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Crowley has known Aziraphale for a very long time now – six thousand years and probably even longer, but that time before always manages to slip from his mind somehow – and he only realizes now that he has never heard him sing.
He shouldn’t even be here.
It was just that he saw those meringue tartlets that Aziraphale loves, and he just wanted to stop by to drop them off and maybe get a glass of red or a soft smile in return.
Here he is now, frozen in place, the doorknob in one hand and the box with the tartlets in the other.
He can’t see Aziraphale; he’s hidden behind one of the bookshelves, but he can hear him. He’s singing. Not in the human way, not in the way he hums sometimes when he has another of his symphonies stuck in his head, no, it’s–
It’s everything.
It fills the room in a way that Crowley cannot describe, not with any language that he’s able to speak. It fills him, too, washes him clean from the inside out and makes him feel worthy, loved.
Down in Hell, they tell you that no demon will survive it when an angel starts to sing, something stupid about the holiness in their voice being more lethal to you than the purest holy water.
It’s not that, Crowley comes to realize. It’s not lethal in the way that hurts physically. It’s the way it makes him aware of everything that was taken from him when he fell. The purity, the feeling of belonging to something, the feeling of living for something, not just against it. The warm glow of stars building between the tips of his fingers.
The song is wordless, holy, and the most beautiful thing he has heard since he fell. For the first time in centuries, Crowley finds himself missing being an angel.
The box with tartlets slips out of his fingers and drops to the floor with a soft thump.
The singing stops.
Crowley doesn’t want to mourn it as much as he does.
Aziraphale appears from behind one of the shelves. He looks just as always. Soft curls, waistcoat, that tartan crime of a bow tie, worn-out coat.
Crowley’s throat tightens with relief. He doesn’t think he could have borne seeing Aziraphale’s true form right now.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s eyebrows scrunch a tiny bit, the way they always do when something unexpected happens. “What are you doing here?”
“I–uh…” Crowley lets go of the doorknob, runs a hand through his hair, and drops the hand. Points at the box that lies hunched together to his feet. “I saw meringue tartlets and...”
He trails off, not knowing what to say or where to look. “I’m sorry,” he stutters out eventually, unsure what he’s even apologizing for.
Aziraphale has rushed to him before Crowley has managed to even form a straight thought. “Crowley,” he says, and “my dear, are you alright?”
Crowley nods. Shakes his head. Shrugs helplessly
Aziraphale glances at him, worried. “May I touch you?” he asks.
Crowley nods again. This is a simple question, because the answer is always and will always be yes.
Aziraphale breathes out something that Crowley would normally recognize as relief and moves a hand to lie on Crowley’s shoulder. His hand feels warm, and somehow it manages to pull Crowley back to reality just a little bit, grounding him.
“Angel…” he whispers.
“I’m right here,” Aziraphale answers. “It’s alright. Shall we sit down a bit?”
Crowley nods. Aziraphale turns him towards the couch, his hand between Crowley’s shoulder blades, and leads him there gently, reassuringly. Pushes him down in the cushions and then moves to tuck him in with a blanket.
“The cake…” Crowley remembers and moves to stand up again, but then there is Aziraphale’s hand pushing him down again. “The cake is not the priority right now,” he says, and Crowley wants to snicker, wants to say, Cake is always your priority angel, you almost got discorporated because of cake, but something in the way Aziraphale is still looking at him with worry stops him.
“What’s wrong, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks now. He has knelt down on the floor so that he can look Crowley in the eyes, his hands moving towards his glasses, waiting for Crowley to nod before he removes them carefully. “You are white as a sheet.”
Crowley opens his mouth, tries to find the right words.
“I…I heard you sing,” he whispers eventually, words barely audible, “I – you – it sounds beautiful.”
Aziraphale’s posture cramps. His lips tighten. “Are you –” he stammers, “have I hurt you? I heard that demons–”
Crowley shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he interrupts him, “‘s just that... It made me remember how... how..." He wipes a hand over his eyes, squints them together. “I’m so broken,” he brings out in a rush of words.
Aziraphale stays quiet for a while. Then there are gentle fingertips on his cheek, a hesitant offer, and Crowley all but melts into the touch. Aziraphale wipes away a tear under Crowley’s eye, and it’s only then that he realizes he’s crying.
“You might be broken in some eyes, Crowley, but that doesn’t make you any less perfect or worthy of love.”
Crowley laughs bitterly. “Well, I can think of some others that don’t think that, angel. And they probably wouldn’t like that you just said that–”
“What the others think,” Aziraphale interrupts him calmly, “is not important right now. They are not here. But I am here. And I tell you that you are perfect just the way you are. Do you understand me?”
Crowley stares at Aziraphale in bewilderment. Aziraphale returns the gaze without any hesitation in his eyes. And then Crowley crumbles, and Aziraphale catches him as if it’s an easy thing to do.
—
Later, much later, Crowley’s head rests on Aziraphale’s lap, and Aziraphale has a hand tangled into Crowley's hair. “Angel,” Crowley mumbles, “can you do it again?”
Aziraphale hums softly. “What do you mean?”
“Singing.”
Aziraphale looks up from his book. “Are you sure?”
Crowley nods and moves even closer towards Aziraphale.
When Aziraphale sings again, he sings for Crowley. Crowley closes his eyes and allows himself to bask in all the love and warmth until his whole body feels like it’s glowing from the inside.
Aziraphale’s hand stays tangled in Crowley’s hair the whole time.