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Despite protests to the contrary, Crowley didn’t mind neighborhood social events. He complained and grumbled about each invitation as a matter of principle, naturally. But Aziraphale enjoyed the events, and they usually had good alcohol. So that was okay.
This wasn’t okay.
He stared at the printed invitation, with its cheesy little clipart flames and comic sans font. Usually, he found the homemade invitations endearing—although he’d never admit that either—especially when they’d been made by the local kids. He had a paradoxical desire to burn this one, and barely stifled a hysterical burst of laughter.
Okay. Okay. He needed to calm down. There was no fire. Aziraphale was safe in his library.
But Crowley’s heart pounded, and his hands shook as he laid the mail on Aziraphale’s desk. If Aziraphale wanted to go, he’d go. Deal with it via getting extremely drunk first.
Which was how Crowley planned to deal with his current impending panic attack. He went through half a bottle of scotch while standing by the liquor cabinet, and took the rest to the sofa. His hands still shook.
Before he could sit, Aziraphale wandered in and smiled. “Oh! Hello, Crowley. Did the mail arrive?”
“Mm.” Crowley topped off his glass.
Aziraphale picked up the invitation and frowned. “Bonfire night? Oh dear. Well, we shan’t be going to that.”
He tossed the invitation in the wastebasket. Crowley stared at him, confused. “Really? I thought you’d want to go. You love neighborhood events.”
“Ordinarily.” Aziraphale came over and took him by the arm. “But not with this. I know it would be terribly distressing for you.”
“But…” Choked up, Crowley gulped. “I don’t wanna stop you from having fun. I can deal with it.”
“Like you’re dealing with it now?” Aziraphale asked, glancing at the scotch.
Crowley took another drink. “Yeah.”
“Dearest, no.” Aziraphale stretched to kiss his cheek, then drew him to sit on the sofa. “There’s plenty of other non-fiery events that won’t give you weeks of nightmares about the shop.”
Shivering, Crowley pressed against his side. These days, nightmares of that fire were rare. But sometimes, when he caught a whiff of smoke or saw the flicker of a flame…
“It still comes back,” he said, and hated himself for the weakness. “Bloody ridiculous. I should be over this.”
“Crowley.” Another kiss to his cheek, and Aziraphale’s plump fingers slotted into place with his own. “Do stop that. You’re not over it, and you may never be. That’s okay.”
Crowley grunted, annoyed. But Aziraphale was right—he definitely wasn’t over it, although he felt better with Aziraphale here. “You’re really sure you don’t mind skipping it?”
“I’m really sure. We’ll have a lovely little party of our very own, one that’s not intrinsically a trauma trigger.” Aziraphale smiled kindly. “And I won’t hear another word of argument.”
“But arguing’s our favorite hobby.”
“Not when it comes to your wellbeing.”
Sighing, Crowley yielded. “You’re really terrific to me, y’know.”
Aziraphale beamed at him. “I know.”