Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter One: The Feelings Catch Up

“Another scotch, my dear?” Aziraphale offers, already anticipating the answer.

“Don’t mind if I do, Angel.” Crowley answers, polishing off the remainder of his glass and handing it over.

Aziraphale takes the glass and pours from one of his favorite bottles, one he’s saved for years and can’t think of a better occasion than saving the world to finally enjoy it with Crowley. He hands the glass back, and they fall into a comfortable silence, after hours of toasting and laughing and rehashing the last week, from dinner at the Ritz until closing time and back to the bookshop. Aziraphale starts pouring his own glass, and pauses mid-pour as recent memories from the week flood him.

*

It all happened so fast, really. Within days of the end of world, he finally discovered the Antichrist’s location, and then inconveniently discorporated just as he was about to get Crowley’s help, got pulled up to Heaven and immediately rebelled against it, returned to earth and possessed a woman.  Well, he decided, demons possess, he merely shared her vessel and hitched a ride to where they needed to go, perhaps there was a better word for it that sounded less rude. And then Crowley rode in with his Bentley ablaze, stopped time, and took up arms against Satan himself with only a tire iron in his hand, ready to face the end of the world by his side.

And against all odds, it had worked. They all survived, Adam restored the world to normal and gave him his corporation back. They had celebrated and shared a wine bottle at the bus stop, and after remembering that his bookshop was gone, Crowley had offered Aziraphale a place to stay. They rode back, still side by side, no longer afraid of how their respective sides would react, but still knowing there would be Hell to pay.

It was Crowley who thought up the idea to trade places after reading the prophesy. He was always so much more clever than Aziraphale when it came to schemes, even if he did need prodded to think them up, like at the air base when Aziraphale threatened to never talk to him again unless he came up with something. Crowley was so prone to anxiety and despair, usually ready to give up, or run to the stars, or nap through the 18^th century when things got tough. Aziraphale was ever the optimist, trying to hold on to hope if he had nothing else, and tried to share that with Crowley when he could. The despair part of Crowley frightened him, which is why he didn’t speak to Crowley for decades after he asked for Holy Water, knowing he didn’t fully trust him not to assume the worst.

When the bus finally arrived at Crowley’s flat, he nudged Crowley awake and they silently rode up the lift together. As Crowley fumbled for his keys, Aziraphale immediately felt the presence of Holy Water in the doorway and pushed Crowley back, holding him tightly by the shoulders. Crowley tried to explain how he had used the insurance to stop Ligur but Aziraphale kept pushing Crowley back against the wall, terrified for him and trying to identify the threat. When he saw his tartan thermos on the floor, he stopped pushing Crowley, and pulled him closer instead, tightly holding him, and couldn’t stop his body from shaking against the demon’s lean figure, all his unnamed fears suddenly brought to the forefront.

Crowley held him back, soothing him, still trying to explain. “I’m alright, Angel, I’m here. I promise it was only ever insurance against the worst, if Hell came for me. And it did, and it kept me safe. I know how hard that was for you to give it to me,” he says, pulling back and looking directly in Aziraphale’s eyes. “I promise I had no intention of ever leaving you, if I could ever help that. It would never be intentional.” 

It took Aziraphale a long moment before he let go, just feeling the weight of what he could have lost. He still forced Crowley to stay back in the hall while he carefully and methodically miracled away the mess, making sure there was no drop left before he allowed Crowley to come inside.

From there, they both quickly sobered up, and sat together on the sofa. Crowley outlined his plan to change bodies, and said they should do it immediately, since they had no idea how soon Heaven or Hell would come for them, and he knew even his flat couldn’t keep them safe. Aziraphale agreed, and they shook on it, and he possessed (inhabited?) his second body for that day.

After the switch, Crowley, straightened his bowtie, sat up tall, and asked, “Do you think I could pass? As long as I’m careful not to cuss, and walk with good posture?”

“It’s eerily convincing to me,” Aziraphale admitted, very unnerved at seeing himself and also at being outside of himself yet again. “And do you think I could be convincing? If I just walk like I’m, oh how do the kids say it, too cool for school?” He stood and tried to demo his best impersonation of Crowley’s signature swagger, but he looked instead a little more like a runway model, all hips and pouty lips and over the top rotations when he changed direction. 

He watched his own face laugh back at him. “No kids say that, Angel, and I think you might have to work a little harder to be convincing as me. Remember the old adage ‘Less is more.’” He stretched out on the sofa. “If there’s a secret to being cool it’s talking less and letting others assume the most. Just quietly staring into the distance and letting others think you are deep in thought, when you’re really just contemplating your next nap.”

He laughed again as Aziraphale tried again, quietly and broodily doing almost a slow-motion version of the catwalk demo he had just done.

“You still have time. Speaking of naps I’m going to have a bit of a lie down, just here on the sofa. I know you don’t sleep but still welcome to my room, or anywhere in my flat, if you want to read or practice some Crowley-isms. Anxious to see what you come up with when I wake.”

Crowley barely finished the last sentence, as he laid his head down and fell asleep in moments. It was strange to see his own corporation fall asleep as easily as that, when he hadn’t managed that in his own body over these 6,000 years. After a moment and still feeling unsettled, he got a blanket from Crowley’s room and tucked his own body in, and wasn’t sure if that counted as a good deed or not.

*

He didn’t realize how long he had been deep in thought until he felt Crowley carefully removing the bottle of scotch from his fingers, still mid-pour on his drink, back in the present in his bookshop, celebrating how they had thwarted the apocalypse together.

He looks up and makes eye contact with Crowley, whose brows are furrowed deep in concern. Aziraphale is about to say he’s fine, really, and make some excuse for drifting away like that, make some joke to keep things as lively as they had been a moment ago, but Crowley just quietly takes his hand and leads him back to the sofa, and they sit. Aziraphale notices the scotch is back, so Crowley must have sobered up while waiting for him to finish pouring the drink.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley shakes his head.

“No need, Angel. It’s been a long week. The body remembers, even while we’re celebrating. The feelings catch up. All in due course. We can still be happy we saved the world, and also terrified at what we could have lost. In my experience, the feelings we push away have a tendency to pop back up when we least expect them.”

Aziraphale, usually bubbly and quick in his responses, takes instead a moment to reflect on the wisdom of Crowley’s words. He nods, and tries to take real stock of what he’s feeling before he answers.

“I feel numb, really. I know Adam gave me my body back, but it doesn’t feel like me, yet. Everything happened so fast. Suddenly I’m here trying to save the world and the next I’m in Heaven due to that meddling from Shadwell, then I’m back and body-less and bookshop-less, and riding inside that poor woman like a demon would, and then back to myself before I switch bodies again with you and go straight into Hell and back the next day.” Aziraphale takes a big breath, surprised at how easily that all spilled out. “Things are back to normal now, I have my body and my bookshop and you have your Bentley and we saved the world and each other and had dinner at the Ritz to celebrate, but I don’t feel normal, yet. I feel like I’m just possessing this body, watching this all through a window, instead of feeling like me. It’s unsettling.”

Crowley nods, and takes his hand again. “That’s a very normal thing to feel, Angel. That feeling might stay a while, and I don’t have advice, except to not judge yourself too hard for feeling that.”

Aziraphale nods. “Have you felt like this before? Just separate, from, everything? Watching the world like a movie unfold around you without feeling a part of it?”

“Many times. For me that feeling usually turns to despair, and that’s when I want to nap or run away or drink. But the times I can just sit with it, it helps me find my way through that easier. You’ve helped me with that more than you know.”

Aziraphale sees him, really sees him, across his long life and the many times he’s witnessed that to be true, and squeezes his hand back.

“Thanks,” he says, reflecting. He pulls his hand back to his knees, and squeezes those, grounding himself. “And I know you’ve helped me ever so much to live life in the moment over these years, helping me to let go of all the nagging thoughts of what I should be doing or not be doing. To just enjoy a drink or the taste of food or a good conversation. To just be myself, and not anyone’s version of what I should be, despite all my training and upbringing to the contrary. It’s helped me more than you can know.”

Crowley smiles a little, and says “Thanks,” in return.

This is the most they’ve ever acknowledged how much they ground each other, through all the millennia trying to navigate God’s ineffable dice game of the universe, alongside the terrified humans who walk the earth so briefly while trying to make the most of it.

“Angel, let’s pause the celebrations for now,” Crowley says, moving the scotch glasses aside. “Let’s sit a while here. Let go of how we are supposed to feel or even what body you’re supposed to feel that in. We can turn on the television for noise.”

Aziraphale takes in another deep breath and releases it. “Yes, let’s,” thrilled at the low-key suggestion. “Anything in particular you want to watch?”

“You pick,” he says, handing over the remote. “I’ll likely nod off halfway through like usual.”

Aziraphale smiles. “Touched by an Angel it is,” he says, pulling the remote out of reach of Crowley who is grasping for it back, immediately regretting his decision.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two: The Burn

It’s been a few weeks since the near-Apocalypse, and while they haven’t acknowledged any big changes, the angel and the demon keep finding one excuse or another to be around each other almost daily, with Aziraphale turning up at Crowley’s flat and Crowley making frequent stops to the bookshop. After a while, they stop inventing reasons to be there and just show up, the other accepting their presence easily, falling into a comfortable routine while not defining it. They both need their own spaces, but need each other too, and there’s no longer the excuse of Hell or Heaven stopping them, so for a while, they enjoy the freedom and the company.

They still use the secret lines to call each other, and the codewords for their rendezvous, more out of habit than necessity. After nearly 6,000 years of going it alone, suddenly they don’t have to, and it’s nice.

Crowley is helping Aziraphale carry in groceries to the back of the bookshop for a planned meal together. The angel’s not much of a chef, but he enjoys trying, and the demon enjoys letting him, but he’s still finding ways to poke fun at all the herbs Aziraphale managed to buy for a small dinner for two ethereal beings who don’t technically need to eat. Aziraphale is taking the teasing well, and also wondering if he could buy Crowley some seeds to grow herbs for them since he’s such a terrific gardener, in the very literal sense of the word.¹

“Honestly, Angel,” Crowley continues, “I’m pretty sure no recipe on earth calls for more than one bay leaf and you’ve bought yourself a bushel.”

“Well, I’ll just have to find more recipes then, and use the rest. The internet makes that so easy. Clever humans with cataloging all the ways you can use a leaf. Honestly feels like Eden and your temptation of the fruit at it’s finest – using all the plants she created for us and the knowledge of good and evil to know the best way to make a soup. When you think of it that way it’s quite a legacy.”

Crowley is touched at the compliment, but won’t show it. “Angel, you need to learn to take a ribbing. Poke fun at how few bags I just managed to bring in because I was too busy pointing out how many herbs you just bought. You can’t turn all my little barbs into flatteries, my dear.”

“Ah yes. But a rib from you is the same as flattery from me, Demon,” said with the same affection that Crowley always said Angel. “I see your appreciation that I’m cooking, that so overwhelmed you that you focused on bringing in only the one bag instead of all the other ones I just carried in.”

Crowley smirks. “See? You’re getting it. That was almost nearly sarcasm, in the most sickeningly sweet package I think sarcasm has ever been delivered in.”

“See? I think you’re getting it too. You may have just called me sweet.”

Crowley just gave a half-hearted hiss in response, which was usually his out for when he ran out of things to add to their daily banter. Aziraphale gave his cherub-esque grin to Crowley in return, and busied himself about the kitchen, trying to find places for all the additional spices and cooking tools he bought specifically for this meal.

“Speaking of that bay leaf, my dear, which bag was that in?” he asks, and looks up to see Crowley leaning quite unexpectedly against the wall, gasping for air.

He drops the bag and crosses to him. “What’s happening? Crowley, what’s wrong?” he asks, trying to keep the panic from his voice. “Is it one of the herbs? I was so careful to avoid sage!”

Crowley shakes his head no, and bucks forward as Aziraphale reaches out to steady him. As soon as he touches his skin, he can feel that Crowley is burning up. “Oh my dear! Please tell me what’s happening and how I can fix this!”

Crowley takes a deep breath, removes his sunglasses, and manages “The feelings catch up.”

In a flash, Aziraphale remembers Crowley telling him that, just after they had thwarted the apocalypse, when he was having trouble adjusting to his body after being discorporated. He had said, “The body remembers, the feelings catch up, and hit you when you are least suspecting it.”

Aziraphale keeps his hand on Crowley’s arm, even as it nearly burns him from the contact. “Crowley – is this because of the fire at the bookshop, and the Bentley?”

Crowley nods, arms still flailing and trying to stay on his feet.

At the bus stop, Aziraphale had asked him how he managed to drive the Bentley all that way while it was still on fire, even as the demon Hastur burned up and discorporated beside him. Crowley had said it was due to his imagination, and that he could just imagine that he was fine and that his car would make it, waving at cops and asking for directions and making it all the way to the airfield before the car finally collapsed.

But miracles like that came at a cost. He saved his skin from burning during the fire by imagining it wasn’t happening. It was the feeling of the burn that came later.

The mind had said he was fine, but the body remembered it differently. The feelings catch up.

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale gasps, finally understanding. “Has this happened before?”

Crowley nods, and swallows hard. “Yes, but… I was never in the fire this long before,” he manages, wide-eyed, as Aziraphale tries to hold him upright and almost needs oven mitts for it, the heat radiating from his skin is so intense.

“Is there a danger to your corporation?” Aziraphale asks, suddenly scared of the answer. Hell had promised to leave them alone, but he didn’t think it was likely they would issue Crowley a new body and send him back up.

“Usually I feel the heat for a time, and it blows over, no damage. This time I may need more help remembering that I’m not in the flames.” He looks at Aziraphale, pleading, yellow snake eyes wide. “Sometimes imagination can be a bad thing. What saved me before could destroy me.”

“I’m here with you,” he says. “We’ll see this through. I’ll grab a cold compress, see what I have here that can help cool you?”

“I think I need to lie down,” he says, and immediately collapses on the kitchen floor.

Aziraphale drops beside him, and carefully turns him back upright. He lifts his head and shoulders, cradling his head to his lap to try to help him keep his airway open as he struggles. His body is vibrating, shaking, looking exactly like a body on fire, without any flames or damage that Aziraphale can see. His body contorts like he’s having a seizure, and he starts screaming as the memory of the flames consume him.

He tries to soothe the aching body of his friend and is unsure where to touch that won’t cause more pain. 

“Aziraphale!” his voice cracks.

“Crowley, I’m here,” he says, stroking his face with one hand, and holding his hand over his heart with the other. “I’m here,” he repeats, and hope it’s getting through, but Crowley keeps crying his name and sobbing. If he could miracle this away, somehow, he would, but since the fire had already happened, and he wasn’t currently burning, there was really nothing he could do to fix this. There was no healing that would make it better. Crowley had to feel it, as the cost of his own miracle, and not get lost to it. 

“Aziraphale, your books!” he says, and the angel looks around before realizing that Crowley is feeling the bookstore fire. “Aziraphale,” he whimpers, “where are you?”

“I’m here,” Aziraphale says, again and again, trying to hold him, as his body contorts against another hit. “I’m here, Crowley, and I’m so sorry…”

Crowley still isn’t registering his presence, or where he was now, just thoroughly back at the bookstore, reliving the fire. “You’ve gone,” he whimpers. “Somebody killed my best friend.”

Aziraphale, finally understanding what Crowley meant when he said it earlier, holds him closer, tears forming in his own eyes. “He’s right here.”

*

After an hour, Aziraphale is still holding Crowley tightly in his arms. Eventually the sobs subside and Crowley starts to cool down and breathe more evenly again. Aziraphale miracles a cold rag, and brings it back to wipe Crowley’s face of the sweat and the tears.

He sees the yellow snake eyes flutter open, confused, but more calm than he had seen him since it started. “Where-?” he starts to ask.

“We’re at my shop, on the floor of the kitchen. The fire you saw here before just caught up to you, I’m afraid. I’ve been so worried for you, but it looks like you’re on the other side of it. How are you feeling?”

Crowley looks around the shop, visibly glad to see it still standing, and looks Aziraphale in the eyes, relief etched in them. He takes a deep breath, and says with a hoarse voice, “Every muscle’s sore. And I’m tired. But the burning’s gone.”

“I’m so glad to hear that, dear one.”  Aziraphale helps guide Crowley to sitting up, and eases him against the wall.

Aziraphale hesitates, and brings up the question that’s been worrying him the last hour as he held him. “I really, really hate to ask this, but do you think what you just went through was the heat from both fires, or do you think the other one is still going to catch up?”

Crowley squints. “Just the one.” He pulls his knees in tight to his chest. “Not sure when to expect the next. But likely soon.”

“I was so worried about that. And you were in the Bentley for so much longer,” he says, standing. “I’ve been thinking on what might possibly help, but I think as soon as you feel up to it we should try to make it back to your flat, since you have a bed there and an icemaker, and I’d like to make a stop at the store for some burn creams, just to find anything that might help for the next one. Ok?”

Crowley nods, and closes his eyes again, resting his head on his knees. Aziraphale hands him the cold rag, and starts packing things to bring over, dumping the groceries and filling the bags with every cold or comfort thing he can find, before grabbing a few other things he’ll need if staying over a while, some books on remedies, some books to maybe read him aloud while he recovers. When Aziraphale has finished fussing and loading the car, he comes back for Crowley, and helps him to stand.

“Do you have enough strength to tell your car to listen to me if I drive?” he asks.

“Can you drive, Angel?” Crowley asks, surprised, as Aziraphale guides his arm over his shoulder to help him walk.

“I did get my license when cars were invented, you know. And your car is so good at listening to you that I should be able to do my part to guide it, and can get us safely there while you rest.”

He can tell Crowley hates the idea, but isn’t in a state to argue, let alone drive, so he nods. Aziraphale feels a knot in his stomach, realizing how poorly Crowley must be doing to agree so easily to let him drive his beloved Bentley, as he guides him outside to the car and helps him inside.

He drives the car more cautiously than it had ever been driven, not even a tic above the speed limit, and Crowley barely has the energy to complain, which is worrying. He decides against stopping at the store, scared to leave Crowley’s side for a moment in case the flames came again. In the background, Crowley’s Queen CD is playing while the two passengers silently cruise along.

“Oh, you make me live
Whatever this world can give to me
It’s you, you’re all I see

You’re the best friend
That I ever had
I’ve been with you such a long time
You’re my sunshine
And I want you to know 
That my feelings are true
I really love you
Oh, you’re my best friend…”

The angel and demon are careful not to make eye contact as the song plays.

The song ends almost exactly when Aziraphale pulls up to the flat. He took a longer way there than he intended, since he was so used to the bus route, but safely got them there all the same. He would have gloated to Crowley about it, but the demon was barely reacting as it was. He helps Crowley out of the car and up the lift, occasionally touching skin to check for heat rises. 

He pulls out the new key Crowley had just made for him, in the event of emergencies, and opens the door, helping him inside to the nearest chair, which happened to be a throne.

He lets him rest there while he busies himself around the flat, unloading supplies, and filling buckets from the icemaker. He starts strategically laying the supplies about, rags and cups of ice, near the sofa, the throne, and the bed. From the incident this morning he knew how difficult it was to leave his side once it started, and hard to concentrate even enough for a miracle, and wanted to be sure he had tools he needed ready and in arm’s reach for when the time came.

He checks on Crowley again, who is slumped in the throne, with his head back and his eyes closed. He gently touches his forehead, which thankfully is still cool.

Since there’s still time, he keeps filling buckets from the icemaker, and starts pouring them into the bathtub, a fancy gold clawfoot tub looking sleek against the cool marble flooring. He speeds this up slightly with a miracle, and uses another one to keep it cool. He isn’t sure how much it will help, but wants just every resource on hand to try for when it’s needed. Everything about Crowley’s apartment seems degrees cooler than his stuffy old bookshop, and he’s silently glad they were able to make the trek over. 

He finishes fussing (for now) and crosses back to Crowley. “Do you want to lie down?” Crowley’s eyes open, and he nods once, exhaustion etched onto his normally aloof face. Aziraphale helps him to the bed, fighting concerns for Crowley’s current lethargic state with fears of what was to come.

Once Crowley is settled, Aziraphale sits with him on the other side of the bed. He can hear Crowley’s soft breathing as he falls into sleep immediately. He has so many more questions he wants to ask him – how many times this has happened before, how bad it was, whether anything helped, and why didn’t he think to call him.

It hits Aziraphale in a landslide just how many times Crowley had helped him over the six millennia they had known each other. From saving Job’s children, to saving him from Nazis and the Reign of Terror, to the way he drank the laudanum to save the girl in Edinburgh, or how he helped to stop the apocalypse. Aziraphale couldn’t even name almost any way he’d been able to return the favor over those same years, or if he tried he usually bumbled it up somehow in a way where Crowley would have to rescue him again anyway.

Even when he thought he was doing well on his own, Crowley was always one step ahead of him, ready to help him out in a pinch, before Aziraphale even realized he needed help. The more he thought about it, in many ways, Crowley was more an angel for him, and for so many others, than he had ever been in return. The thought is truly humbling.  

He realized Crowley has helped so many times without him asking, and almost as often, many times when he did ask. He tried to remember a time Crowley had ever asked for his help (besides the Holy Water, which still gave Aziraphale unease), and couldn’t. As independent as Aziraphale believed himself to be, Crowley was more so. And at least in a pinch Aziraphale could ask Heaven for assistance, but Crowley really couldn’t ask anything from his side.

Aziraphale realizes that he has much to learn on noticing and offering help before it’s needed, but that Crowley also has much to learn on how to ask for help also, and hopes they can learn more from each other. 

His thoughts carry him away much longer than he intended, until he feels a gentle squeeze of his hand that brings him back to the present, and sees Crowley staring up at him. Helping to ground him, once again.

“I’m here,” Aziraphale says. He squeezes the hand back, shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath, re-orienting himself. It’s still all-too easy to drift from the present and disconnect from the feelings in his body since all that unpleasant switching body business, and small reminders to stay grounded were helpful. “And thank you.”

“’Course,” says the demon, and after a thought adds. “And same.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale returns, genuinely glad he was there when it happened and able to try to help. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Crowley shakes his head. “I’m feeling better since the last one. I think we can relax a bit before expecting the next.”

Aziraphale can see him struggling with the shape of a question, and decides to save him the struggle. “I’ll be here when it does.”

Crowley starts to protest, but stops himself with a small “Ngk,” sound, which Aziraphale takes as a thank you.

He waits a moment to make sure, and pleased with their progress, adds, “Of course.”

1. * Terrific  / adjective
   1. of great size, amount, or intensity. "there was a terrific bang"
   2. causing terror. "his body presented a terrific emblem of death" ^{[ ▲ ]}

Chapter Text

Chapter Three: The Drift

The next few days pass quietly. Aziraphale miracles all the ice buckets to stay cold. Crowley even feels himself enough to host, pouring them drinks and finding entertaining shows on the television, miracling his own chores. Aziraphale tries to find ways to be helpful while also respecting his space, tries to listen more than he advises, but it’s tough, especially with Crowley so unwilling to accept help.

Aziraphale is currently fussing around the kitchen, trying to make breakfast for them both, while Crowley keeps insisting he’s not hungry. Crowley is still having fun watching Aziraphale try to make crepes though, which take a tiny bit more concentration and pre-planning than the angel possesses, to quickly heat and flip the thin crepes. Each one comes out looking worse than the last. Crowley waves his hand to fix the imperfections, though, unnoticed by the angel. 

And Aziraphale is still making him a green tea with ginger, saying how much it would help him feel better. 

“Honestly, I’m feeling fine, Angel,” Crowley says, not for the first time.

“Yes, well, I’ve been giving that some thought, actually,” Aziraphale says, trying to carefully choose what he wants to say next, putting the cup of tea within reach of Crowley, just in case he wants it. “I want you to know, and likely you already do, that as an angel I’m more likely to take things at face value. I trust what you are saying to me to be quite literally true. And I think over 6,000 years, I’ve heard you tell me you were fine, and believed you, when there were times you probably weren’t. Would you say that has been true?”

Crowley frowns for a moment, and nods once.

“When I was drifting, I couldn’t help but think of all the ways you’ve been there for me over all these years, and I really struggled to find ways I have returned the favor. And I want to learn to notice more what you need, and offer help also, just as you have for me.” Aziraphale takes a deep breath, and adds, “But I’d also like to ask you to help by being honest with me if you aren’t doing well. And by asking for help too if you know there’s something I can do. Or even if it’s something I can’t do – and let’s be honest, there are times I am liable to not get it right – but at least to try to trust me enough to try to help, and surprise us both?”

Crowley holds his gaze and considers his words. “Ok. I can do that.” He takes another moment before continuing. “And usually by fine, I mean, not dead. So I am fine. But on any other scale, probably not fine. But it’s a lot like the fire. Just things I need to feel, and can’t do much about, and really not much you can do either. But just you being here…” Crowley pauses. “Being here means a lot.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, and adds, “I’m here for you. But in the event I need to step away – to run any errands we might need – can I trust you enough to call me if it happens again?”

Crowley is quiet a moment, looks down, and says, “I can do that. Especially if it helps you not fretting over me. I usually get a few clues that it’s close to starting and can let you know.”

Aziraphale exhales. “Oh yes, thank you.” 

“Sure,” Crowley says. “We’ve both been at this a long time on our own. It’s going to take a bit of adjusting, to do it differently. The Arrangement.”

“Indeed. Our ‘Not-As-Secret-But-Still-Cautious-Arrangement,’” Aziraphale says.

“Right. Probably most things, I’ll still want to figure out on my own. Just my own sense of pride. But know I do trust you, Angel. And will loop you in when I feel like I can.”

Aziraphale knows it will take time. But Crowley tolerating him in his flat for a few days after the burn was a big step too. “Thank you,” Aziraphale says, grateful for the effort.

“Let’s just relax for now, eh? No fires yet. Anything you want to watch?” Crowley asks, grabbing the remote.

“Actually I thought I’d read for a spell, you can watch those Golden Older Ladies if you want?”

Crowley gives a half grin, and stretches out on the couch. “Sure. Might nap a little, too.”

“Please do,” Aziraphale says with a smile, excited to get back into his story. He’s already miracled quite a few books over from his bookstore, but so far Crowley hasn’t complained about the small stacks around the flat.

Aziraphale pulls out his book, and asks, “Crowley? I’ve watched quite a few of these shows with you this week, and have noticed, the episodes we’ve seen before change occasionally on the retelling. Is that your doing?”

Crowley looks over. “Oh, I didn’t even realize. I’m so used to watching these on my own. My imagination sometimes jumps in and gives the characters new stories and jokes. I almost don’t notice the difference, anymore, and just enjoy it. Probably makes it harder to follow though?”

“Not at all. You do have a vivid imagination, and I enjoy the new jokes. I must confess I’ve done the same thing while reading. As much as I enjoy the original source material, sometimes I can’t help but put my own thoughts into the story, occasionally miracling the words on the page with little twists I’ve invented for the characters. Just to keep the story going, when it’s a favorite I’ve read many times before.”

“Glad to hear it’s not just me, then,” Crowley says with a grin as he turns the TV on.

He leaves Aziraphale’s tea, untouched.

*

They pass another day in the quiet of each other’s company, Crowley watching TV and napping on the couch with Aziraphale reading in a side chair nearby that Crowley had miracled specifically for him. It didn’t match the rest of the furniture, but Crowley wanted to make sure his angel was comfortable.

Crowley stretches, waking up to another familiar laugh track. He stares at the TV for a while, passively hearing Sophia rant about her terrible Shady Pines retirement home stay, with Maria accusing her of starting the fire that burned it down. Crowley quickly turns the TV off.

He lays there a while, enjoying the silence, until it occurs to him that it’s too silent.

Not even a page rustling.

Crowley sits up and quickly looks over. Aziraphale is staring down at his book. He watches, and sure enough, no pages are turning. His eyes aren’t moving left or right. His hand isn’t moving to turn the page. Crowley knows how fast the angel reads, he has memorized that all-too familiar sound of pages fluttering. He watches a little longer, just to make sure the angel isn’t asleep somehow, but Aziraphale still stays in his trance.

Crowley crosses carefully. The first time, it helped when Crowley removed the scotch bottle, so he carefully extracts the book. But Aziraphale doesn’t react. Crowley takes his hand, squeezing gently, which helped the second time he noticed Aziraphale drifting. But there’s still no response.

He wants to keep being gentle, but the panic he’s feeling makes that difficult. He takes Aziraphale’s shoulders and shakes them a little, calling his name.

But Aziraphale is still looking down, in the place where the book used to be.

Crowley jumps up, and starts pacing, rubbing his hands over his face, trying to focus enough to know what to try next. He’s terrified of how many hours Aziraphale could have been in this trance while Crowley was napping, afraid he’s drifted past where Crowley can call him back. He stops suddenly and jumps at the angel with a noise, hoping a little scare might snap him out of it. But there’s still nothing.

He gets an idea. He tries to psyche himself up for it. He rubs his hands together a few times. “You can do this. You can do this,” he says aloud, stretching his shoulders, and pulling up a small footstool to sit just in front of Aziraphale.

“Where are you, Angel?” he says, carefully looking in the unblinking eyes.

He takes his hand again, squeezing it gently, and exhales. “Ok, Aziraphale. If I can’t find you on this plane, I’ll look in the next one. I’ve always found you before.”

With his other hand, he puts two fingers gently to the angel’s forehead.

He’s not entirely sure how this will work. But he has quite an imagination.

Crowley takes a breath, and falls quickly between the atoms, following the neurons and synapses of Aziraphale’s mind just like when he fell into the telephone line of his answering machine. He keeps his physical form in tact as he does so, still grounded and holding Aziraphale’s hand back in his flat.

As he falls, he’s incredibly careful not to look at anything too closely, since he respects Aziraphale’s privacy, and he knows this is an extreme step. He also knows he has to tread so carefully here, to not cause any damage to the angel.

This feels different from the telephone line. It’s more comfortable, but also more crowded and less organized. Or at least, organized in only a way Aziraphale can understand. Much like his bookshop.

He’s surprised to see so many versions of himself already there, in Aziraphale’s thoughts. So at the moment, it’s easy enough to blend in.

Different chapters of their lives together zoom past as Crowley pushes through, trying to get a sense on where Aziraphale has drifted.

He follows Aziraphale’s essence like he always has, finding him over the centuries. He can feel Aziraphale close but also so far, like he’s trapped on several planes at once.

He zips through images of himself on all of their lunch dates over the millennia: from eating crepes in Paris, trying oysters in Rome, Aziraphale devouring the ox rib in Uz while Crowley drank, to their most recent meal at the Ritz as a nightingale sang.

And for some reason, Crowley keeps seeing images of them going on a picnic, which they hadn’t got around to going on yet, not since Aziraphale first mentioned it back in the 60’s. It looks like a very elaborate meal that took several baskets, on a large tartan colored blanket with matching thermos, and it makes Crowley wonder how long he’s had that planned.

But then, suddenly he feels Aziraphale’s presence stronger. He follows that feeling all the way to the Garden of Eden.

This one is different, though. Instead of all the original lush plants and trees that Crowley remembered, this Garden is filled with oversized versions of all the plants Crowley had in his flat. He recognizes each and every one of them.

And then he notices a very large version of a Calathea Rattlesnake plant, which looks exactly like his, the one he took the most pride in. Except this one has apples.

And underneath it, Aziraphale sits.

Crowley approaches carefully, unsure which version of him Aziraphale would expect to see, still frightened of the damage he could inadvertently cause just by showing up unannounced in his thoughts.

Aziraphale is staring at a little brook. Crowley quietly sits beside him, just under the shade of the Calathea Rattlesnake Apple tree.

At some length, Aziraphale says, “Oh. Hello,” still not looking up from the stream.

“Hello,” Crowley responds, in even tones. “What are you looking at?”

“Oh this is my Stream of Consciousness,” Aziraphale says. “My little Babbling Brook.”

Crowley’s eyebrows furrow, and he listens more closely to the stream. Instead of a gentle rush of water, it’s the faint echoes of Aziraphale speaking, small snippets of conversations they have had over the years, rattling away about his newest book or restaurant discovery. 

Crowley can’t help but laugh. “Only you, Angel, would have a literal Stream of Consciousness. I’m afraid this explains quite a lot.” 

They sit beside it a while, just listening. Oddly enough, it reminds Crowley of being back in the bookshop, just content to hear Aziraphale speak.

After a while, Aziraphale does speak. “I feel like I need to be somewhere, but having trouble figuring out where that might be.”

As much as Crowley wants to grab Aziraphale and force them back home, he knows he can’t without harming him. So he does his best to listen.

“I know I need to be guarding something,” Aziraphale continues. “I know I’m a Guardian of the Eastern Gate of the Garden of Eden. But somehow, I got away from here. So I made my way back. But I’ve been confused because there’s no one here to guard. At least, until you came.”

Aziraphale looks up from the stream, and turns to look Crowley in the eyes. “And now that you’re here, it feels very apparent that I’m supposed to be guarding you.”

“Me?” Crowley asks, incredulously.

“Yes. I feel that to the very core of my being,” Aziraphale answers.

Crowley, who came on this rescue mission to save Aziraphale, who did the impossible by following the angel lost in his very thoughts, ready to show up and lead him to safety, as he had done so many times before, is suddenly having a moment of cognitive dissonance.

He thinks back to the conversation they had in his flat, earlier that day. How Aziraphale wanted to help him. How Aziraphale held him in his arms as he experienced the flames. How Aziraphale came over and stayed, ready to protect him from the next time the flames came. How he had spent so many hours this week, guarding him.

The Angel is a Guardian, to his very core. And the more time he’s spent rejecting Aziraphale’s attempts to help him over the years, the more he’s rejected this true version of Aziraphale. All of his angelic energy, ready to guard, and no one to guard, except for a vague feeling that someone needs him.

Everyone needs to feel needed. Aziraphale had gifted that to him, over and over and over again. Letting him feel like the hero, every time. It made him feel like he was doing good, and it made him feel Good, in ways he had never experienced since the Fall. And it hits Crowley in a landslide, just how big a deal it is that Aziraphale the Angel ever accepted help from a demon. How brave it was for him to ask his help, over and over again, and trust in him that he would deliver.

And what Aziraphale was asking from him just this morning, was for Crowley to trust him that same way. To be brave enough to ask for help when he needs it. To let Aziraphale help, too. For both of their sakes. He had agreed to try, but didn’t fully understand what that meant, until just now, here in Aziraphale’s own thoughts.

He suddenly sees the way home, for both of them. But realizes that in order for it to work, he has to accept Aziraphale’s help.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, watching him. “I am your Guardian, Crowley. Here to protect you. Can I start, with this?” Aziraphale says, opening his arms for an embrace.

Crowley nods, and Aziraphale guides him to his chest, holding him there, cradling him, under the apple tree by the babbling brook in the peace of the garden where they met, surrounded by his beloved plants. And all of Crowley’s defenses fall, safe in this embrace, safe inside the garden walls, so far from the outside world.

Aziraphale’s wings are out, and he holds Crowley inside of those, too. He remembers how Aziraphale did that for him on their first day together on Earth, holding up a protective wing to shield him from the first rain.

His first tear falls like that first raindrop, and the others quickly follow.

Aziraphale holds him in the embrace, protecting him, guarding him, letting him feel his feelings freely, as his tears flow and his body shakes. This is the closest to Her Grace he’s felt since falling, and it’s almost more than he can bear. But he does, with Aziraphale’s strong arms holding him. Here, he finally feels safe. He feels things healing inside him that had hurt for so long. He wonders why he ran so far from being helped like this, when Aziraphale had offered it to him from the very beginning. Eventually the tears subside, but Crowley is in no hurry to leave, and just lets Aziraphale hold him. He does his best to memorize this moment, to hold on to it for when he needs it in the future.

When he's ready, Crowley starts to sit up, and Aziraphale releases him, adjusting his wings to make room. They sit in silence together. Aziraphale reaches up, and plucks two apples from the tree, offering one to Crowley.

Crowley accepts.

They sit a little while longer, listening to the brook, the little bits of dialogue, and enjoy their apples, juice dripping down their chins faster than they can wipe it away.

When they finish, Crowley turns to his angel. “I need your help, Aziraphale, to get back. We are currently in my flat, and you’re helping guard me for the next time I get overwhelmed by the memory of the flames. I need you to help me not get lost to those memories.”

Aziraphale looks like he’s finally remembered what he’s been trying to remember, ever since he arrived. “Yes. And it looks like you are here to help me, too, lost in my own memories." He looks around, understanding, and looks back to Crowley, impressed. "This is probably the furthest you’ve come to find me.”

“I think you were trying to find me," Crowley responds. "I didn’t really understand what that meant until now. And yes, I think we can help each other.” Crowley sits across from Aziraphale, exactly as he had back at the bookshop. “Mirror my hands, follow my actions, and follow the feeling of my hand squeezing yours, back in the flat.”

Aziraphale nods.

Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hand in his, but is careful not to squeeze. He wants the only sensation to be from the hands back in their corporations. He lifts his other hand, two fingers extended, and Aziraphale follows, copying the motion, until they each lightly tap the other one’s forehead.

Crowley falls again, feeling Aziraphale behind him, zipping again through all the memories but together this time. Crowley falls back into his corporation first, and squeezes the hand held in his tightly.

He holds his breath, hoping it worked, hoping Aziraphale isn’t far behind.

And then he feels the hand squeeze back.

Crowley pulls his other hand away from the forehead and holds Aziraphale's hand in both hands, and lowers his own head to it, and continues squeezing, so grateful to have him back. Aziraphale’s other hand goes to Crowley’s back, holding him. Crowley closes his eyes, trying to get his breath steady again, feeling a little dizzy on the return trip, but this time in no hurry to pretend he's fine. He just stays there, in Aziraphale's hold. When Crowley is ready, he sits up, and Aziraphale adjusts to let him.

Aziraphale exhales a deep sigh, relief etched in his features. But then he starts looking around the chair.

“What are you looking for?” Crowley asks.

“The book I had in my lap, just before I drifted?”

“Oh!” Crowley says, and hands it back.

Aziraphale takes it, flipping through it. “You didn’t happen to mark the page I was on, did you?”

Crowley laughs once. “Nope. Definitely was very last on my list of things I was worried about in that moment. You’ll just have to reread it and catch up.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, and squeezes his hand again. “And thank you.”

Crowley nods, and stands suddenly to cross back to the table, picking up the green tea with ginger that Aziraphale had made for him earlier that morning. “And thank you, as well.”

Aziraphale waves his hand, to make the tea warm again.

Crowley crosses back to the couch. Despite not being a tea person, he drinks it. He doesn't notice the taste, but he does notice the compassion of the one who made it for him, and Aziraphale was right.

It does help.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four: The Ritual

The small talk between the angel and demon for the next few days hid a constant undercurrent of concern, as the two ethereal beings tiptoed around each other with watchful waiting. This was evidenced by the anxious look Crowley got whenever Aziraphale was quiet for too long, or the way he pretended to watch his shows but really was keeping a mental timer on how long it took the angel to turn the pages of the books he read. Or all the reasons Aziraphale invented to keep bumping into Crowley, brushing a hand across his arm or neck, casually trying to check for any temperature changes, and always listening, ever alert, for any changes in breathing.

It would be enough to put anyone on edge.

“Angel?” Crowley asks, just a hint of edge in his voice, sitting up from the couch.

Aziraphale turns to him and smiles. “Yes, I did stop reading for a little bit, and was having a think, but I’m not drifting. Thank you though, my dear, for checking.”

“’Course,” Crowley says, leaning back into the couch, still as uptight as he was a moment ago.

They both, in fact, were having difficulty relaxing at all, despite all their efforts to help the other one do so. Crowley scarcely let himself sleep, in case Aziraphale drifted, and even Aziraphale was having trouble finishing his books, wondering when the next moment Crowley would need him.

“You know, Crowley, what I was thinking just then, was that maybe it wouldn’t hurt for us to practice.”

“Practice what?” Crowley asked.

“Well, for the inevitable. We know it’s coming, don’t we? At some point, you will feel the flames, and I’m sure at some point, I will drift again. So maybe we can talk it through on what might help for those eventualities. I’m sure we both have concocted all kinds of plans for what we think might be best to help the other, but if we talk it through first, and practice, we can coordinate the effort.”

“I’m not keen on you practicing drifting,” Crowley says. “And it’s hard to coordinate any effort when you are gone like that. I just have to stay vigilant. I’m not sure there’s anything you can do when it’s happening.”

“All the more reason to talk about it first, while I am present with you, then,” Aziraphale says, with infinite patience, knowing they were already in vulnerable territory for them both, moving through shared fears for each other along with embarrassment of their own weaknesses. “You entering my thoughts to find me was very clever, and I think we both know, very dangerous. Maybe we can find shortcuts, if we practice. And maybe we can talk about what brings it on.”

“’M not sure I support that, Angel. I wouldn’t want to risk either of us getting lost just because we brought up what causes it.”

“Maybe we can find a safe way to do so,” Aziraphale says. “I have some ideas, if you are willing to try.”

Crowley sighs. They both know it’s difficult for the demon to say no to anything the angel directly asks of him. “What did you have in mind,” Crowley asks as a statement, putting his head back against the sofa, in that familiar slouch pose Aziraphale knows so well, designed to make Crowley look relaxed when he’s anything but.

“I was thinking, we could go back to the Garden where you found me, in my thoughts, and we could try talking there. I won’t get lost, since you are right there with me, and you won’t feel the burn, sheltered in my own space?”

Crowley gives that some consideration. “Didn’t you just say yourself that was dangerous?”

“Well, yes, especially the first time, not knowing it would work. Either of us could have stayed lost. But since we do know that it works, and we do know that particular space, it should be easier to return, don’t you think?”

Crowley looks at the angel, and Aziraphale can see him trying out a few ways to phrase a question before he says it, and Aziraphale waits for him to ask it. At length, he says, “Did you make that space for me?”

Aziraphale takes his own moment to consider. “Yes, actually. I quite believe I did. Not in a literal sense, of course, I had no idea you could follow me there. But I was thinking very heavily on ways to help you, and think I subconsciously created that space.” 

Crowley stares a moment, remembering, and mumbles in a smaller voice, “It did help me.”

“I’m glad of it,” Aziraphale says, with a smile. “So since we already have that space, maybe we can try it again. If we both know where we are going, maybe we can go directly there.”

“What if we get lost?”

“It could very well happen. But the way I see it, Crowley, we are already lost. It was ever so hard to help you when you weren’t conscious of me being there, and I’m so afraid of the next one being worse. And I can’t very well help you at all when I’m drifting. So even if we do get lost on the way, we both know where we are going, and we can keep trying until it gets easier, yes? And at least this time, we are both coherent.”

Aziraphale can tell Crowley hates the idea, but can’t think of any alternatives. So Crowley gets up and crosses to where Aziraphale is, pulling up the footstool to sit.

“Ok,” Crowley says. “Tap the head to go to the garden, squeeze the hand to come home. Got it?”

Aziraphale can’t help but be impressed at Crowley inventing his own ritual to enter and leave his thoughts, in a simple enough way that he could teach Aziraphale to follow. And they both also knew that the belief in it was the real trick. And Aziraphale definitely believed in Crowley.

Aziraphale nods.

Crowley takes his hand loosely, and with his other hand he reaches up with two fingers, with Aziraphale following his motions to do the same. They each touch the other’s forehead and take a breath.

Crowley pops up in the Garden, but doesn’t see Aziraphale. He heads to the Calathea Rattlesnake plant, looking through the oversized plants, each breath coming quicker than the last, and not seeing any sign of the angel anywhere within the walls.

And then with a pop, Aziraphale arrived.

“Oh,” Crowley says, doubling over for a breath. “You scared me! I was about to jump back and search your thoughts all over again!”

“Well, it seems you’ll always be faster than me,” Aziraphale answers. “Even in my own head.”

The absurdity of that makes Crowley laugh, in spite of himself. They both sit again under the Calathea Apple tree.

“Well, we made it.” Aziraphale says.

“We did. And it was easier this time,” Crowley admits.

“Is that something you think I could try, in your thoughts?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley tenses up, and looks out at the trees in the garden. “I’m not sure there is anywhere this nice in my own head, Angel.”

Aziraphale frowns, his worries confirmed. He had guessed as much. “Well, when we get back, maybe it’s still something we can try, if you are comfortable. Maybe we can make a space like this. If the feeling of the flames arrived, you wouldn’t be in a position to come here, and I would like to be prepared to go where you are, and where you need me.”

“What if there was a danger of you drifting? When you were in my thoughts? What then?” Crowley asks.

“I don’t think that could happen, any more than it could happen to you while you are here in mine. I think back to what you told me when I first got lost. Generally in the moments of danger or stress, we become hyper-focused on a goal, and the adrenaline helps us see it through. But it’s when the adrenaline is gone that we are left to cope with the aftermath. I think that’s why we’ve been more liable to drift or burn this week. It’s in those moments when we try to relax that the feelings catch up, just like you said. When we least expect it.”

Crowley nods.

“Well, at least at the moment, I hope we can both feel safe and secure here,” Aziraphale says, and leans his back against the apple tree. Crowley leans also, so they are side by side, shoulders just barely touching. “Safe enough to talk openly, if we can. Let’s try to tackle what triggers this.”

“I’m scared to lose you,” Crowley says quickly.

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale asks, a tad surprised at Crowley’s quick self-assessment and honesty.

“That’s my trigger. I’m scared of losing you. In the bookshop fire, I thought you were gone. When you returned, I followed you through fire in my Bentley to find you again. I’m scared of losing you. To Heaven, or Hell. Or even your own thoughts. I know there is very little I can do, realistically, in the big scheme of things. But I’ve stretched every part of me I have, to keep you safe.”

Aziraphale exhales, and sees the fear at the center of Crowley’s flames, remembering how he cried his name out, again and again, as he felt the burn, convinced the angel was gone.

“Ok,” Aziraphale says carefully. “And when you are experiencing that fear to the point it is consuming you, is there anything I can do to help ground you in those moments? And let you know that I’m safe? When I tried to speak to you, back on the floor in my kitchen, you couldn’t hear what I said at all. But if I’m in your thoughts with you, maybe that’s where you could hear me?”

Crowley shrugs. “It’s hard to know. It’s like nowhere feels truly safe. I used to feel safe in the bookshop…”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen. “Oh! I had no idea! Was being in there, what caused it?”

“Only in that moment, just when I relaxed enough to feel it. But now that I’ve gone through the burn, and woke up to seeing you ok, back at the bookshop - it helped me work past that, and I don’t think it would happen again. But if you asked me to think up a place where I was safe, in my own thoughts, it would be hard to imagine one.”

“Do you feel safe, here?” Aziraphale asks.

“Yes. I will gladly follow you here, in your thoughts, and I do feel safe with you. But if I pictured this same space in my own head, it would be associated with the fear of losing you. I would relive that nightmare of trying to find you.”

“Ok,” Aziraphale says. “What about Alpha Centauri?” 

“What do you mean?” Crowley asks.

“It’s where you wanted us to go. To keep me safe, when the Apocalypse was starting. You picked that spot. Is that somewhere you could picture in your thoughts, where you would feel safe, and I could meet you there, and reassure you that I am safe?”

Crowley gives it some consideration. “Yeah. That might, uh. That might just work.”

“There are no fires in space, are there?” Aziraphale asks. “It’s a vacuum.”

“I mean, there are still stars, and the sun, but that’s nuclear fusion, like a giant hydrogen bomb, all chemical reactions, but yes, the heat is all contained. All far away, and safe…” Crowley is considering. “Yes. When we get back, I’ll imagine it, and we can practice going there.”

“That sounds like a plan,” Aziraphale says, delighted they found something to try, while they had time to talk it out. 

“Aziraphale, what do you think brings on yours? When you drift?” Crowley asks.

“I’m not as certain,” Aziraphale admits. “I was really surprised that you knew yours so quickly. I’ve done a lot of thinking on it, from the three times you noticed me drifting, but haven’t found a connection.”

“If you’ll forgive my intrusion, Angel, I think you might have told me what it could be, when we were in this very spot last time,” Crowley says, a touch embarrassed to know thoughts that Aziraphale himself didn’t know, from visiting inside his head.

“Oh?” Aziraphale asks.

“You told me you were a Guardian. That’s why we were here in the Garden. You are the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, and you told me you were here to guard me.”

Aziraphale nods, as he starts to remember.

“I think what triggers it is when I reject your help. When you try to guard me, to protect me, and I stop you. I think you keep thinking about the next thing you could do to try to help me, and get stuck in that space.”

Aziraphale thought back to the past week since they’ve been back, and how easily Crowley had been accepting his help, and wonders if that was why he was suddenly more cooperative.

“That could very well be true,” Aziraphale says. “But I don’t think your actions cause it. I think I’m realizing, really at the core of it, I’m afraid to lose you, too.”

Crowley stares at him. “Oh.”

They sit a while, in each other’s company, sorting their own thoughts.

At length, Aziraphale offers his hand to Crowley, as an offer to return. Crowley crosses in front of him and sits. They tap, and with a squeeze, find themselves back in Crowley’s flat.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. “Well, at least we know that can work, if we need to try it again, and that we can return safely. It was so much easier this time.”

Crowley shakes his head. “It works when you are here with me. If you’re lost again, I don’t think it would be so easy.”

Aziraphale shrugs. “Well, maybe we’ll just need more practice then. Mental games of hide and seek. I’ll go to a specific memory and wait, and you come find me and guide me back to the garden.”

Crowley considers it.

It helps to have a goal, some kind of tangible remedy in their grasp, something they can do besides wait and worry.

They both feel a little bit of the week’s stress releasing.

*

So now, instead of tip toeing around each other, like bombs they are scared will explode any moment without warning, they talk openly, share ideas, and come up with new things to practice and try. It becomes a fun evening routine, with Aziraphale jumping into different thoughts and Crowley following him there.

It also sparks fun and lively discussions afterward, especially for the memories that Crowley definitely remembered differently. And eventually, Crowley lets Aziraphale try to follow him in his own head, setting his own fears aside about it, more out of motivation to show Aziraphale his own version of the memory and prove him wrong.

Aziraphale is never as quick as Crowley in those games, but he does always find the demon anyway, and occasionally agrees with his version of events in the memories, too.

Crowley also spends time researching and creating his own Alpha Centauri space in his mind, sharing images and his progress as he went with the angel so he can find it easily, too. Aziraphale enjoys watching him create and scheme and meditate the place into being. It’s almost like watching him the first time, when he created the stars, so long ago.

Aziraphale also practices spending time in his own head, and it’s a little less frightening knowing Crowley is nearby and can pull him back when needed. They’ve practiced more shortcuts, so Crowley doesn’t always have to come all the way to find him in his thoughts. Aziraphale has learned to listen for the hand squeeze and other gentle calls to come back. There are still times when he’s drifting up like a kite, completely pulled away by the wind of his own thoughts, unaware of his surroundings and lifted into the stratosphere, but now Crowley had the string, and he knew what the tug felt like to signal him to come back. Now he could comfortably finish the thought, and come back on his own time, in a way that was less stressful for them both, as long as he tugged back to let Crowley know he heard so he didn’t worry.

Crowley even let him practice coming back on his own, unassisted, for times where Crowley might not be holding the string, so they both knew he was capable. Each time they tried it, it felt easier.

It feels a little like the first night Aziraphale stayed at Crowley’s flat, putting together a plan to switch corporations to fool Heaven and Hell after the averted Apocalypse. Aziraphale had spent the whole evening rehearsing Crowley’s saunter and mannerisms, just to have those picked apart by the demon when he woke the next morning. Less is more, he kept saying, and Aziraphale did his best to take the note.    

They may never be fully ready. But having a plan helps. Enough to finally relax, without having to fear the consequences of it. Just to trust in the plan, and each other.

And being able to talk openly about it, and work together, helps them the most.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five: Blast Off

Aziraphale accidentally lights the fuse, and feels absolutely terrible about it.

He had innocently asked Crowley about borrowing the Bentley to drive to get a few more supplies and books. And that was all it took.

In one anxious look he could see the leaps the demon’s thoughts were taking. Straight from concern for Aziraphale driving, and drifting, and getting in a car accident, and getting discorporated, and not getting sent back, and the car starting on fire, and losing Aziraphale forever.

And then Crowley’s skin starts to burn, feeling those flames.

“Oh my dear!” Aziraphale exclaims, immediately realizing and overwhelmed with guilt. “I’m so sorry!”

“Not your fault, Angel,” Crowley says through clenched teeth, swaying. “This was coming either way.”

Aziraphale quickly goes to his side. “Bedroom?” he asks.

“Bedroom,” Crowley nods.

Early on, Crowley had nixed Aziraphale’s idea of trying to keep him cool in the bathtub. Not an ideal place for thrashing. More potential for damage and more to clean up after.

Aziraphale guides Crowley to the bedroom, as Crowley leans in to him. During the week, Aziraphale had looked up some breathing techniques, designed to help with staying calm, just to buy them as much time as they could before the attack took hold.

“Breathe in, 2, 3, 4,” Aziraphale says as they walk, and Crowley tries breathing with him. “Hold, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7,” Aziraphale says, helping him lay down. “Exhale, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.”

“Stop counting, Angel,” Crowley manages.

Aziraphale nods, and breathes silently instead with him, counting internally to four on the inhale, holding for seven, exhaling loudly for eight, as Crowley does his best to match his breath and stay calm, just as they practiced.

Aziraphale arranges the pillows to help Crowley sit up slightly, to help make it easier to breathe. They keep breathing together as Aziraphale miracles his supplies closer, already opening Crowley’s shirt and vest, applying a cool rag to his chest, and another to wipe his face of the sweat that already started to accumulate.

Crowley closes his eyes tightly, trying to suppress the pain, his body already wincing and twitching as the feeling of the flames got stronger. 

Aziraphale wipes his brow, takes his hand, and leans in close to him. “I’ll meet you at Alpha Centauri.”

Crowley nods, eyes still shut, and the only sound he makes is a small whimper.

And Aziraphale is suddenly scared to leave him alone on this plane. He knows based on the last attack that there is very little comfort he can provide to his physical form, and that none of the ways he tried to cool him helped before. He knows they have talked it through on what will help and that they have their plans in place, and they practiced. But it’s still very, very hard to leave Crowley, prone like this, fever blazing, already starting to scream and convulse as the memory of the flames take hold.

He squeezes Crowley's hand and continues breathing, in for four, holding for seven, exhaling for eight, but Crowley is not able to match his breaths. It’s more for himself, at this point, to keep himself steady amidst Crowley screaming. He brings two fingers to tap Crowley’s scorching brow.

Within a breath, he’s inside Crowley’s thoughts.

And they are blazing.

Follow the flames, Crowley had told him before. He knew from their talks that the memories of the fire would mix with other memories. But the trouble is, there are a lot of flames. Aziraphale can see the fire from the sulfur pits in Hell that burnt Crowley’s wings and every hurt since that first one, that seems to be endless, just fire for as far as he can see in every direction.

But after a while, he starts to see the difference between the flames that were contained and the flames that were still raging. The contained ones were a memory, already processed, flames no longer spreading. He passes even the bookstore fire, and sees this to be true, just as Crowley had said, no longer an active threat, though still discomforting to see all his books burning like that.

But then, just ahead, he sees the Bentley.

Inside is a version of Aziraphale, on fire, screaming.

He looks around. He knows Crowley must be here, but he can’t sense him. It’s hard with all of the flames, it’s like Crowley is everywhere and nowhere at once, just completely lost to the fire. 

Ok. Even without Crowley here, maybe he can still help. He’s at least at the center, right at the Bentley on fire, facing Crowley’s fear of losing him, seeing his own face screaming as the fires envelop him.

“Crowley?” he calls out. “I’m here. I’m safe. I’m with you. You haven’t lost me. I’m a guardian. I’m here to protect you.” He says this and calls forth his sword.

The sword isn’t on fire. But they both know he wields a flaming sword.

He holds the sword up to the Bentley, like a conduit.

“I am a Guardian,” he says, with a very capital letter, “And I am here to contain these flames.”

He holds the sword toward it, expectantly.

He has no power here, in Crowley’s thoughts. He can only speak to him, just as he would to his corporation at home. But he definitely trusts in Crowley’s imagination. So if he suggests that the fire should go inside of the sword instead of the Bentley, he knows that will happen.

And sure enough, it does.

The fire in the Bentley dies down enough for Crowley to step out. Aziraphale’s image is no longer inside, and no longer on fire. Instead Crowley is walking up to him, cautiously.

“Angel?” he asks.

“I’m here, Crowley. And I’m safe, I promise. You kept me safe. And I’m here to help keep you safe, too.”

Crowley stares at him, and at the Bentley, and the flames in his thoughts all around. “It’s still on fire. I’m still on fire.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “Your corporation is feeling the flames, at a safe distance from the actual flames, due to your absolutely clever imagination. And now we are keeping your thoughts at a safe distance from those flames, too, letting you feel what you need to feel, but not get lost to it.”

Crowley is still staring at him. “This hurts. Rather a lot.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “And I’m so sorry for that, dearest. Just know I’m here with you.”

Aziraphale takes a step toward him, but Crowley steps back.

“Don’t,” Crowley says, voice cracking. “’M still on fire. Don’t want to burn you.”

Aziraphale doesn’t think it would work like that, but respects Crowley’s fear of it enough to step back for him.

“Ok,” Aziraphale says. “Is there anywhere we can go? To get away from the flames?”

Aziraphale knows what they had practiced, and knows the idea has to come from Crowley for it to work.

Crowley stares at him, seeing only fire, feeling only burning, and stays, frozen in place. From somewhere far off, Aziraphale can still hear the screams of Crowley’s poor corporation, thrashing, back in the bed at home.

But at least he has the attention of his thoughts.

So Aziraphale starts to recite a poem, “If Only We Had Taller Been,” by Ray Bradbury, that he had prepared for Crowley in this moment.

“The fence we walked between the years
Did balance us serene
It was a place half in the sky where
In the green of leaf and promising of peach
We'd reach our hands to touch and almost touch the sky…”

He pours all of his love of words, all of his love of Crowley, into every beat and measure, as though he had written it himself, just for him, in this moment, trying to cool the flames, trying to save his dearest friend, trying to convince Crowley to go back to the stars he created, sparked by a poem that Bradbury had written for NASA upon successfully reaching Mars.

He recites in perfect diction, every word thundering from him, reverberating with the strength of a lifetime of angelic cries of “Avaunt!” as though their very lives depended on it, his hands and face as animated as though he were on stage reciting this to God herself and his demon, as the fire danced without harm around him, flaming sword still in his hand:

“I send my rockets forth between my ears
Hoping an inch of Good is worth a pound of years
Aching to hear a voice cry back along the universal mall…”

Aziraphale stops, catching his breath. 

Crowley stares at him.

Aziraphale waits.

Crowley staggers slightly, and falls to his knees. Aziraphale crosses to him and kneels by him, so close, watching him, holding his breath, and so careful not to touch.

At length, in hushed tones, Crowley finishes,

“We've reached Alpha Centauri!
We're tall, O God, we're tall!”

Aziraphale’s eyes brim with tears. He nods. “Yes, Crowley. Yes.”

One single tear falls from the angel’s face, and it’s enough to quelch the flames.

In the next moment, they are standing tall, amongst the stars.

Chapter Text

Chapter Six: Standing Tall

Aziraphale and Crowley stand quietly, side by side, looking up at all the twinkling lights.

“Which star are we on, exactly?” Aziraphale asks.

“Rigil Kentaurus,” Crowley answers. “Part of two stars on their own orbit in Alpha Centauri that are so close that their combined lights make them the third brightest star in the whole night sky from Earth. See? You can just see Toliman, Rigil’s partner, just across.”  

“Rigil Kentaurus,” Aziraphale repeats. “I believe that’s ‘Foot of the Centaur,’ in Arabic.”

“Foot of the Centaur, eh?” Crowley laughs. “Good as place as any. And what does Toliman mean?”

“The two male ostriches.” Aziraphale says.

“Huh.” Crowley says, looking at it. “Well, hard to tell from here, at any rate. These are all pretty Earth-centric names.”

They watch the two stars, circling each other, caught in their own orbit, brightly shining against the whole galaxy.

“Which one is Earth?” Aziraphale asks.

“Well, we’re actually in the closest star system to Earth’s sun, a little over 4 light years away. It’s too far to see Earth clearly from here, especially this time of year, but you can see the sun, just there. See that spiral?”

“Oh, yes. From here, it’s quite breath-taking.”

“Literally, I suppose,” Crowley says dryly. “Space, and all.”

“Quite right,” Aziraphale says, with a grin. “I can see why you wanted to go here. This does feel safe.”

“Mostly safe,” Crowley says. “All these stars exploding in and out of existence. Safe from a distance, at least.”

“You really did a wonderful job with it,” Aziraphale says.

“Well, I won’t take all the credit, of course. But still pretty proud of the results, at any rate.”

More than wallpaper, Aziraphale remembered in their first conversation. Each star with its own story and existence. Not just there to twinkle. But he still couldn’t help marveling at the illimitable vastness of Crowley’s creation, here in his own mind, and beyond in the stars outside of it.

Aziraphale also remembers what he has to bring up next.

“Can fire exist, in space?” he asks.

Crowley frowns. “Well, no, not technically, since there is no oxygen. All of these stars burn here from hydrogen, mostly, crushed under their own gravity.”

Aziraphale hates asking about the fire, in the peacefulness of space here, that Crowley created specifically to be safe and away from the flames. But they needed more than peace. They needed containment.

“Can energy like that, transfer?” he asks.

Crowley frowns again. He’s starting to remember the flames. Aziraphale knows that as peaceful as it is here, and as much as that is helping Crowley, his corporation is still back in the bed, feeling the burn.

“Here, Angel, take this,” Crowley says, miracling up a map and a crank, and hands the map to him.

Aziraphale unrolls the map and holds it up for Crowley.

“I’m going to make something up here. It won’t be as pretty as that poem you recited, Angel. But it should do the trick.”

“Just let me know what I can do,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley puts the crank in the map, and turns it, saying: “Let the memory of the flames still burning, contain themselves here, a memory still, like fancy wallpaper, burning so far away, still observable to the eye, the feelings felt, no longer consuming, a new star in my own sky.”

Aziraphale looks at him, and looks up, and asks, “Is something meant to happen?”

“Oh yes,” Crowley says. “Missed that again. Let there be light.”

And with that, Crowley creates a new star, pulled from the flames consuming his own existence.

This is more than just imagining that the flames aren’t there. That was what saved him initially, just moving ahead and pretending he was fine. This is acknowledging the flames existed, acknowledging the hurt, and giving them new quarter in his mind and memory, safely contained.

Crowley sighs, and closes his eyes. “I can feel that making a difference already.”

“I’m so glad to hear it,” Aziraphale says.

“And now I’m going to do the same for you,” Crowley says, looking Aziraphale direct in his eyes.

“Sorry, what was that?” Aziraphale asks, confused.

“You made a space for me in your mind, your own Garden of Eden, based on my plants, where you held me, guarding me and protecting me, letting me feel my feelings, and heal. And I made this space for you in my mind to do the same.”

“How do you mean?” Aziraphale is experiencing his own moment of cognitive dissonance. He was there to protect Crowley. To guard him, and keep him safe from the flames. This part wasn’t in any of their discussions or plans.

“This is a processing factory,” Crowley says. “A little like my star factory. Here, you can take things that are unprocessed, work through those feelings, and release them into the sky, to burn brightly as stars above. For all the things that hurt, and hold us back, or fears that consume us. Just like I did, there. I let myself feel the fire and the hurt, the one that was tied to the fire of the Bentley, got to the heart of the matter, which was my fear of losing you, and I released it. It’s still here, I will still always worry about you, I still fear losing you. I can still remember all the hurt from the flames. But I can look at it here from a distance, so it doesn’t keep sneaking up on me. I removed the fuel, so it wouldn’t keep burning, transferred that energy, and put it where it can’t keep burning me.”

Aziraphale stares at him, wondering at this process that he explains so readily, and stares up at the new star he’s created.

“And I can do that for you, too,” he says, grabbing the angel’s hand, in their grounding hold.

“How?” Aziraphale asks.

“We started to process, I think, back in your Garden of Eden, under the tree. You told me you also feared losing me. But I think there is still a specific image that we haven’t processed, from the day we changed our corporations, that’s still bothering you.” Crowley says.

“The Holy Water bath,” Aziraphale says, instantly realizing. “Yes. I think that’s it. My drifting thoughts keep being tied to that moment, specifically. I thought it was just from changing bodies over and over again that was causing me to disconnect. But now that you’ve said that, I think it was from the horror of seeing your reflection entering that bath.” Aziraphale’s face crumples a little at the memory. Crowley gives Aziraphale’s hand a squeeze, to help him stay present. 

Aziraphale takes a deep breath and releases it. “I know it seems silly. I know it was me in the bath, I knew you were safe. Well, as safe as you could be, given the circumstances. But it was like my worst fear brought to life, the fear I’ve held ever since I gave you that thermos. I don’t sleep, and I don’t have nightmares, but I’ve had a daydream version of a nightmare when I close my eyes, seeing you take a bath in Hell before Beezlebub and the council, except the bath is a large tartan colored thermos and I’m your executioner, holding the pitcher and pouring the water in.”

Crowley’s eyebrows arch up, but he’s careful not to respond. He holds out his arms and Aziraphale immediately enters the embrace. He holds the angel tight, and absolutely understands the feeling, and can remember what it was like to see Aziraphale’s face in the Hellfire with Gabriel mocking him as he marched into the flames. He can feel his shirt getting wet from the angel’s silent tears. He remembers the kindness Aziraphale showed him, and pulls his wings out, too, sheltering him, holding the body as he shakes, and giving him a place to feel those feelings safely, as his own tears fall too.

There’s really no appearances to keep up, here in the vastness of space. Here, if you’re sad, you can cry, and no one is around to judge you.

And honestly, it’s a little bit fun, too, since the tears fall up, with no gravity to hold it down. Crowley wonders idly if their tiny bits of water moving through space will lead to new life forms on planets undiscovered, and then also idly wonders if all life forms begin with angel tears. He certainly shed enough of his own on the way down. And mothers continued the tradition down on Earth, shedding tears of their own when creating new life. 

Then he feels a hand, squeezing his own. Aziraphale is helping to grounding him, using the same hold they had practiced for when the angel needed it. He closes his eyes, and takes a breath.

“Thank you, I was drifting,” Crowley says. “I was trying to stay with you and protect you, but a thought of losing you to that Hellfire in Heaven got in the way, and then my thoughts carried me away. Is that how it typically goes for you?”

Aziraphale nods. “I believe so. And it really helps to understand it better. At least, to know there’s something there I’m trying to feel, and if I avoid feeling it, I might drift, just like you described. I’m still liable to daydream or get lost in thoughts anyway, but think it’s more persistent and harder to come back when it’s tied to a fear like this one, especially if I can’t see the cause.”

“Let’s create two new stars, Angel,” Crowley says, holding out his hand and summoning the cast iron basket that held the hellfire.²

Aziraphale nods. In his hand, he has the tartan thermos.

“That thermos kept me safe,” Crowley says. “I’m so sorry for the strife it caused.” Crowley is heartbroken to know how much guilt Azriraphale carried over it, and never would have asked if he knew.

“I’m still glad you trusted me, in the end, instead of that clumsy Shadwell,” Aziraphale said, almost in answer to his thoughts. “I shudder to think what he could have brought you the water in, without fully understanding the consequences.”

“You kept me safe, Angel. Because you gave me that water and I defended myself. And because you took that bath for me. I’m here because of you.”

“And I’m here because of you, too,” Aziraphale says. “Do you have Hellfire in that basket?”

“No,” Crowley says quickly. “I would never risk that around you, not even here in my imagination. Inside is the only one I blame for the execution that almost killed you.”

Crowley lifts the lid, and inside is a tiny version of the Supreme Archangel Gabriel.

“Oh. Oh, my,” Aziraphale says.

“Regrettably, not the real thing, don’t fuss your white little feathers about that. But I just keep seeing his face when I think about almost losing you, and all the cruel things he said to you when I entered the flames. And I just want to launch him right into space,” he says, putting the lid back over the screaming small figure. 

“Ok, dearest,” Aziraphale says, trying his best not to judge, and just appreciate Crowley’s process, and all the kindness and forethought it took to make a place like this for them, and not worry about the fate of an impossibly tiny version of his old boss that exists only in Crowley’s imagination or its implications.

“Cover this, with both of your hands,” Crowley instructs, and they hold the two objects together. “Close your eyes, and breathe. Inhale, 2, 3, 4,” Crowley says, winding up. “Hold your breath for 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7…” Crowley continues, and he guides Aziraphale’s hand to launch the thermos and his basket upward. “Open your eyes, and exhale, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8…” Crowley says. 

In unison, they both say, “Let there be light,” and watch as both objects fly into space and explode into two new stars.

“That’s very satisfying,” Aziraphale says, at length.

“Isn’t it just,” Crowley says, with a small grin.

They sit a while, looking at their new stars together. They can still feel the feelings from it, but at a safer distance.

Aziraphale looks to Crowley. “I would love to stay here with you, but I’m also terribly worried about your corporation back in the flat. You can stay here longer if you need to, or head back with me if you’re ready.”

“I’ll go back with you,” Crowley says, sitting across from him.

“Lay down,” Aziraphale instructs, “since that’s where you are at home. It’s less jarring if you are in the same position when you get back,” he says from experience. 

“Are you calling my flat, home, Angel?” Crowley asks, laying back.

“Well,” Aziraphale stammers. “I do have a key, you know. After all we’ve been through together…  I do feel safe wherever you are. In the bookshop, in the Bentley, your flat, the Garden of Eden, or up in the stars. Home is Our Side, wherever we are. Fair?”

It’s Crowley’s turn to stammer. “Ok, yes. Ok, fair. And same for me,” he adds, after a thought.

“Ready?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley nods, bracing himself for the pain he knows his corporation is in when he gets back.

“Breathe in,” he says, counting silently, as they breathe in together. “Hold,” he says, taking Crowley’s hand.

“Exhale,” he says, and taps to head back home.

1. I paused the show a bunch and couldn’t really tell what Eric brought the Hellfire to Heaven in, but it looked cast iron and also looked like a basket. So my best guess is that he brought hell in a handbasket. ^{[ ▲ ]}

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven: A Cottage By the Sea

Aziraphale zips back through Crowley’s thoughts to return to their corporations. He’s relieved to see the flames are faded, just back to a few moments in the background, the fire no longer raging through all of his memories. He’s always careful not to look too hard as he passes, respecting the trust that Crowley had given him to enter his thoughts in the first place, but he’s surprised to see a repeating image. He keeps seeing a cottage by the sea, near a lighthouse. He doesn’t recognize the place, except for the odd echo of a memory that told him he might have seen the place when he’d been in Crowley’s thoughts before. It looks peaceful, and he’s glad to see that Crowley’s thoughts have relaxed enough to picture such a calming image, and finds the longer he looks at this cottage by the sea that it has a calming affect on himself. He wants to know more about it, but decides not to ask Crowley about it unless he brings it up.

Soon he jumps back into his body with a jolt. He closes his eyes, feeling a little dizzy, and takes a deep breath, trying to make sure he’s fully present and himself in his own corporation. He opens his eyes and squeezes the hand tightly in his, looking Crowley carefully over. He’s grateful to see Crowley no longer vibrating with pain, and his face looks as calm as though he were asleep, his breaths coming in deep and even. He sees the aftermath from his attack, sweat still covering his corporation, pillows and blankets askew.

He knows Crowley is right behind him, and holds the hand tightly, so Crowley can feel the squeeze. He takes a moment to ground himself, using a trick Crowley had looked up for him. He names five things he can see - Crowley’s eyes shut but slightly twitching as though in a dream, his grey neck scarf nearby, the tartan pillow Crowley miracled for him on the bed, the cloth on Crowley’s chest, the familiar sunglasses on the nightstand. Four things he can feel - Crowley’s hand in his right hand, Crowley’s thankfully cooling brow under his left hand, the tightness in his own jaw, the tug of his own bowtie with every inhale. Three things he can hear - Crowley’s steady breath, the faint hint of traffic outside, and his own breaths trying to calm down from feeling like he ran a marathon. Two things he can smell - one is the coffee he had brewed for Crowley just before the attack came on. The other is Crowley, the smell that was more metaphysical than corporal and had helped alert him to his presence across centuries and continents. That familiar warm, slightly singed, and slightly sweet scent that always made Aziraphale think of mulled spices.

He grounds himself just in time for the anxiety to catch up, realizing that Crowley should have been back by now.

He tells himself at least he’s feeling more centered, and capable of helping Crowley. He tends to Crowley’s corporation, to keep himself busy and help Crowley for when he gets back. He straightens the blankets and pillows, readjusts his limbs to be closer to what it was when they left Alpha Centauri, miracles new cloths to wipe the sweat, leaving a cool one on his brow.

Crowley did say he was coming back with him? He was always faster than Aziraphale when moving through thoughts. He hoped Crowley wasn’t lost. Aziraphale squeezes his hand again, hoping Crowley can feel it, but there’s still no reaction.

He’s taking deep and steady breaths, trying not to panic. He’s trying to decide how long he should wait before going back in to see if Crowley needs help. He had noticed Crowley start drifting when they were in the stars. What if he drifted again? Aziraphale wasn’t sure he could find Crowley if he drifted within his own thoughts.

He studies Crowley’s corporation carefully. At least he seems peaceful, no longer in the throes of the painful attack.

Aziraphale had just decided to go back in to look for Crowley, when remembers he forgot to ground himself with the last one:

One thing he can taste.

And almost without thinking, he squeezes the hand in his again, and quickly pulls the hand toward his lips with a light brush of his lips.

When he looks up, he sees Crowley’s wide and open eyes meeting his.

Aziraphale opens his mouth, trying to find a way to explain, but no words come out. The stress of worrying about Crowley combined with the relief of seeing him back and then replaced with the fear of how he might react to seeing Aziraphale kiss his hand upon waking take all of his words away.

Crowley takes in a deep breath, and with some effort brings Aziraphale’s hand up to his own lips, leaving a light kiss in return.

Aziraphale exhales, face crumpling. He finally says, “I’m so glad to see you back, dearest. You had me worried.”

“’M afraid I had to take the long way back,” Crowley says, sounding so tired and still so far away.

Aziraphale isn’t sure what that means, but feels so much relief to see Crowley doing so much better, knowing all their efforts paid off. They were safely on the other side. He squeezes Crowley’s hand again, holding it tightly, compulsively stroking the back of his hand with his thumb, helping to reassure himself that Crowley was here and ok.

“We did it, Angel,” Crowley says with a faint grin.

Aziraphale flops beside him on the bed. They both work to calm their breathing down, holding each other’s hands tightly as they do.

“We did,” Aziraphale echoes. He thinks back to the last week with Crowley and he’s still not entirely sure how all of it worked. They had treaded into entirely new territory, creating new miracles to try to help the other navigate complicated and paralyzing thoughts, using every tool at their disposal. And because of all of their work, they were both ok.

Aziraphale can feel his own breath slowing, coming almost in sync with Crowley’s. They sit in quiet and comfortable silence, taking a moment to sort out their own thoughts and feelings, still squeezing the hand in theirs to stay grounded and in the moment.

And Aziraphale’s own thoughts turn again and again to the feeling of kissing Crowley’s hand and the relief of seeing Crowley finally wake up and then effortlessly return the gesture. He tries to sort out what that means, or what he should try to say to Crowley about it. Their long and deep connection to each other over the last 6,000 years make any words he wants to say about it feel trite and inadequate. This week they had done the impossible, seeing each other’s thoughts and feelings and deepest fears completely bare, and put enough trust in each other to be vulnerable enough to give and receive help when they needed it most, and made it back to their corporations safely. He really doesn’t have the words to try to address any of that, so he just keeps squeezing Crowley’s hand, and grinning a little, as a tiny tear of relief falls down his cheek.

But there’s something he still wants to try. He just doesn’t know how he wants to say it yet.

“Crowley?” he asks, and sees the demon’s face loll toward him.

“Mmm?” Crowley mumbles as a question, lips already tight in anticipation, ready to complain and protest a bit before giving the angel whatever he asks of him.

Aziraphale sits up, miracles the cloth cool again, and gently wipes Crowley’s brow, cheeks, and neck as Crowley watches him.

“If you are feeling up to it, my dear,” Aziraphale says lightly. “I think it would do you some good to have that bath after all. Your poor corporation has been through so much while we were tending to your thoughts, and I can still feel the sweat and the heat coming off of you from that whole ordeal, and think it would help your sore muscles too.” Aziraphale pauses, looking away, and says the next part more quietly. “And given what you just helped me emotionally process, I wonder if it wouldn’t do me some good, also. To replace that image with a new one. One of you healing.”

Crowley takes a moment, remembering what they had shared on Alpha Centauri, with Aziraphale’s fear of Crowley in the Holy Water bath, and then looks again at the angel, and asks, carefully, “Are you sure you feel up to that?”

“I am sure,” he says, still carefully wiping Crowley’s brow. “And I need to say that even though you sound so much better, I would have to insist you accept my help completely if we try this. It wouldn’t do to come this far if there is a danger of you slipping in the tub due to your pride.”

Crowley’s lips turn up into a half grin. “Angel, you’ve already been inside this corporation, and deep inside my thoughts and fears. At this point, I’m not too worried about you seeing me bathe,” Crowley says, lightly. “And ugh. Yeesh. Fine. Ok. I’ll let you help,” he says the last part with a pretend huff, already accepting he wouldn’t make it down the hall on his own. And a bath actually sounded good, even if he couldn’t bring himself to admit that out loud, either. “But know I’m going to be watching you just as closely, and ask you to return the favor if I notice you drifting. Got it?”

Aziraphale grins, relieved at Crowley’s ready acceptance. “Got it,” he says. And then with a thought, he asks, “Is this ok?” and snaps, removing Crowley’s outerwear down to his black undershirt, shorts, and socks.

Crowley looks down. Seemed an odd choice for a bath, especially with the socks, but Crowley shrugs and says, “Sure.” 

Aziraphale snaps again to fill the tub down the hall, puts a hand under Crowley’s shoulder and knees to lift him up.

Crowley starts to protest that he doesn’t need carried, and then decides he’s too tired to care. Or at least, too tired to try to talk Aziraphale out of it. Once the angel had decided on a course of action it was very difficult to convince him otherwise. 

Crowley looks up at him, and decides to break the awkwardness of being carried with questions. “If we’re helping you make a new image, Angel, would you prefer I wear the clothes I was wearing in the bath at my trial?”

“This is what you had on at your trial,” Aziraphale says, guiding Crowley to inside the bathroom. He takes a moment, and then carefully lowers Crowley to the bath.

Crowley wonders briefly if Aziraphale knows what humans usually wear in baths but decides not to worry about it too much. He watches the angel's expression carefully, trying to watch for face twitches or any of the subtle signs of Aziraphale hurting, but Aziraphale so far just looks determined.

The angel hesitates just briefly before setting him in the water, so Crowley quietly puts a hand up to Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale looks down at him with a smile, and finishes lowering him in.

Crowley takes in a breath when he hits the water. Oh, thank Someone, this felt so good.

Aziraphale is watching him as carefully as Crowley is watching him back. Eventually, they both relax, and Aziraphale sits at the side of the tub.

But Crowley still has questions. “They had me take my clothes off first? What would be the point if I was going to disintegrate anyway?” Crowley asks, brows crinkling in confusion.

“Oh, that wasn’t their request. It was mine,” Aziraphale says slowly, wondering which parts of the story he might have forgotten to share with Crowley.

“Wot?” Crowley’s eyebrow arches high.

“I told them I was wearing a new jacket, and I’d hate to ruin it, and asked if it was okay if I took it off,” Aziraphale says, not making eye contact.

“You - stripped me down to take the bath? In Hell? In front of Beezlebub and Hastur?”

“And Michael,” Aziraphale says, “And, also, well, the entire legions of Hell - they were all gathered at a glass window to watch the trial.”

Crowley’s thoughts are racing. “I think I’m going to need you to walk me through that again, Angel.”

Aziraphale does one better. He gets up to show Crowley what he spent all that evening rehearsing after they switched corporations, extremely excited to share his performance with very little prompting.

“Of course, my dear. While you were napping in my corporation, I spent all night thinking about what you would say or do if you were marching to your death. I tried to pull from my magician’s training with Professor Hoffman, even conjured up his original 1876 book, “Modern Magic” and re-read it that night, and found the following six tips extraordinarily helpful from the last chapter,” pulling out his handwritten notes still tucked into a pocket in his coat, and hands those over to Crowley.

Crowley can’t help but be impressed as he reads it over:

1) Don’t be nervous,
2) Take your time,
3) Don’t make any unusual quickness in your movements,
4) Don’t force yourself to be funny,
5) Avoid personalities,
6) Never plead guilty to a failure.

“Most of those tips were in line with what you were telling me all along that night, Crowley, about the secret to being cool: keeping it simple, staring into the middle distance, letting people guess at your thoughts rather than tell them, which I found so helpful,” Aziraphale says, excited to tell more of the story. “And on number six, ‘Never plead guilty to a failure,’ Professor Hoffman wrote, ‘Keep your wits about you. If you are so unfortunate as to experience a complete and unmistakable break-down, smile cheerfully, and ascribe the fiasco to a little misunderstanding. Thus armed against failure as well as prepared for success, you may safely ring up the curtain with the marvels and mysteries of MODERN MAGIC,’” he finishes with a flourish, definitely pronouncing the capital letters.

“Ok,” Crowley says with a hint of a grin, still trying to connect how this story leads to him stripping in Hell in front of his associates.

“I wanted this switch-up to be as convincing as possible, and knew our very lives depended on it, and wanted to be prepared for every scenario. For success as well as failure. I knew I had to pull from all of my 6,000 years of knowing you in order to play the role convincingly, against the incredibly discerning infernal host and all of the original tricksters. I knew this would be the performance of a lifetime, and that all of my life’s training was leading to that moment, predicted even by Agnes Nutter herself in the book. I knew I had to be as cool as you were, ready to stand up to Beelzebub and all the demons of Hell and give them a good what-for,” the phrase makes Crowley snicker a little, unnoticed by Aziraphale, “And so I borrowed all of your swagger and ‘devil-may-care’ attitude to give them a performance they wouldn’t soon forget.”

“And then you took off your clothes?” Crowley asks.

“Just a slight misdirection, darling,” Aziraphale says, still in full performer mode recreating the scene for him. “Professor Hoffman expresses the importance of keeping your audience guessing, and to never reveal what you are about to do before you do it. They were all expecting some sort of daring escape from Hell’s bravest and most cunning demon, the one who stood up to Satan himself armed only with a car crank to stop the Apocalypse.”

Crowley holds his hand up to his face, to cover the beginnings of a blush from the compliment, unnoticed by the angel who excitedly continues the story.

“I couldn’t just pop into the tub. I had to make it a show. I made Hastur hold my clothes, because the magic feels ever so much more real with a bit of audience interaction, and strutted over to the tub in no more than you are wearing now, letting everyone guess at what I was about to do. I made a bit of a show of almost reaching the water and pulling my hand away as the audience gasped in fear, until Hastur got frustrated and said ‘On with it,’ so I made an even bigger performance about leaning in, holding myself just above the water, with my feet and hands keeping me over the tub, until I could feel just a palatable reaction from everyone watching, holding their breath, and only when I had their full attention and the audience in the palm of my hand, I slid in the water, effortlessly,” Aziraphale says with a tiny proud grin.

“That doesn’t sound effortless,” Crowley says. “Wot, like this?” He says, starting to recreate it in the tub, until he sees Aziraphale’s face fall and stops. He holds out his hand and Aziraphale accepts, and gives it a squeeze, carefully watching in case he inadvertently triggered a drift. 

“Yes, something like that,” Aziraphale says after a deep breath, squeezing his hand back. “I mean, it took a little practice.”

Crowley’s eyebrow arches again. “How do you mean?”

“Oh, that night while I had some time, I practiced getting in and out of this tub, while wearing your corporation. I wanted it to be as smooth and cool as you are, and maximize the drama of seeing me enter the tub.”

“You practiced?” Crowley asks, wondering how hard he slept that night, and really wishing he had stayed awake longer to watch. “How did you even know if would be a bathtub?”

“Oh, it was just a guess, I wasn’t sure if they would pick a different vessel to hold the water but I was so fortunate that it was a tub. I slipped the first few times during the rehearsal, it’s difficult to fully control a new corporation, and especially when wet and wearing socks.”

Crowley, who has been holding it in for most of Aziraphale’s story, finally loses it and starts laughing hard. Really hard. So much that the water splashes out of the bathtub as Crowley pictures in detail every single moment that the angel describes, absolutely delighted by the adorable antics of his angel in one unsupervised evening. After a moment, Aziraphale joins in laughing too.

“And that’s when you asked for the rubber duck?” Crowley says after he finally calms down again, feeling like that part of Aziraphale’s story made more sense in context.

“Yes. I had to give them a show. I splashed water at the window while the audience screamed in terror. I asked for the duck and made Michael miracle me a towel. I made my demands of Beezlebub that would keep you safe. And as my final ‘prestige,’ I miracled the clothes right out of Hastur’s arms onto myself again, and marched right out.”

“Wow,” Crowley says, shaking his head. “You definitely gave them something to remember, all right. No wonder all the demons I run into these days cower a bit from me. That’s seriously impressive. Fell the Marvelous, indeed.”   

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says, with a little bow. He settles down again next to Crowley and leans against the tub. “I’m just so glad it worked, dearest,” he says, lightly touching his arm.

"Same, Angel,” Crowley says. He’s glad to hear Aziraphale tell the full story in such an animated way. He’d only gotten pieces of it before, when Aziraphale was working through all of his guilt and stress that would often trigger a drift. This story felt like the most proof Crowley would have that Aziraphale was on the other side of his feelings on it. Easier to tell stories about the stars, safe and at a distance, than when they are on top of you burning you up. He can even see Aziraphale’s grin, reliving the memory, far from the fear it used to hold.

After a minute, Aziraphale asks, “And what did you do, Crowley, when they commanded you to walk into the fire, as myself?”

“I just, sort of, walked right in?” Crowley admits. “I protested a bit, frankly more my own protests than yours, saying they were supposed to be the good guys.”

“Right,” Aziraphale says. The angel is suddenly wondering if maybe he didn’t overdo it, a little bit, on his own part. Maybe simpler would have worked after all for getting into character.

“Then I tried to channel you, and what I thought you might say in that moment.”

“Which was?” Aziraphale asks.

“Well, I thought about you, and all your compassion, toward all of Heaven, all the people and animals here on earth, even us poor demons down below. I thought about you, holding your wing out to shield me from the rain. And so when Gabriel commanded me to your death, I told him, in your voice, ‘It was lovely knowing you all. May we meet again on a better occasion.’”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, beyond touched. “That’s rather beautiful, Crowley. And poetic.”

“And so you are,” Crowley says, before he can stop himself.

They make eye contact. Aziraphale blushes, and thinks again on all the unsaid words, and still can’t find a way to voice them, so he reaches out and squeezes Crowley’s hand.

“And I blew a bit of fire at them, just for fun,” Crowley admits. “That got quite a reaction.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale says, suddenly picturing it, and the reactions that likely got from Gabriel and Uriel, and grins, in a definitively non-angelic manner. “That must have given them something to remember. Good theatrics, my dear.”

“Thanks, Angel,” Crowley says with a small grin, thinking back on his new star, holding the image of breathing Hellfire at Gabriel with the sound of him screaming as he was launched into space in his mind.

“How are you feeling?” Aziraphale asks.

“So much better. Just tired,” he says, accentuated by a slow blink.

“Well, let’s get you back to bed, then,” Aziraphale says, and with a snap the water is gone, and Crowley is dry and in black satin pajamas.

Again, Crowley was capable of miracling his clothes on himself, but he can see how much it makes his angel happy to help him, so he allows it.

He also allows Aziraphale to pick him up again. The bath really helped, but he felt far more exhausted now, and wasn’t sure he’d even make it back to the bed before fully falling asleep.

Aziraphale carries him down the hallway, and lowers him gently onto the bed. Crowley’s eyes fall closed as Aziraphale fusses, trying to get him comfortable and adjusting the blankets and pillows in the room, as well as turning the lights out in the rest of the flat.

Aziraphale climbs in beside him, and miracles tartan pajamas on himself. During this week, they’d taken to sharing the bed, more out of ongoing concern for each other and as the easiest way to help track the other’s symptoms. He didn’t really sleep, but still wanted to stay close, even with Crowley doing so much better than before.

He spends some time thinking about their closeness, and all the subtle lines crossed this week. Sharing a bed, sharing thoughts and fears, holding hands, hugging, lightly kissing hands, helping Crowley bathe. But not one of those felt out of place. It all felt absolutely comfortable, necessary even, in those moments. Aziraphale’s thoughts try to sort out what this means.

Aziraphale smiles a little, thinking of the bath, now attached the new memory of Crowley loving his story of preparing for his trial in Hell and laughing harder than the angel can remember him laughing.

He looks intently at Crowley’s hand, the one that had helped ground him during all of his hours drifting with a quick and careful hold when needed. A palm, ready and open.

He reaches out and gives the hand a light squeeze, and feels Crowley return it. For a few moments, they breathe together quietly, almost automatically, breathing in for four, holding for seven, releasing for eight, before he feels Crowley fall into a deeper sleep.

Aziraphale looks up at the ceiling. He doesn’t think he’ll sleep, but he lets himself comfortably drift in a grounded and rooted way to visit the cottage he saw before in Crowley’s thoughts, in his own controlled daydream.

Crowley is there, watering plants in the garden, looking out at the sea and the lighthouse. He then looks up at the sky and is wondering which stars they might see tonight, since their view of the night sky was so much more clear out here and away from the city. Aziraphale is fussing in the kitchen, trying to read a recipe and pack for a picnic that afternoon, surrounded by so many shelves holding nearly all of his favorite books from the bookshop, with a hot cuppa tea nearby. It’s peaceful, here, and even just imaging the place brings Aziraphale possibly the closest to true rest he has ever felt in his corporation.

And Aziraphale doesn’t know it, but just next to him, even without being inside the same thoughts, Crowley is having the same dream.