in the very pointed way that only customer service workers ever seemed to perfect. So, Crowley drags a smile up from the depths of his chest and says, “Of course, aren’t I always?”
Aziraphale’s face flattens, expression vanishing behind a mask of British Doubt, and Crowley thinks perhaps he’s done it. He’s upset Aziraphale badly enough that he’s going to turn around and say, ‘no, actually this was all a terrible mistake. I’ll just call up Heaven and—’
Then, Aziraphale smiles at him, skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling. “What are you thinking about having? Ms Green here has kindly recommended the Wellington and you know I always preferred the dish to the man, so I might take her up on that.”
The idea of eating something so heavy makes Crowley feel vaguely nauseous. He’s about to say so, but Aziraphale keeps talking.
“I know you don’t like such heavy meals when it’s cool out, perhaps the cod? I spied a fish stew on the specials menu as we passed by.”
“Stew sounds good,” Crowley says. “I’ll take whatever red you’re having, though.” He’s not in the mood for a delicate drink.
Maybe it should feel uncomfortable to be so Known, but in the moment it soothes the twisting, tangled anxiety in his chest into something he can push deep enough to ignore.
Aziraphale’s hand rests on the tablecloth. Crowley stares at it as a waiter comes by and Aziraphale gives him their order. It’s halfway between them, as if Aziraphale had reached for the candle at the center and given up midway.
Crowley bites his lip, scrapes together the dregs of his courage, and reaches out, taking Aziraphale’s hand in his own in full view of anyone who might care to look.
Aziraphale’s conversation with their waiter stutters before continuing as if nothing had happened. Except, as he speaks, he turns his hand around in Crowley’s and interlaces their fingers.
Crowley doesn’t try to hide his smile. Aziraphale’s hand is hot in his own, his fingers broad and calloused where Crowley’s are slim and pointy. It’s almost enough for him to ignore the way the ache in his hip has migrated to his thigh muscle.
When they leave the restaurant, the sun is just beginning to dip towards the horizon, the whole world gone to gold. Crowley’s hair, when Aziraphale dares to look at it, is ablaze, his cheeks flushed and warm. Being out in public together feels so rare and precious, Aziraphale doesn’t want it to end[4].
“I was thinking we might take a short walk before going home,” he proposes, hoping his voice sounds casual. “You mentioned something about an outlook?”
Crowley shrugs, hands shoved as deeply as they could go into the pointlessly tiny pockets of his jeans. “S’up there somewhere.” He jerks his head towards the opposite side of town. “Can probably make it before dark, if you want.”
It’s impossible to read Crowley’s expression past the sunglasses and set grimace[5], but he’s angled his body towards Aziraphale and his brow is smooth, so Aziraphale decides that he’s not opposed to the idea.
“I would,” he says. Then, he hesitates for a moment, worried about another rejection, before deciding to throw caution to the wind and holding out his hand for Crowley to take. To his great joy, Crowley extracts one hand from its pocket and takes him up on the offer. His blush is dark enough to be visible even in the fading light.
The village is not large, they’ve hardly walked for five minutes before the last of the buildings peter away. The narrow lane twists as it climbs its way upwards. Light breaks through the leaves on the trees that line the lane, sending bright patches dancing across the pavement. At his side, Crowley ambles slowly, seemingly content to go at Aziraphale’s pace for once[6].
His hand is cool in Aziraphale’s.
The trees slowly give way to low shrubs and then tall grasses. They’re just exiting the treeline entirely when Crowley stumbles, toppling to the ground with a sharp cry. His grip on Aziraphale’s hand yanks him off balance, nearly pulling him down as well.
“Shit!”
“Oh! Crowley, are you all right?” Aziraphale stoops, sliding a hand under Crowley’s closest elbow in an attempt to support him.
“Fine, shit—I’m fine,” Crowley snaps. He waves Aziraphale off and starts to stand, only for his leg to crumple beneath him as soon as he tries to put weight on it. “Blessed fucking potholes.”
“Here, let me help you.”
“I’ve got it.” Crowley starts to shrug him off but Aziraphale has had enough. He lifts one hand and snaps.
Crowley hits the couch in their living room with a thump. Startled, he shifts to stand, but Aziraphale is crowding into his space, pressing one hand against his chest and holding him in place[7]. He’s staring up at Aziraphale with wide eyes, breath short, when Aziraphale’s expression softens.
“Where do you hurt?” he asks, and it breaks something in Crowley because he doesn’t think anyone has ever asked him that before, not and wanted to actually hear the answer.
He swallows and licks his lips, but his mouth is too dry and his heart too fast to find the words.
Aziraphale’s hand slides up his chest to the base of his throat and then around. He stills, cupping the side of Crowley’s neck. He smiles, small and fond.
“I apologize, my dear. I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just, oh Crowley, you didn’t see your face. You didn’t just fall, you’re in pain and it was enough that you couldn’t hide it, and then I realized that you’d been in pain all evening and I hadn’t noticed. I thought you were acting a bit oddly because this is all so strange, but now I think that maybe I hurt you by suggesting that we walk and you were too kind to say no to me.”
“Not kind,” Crowley says on reflex. Aziraphale’s thumb strokes the front of Crowley’s throat[8]
“Of course, not kind. Indulgent. You always indulge me.” Aziraphale lets him go and turns to one of the piles of boxes, pulling it open and beginning to rummage through it as he goes on, “This is all so new, I worry I’m a bad par— A bad friend because I should have seen that you were—”
The urge to soothe, to fix things for Aziraphale, finally allows Crowley to unstick his tongue and say, “It’s not a new injury.”
Aziraphale freezes. He turns to face Crowley, expression very blank.
“What?”
Crowley looks up at the ceiling, silent. Aziraphale pulls a throw from the boxes and returns to Crowley’s side.
“What do you mean, Crowley?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Crowley—”
“Really. Aziraphale, leave it.”
Aziraphale shifts, opens his mouth and closes it again. Then, he drapes the throw over Crowley’s lap[9] and stands once more.
“I’ll get you a drink.”
And then he’s gone, retreating to the kitchen where the boxes with their favorite wines are waiting to be organized.
The night goes on. Aziraphale is charmed by the way Crowley’s pale cheeks flush darker with each drink he has, eyes bright and mouth wide as he tells a story he’s told many times before[10]. Aziraphale sits next to him on the couch, just as drunk as Crowley and hyper-aware of the scant space between their thighs. He wants to touch, to feel the solidity of Crowley’s body and know for sure that this is real.
But, Crowley had flinched earlier when Aziraphale tried to take his hand. He’s not upset about it. Or, well, he is a little upset, but he also knows that this is all happening rather fast and Crowley likes fast, but only when he’s entirely in control. More than that, Crowley was hurting and Aziraphale had no desire to inadvertently do anything that might make it worse.
“Still miss those pies,” Crowley is saying. “E’ryone else adds too much, erg, what’s the thing?”
“Fruit?”
Crowley jabs a finger towards him. “That’s the thing! Fruit! Too much of it.” Crowley sounds so sure that Aziraphale nearly finds himself nodding along before he realizes exactly what he’d be agreeing to.
“It’s an apple pie, dear.”
“Doesn’t mean it has to be all apples, angel.” He groans and, to Aziraphale’s pleasure, reaches up to remove his sunglasses. Tossing them onto the closest box, he jabs his knuckles into the meat of his thigh, mouth set in a sharp grimace.
Aziraphale sets his own drink down. He won’t ask, won’t press Crowley again, not when he put up such a firm boundary before and when the alcohol has lowered his barriers so much. But, oh, he wants to.
Crowley rolls his head on the back of the sofa, staring up at Aziraphale, eyes half-lidded.
“Wasn’t your fault, you know,” he says.
Dread trickles down Aziraphale’s spine. “What?”
Crowley jabs a finger into his thigh. “This. Not your fault.”
“Crowley, I don’t understand. You mean it’s not from the walk earlier?”
“Mmmh, yeah, that but also before. The Me-me bit of it, not my corporation.” He blinks sleepily, a small smile crossing his face. “Didn’t expect to survive at all. Hell, I didn’t even realize I was calling you, if I’m being honest.”
“When did you call….” Aziraphale trails off as he remembers the only time Crowley could be talking about, when he was injured and in pain and scared and he’d called for Aziraphale. He had broken the circle Crowley was trapped in and made sure he was comfortable in a trusted inn, obvious wounds healed, before he’d left to take care of both of their jobs and give Crowley time to recover. He hadn’t known Crowley was injured in any way save the physical.
“I— I never realized you still suffered—”
Crowley makes a dismissive noise. “S’exactly why I never said anything,” he groans. “It’s not suffering. Not really.”
“You fell earlier, I’m sorry dear, but that doesn’t usually mean everything is fine.”
“Yeah, well, it’s hard to heal when it keeps getting re-hurt. But it doesn’t always hurt, I’m not always in pain and anyway,” he pauses his serious expression lifts, eyes crinkling as he smiles. “And besides that, it’s different now. I never have to go back there. Maybe… maybe it’ll actually get better now.”
Aziraphale’s heart aches. His fingers itch. He wants to touch, to soothe, but the thought of how Crowley had flinched away earlier stops him. He doesn’t want to push Crowley’s boundaries when they’ve just been talking about the abuse he’d endured.
“What?” Crowley asks and Aziraphale almost laughs. Of course Crowley can tell he’s holding back.
“I— I would like to help,” he says, hoping to frame it as a desire and not a request. “But, I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable.”
Crowley stays silent, clearly not expecting that.
“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale rushes to say. “I shouldn’t have said anything, that wasn’t—”
“Yes.”
“—what you…. What did you say?”
“Yes, please,” Crowley says very deliberately. He glances at Aziraphale and then away. “I’d— I’d like that.”
Aziraphale nods, “Of course.” He sets his drink aside and turns back to Crowley and then stops, unsure how to proceed. They sit in mutually awkward silence for a few seconds before Crowley snorts and twists, shimmying himself around and throwing his legs across Aziraphale’s lap. He holds himself stiffly, uncomfortable but trying very hard not to be.
Aziraphale places one hand on top of Crowley’s thigh. Crowley hisses quietly and moves Aziraphale’s hand, shifting it over and up to where the pain radiates from. His other hand has a tight grip on the throw. Casting about for something that will help Crowley relax, Aziraphale remembers a flier he’d seen posted on a bulletin board in the village.
As he starts to press his fingers into the tight muscle, he says, “I saw that the primary school is putting on Hamlet in a few weeks. Perhaps we could attend?”
“Aziraphale, I think I would rather teach Warlock maths again.”
Aziraphale laughs, delighted to find that Crowley has started to relax, legs settling heavier on his lap. “Now really dear, that’s a bit dramatic.”
Footnotes
1. No, he’s not sure either why he bought it in the first place. Something about the crooked beams and lead lined windows and huge garden bordered by crumbling stone walls called to him in ways he’s never had the words to explain. It’s too dark to be Heaven, too cluttered and close, but the pale walls and soft clover mean it can’t be Hell either.↩
2. It’s still September, but the breeze so close to the coast is constant and chilly enough to make Crowley regret anything less than three layers.↩
3. Deserted, of course. Crowley might not have known why he bought this place, but he had taken care to ensure that no creeping developments ruined the pastoral tranquility over the years.↩
4. He knows time together is no longer a limited resource, but it’s only been two weeks and his heart has not yet caught up with reality.↩
5. Crowley’s default expression, no matter his mood.↩
6. In a very literal sense: Crowley’s default walking pace is a fair sight faster than Aziraphale’s and so he often finds himself rushing to keep up.↩
7. His hand is so warm. So broad. So real.↩
So sweet
Date: 2022-12-24 03:38 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2022-12-24 03:40 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2022-12-25 12:00 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2022-12-25 11:19 am (UTC)And Aziraphale, such a sweetheart. He’s so good calling an end to the walk and taking Crowley home. I also adore his reactions to the village, all the cooing was so cute. And then just so carefully respectful of Crowley’s boundaries while offering him so much understanding and gentleness. The ending is so sweet!!
Thank you so much for this. It has all the elements I love (especially the chronic pain and disability and sooo much tenderness) and is beautifully written!
(no subject)
Date: 2023-01-03 04:05 am (UTC)COUCH IN ONE ARM
So my eyes landed on Aziraphale calling Crowley his ‘partner’ before I actually got to that part in the story, and let me tell you, my brain did the same thing Crowley’s did when he heard it XD Love it
I also love Aziraphale just transporting Crowley RIGHT onto that comfy sofa when he needed it.
This is so sweeeet! Every instance of Aziraphale just KNOWING Crowley, including how to make him relax by laughing about the Hamlet play. And Crowley knows when Aziraphale is holding back, too. This was really good, I love your characterization of them!