Chapter Text
London, 1501
“Hello, Aziraphale!”
Aziraphale closed his eyes for just a moment, basking in the immediate rush of warmth that swept through him despite the autumn chill. Things had been difficult these past years, but he always rejoiced at the sound of that familiar voice.
He turned to his left, smiling at the red headed demon who had squeezed through the crowd to join him. “Hello, Crowley! Back from Florence, are we?”
“Yep. Whole region’s still pretty chaotic.” Crowley pursed his lips, brow deeply furrowed. He’d upgraded to a new pair of dark lenses, ones that covered rather a lot of his eyes. “Dunno why they keep wasting my time with assignments there. The humans don’t need my help to get into trouble.”
Aziraphale sighed and gazed out at the sea of humanity. He hadn’t been to Florence in years, not since 1478. Since his most horrible failure as an angel. On that visit, while Aziraphale was performing a blessing, the intended targets of Heavenly favor had started murdering each other.
He’d gotten in awful trouble for it. First threats of punishment and years of intimidation from Gabriel, which left him panicky and unsure of himself. And then, eventually, a brutal punishment that involved Gabriel, Sandalphon, and several angelic soldiers using Aziraphale’s body for their own pleasure.
The horrible incident had shattered his worldview, destroyed the comfortable illusion that all of the time spent in Gabriel’s bed had been a justified punishment. Crowley had always said that it was rape, that Gabriel was an abuser. And after such brutality, Aziraphale hadn’t been able to deny it any longer.
He sighed, reaching to press a hand to his spine. Gabriel had broken his back once, and it still ached every time he thought about being hurt. But all of this must be happening for a reason. Aziraphale had clung to that, even as the rest of his world crumbled. He couldn’t live with such pain if it was all meaningless.
At least Gabriel hadn’t touched him since the punishment, once again praising his hard work and pointing out signs of improvement. Crowley said that was manipulation, trying to lull him into a false sense of security. To convince him that everything was okay again. To convince him that Gabriel was his friend.
“You all right?” Crowley asked gently, interrupting his thoughts.
“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale smiled up at his friend, heartened by his presence. He always felt so much better when Crowley was here. “Everything’s been fine while you were away, no trouble.”
Crowley grunted an acknowledgment, but he didn’t offer his own reassurance. Which, most likely, meant that he’d been recalled to Hell and abused by Hastur, Ligur, or both. Or, even worse, Satan.
Aziraphale shivered at the thought, struggling to prevent himself from reaching out to take his demon’s hand. Touch was still difficult for Crowley to tolerate, especially when stressed. A crowded area would make that even more difficult on him. Perhaps they ought to leave, go somewhere quiet to talk.
“So what’s this?” Crowley asked just as Aziraphale opened his mouth. “S’ a wedding or something, yeah? Pretty big celebration.”
“A wedding, yes. It’s supposed to bring…peace, I believe? I don’t know.” Aziraphale hadn’t been paying any attention to the world these past years, instead taking refuge in books whenever possible. “Thought I’d take advantage of it to bless some of the wealthy, powerful people on my list. Perhaps see about encouraging kindness and such. And you, my dear?”
“Nh, I’m supposed to do the opposite, as usual. Talk up greed and selfishness, stir up some trouble between the English and…whoever else is here. Is it the French?”
“Um. Spanish.” Aziraphale shrugged. There really was no point to attending to all the politics, the intricacies of it. Gabriel certainly wasn’t paying attention. Heaven had absolutely no understanding of exactly how complicated humans were. “I think the wedding is supposed to, um, stabilize Europe? Or make the Tudors seem more accepted. Or something. I don’t know all the details. I’ve been a bit occupied.”
He glanced up into Crowley’s soft, amused smile. Oh, it was marvelous to see him smile, even if only a little. The poor old dear had been awfully depressed for years, ever since his last “reward” from the Dark Council. They’d hurt him terribly, abused him while claiming it was an opportunity to earn favor. Again.
“What’s that look for, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, cheeks warmed by the close attention. Oh, it was so silly to be this affected, rather inappropriate. But he’d always been quite unable to behave appropriately where Crowley was involved. “Do I have something on my face?”
“Nh…could have a flower in your hair.” Crowley pulled a very out of season forget-me-not from his sleeve and tucked it behind Aziraphale’s ear, then winked at him.
“Oh! Oh, you naughty demon!” And now Aziraphale’s cheeks were hot rather than just warm, his heart racing far too quickly. “You really are just awful, Crowley. Trying to corrupt me with your flowers and your charm. And to distract me from my inquiry.”
“Hhn.” Crowley tilted his head, smile widening slightly. “I’m looking at you like this because your idea of being occupied is reading your way through every bloody book in existence. Anything interesting lately?”
“Oh, this and that.” Aziraphale glanced around for Crowley’s bag, but he wasn’t carrying it right now. “Don’t I get a present this time?”
Crowley winked again. “Maybe later.”
Smiling, Aziraphale returned his attention to the festivities. The humans were getting quite thoroughly drunk, laughing and milling about. At the moment, the tournament was limited to small teams fighting against each other—the jousting had taken place earlier, before the dignitaries headed inside Westminster Hall.
These tournaments were rather ghoulish, all that violence, but at least it was well-ordered violence. Aziraphale had reported the increasingly structured style of tournaments as a success for Heaven. After all, it was a formal way to take out aggression, and therefore might prevent brawling.
Crowley, meanwhile, took credit on Hell’s behalf. The increasing structure meant that people would be all the more bloodthirsty when something became truly violent, and they would spend the whole tournament wishing ill will on their fellow humans.
At the memory, Aziraphale smiled. He and Crowley had worked all that out together, having far too much fun deciding how to interpret human activities to their advantage. A bit naughty, perhaps, but that had given it even more of a thrill.
Right now, though, Crowley didn’t look thrilled. Someone bumped into him, and he flinched with a sharp hiss. It was awfully crowded, and he braced in a way that meant he was on the verge of flight.
“Perhaps we ought to go into the Hall? See what’s happening with the pageants?” Aziraphale suggested. It would still be a tad crowded inside, but they stood a better chance of finding a quiet corner. Far fewer observers there, although still enough to offer cover.
Crowley, tense and breathing too quickly, looked around at the quick exchanges of money. People betting on the outcome of skirmishes, or which countries would go to war next, or just over a throw of the dice. “Yeh. Doesn’t look like I need to do anything here to encourage, er…greed or whatever I’m supposed to be encouraging.”
“I think you can also claim to have encouraged drunkenness.” Aziraphale snapped his fingers, miracling some of the wine into goblets. That ought to calm his demon down a bit. “Particularly if you start drinking.”
“You know what I like, angel.” The tension in Crowley’s shoulder eased as he took the goblet. He downed the drink in a few quick gulps, then refilled it with a miracle. “Haven’t had nearly enough to drink yet today.”
Aziraphale bit his lip. He often worried about Crowley’s drinking, especially when he was alone. The sweet old dear always became so very depressed. And the more depressed he became, the more he drank. It was rather a coin toss as to whether he remembered any of his trip to Florence, or if he’d been too drunk the entire time.
But worries like that could wait. “Come now, my dear,” Aziraphale said warmly. “Let’s go inside. I believe the pageants should be underway, some nice entertainment. I spoke to some of the actors and such the other day—just making sure the themes were appropriate and peaceful, mind—and wait until you see the costumes and props! Beautiful.”
“Appropriate and peaceful, huh?” Crowley glanced back to the tournament field, where two teams with swords were embroiled in a vicious battle. Humans yelled and cheered, waved fists in the air, cried out for blood. “Yep. Really peaceful. Great job, angel.”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes and sent out a subtle wave of angelic presence to clear their way through the crowd. “Oh, stop that, you grumpy old serpent. I said I was encouraging the pageants, not the tournament.”
People instinctively moved without truly realizing they were doing it, and Aziraphale led the way to Westminster Hall. Crowley lagged slightly behind him, as he often did. Moving out of the way of the humans rather than clearing a path. He only exerted the power of his presence if Aziraphale was under threat.
And there were no real threats right now, to either of them. Oh, lots of humans, but—
A tall, broad figure in purple, Gabriel looming out of the crowd, rushing forward to seize Aziraphale and smite Crowley. Aziraphale cried out and stumbled backwards, vision blurred. “No! Crowley, run!”
“Angel!” Hands caught him, turned him, and he tried to scramble away. “Aziraphale, calm down! It’s Crowley, it’s Crowley. Shhh, it’s okay.”
“It’s not okay!” Aziraphale twisted back and forth, trying to see Gabriel. Where had he gone? “Gabriel, he’s here, he’ll kill you!”
“Shh, shhh…” A slow, tender kiss pressed to his brow, and the hands coaxed him into a gentle side-to-side rocking motion. Aziraphale looked up into worried golden eyes, shielded behind dark lenses. “Angel, it’s okay. It’s not Gabriel, I promise. It’s just a human.”
Tears rolled down Aziraphale’s cheek, and he sobbed. “No, I saw him, I saw…”
But when he looked back towards the crowd, there was no Gabriel. Not even anyone in purple! There was a tall, broad figure, but he wore a deep, cool red. Not purple. Just similar enough at first glance.
“Oh…” Aziraphale covered his face with his hands, trembling. His legs went weak, and more tears escaped. This had been happening more and more often of late, ever since that last punishment. Any time he saw someone remotely similar to Gabriel, he panicked and became utterly useless. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t mean to…to ruin things.”
“Aziraphale. You’re not ruining anything.” Crowley’s voice was kind, gentle. “It’s okay to be scared. You never say I’m ruining stuff if someone bumps into me and I have a panic attack, yeah?”
That was true, but it didn’t fully assuage the guilt. Oh, he’d simply wanted to have a nice day, to enjoy their reunion. Not panic again. “I-I thought it was him, Crowley. I thought he was going to kill you.”
A soft, infuriated hiss. “I’d like to see him try.”
Fresh terror clenched in Aziraphale’s chest, and he shook his head vigorously. “I wouldn’t like that at all! He would destroy you, Crowley. He would destroy you, and-and-and I can’t lose… I…”
Oh, Lord. Now he couldn’t breathe at all.
“Shit. Sorry. Being an arse, me.” Crowley cupped his cheek and ducked to catch his gaze, eyes wide and worried behind the lenses. “Mm?”
Aziraphale tried to smile at him, still struggling to relax. He reached up and ran a light stroke across Crowley’s red hair, then exhaled as evenly as he could manage. “I-I’m all right. Just…please do not fight Gabriel, Crowley. I know you fantasize about it all the time, but…”
“Nnnrng.” Crowley made a face, swayed from side to side. Then let out an aggravated gust of air. “Yeah, all right. I do fantasize about it loads, y’know. I can think of all sorts of stuff I’d love to do to that bastard.”
“Please do not fight Gabriel, Crowley,” Aziraphale repeated. Crowley had exceptional self preservation and a strong flight instinct—under normal circumstances. But when it came to rushing to Aziraphale’s defense…
Well. Crowley had nearly gotten himself discorporated during the sack of Baghdad, racing all over the city trying to find Aziraphale. And then refusing to leave a burning building without Aziraphale. And then there was that awful trip to Florence, where Crowley had rushed into a cathedral after him and been badly burned by the consecrated ground.
“Fine. I won’t fight Gabriel.” Crowley offered a faint smile, then briefly pressed their foreheads together. “You all right to go inside now? Wanna see the pageants?”
“Y-yes, I think I’m fine now.” Although the shaky weakness and tummy ache would undoubtedly continue. As would the fresh flare of pain in his back.
Seeming to know that, Crowley settled his hand right across the most painful spot as they walked. The touch was soothing as always, and Aziraphale leaned back into it. The contact felt wonderful. But likely overwhelming to Crowley, and that sparked fresh worry. He’d always pushed himself far too hard.
Inside Westminster Hall, Aziraphale took a moment to simply look around. The Hall was a bit crowded too, full of royalty, dignitaries, nobility. The oak ceiling arched high above them, a somewhat recent addition from a hundred years ago. It was rather stylish, really. Particularly the wooden angels incorporated into the support beams, which always made him smile.
The pageants were already underway, two huge carts up ahead. One “castle” large enough to support several women and some children, and another cart masquerading as a ship. The entertainers were mainly dressed in gold and silver, exquisitely detailed outfits.
“Courtly love theme again?” Crowley said with a hint of amusement after listening to a few lines.
“Mhm.” Aziraphale delicately stepped away from his hand, giving him space. At the loss of contact, relief swept across Crowley, and he flexed his hand. So the touch had been troubling him. “It seemed appropriate. And peaceful.”
They stood together for a bit, watching the ongoing pageant. After a rather extensive bit of dialogue, Crowley snorted. “Peaceful. You mean the bit where the ladies are being threatened if they won’t talk to the ‘knights of love’? How come they’re getting threatened into compliance if this is so ‘peaceful’?”
“Oh, do stop that,” Aziraphale said miserably. Crowley loved to pick holes in everything they watched or read, pointing out anything he saw as unfair. The worst part…he was usually right.
---
A few more cups of wine took the edge off, and Crowley finally managed to relax. He felt better than he had in weeks, ever since he’d left England. The trips abroad only got harder to endure, harder to survive. Being alone was fucking miserable.
Life was pretty miserable in general, full of pain and abuse and suffering. The whole blessed mass of humanity sometimes seemed intent on making life as awful as possible. Being a demon and trying to make their lives even worse was really, really pointless.
But then there were the little moments. Humans could be amazingly generous and loving, too. Like the ambassador with a kid on his shoulders, smiling while grubby little hands tugged on his hair. Or the tall guy who moved to the side so the shorter people behind him could see the pageant carts better.
And then there was Aziraphale. Aziraphale made life worth living. He’d helped Crowley through each patch of despair, never giving up on him for even a second. He was kind and caring, if also self-righteous and amazingly deep in denial about virtually everything. But at heart, he was gentle.
Trouble was that without Aziraphale, all those little moments seemed to completely vanish.
Florence had been mostly miserable this time, although Crowley loved hanging out with the artists. But he’d been summoned to Hell, raped as usual, and then kicked back up to Earth to encourage the humans to keep fighting each other. Most pointless assignment ever.
Coming back here, back to Aziraphale, was like seeing the sun again after weeks of being trapped in darkness. Crowley couldn’t take his eyes off his angel, choked up at the mere sight of him. At the excitement on his face as the pageant distracted him from his troubles, at the way he clutched his hands together anxiously whenever the story grew tense, at the way he gasped and savored the beauty of the costumes.
This wasn’t the best environment for a conversation, but Crowley could live with that. He half listened to the pageants, just enough to get context for Aziraphale’s reactions. Mostly, though, he just let himself enjoy the familiar comfort of his angel’s presence. That, and performing those blessings that Aziraphale was too distracted to do.
“Oh, don’t they look happy dancing?” Aziraphale finally said as the final pageant concluded. Crowley glanced towards the actors, at the “knights” and “ladies” who were now dancing around the hall. The costumes really were elaborate, flashy gold and silver. “I-I think they’re removing the carts now, hmm? Doesn’t it look like they’re moving?”
The carts were definitely moving, a slow, laborious process for something so massive and heavy. Those things were overkill, meant to impress and show off wealth. “Yep. Definitely moving.”
“Oh…” Aziraphale clutched his hands tighter together, craning his neck to watch as the audience joined in the dancing. Royalty first, and then moving down in social status. “Oh, that looks so fun.”
Crowley’s heart wrenched at the wistfulness in Aziraphale’s voice. Certain things were considered unacceptable for an angel, including dancing. But then again, angels weren’t supposed to enjoy eating food or reading every book in existence or hanging out with demons.
“Well…” Crowley stepped a little closer, extended his hand, raised an eyebrow. “You wanna?”
Aziraphale looked at him in confusion. “Do I want to what, dear boy?”
Groups of finely dressed humans swirled past them, all people who had practiced endlessly with the goal of making it look natural, as if they’d never needed to learn. Crowley jerked his head towards the humans. “Mm?”
“What?” Aziraphale looked between him and the dancers, eyes widening. Then he shook his head vigorously, twisting his hands together. “No, no, I can’t. I’m an angel, Crowley. Angels don’t dance.”
“Demons can. And we’re of angel stock. S’ no reason you can’t.” Flashing a smile, Crowley swayed from side to side. His heart raced faster, stomach tight with anxiety. This was stupid, risking rejection. But he hated to see Aziraphale even the tiniest bit sad about anything. “There’s loads of people dancing, yeah? Who’s gonna notice us?”
“But…” With a soft whimper, Aziraphale cast another look of utter longing at the dancing humans. “Oh… I shouldn’t. It’s so naughty.”
Which meant he would absolutely go for it, as long as Crowley used the right approach. “Well, that’s what makes it fun, hmm? Like when we ditch work to go out to eat. If you’re not allowed to dance, just think of it as, I dunno…hugging! We’re hugging while moving, that’s all.”
“Crowley, that’s ridiculous.” Gazing up shyly through his lashes, Aziraphale shuffled closer. Then, hesitant, he raised his hand and settled it in Crowley’s grasp.
Aziraphale was trembling, his breaths shallow and anxious. Crowley pressed a gentle kiss to his knuckles, then drew him forward. “S’ okay, angel. We’re not gonna join in the big dances, okay? I know that might be overwhelming. We’ll just…here, you wanna start by holding hands?”
He’d expected immediate agreement. Instead, Aziraphale pouted at him. “You said it was like hugging.”
Crowley chuckled, opening his arms. “All right, fine. We can start with hugging.”
Still shy, Aziraphale moved into his embrace. They took each other in a gentle, careful hold, one without too much pressure. And then, slowly, Crowley began to sway. Just a little at first, easing Aziraphale into it. “How’s that? Still okay?”
“Is this really dancing?” Aziraphale asked, voice full of doubt.
“Hey, it’s a start. We’ll move a little more, here.” Still holding his angel close, Crowley began to take careful steps. It was absolutely nothing like the talented, lively dancing going on in the center of the Hall, a whirlwind of humans showing off their physique and style.
This was quiet, intimate. Crowley guided them into a shadowy area, one of the many spots that wasn’t particularly well lit. He’d picked up a couple dance steps from watching the humans during their occasional paired dancing, and he used those as inspiration. He and Aziraphale moved together, both awkward and uncertain, tense.
But it felt nice. Aziraphale relaxed with a long, relieved exhale, settling his head on Crowley’s shoulder as they shuffled around aimlessly. “Oh, Crowley. You’re very good at this.”
“I really am not.” Demons were terrible at dancing, at least compared to humans. During parties, they flung themselves wildly around with zero coordination or skill. But trying to do that with Aziraphale would be a disaster.
Aziraphale sniffled, turning to press his face into Crowley’s neck. “Yes, you are,” he choked. Oh gosh, he sounded like he was about to start sobbing. “I-I’ve always…always thought dancing looked so nice. I never dreamed I’d actually get to try it.”
“You can try anything you want, Aziraphale.” No longer quite so self-conscious, Crowley pulled his angel a little closer. This really was dangerous, dancing together in the shadows with no chance of using the crowd as cover. But it was worth it. “Seriously, anything. If it’s something that needs two people, just say the word.”
“Oh…” Aziraphale murmured, holding onto him almost too tightly. The contact was extra overwhelming after time apart, and Crowley barely suppressed a flinch. Aziraphale, who was always perceptive about that stuff anyway, loosened his grip and sighed. “We really ought to stop, I suppose.”
“Nh, give it a minute more.” Crowley slowed, settling back into the gentle swaying. He pressed his face into Aziraphale’s hair and breathed in deeply, savored the moment. Being with Aziraphale really did make life worth living.
When they separated, Aziraphale gave him a shy smile. “That was lovely, my dear. Thank you so much.”
“Don’t thank me.” Crowley tried to put a gruff tone in his voice, but Aziraphale’s smile only widened. “Come on. Let’s go eat. And drink.”
---
Aziraphale absolutely could not stop smiling. Every time he tried to calm himself—and to stop the racing beat of his heart—he thought again of that lovely little dance. And all it took was a single thought before he was overcome by emotion again.
Oh, it had simply been so sweet. Crowley seemed quite embarrassed by the affectionate moment, now putting on a cranky attitude and accompanying gruffness. But that was all right, if it made him feel less vulnerable.
Because that truly had been vulnerable. Dancing! Angels did not dance, and they most certainly did not dance with demons. And yet…
Aziraphale had done it. And enjoyed it a great deal.
Well. He’d “hugged while moving”. That was a good way to think of it, one that let him chase off the flutters of panic. There was no prohibition against hugging, after all. Technically, he could hug all he liked.
“Mmm.” He finished off his last bites of bread, then dusted the crumbs off his hands. “Oh, that was a marvelous dinner. How’s your wine?”
Crowley flashed a quick smile, his eyes a little hazy. “S’ good. Really glad I got back today, angel.”
“Oh, I am too! That was so very, very lovely.” They’d escaped the celebrations and gone to one of Aziraphale’s favorite restaurants to talk. He hadn’t been here since Crowley left, had spent most of the time in his room. Except…
Except when he was on assignment. When he was supposed to be working. Like today.
“Oh!” he cried, wringing his hands and rocking. Oh no, oh no, he’d be in such trouble. Not as bad as Florence, most likely, but… “I-I was supposed to be performing blessings, I forgot all about—”
“Relax, angel.” Crowley’s smile widened, and he leaned back with a satisfied stretch. “I took care of it.”
Aziraphale stared at him. “You…you what, my dear?”
“I took care of it.” Shrugging, Crowley combed a hand through wavy red hair, pushing it back out of his face. “Eh, it’s not a big deal. You were having fun watching the pageants and checking out the costumes n’ stuff. So I just…y’know. Took care of it. Performed your blessings for you.”
Gaping, Aziraphale struggled to process that. Crowley had always been quite remarkable, and yet his generosity often caught Aziraphale off guard. “Oh, Crowley! That was so incredibly kind of you. Oh, I was being so, so silly…”
“Shut up. M’ not kind.” After the sharp comment, Crowley’s expression softened again. “You weren’t being silly. You were having fun.”
“I-I was, yes. It was so fun.” Aziraphale looked down, cheeks warm. Oh, how he’d missed his demon. Life simply seemed so empty without him. “Did you have fun too?”
Crowley smiled and reached out, brushing his fingertips against Aziraphale’s hand for just a moment. “Most fun I’ve had in weeks, angel.”
“Oh, I’m glad.” But they did need to talk about more serious matters. Or, at least, Aziraphale needed to inquire. “Um, please don’t feel pressured to respond to this if you don’t want to. But…are you okay, Crowley?”
That brought a tightness to Crowley’s expression. He refilled his cup, downed the wine. “Er… I am now. Florence was hard. S’ always kinda weird being back there, after what happened. And got called back to Hell. Hastur and Ligur. The usual.”
Aziraphale’s tummy wrenched, and he pressed both hands to it. Oh, what had they done to his Crowley? “The usual” spanned quite a large range of violence, anywhere from a rushed violation to hours of torture. “Are you hurt?”
Crowley shook his head, fidgeting with the leather band on his wrist. The bracelet covered a brand that commemorated his most recent occasion servicing the Dark Council. One of two such brands, which penetrated all the way to True Form. “Nah. No broken bones or anything this time, just…y’know.”
Just rape. Tears rose, and Aziraphale blinked them away. He refilled Crowley’s cup, and then his own. “I’m sorry, dear boy.”
“Nyeh, it’s okay. Back now, got plenty to do.” Groaning, Crowley rubbed his hip. He was often in pain, especially after assaults. “I’ve been thinking about trying to influence more plays again. And maybe more artists n’ stuff. I really enjoy seeing everything they’re making.”
Aziraphale perked up, curious. “Did you draw anything while you were in Florence, my dear?”
“No. I was too…” Crowley sighed, staring into the depths of his cup. He slammed down the wine. Didn’t finish his sentence.
“Ah,” Aziraphale said softly. Crowley had taken to drawing off and on, but mainly when they were together. Occasionally, he came back from assignment with a new sketch, especially when he’d been in Florence. But time apart made both of them quite depressed and lethargic. “Well, I do appreciate this lovely flower. Miracled, I assume?”
He reached up to adjust the flower still in his hair, and Crowley smiled. “Yep. S’ not the season for those. But I did bring you back olive oil and some really cool spices. And a couple other things.”
“Oh, you do spoil me.” Aziraphale rose, eager to get somewhere they could be truly alone. It was always a bit hazardous to be seen together, and far too dangerous to do much more than briefly hold hands. “Would you like to come back to my room? I have a gift for you as well.”
“Ah! Love gifts, me.” With a grunt, Crowley hopped up. He hissed sharply in pain and stumbled, clutching at his hip.
“Oh! Oh, my dear.” Chest tight, Aziraphale rushed to his side. He automatically reached out to steady his demon, then hesitated. Touching Crowley might be more upsetting. “Dearest? Do you need any help?”
“Nah, I got it. Just…hip’s bugging me more than usual.” He dug his fingers into it, hissing again. Then, with a heavy exhale, he straightened up and glanced at Aziraphale’s outstretched hand.
After a brief awkward moment, he took it and pulled Aziraphale into motion. A rush of heat flooded through Aziraphale as they walked out into the street together, the warmth of such public affection chasing away the night’s chill.
They strolled hand in hand, meandering back towards Aziraphale’s room. The stars glittered above them, shockingly bright. “Oh, did you see the stars?” Aziraphale asked, in awe as always. His Crowley had made many of those.
“Mm, s’ gorgeous out tonight. So clear.” Crowley squeezed his hand to get his attention, then pointed up. Aziraphale squinted, trying to see Crowley’s hand. Angels didn’t see in the dark quite as well as demons. “Y’know the Orion Nebula? I worked on that. S’ one of my favorites, just beautiful. Wish I could show it to you up close.”
Aziraphale’s chest ached, and he moved a little closer to his friend. “Well, maybe someday. We could take a holiday.”
Crowley let out a soft snort. “Yeah, all right. Sometime when we’re supposed to go to the same place on assignment, we’ll just fuck off and…”
He stopped, sucking in a gulping, harsh breath. Every muscle in his body locked up, and shudders rolled through him. His hand clenched convulsively on Aziraphale’s, painfully tight.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked.
Crowley screamed. Not just a single scream—a series of short, sharp screams that ended in one long piercing shriek. He fell to the ground, writhing, cries of agony filling the air.
“Crowley!” Aziraphale flung himself to his knees and dragged Crowley across his lap, holding him tight as he thrashed and shouted. Crowley’s face contorted, twisted with agony. “Crowley! Crowley, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“I—gah!” Crowley bucked and writhed, limbs jerking as if he was having a seizure. He squeezed his eyes shut and screamed again so loud that Aziraphale’s ears rang. “Aziraphale! Angel!”
Aziraphale clutched him closer, tears of panic rising. “Crowley, I’m here! What’s wrong? Please tell me what’s wrong!”
Crowley’s lips drew back, baring his teeth in a grimace. Waves of tremors wracked him, small ripples that built into convulsions. His eyes flew open again, fully gold, locking onto Aziraphale.
“Ssssummoning,” he hissed. Iridescent scales rippled across his pale skin, reflecting the soft moonlight. He jerked, thrashed, screamed again. “Angel!”
“No! Crowley, no, no!” Aziraphale clung to him, but his grasp was already slipping as the summoning magic dragged Crowley out of the physical realm. Panicking, Aziraphale lashed out with a burst of power, tried to counteract the ritual. He had to save his demon, had to protect him no matter what.
Crowley’s screams climbed in pitch, his entire body jerking. And then he was gone, torn right out of Aziraphale’s arms.