Archive of Our Own

London, 1800

Water was dripping from the window awning, and Crowley couldn’t sleep.

Being a demon, leaky roofs weren’t A Thing that could happen to him.  For one, his roof wouldn’t dare; and even if it did, one snap of his fingers would patch the blessed thing right up.  

But this wasn’t technically from his roof.  It was dripping from the top of his bedroom window, onto the ledge below, creating a small puddle and a Satan-forsaken drip-drip-drip sound that just.  Wouldn’t.  Stop.

Not like he’d had many hopes of sleeping tonight, anyway.

After pacing the floorboards for the better part of an hour, he’d ended up sitting on the window ledge, long legs and black nightgown draped over the right half of it.  If anyone had seen him, he would’ve seemed the paragon of style and nonchalance.

Instead, he was a brooding mess, fixating on that blessed puddle.

(Okay, it wasn’t a literal blessed puddle.  That would not end well for him.)

He sighed, and leaned over the window ledge, to take in the three-story drop below.  The London streets were deserted at this hour.  No humans would notice him appearing not-quite-human, if he wanted to let his wings out.  And with a good running start, he might be able to swoop out in time and take flight.  

But this might not be high enough.  Wouldn't give him enough time to unfurl his wings—he’d just splat onto the street.  Which might land him in some extra training seminars in Hell about Proper Corporation Care, with helpful tips like don’t commit suicide, you’ll mess up our productivity quotas, you utter nonce.  

He had no intention of that.  This corporation had been good to him.  Earth had been good to him.

Especially now, at the turn of the nineteenth century, as he’d finally set up a more permanent living arrangement.  And that was because…well.

Because someone else had also set up shop here full-time.  Literally.  The bookshop’s grand opening was next week.

He leaned his head back against the side of the window.  As ever, his sight drifted toward the east, across London’s horizon.  Somewhere, not ten minutes away, was the one person he always thought of when his mind wandered. 

And, as often happened when he thought of Aziraphale, his skin started to ache.

Like he was missing something.

For the last few hundred years, whenever he thought of Aziraphale, he began to feel that something was lacking.  Like his skin was stained with invisible ink, screaming to be washed away by…

…By what, exactly?

He closed his eyes.  He could ignore it away sometimes, breathing through the ache until it faded.  Nothing he could really do about it.  Not in the way he wanted to.  

And it wasn't even like he wanted this every day.  It hadn't been a part of his body's vocabulary for a good few thousand years.  Not until he and Aziraphale had become something like friends.

(It wasn't just friendship, though. Not on Crowley's side, anyway.  Sometimes he saw glimmers of something more in Aziraphale's eyes too, but…)

(Well.  Even if that were the case, they couldn't do anything about it.  Opposite sides and all.) 

He froze, as he realized too late that one hand had started to wander on autopilot.

He'd been sitting here stewing, and his fingers had traced a gentle line down the opposite arm.  Then up his side.  And now, across his chest, resting over a pectoral.

He could still feel the slight tingle left in the wake of the touches.

Another slow breath.  Careful.

He didn’t know why he did this.  His corporation was just that: a vessel, for his infernal essence to settle inside.  Its only purpose was to help him blend in among the humans, to better enact his evil deeds.  He didn’t need to eat, or drink, or sleep, or breathe, or do any sort of messy human things.  Sure, he still indulged in those things, but only because he enjoyed them.

But this…this yearning, this desire for touch…it wasn't just for simple pleasure's sake.  This was not an indulgence.

This was a need.

A need forever cursed to remain unfulfilled.

He opened his eyes, staring at where his hand was grasping his opposite shoulder.  For a second, he could almost imagine Aziraphale’s hand in its place, touching him there so gently.

The thought made his breath stick in his throat.

A low rumble sounded from far away.  He glared at the offending cloud in question.  The heavy black thing called out again, softer this time.

No rain, though.  Nothing but the annoying, residual drip-drip-drip from his window awning.

Blessed skies were just teasing him now.

xxx

(Two hundred-odd years, one failed Apocalypse, one capture and one rescue, four hundred and twenty-two panic attacks, and endless amounts of loving-kindness later…) 

Crowley woke to the sound of rain.

It was coming down steadily, drumming in a constant, soothing rush against the roof.  The windows chimed in with a rhythmic percussive dance whenever the wind blew the raindrops against the glass.

Even from here, Crowley could faintly smell the petrichor outside.  It soothed him alongside the natural white noise, easing him into wakefulness.

His lips twitched in a slight smile.  He burrowed deeper into the warm cavern of blankets around him.  The silk of his pyjamas brushed pleasantly against his skin as he sank further into the mattress.

And, as he sank further into the embrace of the strong arms cradling him.  The broad chest his face was pillowed on rose and fell steadily.  Warm breath blew against his forehead.

He gasped as knuckles softly stroked down his cheek.

“Oh,” came that sweet voice.  “So sorry, did I wake you?”

Crowley gave a sleepy shake of his head against that chest.  “Nnn,” he said eloquently.  “Alrrdy w'kup.”

The lips against his forehead smiled, and pressed a kiss there.  “Go back to sleep, my dear.  It’s a long way till morning.”

Crowley chuckled, more awake now.  “And waste how good this feels?”

The chest beneath him mirrored his contented sigh.  The knuckles returned to their tender caress of his cheek.  He shivered at how perfect it was.

All those years of silently wanting, and this was what he’d been desiring all along.

At the knuckles’ next pass, he leaned his face into the caress, and slid open his eyes.  The bedside lamp they always kept on, day or night, made him squint.  But anything he was about to say was cut off, as his brain short-circuited upon meeting the most loving gaze, from the most beautiful face.

Aziraphale beamed.  “Hello.”

Crowley grinned back.  “Hi.”

Now the thumb took over the knuckles, the pad of it stroking across Crowley’s cheekbone.  Aziraphale chuckled once.  

“What?” Crowley asked.

“Oh, nothing,” said Aziraphale, still smiling, “it’s just…you look like the happiest being to have ever graced the Earth.”

“I’d take that wager.”

Aziraphale chuckled again.  “And pray tell, what is making you so happy tonight?”

Oh, where should Crowley begin?

He glanced at the window on the far wall.  “For starters, it’s raining.”

“I thought you didn’t like the rain?”

“I do when I don’t have to be in it.”  When you protect me from it.  When it smells like the first time you were kind to me.  When you shelter me in your home from the rest of the world.

Aziraphale laughed.  “A fair point.  Alright, why else?”

Crowley snuggled closer.  “It’s warm.”

“Mmm,” Aziraphale agreed, pressing Crowley against him even more.  “Under the covers, at least.  Have you come around to the idea that duvets aren’t just to make a bed look stylish?”

“Pffft,” said Crowley.  Of course I did.  Ever since you wrapped me in blankets after you rescued me.  Ever since you kept me warm, when the nights were still so terrifying.   

They were silent for a time, enjoying each other’s nearness and the tranquility they found themselves in.  Until Aziraphale murmured in his ear, “I think I know the real reason you’re so happy.”

“Mm?”

A chuckle.  “If you will permit me a bit of vanity…”

“Oh, permission granted.”

They giggled together, pressed close and warm and safe.  It was everything Crowley had ever wanted.

A low roll of thunder sounded overhead.  But the following silence was broken by Crowley: "It’s what we’re doing, too.  All the…y’know.”  He tried to wiggle closer, as if there were any closer he could get to Aziraphale without crawling inside his chest.  “The touching.”

“Ah, yes,” said Aziraphale.  “You and I are both quite fond of touch.” His hand on Crowley’s shoulder shifted, to start tracing a shoulder blade with his fingertips.  

Crowley shivered.  Fond of touch?   That was the understatement of the century.  As if he and Aziraphale weren’t each painfully aware of Crowley’s touch-starvation, how he craved those gentle hands every time his angel entered the room.

Still.  It was nice to be reminded that the enjoyment was reciprocated.  That Aziraphale wanted this near-claustrophobic closeness just as much as Crowley did.

And, what with their banter bringing out a friskier side of him, Crowley took a chance: he raised his head, to catch Aziraphale’s eye with a cheeky look.  “Wanna do some more touching?”

He could see the moment Aziraphale caught his meaning, as a slight flush in his angel’s cheeks was joined by a bitten-back laugh and a reproachful look.  And, okay, it wasn’t Crowley’s most elegant proposition for sex, but he could usually bank on their mutual attraction to carry the day when he fumbled his words.

Sure enough, Aziraphale’s breathing audibly quickened as he smiled.  “What did you have in mind?”

Crowley rolled his shoulders in a shrug.  “Oh, y’know, the usual.”

They both knew the rules of what 'the usual' entailed.  No fucking.  No leaving my back exposed.  No getting me on all fours.  No darkness.  No belittling.  No rough play.

Their ‘usual’ was as vanilla as it could get.

Aziraphale shifted next to him, pressing their fronts together.  The heat when their lips met seared away any thoughts Crowley might’ve had.

But rather than escalate things further, Aziraphale gently broke the kiss, returning to gazing at Crowley fondly.  “Did you want my hands, or my mouth?”

Crowley knew his answer right away.  “Your hands,” he said softly.  “Want to see your face.”

Aziraphale nodded, his joy still shining so bright.  Crowley would never know how to convey how safe it felt, to be held in that loving gaze.

“Clothes on or off?” Aziraphale asked.

Oh.  Crowley needed to think about that.

Usually this was a no-brainer.  Yeah, they’d done this without clothes a handful of times, but usually they just took out their… handfuls, and did things that way.  Keeping covered up as much as possible helped keep things in Enjoyable Sex territory, instead of Panic Attack Central Station.

But tonight…with how comfortable he already felt…and the blankets…and the rain…    

Crowley arched a brow at Aziraphale.  “We can take them off.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened slightly.  “You’re sure?”

Crowley nodded, and grinned, hoping it would reassure Aziraphale that everything was more than fine.  Sure enough, Aziraphale smiled back.  

And then he started kissing him again and…well.  Crowley would’ve been hard-pressed to worry about anything at that point.

And speaking of hard-pressed…

“C’mere,” Crowley whispered.

“On top?”

“Yeah.  It—”  Oof, there was that warm weight rolling on top of him, pressing into his front in all the right places.  Aziraphale continuing to rain a storm of heated kisses on him was the icing on the cake.   “Fuck,” he murmured between kisses, “makes me so hard when you do that…”

“You’re not the only one,” Aziraphale murmured back, just as breathless.  

And, well, Crowley had to test that one.  He arched up slightly, angling his hips against Aziraphale’s.  They both gasped as they felt what they were looking for.

But soon enough, Aziraphale paused the kisses again.  He held himself above Crowley on one elbow, their legs still tangled together, hips pressed close.  His free hand moved to stroke through Crowley’s hair.

“Comfortable?” Aziraphale asked.

What was left of Crowley's emotional guardrails crumbled away.  His face must’ve betrayed the rush of vulnerability, as Aziraphale’s expression softened even further.

Crowley smiled gently.  “Yeah.”

Relief flooded Aziraphale’s answering smile.  He held himself there, stroking through Crowley’s hair, as the tenderness in their eyes spoke for them.

This was not the first time Aziraphale had asked him if he was comfortable.  The question wasn’t even limited to sex.  They could be cuddling on the sofa, bundling up for a walk in December, dancing in the shop downstairs, or huddling under a blanket with mugs of cocoa.

And every time, hearing the question still brought Crowley more relief than he’d thought it would.

(Who else had ever cared that he was comfortable?)

He conveyed that relief, that gratitude, in how he brought their lips together again.  He wrapped his arms around that broad back, feeling the muscles shift under the slippery silk pyjamas.  Every kiss and sigh from Aziraphale was answered with his own.  They didn’t rush.  Their desire simmered under the covers, as they gently moved together, sheets rustling and hearts beating.

The more tantric atmosphere eventually reached its conclusion—Aziraphale withdrew, and rose from the embrace to sit up on his heels.  Crowley followed suit.  He shivered a little from the cold air outside the blankets pooled at their waists.

The shift in position wasn’t for a bad reason, though: Aziraphale was working on the buttons of his own pyjama top.

Crowley licked his own lips, feeling how kiss-swollen they were.  “Want help?”

Aziraphale glanced up at him, mischief in his eyes.  “By all means.”

Crowley started on the bottom, working his way up to meet Aziraphale’s fingers in the middle.  “Fair warning,” he said, “don’t expect me to be calm about this.”

“About what?”

“About—”

Crowley choked as Aziraphale slid his shirt off his shoulders.  He stared—how could he not—before forcing his eyes shut with a groan.

Aziraphale chuckled.  “Really, love, there’s no need—”

“Yes, there is.  Big need.”

He could hear Aziraphale trying to muffle his giggles; it wasn’t working too well.  “Are you going to react like this every time I take my shirt off?”

“Depends on if you always look like—”  Crowley dared to open his eyes, gesturing uselessly at the splendor before him.  “Nnngghh.”

Because the sight before him was, indeed, a splendor.  The broad shoulders, the white-gold chest hair, the curve of his belly, the glow of sweat on his skin, the heat of him so close…

How could Crowley not lose all the blood in his brain upon seeing that? 

Aziraphale, still sitting on his heels, leaned closer to him.  “It seems you have a type.”

Crowley managed a scoff.  “You’re my type.  Told you, I never wanted anyone this way.  Never knew what all the fuss was about, till I started wanting to climb you like a tree.”

“We can certainly attempt that one day.”

“Shut up.”

Crowley’s good-natured grumbling was cut off by a kiss.  For how hot-and-bothered he’d become, the kisses were still as gentle and sweet as before.  The true depth of their feelings was bleeding through.

“You know,” Aziraphale murmured to his lips, “if you wanted to do more than just look…”

Crowley smirked; it seemed they both were guilty of groan-worthy pickup lines tonight.  “Careful what you wish for,” he murmured back.

He pounced, tackling Aziraphale down to the bed with both arms wrapped fiercely around him.  Aziraphale’s joyous laughter joined the thunder overhead, as Crowley started kissing every inch of his chest he could reach.

But if Crowley had had a more thorough body-worshipping in mind, something else took over instead.  His kisses slowed, till they stopped entirely at the top of Aziraphale’s belly.  He nuzzled into the warm skin, resting his head there on the softest pillow his angel’s body made.

There they stayed.  Aziraphale sighed happily, both hands gently holding Crowley’s head close to him.  His fingers started to weave through Crowley’s hair.  Crowley’s head rose and fell with each of Aziraphale’s breaths.

Soft thunder rumbled overhead, as Crowley found himself basking in more tenderness than he knew what to do with.

Still, his contrarian nature soon decided to break the silence.  “You’re so hot,” he mumbled into Aziraphale’s belly.

He felt the rumbles of Aziraphale’s laugh as much as he heard it.  “Oh, you silly snake,” he giggled.  Crowley answered with another kiss to his stomach.

But Aziraphale’s voice soon softened: “I suppose I should take your word for it.  After all, you certainly know a thing or two about attractiveness.”

Crowley slid a glance up to Aziraphale.  He would’ve called it seductive.  Aziraphale probably would’ve called it bashful.  (Bastard.)

But all at once, Crowley recognized the face-down position he’d found himself in, and—as smoothly as possible to disguise how quick it was—he moved back into sitting up. 

Aziraphale followed him.  “May I return the favor?”

Crowley assented.  The motions of them working together on his shirt buttons settled him, bringing their playful mood back to life.  When their fingers met in the middle of his front, he grabbed Aziraphale’s hands, and pressed kisses to each knuckle.  It made Aziraphale smile, so with that mission once again accomplished, he slid his shirt down one shoulder and— 

He froze.

He stopped breathing.

His shoulder broke out in goosebumps in the chill.

Pins-and-needles crawled up his back, up his neck, onto his face—

“Crowley?”

His breath shuddered through him all at once in a desperate gasp.  

His limbs were trembling.  His muscles hurt from how hard they were shaking.  The chill on his shoulder had spread through his whole body, like he'd been doused with a bucket of icy water—

xxx

Crowley was jolted out of his usual stupor by a bucket of icy water.  He gasped like a fish on a hook, all his muscles going rigid from shock and terror.

"Wakey wake, little snake,” came the voice.  

It didn’t matter who it was.  Crowley hadn’t bothered to keep track of whether any of his cell’s visitors were returning guests.  They would hurt him just the same.

His breathing still hadn’t slowed.  He curled in around himself, trembling from the cold and the fact that he wasn’t alone in the cell again.  Making himself smaller never helped.  No matter what position he twisted his body into, they would manhandle him however they liked.

But it helped him feel better when he was choked by fear.

A boot landed on his back.  He flinched violently, whimpering.  He hadn’t meant to; he’d just reacted from what he’d thought would be a fierce blow.

Instead, they’d just put their foot on his back.  No pain yet.  And here he was, acting like they’d kicked him already.  Pathetic.

A laugh sounded from another side of the room.  “Haven’t even started yet, worm,” sneered another voice.

Crowley froze.  

There was more than one of them.

The realization made him tremble harder, as he bit down on his lip to keep another whimper from breaking through.

A hand tangled in his matted hair, wrenching his head up.  “Lookee here, traitor,” growled the closer voice.  

Crowley, knowing a refusal could just land him an even worse session, obeyed, and squinted open his eyes.  He was met with the red-hot glow of a branding iron, inches from his face.  

On instinct, he started to struggle.  The hand in his hair wrenched harder, bending his neck back at a painful angle.  Crowley had to fight with himself to stay still.  That iron was going in his skin, and he might as well make his peace with it.

“So,” the demon holding his hair crooned to him, “what’ll it be, snake?  The iron, or”—he chuckled—“another iron of my very own?”

Crowley quivered.  He knew exactly what the demon meant.  Just as he knew what his answer was.  “Th-th-that one,” he shuddered out, cursing at how his jaw was still chattering his teeth from the frigid ice water.

“Which one?”

“Th-th-the branding iron.”

“Louder!”

“The branding iron!”

The demon smashed his head against the concrete slab, hard.  Crowley’s vision shorted out for a second.  He wished it had made him lose consciousness.  Any reprieve was better than what was about to happen.

“Now,” said the demon, as his companion stepped closer with the branding iron, “we’re gonna play a little game.  You like games?”  When Crowley didn’t answer, he bashed his head against the slab again.  “I said, do you like games?”

“Yes,” Crowley gritted out.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I l-l-like g-games.”

“Good,” the demon went back to crooning.  “Here’s how this game works: my friend here is gonna draw a word on your back.  You have to guess what it is.  And for every hint we have to give you—”

Without warning, he snapped Crowley’s right index finger.  Crowley howled.

“So, nine hints to go!  Try not to use them all up at once,” he chuckled.  “You guess the word, the game ends, and we move on.  Got it?”

Crowley vigorously nodded, in case they were waiting for his answer.

And so, the game began.

The first letter was a bunch of straight lines, branded into his left shoulder.  They asked him if he had any guesses, but he could barely hear them over his own screams and the scent of his flesh burning.

The second letter was also straight lines.  There were only three of them this time.  

“I’ll give you a leg up,” the first demon taunted.  “Try to guess the letter.”

Crowley had a guess, through his pained whimpers and gritted teeth: “H?”

“Correct!” the demon whooped.  “We’ll go lighter on this next one.”

The third letter was a circle.  Crowley guessed that one correctly, too.

“You’re good at this,” said the demon.  “You sure you’ve never done this before?”

“I’m sure we would’ve noticed that,” the other demon branding him said.  “Can we get on with this—”

“Wait just a minute,” the first demon said.  He turned to Crowley.  “See if you can guess the first letter.  But, to refresh your memory…”

Now it was his finger, tracing through the tracks of charred skin.  Crowley sobbed and sobbed and sobbed, but eventually he choked out, “W!  It’s who!”

The first demon started to chuckle darkly.  His companion joined him.  A pit of fear burned hot in Crowley’s stomach.

“We’re not finished yet,” said the first demon.

As the last two letters were drawn on Crowley’s skin, he realized through his tears what the word was.

And what it meant the two demons were going to do to him next.

xxx

That voice sounded far away, and it made him realize he couldn’t see anything.  He didn’t know if his vision had shorted out earlier, or if he'd just dissociated, but now…

Now he was squeezing his eyes shut, hunching over with his arms around himself, trembling like a leaf, and every breath took a Herculean effort through his constricted chest.  And his face, he could feel the blood leaving it, it was tingling, he was dizzy, and his hands, he couldn’t feel his hands—

Warm hands gently held onto his fingers.  They kept moving; it took Crowley a second to realize it was because his own hands were shaking so much.  It was all he could do to keep the rest of his body from falling apart.

“Crowley,” came that soft whisper in front of him, “just breathe, my love, nice and slow…”

Crowley tried.  He really did.  The first few attempts were jolting, almost violent in how they ripped through his chest.  It hurt, to work his lungs like this, when all he wanted to do was curl up in the fetal position and whimper.

But he kept breathing.  And slowly, it got easier.

“That’s it,” came that sweet voice.  “Just breathe, hold onto me…”

Crowley’s hands snapped to obey before he could process it.  The control of his hands was foggy, but he somehow managed through all the trembling to clutch Aziraphale’s hands in his own.  Aziraphale’s grip was sure and steadying.  It at least gave Crowley something to focus on.

When he was able to open his eyes, he stared down at where Aziraphale was holding his hands.  He could feel Aziraphale’s breath near his face; his angel must’ve ventured closer to him once he’d started having this conniption.

His shoulder didn’t feel so cold anymore.  His pyjama top, while still open at the front, had been replaced on his shoulder.

Upon seeing it, he hated that his first thought was thank Satan.

But it wasn’t Satan he should be thanking.  It wasn't even God.  It was the kind, gentle, wonderful angel She had given to the world, who had chosen to love him time and time again for thousands of years.

“S-sorry,” he finally managed.

Those warm hands squeezed his.  “There’s nothing you need apologize for,” Aziraphale said softly.  “Do you want to talk about it?”

Crowley took another shaky breath.  “Not much to talk about," he lied.  "There weren’t any flashbacks, nothing specific.”  He shrugged.  “Just feels weird sometimes.  Taking my clothes off.”

Aziraphale took a measured breath.  It sounded like the breaths he took to quell some surge of righteous indignation.  Which, yes, Crowley was grateful for most of the time, that what had been done to him was seen by someone else as wrong… 

But right now, he wasn’t in the mood for hearing an impassioned defense of his honor.  He just wanted to move on.

So, he made a daring move.  He dragged his still-trembling limbs into motion, climbed into Aziraphale’s lap, and clung to his angel's bare back in a desperate bid to be held.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, sounding surprised at how much contact they were sharing after a panic attack.  “Do you…what do you need?”

Shit.  Words weren’t Crowley’s strong suit at the best of times, but for some reason, asking for this was always what turned his voice into molasses in his throat.  But somehow he choked out the words into Aziraphale’s shoulder: “Just…hold me here.  Like this.” 

“But…your back, I wouldn’t want to—”

“It’s okay, it’s fine—”

He gasped, as he felt those strong arms wrap around his back, holding him more securely than he’d thought was possible.  

A deep, cleansing breath rattled out of him.  Almost immediately, he felt heaps better.  As if all the negative energy stirred up from the panic was released in that breath.

But with that release, came the exhaustion.  As Aziraphale kept reminding him, panic attacks took up a great deal of energy.  He might as well run a marathon, if he wanted to be this depleted.  

His limbs leaden, his head heavy, he surrendered his full weight and movement to Aziraphale.  Like a puppet with its strings cut, he collapsed into the embrace with a grunt.

It used to scare him, to be this vulnerable and defenseless.  (Okay, a tiny part of him still balked at it.)  But after all these times he’d shown his metaphorical belly to Aziraphale, only to be met with so much patience, and affection, and care… 

It made it a lot easier to let his walls down, in the arms of someone who loved him.

They stayed there for what felt like ages.  The silence was only broken by their quiet breaths, and the rain overhead.  Aziraphale started rocking them side-to-side, soothing Crowley even further into his sleepy haze.

This wasn’t exactly the ‘more touching’ he’d envisioned earlier tonight.  But, it wasn’t any less loving than the alternative.

With a deep sigh, Crowley shifted in the embrace, sitting up more to meet Aziraphale's eyes.  They looked at each other.  Uncertain.  Searching.

“How are you feeling?” Aziraphale asked softly.

Crowley nodded.  “Better than I was.”  He leaned in, to brush a quiet kiss to Aziraphale’s lips.  “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Yeah I do.  Or at least, I want to.  You…you’re always so patient with this.  With me.”

Aziraphale stroked his fingers down Crowley’s jaw.  “You deserve no less."

Staring at all the love in Aziraphale’s eyes was quickly overwhelming Crowley, so he moved closer.  They rested their foreheads together, eyes closed, breathing each other in.  Crowley could’ve spent eternity there.

“Sorry I killed the mood,” he murmured.

Aziraphale breathed a laugh.  “It’s nothing you did.”

Crowley relented; this could easily devolve into one of those your-traumatic-reactions-are-not-your-fault talks.  But after years of going through this whole song-and-dance, it was getting easier to remember that.  

That didn’t change his disappointment, though.

He rolled his shoulders, taking stock of where he was at.  His chest wasn’t so tight anymore that every breath hurt.  His trembling had settled.  The numbness in his face and hands had faded.  He was worn out, yeah, but nothing he couldn’t handle.  Not bad for twenty-ish minutes after a panic attack.

Still, what he found himself wanting was…a little embarrassing.  Reactions like this usually put any bedroom escapades to an end for the rest of the night.  There would be cuddling a-plenty, soft words exchanged in hushed voices, and all the warm blankets he could ever want.  But that’s where the intimacies ended. 

But tonight, with a ducked head and a slight flush, he asked, “Is it weird if I kinda want to bring the mood back?”

He snuck a glance to Aziraphale, hoping it was cheeky enough to inspire the same playfulness as before.  But his angel’s face didn’t look encouraging.

Aziraphale looked…crestfallen?  Maybe even a little afraid.

Crowley didn’t like to see his angel stuck in either state.

“You know…” Aziraphale said slowly, “we don’t have to—”

“I know, I know,” said Crowley, waving away the assurances.  “Consent here is all informed, never coerced, never owed.  I just thought…I dunno, if you’re still up for it—”

“Crowley, you just had a panic attack.”

“I know.  And I know that’s not the most attractive look in the world—”

“That’s not the issue!"

Crowley reeled back at the sudden sharpness.  Aziraphale was staring at him—maybe even glaring at him—like he’d suggested they kidnap and murder a family of five. 

Aziraphale took a steadying breath.  When he spoke, it was with the tentative care of someone an inch away from screaming at the top of their lungs.  “It’s not a matter of whether or not you are attractive.  It’s a matter of whether pressing on after what happened—”

“Oh, so now I don’t even have a say?” Crowley snapped before he could stop himself.  

“That’s not what I—”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize my trauma turned me into a fucking toddler who doesn’t know when he needs a nap!”

Oh, that was bad.

Aziraphale was staring at him.  He would’ve looked less hurt if Crowley had struck him across the face.

Oh, that was bad, bad, bad, bad— 

Crowley looked away, clenching his jaw at his own stupidity.  He’d never paid more attention to his own breathing in his life, trying to rein the hurt back in.  

“I’m sorry, I’m just…” he forced out, “...I’m telling you what I want, and what I’m able to do.  I mean…”  He gestured uselessly in the air, before his hands slapped onto his own thighs.  “Satan Below, angel, is my word not good enough for you?”

Aziraphale was staring at his lap, wringing his hands together.  “It’s not you,” he murmured at last.  

“Then what is it?”

Aziraphale turned away, moving Crowley out of his lap.  He reached for his discarded pyjama top.

Shit.  Crowley was losing him.

“Hey,” he said softly, reaching for Aziraphale’s hand to intercept it from the silk.  He tried to meet those oceanic eyes, to no avail.  “What is it?”

Aziraphale paused, at least.  But the stillness set Crowley even more on edge.  Especially when Aziraphale quietly said, “I don’t want to say this in a way that upsets you.”

“Sod that,” said Crowley, “what is it?”

Aziraphale snatched his hand back.  He fixated on Crowley’s knee, refusing to meet his eyes.  Crowley braced himself.

“This is always so painful,” said Aziraphale.  “I thought it would get easier as it happened less often, but perhaps that’s made these moments even more difficult when they occur—”

“What moments?”

“This,” said Aziraphale, gesturing at the room around them.  In the light from the bedside lamp, Crowley swore he saw the angel’s bottom lip wobble.  “We—we were having such a lovely time.  You felt safe, and you were happy.  And suddenly…”

Crowley felt his inner serpent uncoil, as much as he tried to talk himself down.  Maybe he should’ve listened to Aziraphale and not opened this can of worms.  It was upsetting him.  

He knew he got frustrated with his own panic attacks, but Aziraphale had never…not once…   

All he could do was white-knuckle himself and grit out, “Yeah?”

Aziraphale bowed his head.  “When this happens so suddenly, Crowley…it frightens me.”

What?

Crowley snapped out of his bubbling anger, but only because he had no clue where Aziraphale was going with this now.  All he knew was that his angel was feeling the one way he never wanted him to feel: afraid.

“I know that’s likely not a helpful thing for me to feel,” said Aziraphale, “and I-I-I’m trying my best, I-I really am.  But when this happens…all it can take is one mistake and…"

Crowley’s heart shattered on the floor.

He stared at Aziraphale.  His previous anger melted away, as it finally hit him what Aziraphale was so afraid of:

Making a mistake.  

Make one mistake, and you’ll ruin everything.  It will all be your fault.  You’ll never have a place here ever again.  You’ll be all alone, to suffer for what you’ve done.

It was the story the angel had been trapped in his entire life.

(And who had first told Aziraphale that story, and made him so afraid in the first place?)

Mind reeling, heart overflowing with all the tenderness he wanted to give this angel now, Crowley reached out to cup Aziraphale’s face.  “Hey,” he murmured, “look at me.”

Aziraphale did, though his gaze was far from certain about it.

But it was enough for Crowley.  He leaned in, and uttered with enough certainty for them to share: “This. Is never. Your fault. ” 

Aziraphale glanced to Crowley’s shoulder.  “It happened when you started taking your shirt off for me—”

Crowley shook his head, cutting him off.  “I don’t have panic attacks because you want to see me with my shirt off.”  He tilted Aziraphale’s head back toward him, to meet his gaze again.  “I have panic attacks because when Heaven and Hell captured me, they stripped my clothes away so they could torture me for four years.”

To his credit, Aziraphale didn’t look away after hearing that.  Somehow, neither did Crowley.

“This isn’t my fault,” Crowley finished.  “And it’s not yours, either.”

Aziraphale took a shaky breath.  His eyes looked far too shiny for Crowley’s liking.

The next thing Crowley knew, he was catching Aziraphale up in a hug, as his angel attempted to pull himself together through his lingering guilt and shame.  Emotions Crowley was well-acquainted with.  He knew what pesky beasties they could be, how they would still bother someone beyond all reason and logic.

"I can't stop thinking," Aziraphale said wobbly, "about what—what they did to you—a-and the last thing I would want to do is make things worse—"

“You’ve never made things worse,” Crowley said.  He’d almost said for me, but he caught himself just in time.  Aziraphale didn’t just need to hear this about his actions in relation to Crowley; he needed to hear it about all his actions.  “You make things so much better,” Crowley whispered to him.  “Every day you’re on this planet, the whole damn world’s better off for it.”

Aziraphale took in a ragged breath.  It wasn’t quite a sob, perhaps a distant cousin of one.  He leaned more heavily against Crowley.  The way Crowley’s shirt still flapped open, their bare chests pressed together, warm against the room’s chill. 

Crowley didn’t give a damn that his shirt was open.  He just held his angel tighter, letting him collect himself.  He wished with every squeeze that Aziraphale could hear the I love you so damn much his hugs were trying to whisper to him.

With the way Aziraphale’s hugs whispered back I love you just as much, perhaps he’d gotten the message.

When they withdrew, Crowley leaned his head against Aziraphale’s, pressing a kiss to his face.  “I forget sometimes,” he murmured.  “I’m sorry.”

“Forget what?” asked Aziraphale.

“Forget that this is all new for you.”

Aziraphale squinted.  “I thought you were the vir—”

He cut himself off.  Now it was Crowley’s turn to feel the twinge of shame in his chest, for a very stupid reason.  Virginity was a human concept; it didn’t mean much to them.  It hadn’t for Crowley, even though for six thousand years before Armageddon, he'd never tried this thing he'd never been interested in before Aziraphale.

But whatever virginity did or didn’t mean to them, it was debatable whether Crowley had still possessed it after what Heaven and Hell had done to him.

“I don’t mean that,” Crowley pushed past the sticky topic.  “I meant what happened to me.  What they did.”

Aziraphale still looked puzzled.

Crowley sighed.  He wasn’t explaining this right.  “I know every last thing they did to me.  They’re memories now.  In the past.  Yeah, sometimes my body still acts like it’s in the present, but”—he took a steadying breath, noting the sharp pain in his chest making a comeback—“but I’m not making up new ways for them to torture me in my head.

“But you.  You don’t know it all.  Not sure if you ever will, wouldn’t want to subject you to it.  But that means, every time you learn something new, it’s…it’s like you’re seeing it happen in front of you, for the first time.  As if it’s really happening now.”

Aziraphale managed a slight laugh of disbelief.  “What are you saying, that I’m…somehow traumatized by—”

He cut himself off.  Shock slowly spread over his face.

“Yeah,” said Crowley sadly.  “I’m saying.”

It took some time for Aziraphale to form words again, though he looked to be struggling with them.  “But—that’s ridiculous.  I-I-I can’t be—you were the one who—I’m just hearing it, it’s nothing like—”

“It’s a whole thing,” said Crowley.  “Secondary trauma.  S’what the humans call it.”  At Aziraphale’s stunned look, Crowley rolled his eyes.  “Alright, fine, I admit it, I did read some of the books you gave me about coping with PTSD, okay?”

Finally, Aziraphale started laughing.  “I knew you would!”

Crowley gave a long-suffering sigh.  If he’d thought Aziraphale peppering his vocabulary with his newly-learned words like pendulation and eye-movement reprocessing was insufferable before, he could only imagine what the next few weeks had in store for him.

As Aziraphale’s laughs trailed off, Crowley added, “It’s okay, by the way.”

“What is?”

Crowley shrugged.  “If we don’t have sex tonight.  You have as much a say in it as I do.  I’m not upset with you, I was just…being stupid.”

Aziraphale looked down, turning thoughtful.  He tentatively took Crowley’s hand.  “Thank you, for saying so.  Perhaps…I needed to hear that.”

Crowley squeezed his hand.  Aziraphale smiled, and Crowley understood why: squeezing hands was one of the ways they communicated during sex, especially when their mouths were…otherwise occupied.

But then Aziraphale surprised Crowley.

He raised his head, looked him straight in the eye, and said, “Although…if you still wanted to…”

Crowley slowly started to grin.

But as he moved closer, Aziraphale put a gentle hand to his chin, stopping him in his tracks.  “But…perhaps a bit more slowly?  For my sake.”

Crowley nodded.  For Aziraphale, he would’ve become a statue.

Their next kiss was slow, sweeter than any so far this evening.  They were still testing this, seeing how far they could go, what they each were comfortable with.  It reminded Crowley of the first time they’d ever made love.  He’d been so nervous, but with how slow and gentle Aziraphale’s every move had been, it had done wonders to soothe him enough to do what he'd wanted for so long.

Now, he hoped to return that favor.

Aziraphale put a hand toward his chest, but stopped short of touching him.  “It’s okay,” Crowley whispered, “I’ll keep my shirt on, but you can…”

At the whispered permission, Aziraphale eased his hand onto Crowley’s chest.  The touch left fire trailing in its wake, soothing the buzz of touch-starvation, only to reawaken it with new hunger as it left.  

Crowley clutched him closer, trying to urge him to touch him more.  In response, Aziraphale leaned him onto his back, smothering him with his weight and with more sweet kisses, running his hands over his sides and arms.  Crowley was burning alive in sensation, going from half-mast to full in seconds.  He groaned as his blood rushed south.

From what he could feel, he wasn’t the only one.  Aziraphale clutched their hands together by their heads, and rolled his hips forward.  Crowley stuttered out a moan.  He blearily opened his eyes, to see Aziraphale looking down at him through hooded lids, mouth agape, bare shoulders heaving as he ground down again.

It was the hottest thing Crowley had ever seen in his life.

He tried to say so, but all he managed was, “Hottesssst…thingversennuuuhhh.”  In response, Aziraphale kissed him.  Crowley’s hips stuttered up again without his say-so, though he vigorously agreed with his body’s choices after the fact, as more molten-hot desire coursed through his veins.

But…slowly.  He could go slowly, for Aziraphale’s sake.

He was worried it wasn’t slow enough when Aziraphale levered off him.  But his fears were put to rest when Aziraphale asked him, “Do you still want our trousers off for this?”

Crowley grinned as he realized his answer was still a resounding yes.  To have Aziraphale bare in his arms…

It was the most incredible privilege, which he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to have.

They each took care of their own trousers and underwear, tossing them to the side, or miracling them folded in a drawer.  (Take a guess who did what.)  And as the cold air hit Crowley’s skin, he was painfully reminded why he didn’t do this very often.

It was vulnerable.  Almost too vulnerable.

Maybe he should’ve taken his shirt off, too.  Somehow, only being naked from the waist down was worse.  It made him curl inward.  His nether regions were already starting.

He stared up at Aziraphale.  The moment their eyes met, the angel understood.

But then Aziraphale did the best possible thing he could’ve done: he picked up the corner of the sheets and bedspread, and miracled them to drape over them both.  He settled in on his side in the bed, giving Crowley the space he needed to collect himself.

Crowley heaved out a breath.  “Thanks,” he mumbled.

“Of course,” Aziraphale said softly.

A hand found its way to Crowley’s, holding it loosely enough to shake off if he’d wanted.  But Crowley didn’t want that.  He took the hand, squeezing gently.  I’m okay, the squeeze said, just needed a minute.

Aziraphale stayed still.  He didn’t move closer into Crowley’s space, but he didn’t move away, either.  Again, it was the best thing he could’ve done.  This wasn’t a stopping point, but a pause, as they considered their next moves.

When he could breathe a little easier, Crowley turned his head on the pillow.  Aziraphale’s gray eyes seemed to sparkle in the light of the bedside lamp as he smiled at him.  

“Hey,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale scooted closer.  “Alright?”

Crowley nodded.  “You’re not the only one who needed ‘slow’ tonight.”

Aziraphale breathed a laugh.  “I suppose not.  And thank you.”

Crowley paused for a breath, considering.  When he’d made his decision, he sat up slightly, and started peeling his shirt down his arms.

“Crowley—”

“M’already under the covers, it’ll be fine.”

Away went the last of the black silk, joining the trousers on the floor.  Crowley ducked back under the covers, now buried up to his neck in them.  He took up Aziraphale’s hand again, and pressed a quick kiss to it.

There they lay in the glow of the single lamp. Naked.  Holding hands.  Watching each other.

Saying I love you would’ve been redundant at that point.

Aziraphale reached to Crowley’s face, cupping his cheek.  It made Crowley think back to the first time Aziraphale had done so: when he’d rescued him from Hell, and brought him here.  

He’d needed to see Crowley’s injuries to heal him.  For the second time, Crowley had been undressed by someone else.  Looking back, even though it was a completely different context, and even though Aziraphale hadn’t meant anything harmful by it, it made sense why he’d squirmed inside.

But rather than go straight to touching his body to heal him…Aziraphale had touched his face.  Taking the time to comfort him, and still see him as Crowley, rather than the little worm Crowley had felt like for four years.

Crowley moved forward.  Aziraphale opened his arms to welcome him in.

Then they were entwined together, pressed skin-to-skin, cradling each other close.  Chins hooked over shoulders, legs tangled up, one arm wrapped around each of them, erections nestled against each other.  

They each let out a long breath, as they finally, finally, held all of each other in their arms.  

This was what Crowley had needed.  Not the build-up, not the sex in itself.  But this.  

When he’d laid naked on the cold concrete of his cell—shivering from the frigid temperatures they always kept him at, trying to find the most comfortable position as the blessed slab singed his bare skin—he’d imagined this.  Imagined Aziraphale holding him, taking away the blessings and cold, swaddling him in the warmth of his arms.

Then it had come true.  When Aziraphale had finally found him in Hell, and risked everything to break in and rescue him.  He’d sliced the shackles off Crowley without harming him (still one of the hottest shows of force he’d ever seen the angel perform).  Then, before he’d had the presence of mind to conjure his clothes…

He’d held him.  Crowley had been so overwhelmed with being free, and seeing Aziraphale again, that he’d forgotten himself and huddled against him while still naked.  And Aziraphale had let him.  He’d held him, warm and safe, and whispered he would be alright.

And now, once again, Crowley let himself be lost in his angel’s arms.  With the blankets covering them both, the rain still drumming soothingly on the roof overhead, Crowley heaved a deep sigh, buried his face against Aziraphale’s shoulder, and let himself feel completely safe.

But this time, Aziraphale was just as naked, just as vulnerable.  He’d had his own struggles tonight.  So this time, they comforted each other.  

Crowley let his arm shift slightly, as he traced Aziraphale’s spine with his flat palm.  The ripples of Aziraphale’s back muscles and flanks rolled underneath his touch.  Each of Aziraphale’s breaths heaved in his hand.  

He gasped as Aziraphale began pressing chaste kisses to his neck.  Every touch of his lips sent a pulse straight to his cock.  He groaned, and rolled his hips again.

It didn’t start things up right away, though.  It was just a single roll, a surge of sexual desire within the cocoon of love and trust they’d built for one another in this bed.  It ebbed like the receding tide.

Aziraphale answered in kind later.  He rolled his hips once, making Crowley gasp and twitch against him.  But they didn’t continue right away.  This was a slow dance, one that was meant to last.  They had literally all the time in the world.

Then Aziraphale shifted again, looking at Crowley as he thrust forward.  Crowley responded.  They held each other’s gaze through their gasps and sighs as they moved together, bewitched by the love in the other’s eyes.

“May I touch you?” Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley nodded.  “You?”

Aziraphale moved closer to his lips, breathing each other in.  “Yes,” Aziraphale whispered.

They reached down together, and took hold of each other’s lengths between them with twin gasps.  Crowley easily met Aziraphale’s lips when they were offered.

On they moved, to the next part of the dance.  They rolled their hips into each other’s hands, sighing and groaning on the pillows, stroking gently down below.

“Crowley,” breathed Aziraphale after a time, “can I—can I taste you, please, just for a moment—”

Crowley glanced down.  He nodded.  “Don’t finish me that way, though.”

Aziraphale nodded, and with one last kiss to his lips, he began kissing his way down Crowley’s front.  A sweet gesture in and of itself, but for them, it also served a vital purpose: it let Crowley know where his lips were at all times, so no touch went unanticipated.

When Aziraphale’s lips wrapped around his cockhead, Crowley threw his head back, mouth agape.  Every last puzzle piece of his world fell into place, as his angel took him into his mouth.  Though his hips stuttered and his thighs shook, he kept still, letting Aziraphale gently suck his cock with small noises of suction.

He was floating.  It felt like it, anyway.  Naked in the bed they shared, while the love of his life sucked him off.  He’d fantasized about this very thing so many times over the last six thousand years, and even after such a severe trauma, he still got to have this…

He would never take this for granted.  Ever.  Even if another six thousand years passed just like this, making love with his best friend.  It still wouldn’t feel like anything less than a thousand miracles at once.

He buried his fingers in Aziraphale’s hair, massaging his scalp as Aziraphale bobbed his head.  He was awash in sensation, centered on the wet hot suction on his cock, but spreading in waves through his stomach, his chest, his back, up his neck, out to his fingers and toes.  Instead of memories of pain and terror, the sensations brought nothing but bliss.

When the heat grew just this side of intense, the burning in his stomach coiling like a spring, he knew he was about to reach his peak.  “Back up here,” he rasped, and urged Aziraphale to his lips again.  

As Aziraphale kissed him again, and gave two good pulls to his cock, he was done, shivering and groaning as he spent himself into Aziraphale’s hand.  

It was glorious.  It was everything he’d ever wanted, as Aziraphale stroked him through it, whispering how good he was.

And when he came to, Aziraphale was right there, smiling as they made eye contact.  “Back to Earth?”

Crowley nodded, still breathless, smiling right back as that familiar post-orgasmic warmth started seeping through his limbs.  He moved in to give Aziraphale more of a cuddle—

—When something familiar poked his thigh.

He glanced down.  “You didn’t…?”

Aziraphale shook his head.  “You don’t have to—”

“I know that,” said Crowley gently.  “But may I?”

Aziraphale met his eyes.  Crowley thought he could catch some hesitancy in them.  

“I’m okay,” Crowley said softly.

It took some convincing, but eventually Aziraphale was smiling back at him again.  “Alright.”

Crowley reached back down between them, taking Aziraphale up in his hand.  He was warm, and thick, and heavy, drooling out precome and throbbing.  Crowley hoped all his tenderness and love was conveyed through how he gently started stroking him.  Judging by Aziraphale’s fluttering lashes and heavy sigh, it was.

“Angel,” Crowley murmured.

“Mm?”

“Can I touch you lower?”

Aziraphale’s eyes flew to him.  He nodded, and hitched a leg around Crowley’s hip, making his lower bits more accessible.

Still with one hand rubbing him, Crowley took his other hand to massage Aziraphale’s balls.  Aziraphale sighed, and buried his face in Crowley’s chest.  Crowley kissed his head and sped up his hands, giving his cock deliberate strokes, gently cupping his balls.

“And lower?” he asked.

Aziraphale stilled.  Crowley could feel him shifting to look him in the eye, but he headed him off: “I’m okay,” he murmured.  “Just wanna make you feel good.  But only if you want.”

Aziraphale searched his eyes anyway.  Crowley paused his hands, and let him.  Whatever he found, it must’ve been reassuring, as the angel slowly nodded with a sleepy grin.

They both were getting tired.  It felt so right, though, to have Aziraphale so pliant and trusting beside him.  A trust Crowley couldn’t conceive of crossing.

At the permission, Crowley reached further, and started rubbing into the crease of his ass.  He didn’t go inside; he didn’t know if he’d ever be ready for something like that, on either side.  But in the meantime, he made sure the outer nerve endings were thoroughly seen to.  

Aziraphale writhed against his hands, moaning as Crowley rubbed and stroked and soothed.  “That’s it,” Crowley whispered, “take what you need…”

The familiar phrase made Aziraphale look at Crowley.  This time though, it was Crowley telling him that.  

A surge of confidence warmed Crowley’s chest.  He was making Aziraphale feel good, and nothing could stop him.  “You gonna come?” he asked.

Aziraphale nodded.

“That’s it, angel,” he whispered, “come for me, wanna see you come apart, lemme see, come for me—”

Aziraphale did, going stiff as he moaned out his release into Crowley’s neck.  Crowley stroked him through it, whispering to Aziraphale, telling him how good he was, how good it must feel, how he could let go and give Crowley everything.

It took some time for Aziraphale to come to.  Crowley rubbed his back as he came down from the high, and met his eyes with a gentle smile.  “Okay?”

Aziraphale gave a tired nod.  “Crowley…that was…absolutely marvelous.”

Crowley kissed him.  Aziraphale returned it just as gently.  “It was,” said Crowley.  “Thank you.”

“No, dearest,” said Aziraphale faintly, trying to find his words through his sleepy haze, “I mean…you…you take care of me so well.  Through all my doubt…”

Crowley smiled.  “Isn’t that what you’ve been doing for me?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer.  He was too close to falling asleep.  The thunder answered instead, rolling gently overhead.

Crowley huddled closer to Aziraphale, vanishing away their come between them.  He settled with his chin tucked over Aziraphale’s head, kissing those fluffy curls. 

Here he was.  After years of violence and violation, and centuries before that of deprivation and neglect, here he was.  Naked under the covers with his best friend, taking care of him—and being taken care of—in ways he had previously only dreamed of.

And they got to do it for eternity.

Outside, the rain drummed on, and on, and on, lulling Aziraphale to sleep.  It wasn’t letting up anytime soon.

Crowley wouldn’t have had it any other way.