Archive of Our Own ^beta

“What are you reading?”

”Hm?” comes Aziraphale’s response, and Crowley’s sigh sounds so relieved, the noise actually makes Aziraphale turn his head.

Crowley is standing in the doorway of his study, clearly struggling not to start bouncing on his feet, his arms crossed awkwardly across his chest. His glasses are on, which makes Aziraphale frown.

Crowley repeats himself. “What are you reading?”

 Aziraphale hesitates. “That silly book about immortals.”

Crowley furrows his brow. “Thought you said it was shit.”

”I didn’t say that,” Aziraphale tuts. “But it’s not very good, no.”

”Then why are you reading it?” 

“I don’t like leaving things unfinished. What do you need?”

”Nothing,” comes Crowley’s automatic response, always ready at a moments notice. “I don’t need anything. Just, er, wondering what you were up to.”

Aziraphale shuts his book and sets it on his desk, folding his hands in his lap. “What are you up to?”

Crowley swallows. “Was, er, in the garden?”

 Aziraphale nods. “Why’d you come in?”

”Hot,” Crowley says, which is a lie, considering the time of year. He seems to recognize this and shifts uncomfortably on his feet. “Came in. Made tea.”

”Made tea because you were hot?”

Crowley seems to process Aziraphale’s question with his entire body. He goes rigid, and then turns and flees down the hallway without another word. Aziraphale is surprised at this; he stands to follow.

”Crowl—” 

“I’m fine!”

Aziraphale blinks. “I hadn’t asked.”

”Oh, well, I am,” Crowley’s voice floats from the kitchen.

Aziraphale follows the sound of it. Crowley is standing at the counter, stock still, staring down at a cup of lukewarm tea. When he catches sight of Aziraphale, he jerks, grabbing the kettle. “Do you want some?”

”No, thank you,” Aziraphale says. “How long were you standing in the doorway of the study?”

”I wasn’t,” Crowley says immediately, still holding the kettle. 

Aziraphale looks at him skeptically. Crowley shrinks under his gaze. 

“Why’d you come inside?” Aziraphale asks. 

“What’s with all the questions?” Crowley asks, and it’s clearly an attempt at lightheartedness, but it comes out sounding frightened. “Tea?”

”You already asked me that,” Aziraphale says. “What’s wrong?”

Crowley deflates, revealing the tension in his body. It’s normally there, but today there’s a surplus. He sets the kettle down and looks at the floor in shame. “Can you— can you do the thing?”

Aziraphale softens. “Crowley,” he says gently, stepping forward, “what’s wrong?”

”Nothing!” Crowley exclaims, frustrated. “Nothing! Nothing is wrong, that’s the fucking problem! Nothing happened and I’m standing here having a fit about the wind blowing!”

“Tell me what happened,” Aziraphale says.

”Nothing,” Crowley insists. “I was just— in the garden— and I realized I didn’t have my glasses on and I got— nervous because I didn’t want a human to see my eyes, so I came inside and got them and went back out, but then I kept getting freaked out, because I realized if someone was walking up I wouldn’t be able to hear them over the waves until they were too close for me to do anything about it, and then I got scared thinking someone else was gonna come find me in the garden, so I came inside but I still feel like somebody’s— somebody’s watching me.”

Crowley had told Aziraphale once, long before they’d agreed to move in together, the exact time thing. 

“I feel like a performer,” he’d said, refusing to look at him. “Like I’m always onstage acting a certain way for an audience I can’t see. And if I stop for a minute to breathe or relax they’ll still be able to see. And they won’t like it.”

”How do you mean?” Aziraphale had asked.

“Like when I’m in public,” Crowley had explained. “I feel like everyone I pass is... judging me. Like they can see straight into me and they know what I am and they despise me for it.”

”And when you’re alone?” Aziraphale had asked.

”The same,” Crowley had said. “Even when nobody is watching me, it still— it still feels like there’s an audience. Or sometimes it feels like certain people are watching me and I have to— I have to perform well otherwise something bad is going to happen to me.”

”Who do you think watches you?” Aziraphale had asked.

”Sometimes I think it’s you,” Crowley had admitted. “Other time it’s— Beelzebub. Or Hastur or Ligur or Dagon, or even— sometimes even Satan. Or sometimes... Her.”

He’d stopped then. “How do you do it?”

”Do what?” Aziraphale had asked.

”Exist,” Crowley had said miserably. “How do you— how do you live knowing She’s always watching you? How do you ever enjoy yourself? How do you do anything at all without feeling like She’s judging you? Like you’re going to get in trouble?”

Aziraphale had thought about it. “My dear,” he’d finally said, laying his hands on his knees. “I’m afraid I just don’t think about it like that.”

Crowley had put his head in his hands. “You don’t get it...”

”True, I don’t experience what you’re describing,” Aziraphale had assured him. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t understand what you’re saying. I’ve met plenty of humans who felt similarly. Is there anything I can do to help?”

As it turned out, there were several things that helped; not that Crowley could ever manage to get himself to do them.

“Sometimes I’d like to— like— I don’t know, be... comfortable,” he had said, and immediately felt stupid for it. Aziraphale hadn’t laughed, though, only nodded, so he’d swallowed nervously and pushed through his embarrassment to continue. “I just— I want, like... you know in movies, when... ngk, this is stupid, never mind.”

”It’s not stupid, I’m sure,” Aziraphale had said. “Tell me.”

Crowley had taken a deep breath, and then said everything he wanted to as quickly as he could as he exhaled. “Sometimes I’d just like to be able to lay down in something comfortable and eat something I enjoy and not have to think about being perceived.”

Aziraphale had nodded understandingly. “Why can’t you? Seems simple enough.”

“I told you, I’m always performing,” Crowley had explained. “And— whoever it is watching, they don’t want to see that. They want to see, you know, me sprawling out on my couch looking nice. That’s what I want them to see.”

”I see,” Aziraphale had said. 

“I know it’s irrational,” Crowley had snapped. “I know nobody is actually watching me. It’s just— it feels like somebody is, so I get scared anyways.”

”What do you do to combat it?” Aziraphale had asked.

”Not much I can do,” Crowley had admitted. “I can’t just tell my brain to quit it.”

Aziraphale had thought about this for a long moment. “Can’t you?”

Which had led to—

“The thing,” Crowley whines, leaning against the counter. “Can you do it? Please? You know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think I could handle it.”

”I know, my dear,” Aziraphale says; he reaches forward and takes Crowley’s hands in his. “And for the record, I would do it for you over anything. You don’t have to reach a point of severity for me to take it seriously.”

Crowley looks away. Aziraphale lets go of one of his hands to take his glasses off; his eyes dart around the room, looking anywhere but Aziraphale’s face.

”Crowley,” Aziraphale says gently. “You have to look me in the eye.”

”Ngk,” Crowley says, looking at the floor. “Can we go lay down...?”

”Of course,” Aziraphale says.

Aziraphale ends up sitting against the headboard, Crowley with his head in his lap, looking up at him. Aziraphale runs a hand through his hair. “You’re certain?”

”Yes,” Crowley says immediately, a little desperately. “Please Aziraphale, I—”

He restrains himself from saying I need it. Instead he swallows and says, “Please?”

Aziraphale hums. He looks Crowley in the eye. “How do you feel?”

”Bad,” Crowley says immediately. “Like everyone is watching and waiting to see when I’m going to mess up.”

”Nobody is watching,” Aziraphale assures him gently, still running his hand through his hair. Crowley exhales, staring up at him, actually seeming to believe him.

”Nobody is watching you,” Aziraphale repeats. “Nobody is waiting to see if you’ll mess up. You’re completely alone. The only ones here are you and me and I’m never going to think badly of you for anything.”

Crowley’s breathing has evened out, his eyes glazed over as he stares into Aziraphale’s. The angel runs a finger along his pretty cheekbone. “You can relax, my darling, there’s nobody here but me.”

Crowley is hesitant, but the tension slowly begins to drain from his body. Aziraphale smiles softly. “Yes, that’s very good. You’re doing very good. You’re safe, I promise. It’s okay to relax. That much tension isn’t good for you, it’s good to let it go. Perhaps one day you’ll allow me to give you a massage.”

Crowley doesn’t respond. He keeps staring up at him, his eyes glassy.

”Are you tired?” Aziraphale asks. “You can sleep if you like. It’s okay to doze off. Or if you’d like to stay awake, that’s okay, too. I know it feels nice to feel safe.”

Crowley still doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t close his eyes, which makes his decision quite obvious. Aziraphale offers him a smile. “That’s a fine choice, my dear. Would you like me to read to you?”

Crowley reaches up to hold Aziraphale’s hand that’s caressing his face. The angel smiles. “I won’t leave you alone, I promise. Shall I recite something? Would you like me to keep talking?”

Crowley shuts his eyes; Aziraphale will take that as a no. He continues stroking his cheek, watching him affectionately as he dozes off, not daring to leave him alone once he’s finally asleep. In a few hours, he’ll wake up in his lap in a much calmer state, and although it never lasts for long, hopefully it will give him peace for a while. Perhaps Aziraphale will even be able to talk him into letting him give him that massage.