Work Text:
Heaven is a cold place. Technically speaking, it doesn’t have a temperature, but that doesn’t make this any less true.
Even before his Fall, even before he had anything to compare it to, Crowley knew that Heaven was cold. Deep in his core, he felt it was wrong, that it shouldn’t be this way. Then he met Aziraphale, someone actually bright and warm. Someone who actually spoke to him and showed interest and concern. Before meeting him, Crowley hadn’t known interactions could be like this.
Well, then there was this whole universe runtime issue, and he never even got to speak to God. The matter-of-fact way they rejected his questions and him. And suddenly there was Lucifer, who’d never shown interest in him before and something about that angel had rubbed Crowley all wrong, but the other angel talked a good game and everything happened so fast, sweeping Crowley up in it all before he had a moment to think. When it was too late, Crowley understood that Lucifer was just as cold as the rest of Heaven. All of them were ice-cold. And surely Aziraphale would become like that as well, given enough time - just another cog in the machine.
Which is why it surprised him to find Aziraphale the same bright and warm being when he saw him again in Eden and every subsequent meeting after that.
Crowley is addicted to that brightness and warmth. Dependent, needs it like plants need water and nutrients and soil. Just like a Sansevieria he seemed to be his usual grouchy self when the light left him - yes, alright, so maybe his mood was somewhat more foul than usual - but inside where no one could see he was withering away, slowly but steadily.
Aziraphale is back now and they are together. Heaven and Hell won’t try to end the universe any more. There will be no war between the sides. And they - all of them - are free. For the first time ever, they are truly free to choose.
But of course, this time apart left deep wounds in both of them. Crowley can’t leave Aziraphale’s presence, terrified beyond reason that someone will come and do something and the angel will be taken away again. Wherever he goes, Crowley goes.
And Aziraphale… He smiles and laughs and pretends everything is fine. But Crowley can see the vestigial frigid hold of Heaven in his eyes. And there are moments when he becomes still, his arms wrap around himself and he stares off at nothing.
And Crowley— He hates to admit this even to himself but Crowley is afraid when that happens. He wants to hide away in the deepest corners and pretend, just like Aziraphale. Pretend that the light he needs is not dimming each time, pretend that he’s not terrified that Heaven finally broke Aziraphale, that he’s not terrified that this will never heal. That they will never heal.
But that’s what they used to do: nothing. Even magic has to be invoked, every miracle has to be willed into existence. And everything can be melted if you use the right method. Even that icy grip of Heaven.
Crowley tries warm tea and hot cocoa, when Aziraphale gets into these moods. He tries his favourite foods and music. He tries blankets, the fluffiest and cuddliest he can miracle into existence. It all helps, to a degree. But it always takes Aziraphale a while to come back to himself, and nothing seems to have any lasting effect.
He knows he has to be patient. Crowley fucking knows that he shouldn’t expect immediate change. But his heart hopes and fears, regardless, the stupid thing.
And then they are out in St. James for a walk. It’s sunny and cold, the sun never drags itself very high into the sky these days, and another year is almost over. Not that they are counting. What’s one year to an immortal being?
They talk about newspapers of all things, how they’ve become almost obsolete and are existing purely for people who like to wield those impractical things— Suddenly Aziraphale goes still and looks out over the water. The light from the low sun hits it just so, and the refractions on the water are a pure, colourless white. Frigid and unforgiving.
And now, Crowley doesn’t have any tea, nor a blanket, or music or any of the things he’s used before to bring Aziraphale back. And Aziraphale keeps staring at the light on the water, but he’s not really here, and Crowley hates that. Hates that Aziraphale is gone again, hates that this keeps happening to Aziraphale, hates that forlorn expression on the angel’s face. But the most he hates that he can’t help Aziraphale, can’t seem to make anything better no matter how hard he tries.
Panic and frustration take over his mind and suddenly his arms are sliding around Aziraphale’s shoulders, wrapping around as much of the angel as he can, his entire useless corporation presses against the angel’s back and his head drops onto the angel’s shoulder, and he squeezes and holds him because he doesn’t know what else to do.
A soft warm hand reaches for his forearm. “Crowley?”
“You were gone,” Crowley says, which explains absolutely everything - but only in his head.
“I’m still very sorry for that,” Aziraphale says with a sigh, naturally misunderstanding Crowley, “you have to bel—”
“Just now.” It comes out a lot harsher than Crowley intended it to. He’s too impatient. He’s always too impatient. He’s always too afraid.
“Oh,” Aziraphale whispers and his other hand joins the first; together they hold Crowley’s arm in his strong grip, as tightly as Crowley is holding Aziraphale. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Heaven, it—” Crowley hesitates, searches for the right words. But there aren’t any, no magic words that would fix this, make it like it never was. “It gets to you. Takes a while to shake it off.”
They both know this, it’s nothing new. But it’s the first time one of them has said it.
“It does,” Aziraphale agrees. One of his hands reaches up into Crowley’s hair and the demon bites his tongue until it bleeds so he won’t sob pathetically at how just that makes everything warmer and brighter, and suddenly he doesn’t feel like he’s starving any more. “But Crowley, you… You’re like the sun in spring. Your vivre, spice and heat thaw this frigid ground, so it may return to life.”
Crowley snorts. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have been able to keep himself from crying, and he refuses to bawl at something this corny. Demon, standards and all that. “Satan, you’re cheesy. That was practically a verbal grilled Camembert.”
But that’s the angel. He can make the corniest, cheesiest things sound so beautiful, Crowley wouldn’t mind being smothered by them. If he could be smothered, that is.
“I prefer ‘romantic’, my dear,” Aziraphale grins. Even without looking, Crowley can feel it stretching those round cheeks, and he presses his own face a little more against Aziraphale’s.
“Should we go on?” Crowley asks then, nonsensically, because he’s not letting go, doesn’t want to let go and is not planning to let go any time soon. Unless of course the angel wants him to.
“Let’s stay like this a little longer.” Aziraphale slides his hand down until he reaches Crowley’s, slips his fingers in between the demon’s bony ones, and sighs contentedly as if he’s just come home after a long trip. And in a way, he has.
Crowley thinks, that maybe, he’ll start counting the years now after all.