Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The rain drummed against the window—persistent, rhythmic. It mirrored the thoughts that kept you trapped under the covers, refusing to move, your body a weighted lump on the couch. The gray fabric felt colder than usual, as though it had absorbed the sadness clinging to you. You’d been there for hours—maybe days—with nothing to push you forward.

When the knock came at the door, you didn’t even flinch. Didn’t have the energy to wonder who it could be.

The door creaked open, and there they were—Aziraphale and Crowley, standing in the doorway like they’d been waiting for permission to enter your world, even if it had been chaotic for days.

They didn’t wait for you to speak. They knew.

Aziraphale stepped in first, carrying the familiar scent of books and comfort—the soft warmth of an angel who had seen too much but never lost his gentleness.

“(Your Name),” he said softly, his voice a steady anchor. “We’re here.”

Crowley followed behind, still cool but softened by the way his eyes lingered on you. He had always known what it felt like when the weight of depression turned everything into sludge.

“Thought we’d come by. Make sure you’re okay. But, y’know, in our own way.”

You didn’t speak right away. The lump in your throat threatened to overwhelm you, but you fought to keep it down. Still, the tightness in your chest lingered. You pulled the blanket tighter around yourself.

Crowley didn’t waste a moment. With a snap of his fingers, your favorite mug appeared—dark tea, just the way you liked it.

“Here,” he said, sitting on the edge of the small fold-out table, fingers drumming lightly. “Drink something. Even if you don’t want to.”

Aziraphale sat on the other side of the couch—closer than anyone usually dared when you were like this. He didn’t try to pull you out of the dark or ask you to talk. He simply sat, his presence radiating quiet assurance, like he knew exactly what you needed. Just being there.

They knew you. All of you.

They knew about the times you'd freeze completely—unable to move, unable to speak—mind blank, body heavy and unresponsive. Crowley had seen it before. Aziraphale had felt it in the way you’d once withdrawn from the world, the way you sometimes disappeared into yourself. And still, they never judged.

Aziraphale offered a soft, understanding smile.

“We’ve all been there, you know,” he said gently, as if the words alone could be a balm. “You’re not alone, (Your Name).”

You finally took a breath. It felt a little easier. Just a little.

“I don’t feel real,” you murmured, your voice small. “Like I’m not… here.”

Crowley gave a short, sharp nod, his tone softer now.

“You’re here. You’ve always been here. You’ve just had to deal with more than your fair share of shit.”

They didn’t push. They didn’t demand answers or try to explain your pain away. Instead, they gave you space to simply be. They would stay as long as you needed—no expectations, no judgment.

For once, you didn’t feel like there was something to fix. You were just… yourself. And that was enough.

Aziraphale pulled out a book, his voice gently breaking the silence.

“How about I read to you? Just a little. Nothing heavy—just something to settle the mind.”

Crowley, never one to be left out, smirked.

“Or we could watch something ridiculous on TV and mock it together. I always recommend Golden Girls for that. Masterpiece, that one.”

You allowed a small smile. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. You wrapped yourself tighter in the blanket, your shoulders relaxing for the first time in what felt like forever.

They didn’t ask you to be more than you were.

They didn’t demand anything but your presence.

They simply stayed.

____________________________

Chapter Text

Crowley watched quietly from the fold-out table, his lanky frame leaning forward, elbows on knees. (Your name) hadn’t said much—just stirred the tea in their favorite mug, eyes unfocused. Then the silence cracked—whispered, “My mom says I’m lazy when I’m like this.”

Crowley didn’t move at first. Then his jaw tensed. He pulled off his sunglasses and, for once, let (Your name) see his eyes. Sharp. Fiery. But not at them—for them. 

“That’s bollocks.”

He stood, pacing like he did when he was angry but trying not to be too angry.

“Lazy? (Your name), you’re in survival mode. You’re crawling through emotional quicksand, and she’s mad you didn’t vacuum?”

He stopped in front of them. “Let me tell you something,” he said, voice low, eyes locked onto theirs. “There is nothing lazy about holding on when everything inside you wants to give up. You get up. You breathe. You exist. That’s a fucking miracle. You are not lazy. You are fighting.”

(Your name) blinked back tears, lip trembling. “If anyone ever tells you otherwise,” he added, softer now, crouching so he was eye-level, “you send ‘em my way. I’ll teach ‘em the difference between care and control. Between helping and humiliating. And if they still don’t get it… I know a few plagues.” (Your name) let out a shaky laugh, and he grinned.

“There you are.”

Later, Aziraphale appeared from the tiny kitchen with something on a small plate—soft food, warm, familiar. Just enough.

He didn’t make a big show of it. He didn’t say you need to eat or don’t you think it’s time? He simply sat down beside (Your name) on the gray couch, close enough to feel but not to crowd, and placed the plate gently on the cushion between them.

“I made this for you,” he said softly. “You don’t have to finish. You don’t even have to start, if it’s too much. But it’s here. For when you’re ready.”

(Your name) looked at the food. Their stomach wasn’t sure. Their mind was exhausted. But something in his voice—the warmth in it, the absence of expectation—made you pick up the fork.

Aziraphale didn’t watch you eat. Instead, he opened a book—one you liked, not too heavy—and began to read aloud in his soft, lilting voice. Just enough to fill the silence.

When you took a bite, he didn’t cheer or praise you. He simply turned the page and kept reading, like your small acts of care were normal. Natural. Worthy of no applause, and all the love.

Time had slipped sideways. (Your name) hadn’t moved from the couch in hours—maybe a day, maybe longer. Your body felt heavy. Blank. The thoughts had folded in on themselves until there was nothing but the soft gray buzz of stillness. Even blinking felt like effort.

Then came footsteps. Not rushed. Not loud. Just there.

Crowley was first. He didn’t speak. Just crouched beside the couch like a shadow curling near their hip. He reached out and brushed a thumb over their knuckles, careful and slow.

“Still here,” he murmured. “Still you, even in this.”

 From behind him, a gentle rustle—Aziraphale. He carried a thick blanket, warm from some miracle, and tucked it carefully around their shoulders.

“It’s all right, dear. No need to do anything. Not yet.”

They didn’t ask you to get up. They didn’t suggest a walk, or a shower, or a deep breath. They simply stayed.

Crowley rested one hand over yours—his skin warm, grounding. Aziraphale sat behind you on the sofa, humming something ancient and soft, a lullaby from long before lullabies had names.

(Your name)’s fingers twitched.

Crowley noticed, but didn’t say a word. He just gave your hand the smallest squeeze. Aziraphale, still humming, let one hand rest lightly on your back. His touch wasn’t heavy, but it said: you’re not alone.

Another moment passed. Then another.

Your breath caught—shaky, shallow—but it moved. You moved. Crowley felt it too.

“That’s it,” he whispered, almost like he didn’t want to scare the moment away.

“Come back, love. Just a little.

(Your name) blinked. Once. Twice. Lips parted like you might say something, but all that came out was a sigh. And that was enough.

“You don’t have to do it all today,” Aziraphale whispered near your ear.

“Just this. Just come back to us, a little at a time.”

(Your name)’s hand moved, slowly, finding Crowley’s. And squeezed back. For the first time in days—or weeks—you felt like you might still be real

Chapter Text

It started with the softest question, spoken like a secret: “Would it be all right… if I brushed your hair?” Aziraphale’s voice, always so careful with its corners, landed like silk on your skin. He was sitting on the floor now, behind the couch, legs folded primly. The brush in his hand was simple—wooden, well-loved. Nothing fancy. No expectation.

(Your name) hesitated. You didn’t move, but didn’t say no. That was enough.

Crowley—still beside you—glanced toward the angel and gave a small nod before leaning closer to (Your name). “I’ll stay right here,” he said, voice low like a promise.

Aziraphale shifted gently behind you, one hand brushing over her crown to test the knots, the tangles, the days of forgetting you had a body at all. “This might tug a little,” he said softly, “but I’ll be ever so gentle.”

He was. The first stroke was tentative. A small pull, followed by a smooth glide. Then another. And another. (Your name) Closed your eyes. Each pass through your hair felt like something ancient being undone—not just knots in strands, but knots in your chest, in your mind. Like someone was brushing out all the you’re lazy, all the you’re too much, all the you should be better by now.

“You’re doing beautifully,” Aziraphale murmured, as if you had moved mountains just by letting him touch your hair. Crowley hadn’t stopped holding your hand.

When Aziraphale reached the ends, he ran his fingers through them like he was blessing you. “There we are,” he said. “Still you. And now… perhaps just a little lighter.”

You didn’t speak—but your shoulders, tight for days, sank just an inch. A breath. A softness. Crowley smiled, and kissed the back of your hand. “That’s it. Still here”

....

The bathroom felt too bright.

You stood inside the tiny space, barely larger than a closet, the shower curtain drawn half-shut. The water pounded against the tiles like a storm. Hot, unrelenting. Too loud. Too much.

You were in the corner, curled on to yourself. Knees hugged to chest. The water clung to you like accusation. You hadn’t even touched the shampoo yet. Just let the water hit you, and tried not to feel everything it brought with it.

Shame. For waiting this long.

Shame. For not being able to move.

Shame. For needing help just to get clean.

You didn’t hear the door open. Again. But you heard his voice.

“(Your Name)?” Crowley. Soft. Gentle in a way only you ever got to hear. “You don’t have to talk. Just… let me know you’re okay.”

A silence. A sob. Then two words, barely there: “Not okay.”

And Crowley moved. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t ask permission again—not because he didn’t care, but because he knew you, knew the kind of terror that freezes someone mid-panic. He stepped inside, fully clothed, letting the water soak through his shirt and boots without a single curse.

He knelt beside you. The tile was cold. The water hot. His presence, steady.

“You’re not disgusting,” he whispered, brushing soaked strands of hair from your face. “You’re not broken. You’re overwhelmed, and that’s not a crime.”

You shook your head, but didn’t pull away.

Crowley pulled you gently into his arms. Water sloshed around them. His shirt clung to your bare skin, but he didn’t flinch. “I’ve got you,” he breathed into your ear. “I’ll sit here until you’re ready. No rush. No rush at all.” Minutes passed.

Aziraphale’s voice floated in from just outside the curtain, calm and warm. “I’ve put your favorite towel on the radiator. And a fresh set of clothes on the sink. We’ll dry your hair together when you're ready, dearheart.”

Still pressed against Crowley’s chest, (Your Name) let out a breath they’d been holding for hours. Maybe days. When their were ready—truly ready—Crowley reached behind their, poured shampoo into his hands, and started gently working it through their hair. Once. Twice. Three times. But not like punishment. Like release. Every rinse was a whispered, “You are allowed to begin again.”

The bedroom had been aired out—sunlight soft through gauzy curtains, the kind of golden that made everything feel cleaner than clean. Aziraphale had made the bed himself, of course. Crisp fresh sheets, faintly scented with lavender and something like hope. The comforter fluffed, smoothed, made ready. No judgment in the room. No echoes of failure. Just space to rest.

Crowley guided you in first, one hand on the small of your back, the other carrying your favorite pillow. He’d already slipped off his boots at the door, folding his long, gangly limbs down beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Aziraphale was already seated at the edge of the bed, smoothing the covers with hands that never hurried. He offered you a look—gentle, wordless, asking only may I? You gave a small nod.

They helped you lie down—Crowley curled around your back, arm slung over your waist like a seatbelt, grounding you. Aziraphale pressed in from the other side, his hand over your heart, palm warm and steady.

No pressure. No words. Just breath.

“You’re safe,” Crowley murmured into your hair. “You’re not broken, you’re just tired. And we’ve got you.”

“You’re loved,” Aziraphale added. “As you are. Not for what you do. Not for how well you perform. Just you.”

The sheets were cool against your legs. The blanket, heavy in the best way. Just hours ago, your body had been on fire with panic. But now—between them—it felt like the storm had passed.

Not vanished. But passed.

Your breath slowed. Your fingers twitched once, then stilled.

Crowley pressed a kiss to the back of your neck.

Aziraphale followed with one to your forehead.

And between them—cradled, safe, real—you finally slept.

"We’ll stay as long as you need. No rush to wake."

(Your Name) didn’t wake with panic.

For the first time in weeks—maybe months—they woke to the sound of slow, steady breathing and the weight of arms wrapped around them like a lullaby that had never ended.

The room smelled like skin and clean sheets and a hint of Aziraphale’s cologne—faint and floral, like a garden kissed by rain. Sunlight slipped through the curtain in lazy golden stripes, and somewhere outside, a bird had the nerve to sing.

(Your Name) shifted slightly, and a warm hand—Crowley’s—slid over their stomach.

“Still here,” he mumbled, voice sleep-rough and tender.

They let out a small sigh, caught between the urge to cry and the quiet disbelief that this was real. That they were real. That they hadn’t vanished in the night like every good thing usually did.

Aziraphale stirred behind them, his fingers gently stroking their hair, still half-asleep.

“Did you sleep well, darling?”

(Your Name) nodded, not trusting their voice yet. Their throat was tight—but not from sadness. Just from the sheer enormity of being held through the dark… and still being held in the light.

They stayed like that. No one rushed. No one told them to get up, to shower, to face the day like everything was fine.

They let (Your Name) exist—warm, crumpled, precious.

After a while, you whispered, “You didn’t leave.”

Crowley huffed softly against their neck. “Wasn’t bloody planning to.”

“Not unless you ask us to,” Aziraphale added. “But even then… we’d hesitate.”

That made you smile. Barely-there, but real.

Crowley sat up slowly, rubbing his face. “You want coffee? Or tea? Or to stay in bed until next week?”

“Can I stay like this a little longer?” you asked, voice barely audible.

Aziraphale kissed their forehead. “As long as you want.”

And so angel and demon stayed.

They watched the light shift on the walls.

Crowley eventually snapped up coffee and toast to the bedside, scolding (Your Name) gently when they tried to sit up too fast. Aziraphale fluffed the pillows and dabbed a bit of jam on their toast, making a mess of his fingers just to see them laugh.

No demands. No deadlines. Just a slow return to yourself, cushioned between love and absurd ethereal and occult devotion.

Chapter Text

The flat was quiet. Not heavy like before — just quiet. Soft. Curtains still drawn, light filtered gently through the fabric. The kind of calm that had taken days to rebuild with their help. You were no longer lying in the dark just to breathe. You’d sat up. Showered. Let Aziraphale braid your hair while Crowley mocked both of you with a grin that never quite reached his eyes when he was worried.

You were barely coming back to yourself — tender, like skin after a burn.

And then— SLAM.

“¡Ya estás de huevxn otra vez!” —You are already lazing around.

The door crashed open. The light flooded in like an accusation, and your mother’s voice was already filling every inch of the room.

“¡Ya levántate, ponte a trapear o algo! ¡Esta casa es un muladar!” —Get up already, mop the floors or something! This house is disgusting!.

She hadn’t even looked around yet. Didn’t know you weren’t alone.

Crowley looked up first from the arm of the couch, where he'd been nursing a cup of black coffee like it had wronged him personally. He didn’t move fast. He didn’t need to. Just slid his sunglasses down a fraction and let out a long, theatrical sigh.

Aziraphale set down the tea tray he’d just refilled. His face changed in the tiniest way — still gentle, still composed, but... focused now. Like a storm hidden in an overcast sky.

Your mom yanked open the curtains with the force of someone who thought light solved everything.

“¡No haces nada! Nomás aquí encerrada/o (whatever is more misgendered for you) todo el pinche día con esa cara de tragedia. ¿Qué vas a hacer con tu vida, eh?” —You don't do anything at all! Just moping around here all day with tragedy written all over your face. What are you gonna do with your life uh?

And then she noticed the men.

“¿Y estos quiénes son? ¿Qué hacen aquí? ¿Por qué están tomando té como si fuera su casa?” —Who are these people? What are they doing here? Why are they here drinking tea like they own the place?

Aziraphale took a step forward, hands gently clasped, his accent pouring over her like silk-wrapped steel.

“Good afternoon, madam,” he said slowly, enunciating just enough. “This is their home. Their sanctuary. And you’ve come in shouting like you own the place.”

Your mom squinted. “Hello...? Eh... I no speak Inglés.”

Crowley didn’t miss a beat. “Shame. I had such lovely things to say.”

Aziraphale turned slightly, his voice softening as he addressed her in perfect, respectful Spanish. “¿Tal vez... quiere orar conmigo, señora? Por... paciencia. Entendimiento. Amor para su hije.” —Perhaps… would you like to pray with me, madam? For… patience. Enlightenment. Love for your child.

Your mom blinked. “¿Qué?”— What?

“Rezar" —Pray. He repeated, placing a hand over his heart. “Para no herir lo que apenas está sanando.” —So we don't hurt what is barely healing. 

She stared, suddenly unsure whether to argue or feel embarrassed. And Crowley, leaning back into the couch, legs crossed like a villain in an expensive suit, and a shit eating grin, muttered just loud enough for her to hear: “Should’ve brought holy water".

After a moment of simmering silence, your mom huffed — not quite in anger, more like resignation — and walked off to the kitchen. The sound of clinking dishes followed, not aggressive this time, just methodical. Comfort through movement. Her own version of damage control. Aziraphale offered to help, and though she waved him off at first with a quiet “Yo puedo sola" —I can do it myself. He insisted in that kind, infuriatingly British way of his. So she let him rinse while she scrubbed. The rhythm of water and sponge filled the air. Something steadier.

Then came the unmistakable sound: a wooden drawer sliding open, a lighter flicking once, twice — and then the scent of wax and smoke curling through the hallway.

She’d lit a cirio.

One of those big blessed candles from Semana Santa (Easter Week). The kind she only used for real emergencies — sickness, heartbreak, hauntings. Or in this case: you.

You didn’t need to see it. You knew exactly where it sat — on the table by the hallway mirror, next to the dried palm from Palm Sunday and the Virgin with the cracked nose. None of those things were yours. She’d smuggled them in, one by one, like tiny acts of sacred espionage. Always pretending it was the first time you’d seen them. “Ay, eso ya estaba ahí"  —Oh, that? It was already there. She'd say with a shrug. As if the dusty crucifix hadn’t appeared overnight like a relic sprouting from the walls.

You let her be. It was easier than arguing. And maybe a part of you — a very tired, very young part — liked knowing the saints were watching, even if you didn’t believe in them anymore.

Crowley slid into the room a minute later, mouth twisted in distaste. “She brought out the cirio,” he said, closing the door behind him with an exaggerated sigh. “That’s how you know it’s serious.”

You didn’t move. Just gave the faintest grunt into the pillow.

“And they’re about to start the rosary,” he added. “Full throttle. I can smell the sanctimony from here.”

Your stomach knotted a little. Not from guilt. Just… memory. The shape of prayer woven with grief and control. The feeling of being trapped in pews, of being told to suffer beautifully.

Crowley leaned on the wall, sunglasses off, his eyes soft and sharp all at once. “I told Aziraphale not to go too hard on the holy stuff. But you know how he gets when he sees someone trying.”

You buried deeper into the blanket. “I hate the pinche rosario,” —fucking rosar— you mumbled, barely audible. “Reminds me of death. And shame.” Crowley didn’t flinch. “Yeah. It’s crap.” You felt a small breath escape your chest. Almost a laugh. Almost.

“She means well,” you said. “She just doesn’t know how else to help.”

“I know,” Crowley replied. “But that doesn’t mean you have to sit through it. You’re not a soul to be salvaged. You’re a whole damn person.”

He moved closer, slow and easy, and sat beside the bed. Close enough to feel his warmth, not enough to crowd.

“If you want to sneak off somewhere,” he said, tapping the side of his boot against the floor, “I’ve got a bottle of something strong, a thermos of something soft, and absolutely no patience for sacred rituals. Say the word.”

You didn’t say anything. But you reached out — just a hand, trembling a bit — and let it rest near his. Crowley didn’t grab it. Just let his pinky bump yours. A quiet rebellion.

Outside the door, you heard your mom begin the prayers.

A Dios todopoderoso… [ To God Almighty..]

Aziraphale answered with gentle cadence, the rosary beads clicking between his fingers, echoing like soft chains.

But here — in this little room where the cirio's light couldn't quite reach — there was silence.

There was safety. There was you, still hurting. But not alone. Eventually, the silence softened. The ache didn’t vanish, but it let go of your chest just enough.

You pushed off the blanket, slowly, like surfacing from underwater. Your body ached, your head was foggy, but your feet found the ground. You stepped out.

In the kitchen, your mom was putting away the now clean dishes. Aziraphale was handing her a towel, his face kind and a little flushed from the warmth. The cirio flickered beside the microwave. She turned when she heard your steps. Her eyes scanned you like radar. Worried. Tired. Hopeful.

“¿Ya te vas a levantar?” she asked gently. —Are you getting up?.

You nodded. “Gracias por venir Ma” —Thank you for coming mom.

She blinked. Her mouth twitched like she wanted to argue, or cry, or both. Instead, she opened the fridge, pulled out a bottle of water, and handed it to you.

“Está fría,” she said. “Para que despiertes.” —It is cold. So you can wake up.

You took it, and for once, let yourself be grateful.

Crowley entered behind you, slinking like a shadow with opinions. He gave her the smallest nod and, after a beat, added, “Thanks for checking in.”

Your mom tilted her head. “¿No hablas español?”
Crowley raised a brow. “¿Y tú hablas demonio, señora?” — And do you speak Demon, ma’am?

She huffed — somewhere between a laugh and an exorcism. “Muchacho raro. (Weird little man)
He smirked. “Primero que nada, no soy muchacho.” — First of all, not a 'man.' Then, with a glint in his eye: “Y nomás chifle.” *

She rolled her eyes, laughing and grabbed her purse.

Before stepping out, she lingered in the doorway, giving one last glance. Her shoulders relaxed just slightly.

“Al menos no estás solx ” she murmured. —At least you are not alone

You nodded again, softly. “No. No lo estoy.” —No, No I'm not.

And that, for now, was enough

Chapter Text

It started with toast.

Aziraphale, bless his cardigan-wrapped soul, handed it over like it was a peace treaty. “Strawberry jam,” he said with far too much ceremony. “Handpicked. By angels. In Devon.”

You blinked at the soggy bread and narrowed your eyes. “Is the divine power of heaven incapable of toasting something properly?”

Crowley choked on his coffee. Aziraphale looked offended. “It’s rustic.”

“It’s floppy,” you deadpanned, holding it up like a tragic flag of surrender. “Did you bless this with humidity?”

And there it was—the sound that hadn’t echoed through that room in far too long: your laughter. Dry, warm, yours. Crowley was grinning now, all fangs and delight. 

“Alright, alright,” he said, sliding a fresh slice of actually toasted bread onto your lap. “Try not to traumatize the Principality’s breakfast ego.”

Aziraphale sniffed and poured more tea. “I’ll have you know I once made scones for Queen Victoria.”

“Were they also soggy?”

“You’re impossible, the both of you.”

“Yeah” you said, mouth full of toast, eyes brighter now, “but I’m also awake and not crying, so maybe you’re doing something right.”

You paused at that. Just for a breath. A moment to register the weight of that truth. Then Crowley leaned over and pressed a kiss to your cheek. “There you are.”

You rolled your eyes. “Ugh, gross. Affection before noon?”

Aziraphale laughed. “You are definitely back.”

They didn’t ask you to do anything big that day. But they did tease you into moving. Crowley played music. Old funk, a little Bowie, of course Queen, something that made their hips sway against yours will while you brushed your teeth for the first time in days. Aziraphale clapped when you finally put on clean clothes—mismatched socks and all—and you flipped them both off with dramatic flair.

“A Fashion icon,” Crowley whispered, mock-reverent.

“Eat my aesthetic,” you muttered, but the grin gave you away.

The three of you spent the afternoon making a new blanket fort in the living room—Crowley used actual magic to suspend the corners and Aziraphale insisted on proper tea service inside it. Laying between them, arms linked, watching fairy lights glow above them like stars that chose to stay low, just for you. Your humor was back. Your sarcasm. Your fire. And they adored you for it.

The next morning, you didn’t make toast. You didn’t make anything, actually. The fort was still standing (miraculously), and so were you (even more miraculously). Aziraphale had insisted on reading aloud some horridly boring Regency novel until they’d all dozed off, limbs tangled like kittens in a sunbeam.

When you woke, Crowley was already awake and watching you with a look that said too much and not enough. “Dream anything awful?” he asked, voice low.

You stretched. “Only the usual apocalypse. You were there. You had a fez.”

Crowley snorted. “Stylish.”

You looked around. The glow of the fairy lights was still warm. The world, incredibly, hadn’t collapsed overnight.

“Do we have to do anything today?” you asked.

Aziraphale peeked in from the kitchen. “Absolutely not. In fact, I’ve declared today a holy day of rest.”

“You mean you’re not going to fuss about laundry or polishing the doorknobs?”

Aziraphale looked offended. “That was one time. And they were quite grimy.”

Crowley threw a pillow at him. “Let the grime live, angel.”

You didn’t get dressed, didn’t answer messages, didn’t make a single plan or fix a single thing. Just watched movies you half-remembered loving. Listened to records backwards, just to see if Crowley had hidden a message in any of them (he had: “Stop overthinking, you nerd.”) You ate cereal from the box, stole each other’s socks, and argued about whether or not ducks have regional accents.

At some point, you found yourself curled up again—this time with their head in Aziraphale’s lap and their feet in Crowley’s. The angel’s hand moved slowly, rhythmically, carding through your hair with the patience of someone who had centuries to get it right. His fingertips left warm, static trails, like sunlight on skin. Crowley, legs tangled around theirs like he’d forgotten how to sit normal centuries ago, traced absent shapes against their ankle—stars, probably. Or snakes.

The blanket fort smelled faintly of old books, lemon curd, and Crowley’s cologne—a little too expensive for someone who claimed not to care. The fairy lights above blinked lazily, like they knew they weren’t needed to keep the dark away tonight.

In that moment, you realized something profoundly simple:

You didn’t have to earn rest.

You didn’t have to be useful to be loved.

You didn’t have to be okay to be held.

“Hey,” you murmured. “Thank you.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

“For staying. For being weird and soft and annoying and… here.”

Aziraphale smiled down at you, brushing hair from your forehead. “Always, dearest.”

Crowley grinned. “That’s our sacred duty, innit? Keep the toast burnt, the music loud, and you—well—you.”

You closed your eyes.

Let yourself be nothing for a while.

Just a lump under too many blankets, flanked by one demon and one bowtie enthusiast.

And somehow, that felt like everything anyway.

Chapter Text

There where silence.

Not the peaceful kind. The brittle, too-loud kind that wraps itself around your chest and pulls.

You were staring at the same email for the sixth time, rereading the words but not registering them. Your breath had gone shallow. That familiar tightness in your chest was back, the one that made your hands go cold and your head go hot.

“I lost it,” you whispered. “I fucking lost it again.”

Crowley looked up from where he was half-reclining on the couch, sunglasses slipping down his nose. “Lost what?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just pressed the heels of your palms to your eyes like maybe that would stop the thoughts from leaking out.

“My job. My stability. Everything that made me feel like I wasn’t failing. Again.I lost it again.”

You laughed, sharp and humorless. “I do this. I always do this. I break down and the world keeps going and I fall behind and then I lose everything.”

Aziraphale appeared in the doorway, tea towel in one hand, brows furrowed. “Darling…”

“No, I mean it,” you said, louder now, voice cracking. “Every time I think I’m okay, I crash. I can’t keep a normal life. I can’t hold a job without falling apart. Why do I even bother trying to be a person?”

The tears started to roll down your cheeks again, hot and angry. Your fingers found your hair and tugged—hard—like they could rip the panic out by force.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuck! PUTA MADRE!!!”

You started pacing in frantic, uneven circles, grabbing your phone and opening the banking app like it might magically fix something this time.

“I don’t have enough money. I knew I shouldn’t have ordered all those stupid deliveries—what was I thinking? I don’t even remember half of them. Fuck! What am I gonna do?!”

That’s when Crowley stepped in.

“You’re on medical leave,” he said firmly, like it should be obvious.

You froze. “No, I’m not. I—I didn’t—what?”

Aziraphale cleared his throat gently and took a careful step forward. “Well. Technically… you are now.”

Crowley smirked, but it was soft around the edges. “He rewrote your HR file. Bit of divine persuasion. Nothing flashy. Just made it so your leave was filed properly and retroactively approved.”

“You—what? But—how?”

“You weren’t well enough to handle it,” Aziraphale said, voice quiet but steady. “So we handled it for you.”

You stared, mouth open, phone still clutched tight in one hand. “But I… I didn’t even ask for it.”

Crowley tilted his head, crouching slightly to meet their eyes. “Yeah. And? You don’t have to earn not drowning.”

Aziraphale stepped in and brushed a tear from your cheek with the soft edge of his sleeve. “You’ve been fighting to stay afloat for so long, love. We just… made sure you had a life raft.” He gave you the gentlest, most smug smile you'd ever seen. “I may have… intervened. Ever so slightly. I only adjusted a few records. Nothing immoral, I assure you. In fact, rather moral, all things considered.”

Crowley chuckled. “He practically blessed your HR department. And gave your boss a sudden streak of empathy.”

“I—” You stared at them, mouth agape like a fish out of water. “Are you serious?”

Crowley kicked your foot lightly. “Do we look like we joke about miracles?”

Aziraphale pressed a hand to your chest, just over your heart. “This was a medical leave, sweetheart. You just… didn’t have anyone to file it for you. So I did.”

You started crying again—but softer this time. No wails. Just the kind of tears that come when your insides start to believe you're not doomed. That maybe someone actually sees you. “I didn’t deserve that,” you whispered.

“Oh, nonsense,” Aziraphale said, wiping your tears with the sleeve of his soft cream sweater. “You deserve so much more than the world ever gave you.”

Crowley leaned in, resting his chin on your knee. “And now that you’ve got a little time off… I’d say it’s the perfect opportunity to remember what you’re capable of. Or at least spend an entire day in ridiculous socks and let us spoil you.”

You laughed wetly. “You both suck.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, already reaching for another blanket, “but we suck consistently.”

Time passed—not rushed, not wasted. Just held.

You stayed in the blanket fort long after the panic had ebbed, like waves after a storm. The room dimmed around you, not quite night, but soft with that in-between light that made everything feel like a memory in progress.

Aziraphale busied himself with folding napkins unnecessarily (Where the fuck did he get napkins? You didn’t own a single one!). Crowley had taken to balancing a mug on his knee, making it a personal mission not to spill while lying dramatically sideways across a pillow throne.

It had quieted, but the shame hadn’t quite left. You curled tighter into the cushions, not looking at either of them.

“I don’t even know why you bother with me,” you said, voice hollow. “I’m a fucking mess. I can’t even be a person right. Can’t work, can’t keep a routine, can’t stop crying at everything—”

“You stop that.”

Crowley’s voice cut clean through the air, sharp as glass. They flinched. Not because he was angry—he wasn’t. He was furious. But not at you.

“I’ve watched you get out of bed when everything in your head screamed not to. I’ve watched you survive days that would’ve wrecked any archangel I know.”

He stalked closer, kneeling in front of you now, eyes glowing faint amber even behind the lenses.

“So don’t you dare sit there and talk about yourself like you’re worthless. Not in this house. Not in our house.”

You looked at him, jaw trembling. “I just… I feel so damn broken.”

“You’re not.” Crowley’s voice lowered but didn’t lose its weight. “You’re tired. You’re hurt. But not broken.”

Aziraphale sat besides you, warm and gentle, a hand resting on your back like he was anchoring you to the moment.

“You’ve been surviving on emergency mode for so long,” he said. “Of course your systems are worn down. But that isn’t failure. That’s just… needing rest. Needing care.”

“I hate how weak I’ve gotten,” you whispered. “I used to be so much stronger. Smarter. Better.”

“You’re still all of those things,” Aziraphale murmured. “You just don’t believe it right now. So let us believe it for you, until you can.”

Crowley reached up, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “You don’t have to carry all of this alone anymore. Alright? That’s the one rule now: you don’t spiral solo.”

You nodded slowly, a shaky breath catching in your throat. The panic hadn’t vanished, but it had loosened its grip. “I don’t know how to fix me” you admitted.

Crowley tilted his head, smirking. “ You are still in there. Just need a little hellfire and jam.”

You gave him a mock glare through damp lashes. “You’re absurd.”

“Absolutely,” Crowley said, already halfway to the kitchen. “Now let the demon make you something edible before the angel ruins bread again.”

Aziraphale huffed. “It was rustic.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Not his floppy abomination of a toast. I’ll make you real toast.”

You laughed. Just a little. But the edge in your chest loosened, and for the first time in hours, the noise inside your head quieted.

Aziraphale's eyes crinkled with relief. “There’s my darling spark.”

No one said anything profound after that. No one had to. And when the weight came back—because of course it did—it landed quieter this time. Manageable. Seen. You didn’t fight the urge to be held. Didn’t apologize for

the softness in your bones.

Just let it happen. Let them happen.

Chapter Text

The moment you stepped outside, it hit you — the street felt too bright, the noises too loud. The usual hum of the city was deafening, as if everyone was speaking all at once, and every car that passed felt like a roar right in your chest. The brightness of the morning sun felt like it was piercing your skin, and the people... the people seemed like strangers in their hurry, a blur of motion you didn’t know how to navigate.

It was the same street you’d walked countless times before. The plan was to go to the same café, where you had your usual order, the place where the barista knew you by name. But today? It all felt foreign. A little too overwhelming.

Your breath hitched in your chest, and the anxiety crept in like a shadow, threatening to swallow you up. But before you could retreat into yourself, Crowley’s hand found yours, steady and warm. “Hey,” he murmured, his voice low but clear, grounding you. “You’re here. And we’re here. Just breathe, love. I’ve got you.”

Aziraphale was beside you, his presence a calming force. His hand brushed over your arm, a gentle touch that spoke louder than words. “It’s okay, darling. We’ll take it slow. No one’s in a rush. Let’s walk together, and everything will be just as it should be.”

They walked with you, not pulling you along, but matching your pace, letting you lead when you needed. The city felt too big, but in their hands, it felt manageable.

As you reached the café, the door chimed with its usual cheerful sound, but you couldn’t ignore the way your chest tightened, the flood of nervous energy threatening to spill over. You stepped inside, but everything was a little too bright, the chatter too loud, the clinking of cups too sharp.

Aziraphale, ever the comforting presence, placed a gentle hand on your lower back, guiding you to your favorite corner booth. “We can sit here, love. Just as we always do. It’s your spot, your comfort.”

Crowley slid into the booth beside you, one hand resting casually on your knee, his gaze never leaving you. “Focus on me, okay?” he whispered. “On us. This is just breakfast, just the three of us. No one else matters.”

Your shoulders relaxed a little, the pressure in your chest loosening as you focused on the warmth of their touch, their presence beside you. You could feel the weight of the world outside, but here, with them, it didn’t seem quite so heavy.

As the table attendant came by, you couldn’t help but feel that familiar sense of dread rise in your throat — the tiny fear of talking, of being seen. But Aziraphale’s hand gently brushed over yours, grounding you. “Just say what you need, darling,” he whispered. “There’s no pressure.”

With a deep breath, you managed to order, voice a little shaky but steady. The table attendant smiled at you, and though it felt like an eternity to get through, they left with a warm, “I’ll be right back with your order (Your Name).”

Crowley leaned close, a teasing smile on his face. “See? No big deal. You’ve got this.” He kissed your cheek lightly. “You’re always amazing, love.”

Aziraphale smiled softly, his eyes full of admiration. “You don’t need to be perfect. You’re enough, just as you are.”

As the food arrived, you felt yourself begin to relax, the simple act of eating, surrounded by Crowley and Aziraphale’s care, starting to bring a sense of peace. The world outside remained loud and overwhelming, but it was easier to breathe when they were by your side, when they were there to remind you that it was okay to be human, to feel vulnerable, and to take things at your own pace.

“You’re doing so well,” Aziraphale said, reaching over to gently squeeze your hand. “We’ll get through this, together.”

Crowley’s voice was warm with pride. “And if anyone gives you trouble, they’ll have me to deal with.”

It wasn’t perfect. The world outside still felt loud, and the anxiety was still there, lingering at the edges. But with them by your side, you felt like you could handle it. Slowly, the world felt a little less overwhelming. And when you took a bite of your breakfast, you could almost taste the sweetness of normalcy again

Chapter Text

It had been a while now. The same pattern. You used to take the walk to the café like it was nothing, like you were just another face in the world. But lately, you had been opting for delivery. It was hidden in plain sight, the bed unmade, the pile of laundry. It wasn’t anything loud, nothing overt. Just a subtle shift, something they would’ve noticed.

Crowley was the first to catch on, of course. He was good at reading between the lines, at seeing the little cracks you didn’t always realize were there. One evening, as you leaned into the couch with your phone in hand, tapping away at your delivery order, he raised an eyebrow.
“You’re not planning to go to the café tonight?” he asked, voice casual, but his eyes were sharp.

You paused, looking at him for a moment, unsure whether you should tell him why it felt easier to have the food come to you instead of braving the world outside.
Aziraphale, always perceptive, followed Crowley’s gaze and smiled softly. “It’s okay, darling. You don’t need to explain anything. We’re here. You can always take your time. No one’s rushing you.”

Crowley’s gaze softened, leaning back into the couch, his voice low and comforting. “You’re not alone in this, love. If you want to go back to the café when you’re ready, we’ll be right there with you. But if not… well, delivery works just fine. You’re doing great.”
There was no pressure, just understanding. They wouldn’t force you into the world when you weren’t ready. They’d wait, patiently, giving you the space to breathe. But they were still there for you, always.

The café order was placed. You could already hear the soft hum of anxiety bubbling underneath your skin, even though you hadn’t left the safety of your couch. The thought of stepping out, of dealing with the world beyond, felt impossible. The world outside was too big, too loud, and far too overwhelming. Your mind often seemed to spiral into another dimension entirely.
You sat on the couch, feeling your thoughts scattering, as if they were caught in a whirlwind. You could feel the weight of them pulling you away from the present. Your heart quickened, like the start of an episode.
“Are you okay?” Aziraphale’s voice cut through the fog, gentle and warm. He sat next to you, his gaze soft as he waited for you to answer.
“I—sometimes I feel like… like my brain just doesn’t belong to me,” you said, a hesitant frown pulling at your lips. “Like it’s somewhere else, or multiple places at once. I’m here, but I’m also not. Like I’m splitting into different versions of myself, jumping from one world to the next.”

Crowley leaned in, his eyes narrowing in that way that meant he was listening, really listening. “You mean like... different versions of you, but from different realities?”
You nodded. “Yeah. I get this feeling sometimes, like I’m just slipping away. Like I’m not the person I’m supposed to be. My mind’s… I don’t know, switching gears, spinning out. It’s hard to stay grounded. And when I’m out there”—you gestured vaguely at the world beyond—“I’m scared I’ll just… vanish.”

Aziraphale’s hand gently cupped your shoulder. “And that’s when you start to feel disconnected, like you’re not really here?”
“Yeah,” you whispered. “It’s like… I feel so guilty, like I’m broken because I can’t function without the medication. Without that anchor, I feel like I’ll just... float away. Like my brain just can't hold itself together.”

Crowley gave a soft chuckle, but it wasn’t mocking. It was more like a reassurance. “You’re not broken. You know that, right? It’s not your fault you need help. Hell, if anything, it’s the world that’s broken—expecting you to be ‘normal.’”
Aziraphale nodded in agreement. “Exactly. And honestly, I think your mind is a beautiful thing, even when it feels all over the place. If you think of it like… a multiverse, then you're just in between versions of yourself, moving between worlds. It doesn’t mean you’re wrong or less-than. It just means you’re… living in different dimensions, exploring different possibilities.”

The warmth in his voice made you feel a little more at ease. It was a strange thought, but it helped. Multiverse. Maybe that was it. Maybe your mind wasn’t broken, just… shifting between places, between versions of you. Maybe one of those versions has already learned to live with this crap. Maybe one can have a calmer version of the world.
Crowley leaned back, crossing his arms. “And if anyone dares say you're not functioning properly, well, I’ll make sure they know they don’t get to define what ‘proper’ is. You’re functioning exactly how you need to.”

You could feel your shoulders relax a little. “Yeah, but when I’m in those episodes, I feel like I’m in the wrong version. I can’t keep track of everything. I’m afraid of dissociating in public. That’s my worst fear: not being able to get back to myself when I’m out there. What if I just lose it?”
Aziraphale’s hand moved to your other shoulder, steadying you, his touch grounding. “You don’t have to go through this alone, darling. If you need space, if you need a moment, we’re here. And if you need help finding your way back, we’ll guide you. You don’t have to worry about being lost. Not with us by your side.”
Crowley shifted a little closer, his gaze softening. “You’re never alone, sweetheart. And we’ll make sure you’re safe. Even if you can’t keep track of everything, we will. You’re not ‘broken.’ You’re just… you.”

The weight on your chest felt a little lighter. For the first time in a while, you felt a strange sense of peace. Not perfect, not fixed, but okay with being in the middle of the mess. Maybe your brain wasn’t so broken after all. Maybe, just maybe, it was just... shifting between realities. And that was okay.

Chapter Text

One night you just shared that terrible memory with them...

They didn’t look away. Not from your tears, not from your pain, not from the rawness of what you just shared. They took it all in.

Aziraphale was be the first to move. His expression shift from gentle confusion to heartbreak, his hands fluttering at his sides as if unsure whether to reach out—then doing so anyway. He holds your face like you were made of something sacred, and he didn't say “it’s okay” because it isn’t. But he says softly, “You are so brave, my dear. You shouldn’t have had to carry any of that. Not alone.”

Crowley didn't say anything right away. He stayed standing, tense, jaw clenched, sunglasses hiding too much—but when he finally moved, he knelt down in front of you. Carefully. He removed the glasses. His eyes were glassy too. “Fuck,” he said, voice low and cracking. “You deserved so much better. And I hate that you still feel like you have to explain it, or apologize for it. No more of that, yeah?”

Then they wrapped you up between them. No light, no music, no miracles—just them. Real and present. Letting you sob as long as you needed. Crowley rubbing circles on your back. Aziraphale whispering, “You are not broken. You are not alone.”

They didn't rush you. They didn't want you to stop crying if your body still needed it. And when the worst of the wave passed, they still were there. Holding you like they meant it. Because they do.

Crowley kept himself steady while the storm inside you raged and ebbed.

When he finally spoke, it would be low, quiet, honest.

“They should burn for what they did to you.” His jaw clenched, voice trembling with fury he couldn’t—and wouldn’t—hide. But then pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “But you? You’re not what happened to you. You’re you. And you’re fucking brilliant for making it here... With us.”

You understood then, that he wouldn’t let go.

Aziraphale brushes his thumbs beneath your eyes, catching tears like they were something precious.

“This pain... it doesn’t define you. It’s a part of your story, yes, but it’s not the end of it. We’re still in the middle, love. And you get to choose what happens next.”

Crowley adds voice barely above a whisper, “You can fall apart with us. We’ll help you rebuild every time.”

The bed was warm now, the kind of warmth that seeps into bones and memories. You were tucked between them—Crowley, stretched out with that devil-may-care elegance, and Aziraphale, sitting upright just enough to keep his fingers gently combing through your hair. Jugos remained curled close to your ribs, like a soft little guardian, purring in time with your breath.

You tried to hold it in. Really, you did. But the tears came anyway—slow at first, then in shudders that made your shoulders tremble. You didn’t even have to explain. You didn’t need to. Crowley shifted instantly, his arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you just a bit closer to his chest.

“There we are.” he murmured, his voice lower than usual. “Our brave little one. Let it out. We’ve got you.”

Aziraphale didn’t speak. He just pressed a kiss to the top of your head, and his hand glowed faintly as it rested against your temple. You felt the ache behind your eyes dissolve like sugar in warm tea. That pain that always followed tears—poof. Gone.

You whispered something, maybe a thank you, maybe just a noise. It didn’t matter. They heard it all the same.

“Witchy thing like you shouldn’t have to carry it all,” Crowley said, and though his voice still held that bite of sarcasm, there was nothing but tenderness in the way he tucked the blanket tighter around you. “Shouldn’t have to be so bloody strong all the time.”

You found your breath again. It was slow, deep, like your lungs finally remembered how to work. Your small kittly gave a little stretch at the end of the bed, her paws twitching in sleep.

Aziraphale’s voice was a whisper just beside your ear. “You’re home, love. Truly home now.”

And in that perfect little cocoon—between purring cats, celestial magic, and demon sarcasm softened by care—you closed your eyes. The world outside could wait. Tonight you weren’t alone. You were loved, protected, and absolutely held.

Sleep finds you easily. It always does, when you’re where you’re meant to be.

But the night was long. And the stories kept on pouring from your mouth. 

“I feel so dumb. Why am I still crying like it had happened yesterday? It has been years already. I'm so tired. I should be sleeping because I have to work tomorrow. And here I am once again crying because a stupid ex with narcissism issues hurt me so badly. I have fought tooth and nails to get myself back together. Why can't I just move on??!”

You are not even crying anymore, empty . You had finished speaking like a record. As if what you just shared where a rehearsed monologue of your mental health history. Maybe it was, you had rehearsed in your head over and over again. So you stay there, looking to the ceiling, while pulling the skin around your nails. 

Aziraphale takes your hand gently, no rush, just enough to let you know he’s there. His thumb stroking across your knuckles in that absent, grounding way. His voice would be soft—trembling a little, because he feels your pain so deeply.

"Oh, my dear ... You’ve carried so much, far too much, all on your own. No wonder it feels like the world still hurts. It was real. It still is. Pain doesn’t vanish with time, and it doesn’t mean you’ve failed. It means you loved, you trusted, you were hurt—and yet, you’re still here. That’s not weakness. That’s grace. That’s strength."

He leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple. "You are not too much. You are not broken. And we’re not going anywhere, no matter how heavy it gets."

Crowley sits beside you, legs sprawled out, sunglasses pushed up onto his head so you could see those eyes—fierce and burning, but only with love now. He’d look a little angry, but not at you—at the ones who failed you, who made you believe you had to carry this alone.

"Listen, angel—not that angel, you. You’re allowed to cry about things that hurt. Doesn’t matter if it’s been ten minutes or ten years. It’s your bloody trauma, and anyone who says ‘just get over it’ deserves to be turned into a toad, frankly."

He'd lean back, pulling you gently against his side. "You want to scream about it at 3 a.m.? Do it. Want to weep? Weep. Hell, I’ll do it with you. You don’t owe healing to anyone, especially not to the bastards who broke you. But you do deserve comfort, softness, and the kind of love that doesn’t disappear when you’re not okay."

And then, just low enough for only you to hear:

"You’re fucking miraculous, you know that?"

They wouldn’t fix it. But they’d stay. And they’d hold space for every last tear. Because that’s what love that sees you looks like

And for the first time—maybe ever— you believe it.

Not because the pain disappeared, or because the memories stopped hurting. But because now, when you look at them, you see something else reflected back: not pity, not fear. Just love. Fierce, unwavering, human and celestial love, wrapped around your wounds like warmth in the cold.

Together, they didn’t just hold your hand.

They held the version of you that was hurting.

The version that felt broken.

And the one slowly learning to hope again.

Chapter Text

You haven't sleep well for weeks. Last time you got a full night of sleep was 3 days ago. The body is exhausted by work, by sleep deprivation, by all the things you have been doing, like you always do in this hyperactive mode: Painting the walls, fixing that crooked table foot. Rearranging the furniture, fixing that old door that was making you crazy. You are exhausted, yet your brain just... Keep going. 

Thinking about everything, remembering old things from years ago. Situationships, old friends, terrible mistakes, haunting experiences. Everything is happening at the same time. And you keep trying to appear normal to them. Because they're here.for you, they help you out of that depressive episode where you felt like it was over. You can't just drag them again into your shit! So you keep laughing at the inside jokes. Sharing tea, watching TV with them and enjoying (as much as your able to) your "medical leave". 

The first one to notice—always so observant—is Aziraphale.

At first, it’s subtle. A glance that lingers just a bit too long while you half-laugh at something on TV, fingers drumming a restless beat on your leg. A soft “mm” when you excuse yourself to go fix something that absolutely didn’t need fixing.

He doesn’t say anything, not yet. But you catch the way his brow creases just slightly. The kind of crease that means he’s already halfway to preparing chamomile tea and possibly emotionally disarming you with a blanket.

Crowley, on the other hand, is slower to pick up on the why—but once he gets it, he gets it fast. He catches you trying to re-caulk a bathroom corner at 3:14 in the morning, muttering to yourself about mold and doom and how "it's fine, it's fine, I just needed to do something."

“(Your name)! You’ve got paint in your hair and you’re wearing two different shoes. When was the last time you ate?”

You blink at him, chest rising and falling too fast, mind buzzing like static behind your eyes.

He steps forward, carefully, as if trying not to startle a skittish animal. “Hey. C’mon. Don’t do that thing where you spiral and shut down at the same time. I know this dance. Been there. Hated it.”

You want to scream that you’re fine, that you’re just being productive, that you’re not falling apart again—but your jaw is tight, and your tongue feels wrong in your mouth, and Crowley’s eyes are too gentle for your well-rehearsed lies.

Then Aziraphale appears behind him, holding that bloody cup of chamomile. He says nothing at first. Just crosses the room, sets the mug down carefully, and touches your arm like he’s asking permission to exist in your storm.

“I don’t need coddling,” you whisper, and it’s almost convincing.

“We’re not coddling you,” Aziraphale says, soft but unwavering. “We’re with you. That’s different.”

Crowley sighs and pushes his glasses up onto his head again. “You don’t have to fall apart in poetic silence to deserve help, y’know. You don’t need to be at the bottom to let us catch you.”

You stand there, heart thudding, hands twitching with the need to do something. And then Aziraphale takes one of them, still smudged with blue paint, and holds it like it’s not a mess at all.

“Come sit,” he says gently. “We’ll ride it out together.”

Crowley mutters something about putting a ban on all DIY projects after midnight, but he’s already grabbing a blanket and cueing up a playlist of weird ambient sounds that shouldn’t work but do. Between them, you’re guided—not pushed, not dragged—just guided to the sofa.

And you don’t stop fidgeting, not really. Your brain doesn’t magically quiet down. But now there are fingers threading through your hair, soft murmurs about stardust and defiance, and the simple reminder: you don’t have to be okay to be loved.

Not here. Not with them. So you sleep for a couple of hours.

You nocie then that you haven't slept properly in days. The walls are painted. The door finally shuts right. The table doesn’t wobble anymore. Everything around you is fixed. Except for you.

Your brain’s running laps like it’s afraid of stopping.

It’s jumping timelines now. You’re in the present, barely, and in every version of your past that ever clawed at your ribs. That stupid joke in your head again—“Hi, my name is [Your Name], I'll be your interpreter, I’m happy to assist you today.” Smile. Breathe. Don’t scream.

Don’t fall apart in front of them again.

You’re trying to be fine. Trying to laugh at the right moments, sip tea, watch TV, play normal. You even laughed at Aziraphale’s latest baking attempt. Almond and lavender scones, bless him, they tasted like soap and you smiled anyway. Crowley rolled his eyes, but ate the damn thing too.

But inside you’re breaking.

And breaking.

And breaking.

The multiverse is spinning in your skull. That fucker—Him—his voice again. Uninvited. Always. You don’t want him there, not even as a ghost. When the fuck will he stop crawling into your head like he owns the place? You want to scream. You want to rip the memory out with your bare hands.

The apartment is small—just one bedroom, a cramped office, a kitchen that merges into the living room without really asking permission. It’s cozy, cluttered, warm. Every surface is alive with books, candles, art supplies, half-drunk cups of tea, and strange little objects that make no sense unless you know the story behind them. It’s a maximalist nest built for comfort and survival. It smells like lavender and palo santo, and under it all, something softer—like vanilla, or the memory of home. 

Yet now, even this little haven feels overwhelming. The clutter is too loud, the cozy too suffocating. Your brain whispers that maybe—just maybe—everything would settle if you rearranged the furniture. Again. You already did it yesterday, but the mood shifted, didn’t it? The energy’s off. The light hits wrong. The armchair feels like it’s in the wrong universe. So maybe if the desk moves, if the bookshelf swaps places with the record cabinet, maybe the static in your chest will finally hush.

Aziraphale sets his teacup down with that quiet grace of his, eyes scanning you—not just your face, but your energy. He can see the static around you, the way you’re vibrating under your skin like a building about to collapse.

“My dear…” he says softly. “Are you quite alright?”

You blink, too fast. Your smile is the kind that hurts. “Yeah! Of course. Just tired, you know?”

You laugh. That brittle laugh you’ve perfected for decades. Crowley looks up from his phone, sunglasses slipping slightly down his nose. He doesn’t say anything. Not yet.

You’ve been trying so hard. Laughing at inside jokes. Making tea. Rearranging the bookshelves compulsively. Watching TV. Enjoying this… this medical leave. But the exhaustion is bone-deep. Sleep hasn’t come properly in weeks. Your body is tired. Your brain isn’t.

And now it’s spinning again.

Crowley narrows his eyes. Sunglasses pushed to the top of his head, reading you like a thunderstorm about to crack.

You’re still talking to the customer, you think.

Still in that video call, smile locked in place like a damn mask. (Maybe you are?) “Only 6 minutes,” you mutter. “Only 32 minutes left to break.” But it’s not 6 minutes. It’s six lifetimes.

You’re crying inside. Screaming inside.

You’re 15 again, screaming back at your mother.

You’re sitting beside your auntie, crying over Better Man, feeling safe, ashamed for feeling safe. She’s your real mom in some twisted, tender corner of your heart. But no one can ever know that. Not really. Especially not your mother.

The multiverse keeps cracking open. You’re in the call. You’re with them. You’re in the blue house. You’re in the bathroom. You’re lost in some journal in another language. You’re everywhere and nowhere.

Crowley speaks now. Quiet. Sharp. “You’re about to break, angel,” he says, and for once he’s not talking to Aziraphale. “Don’t.”

You blink, and you’re back on the couch with them.

Crowley’s hand finds yours. “Talk to us,” he says, low and steady. “Before your head eats you alive.”

You want to say something. But you don’t know which voice to use. The one that’s crying in that old house? The one that’s stuck in different languages, old journals, old wounds?

Aziraphale moves closer. His hand on your shoulder is gentle but firm. "You don’t have to carry all of it at once, love," he whispers. "You’re here now. And you’re safe."

You feel the crack. 

Suddenly you are aware of the snot, the sobs, choking on air, body shaking like you’re in an earthquake only you can feel.

Just a full collapse. Sobbing like something inside you just tore apart. You don’t even remember when you started crying, only that you can’t stop now.

And they—they don’t flinch.

Crowley’s at your side in a flash, pulling you into his arms like he’s done it before, like this isn’t terrifying. Aziraphale crouches beside you and murmurs something in a voice too old for this world.

“[Your Name] you don’t have to carry all the timelines.” he says, forehead to yours. “Trust the Angel, you’re here now.”

You sob harder. Because now that they’ve seen it, there’s no pretending anymore.

There's no TikTok version of this. No filtered breakdown. Just you. Raw. Shaking. Breaking.

Crowley wraps himself around you like a shield made of black denim and fury. Aziraphale strokes your hair and hums something soft and ancient.

They don’t ask you to explain.

They don’t tell you to stop.

They hold you while the storm pours out.

And you sob like you did during Better Man, like in that dark part of your life, is still echoing with screams, like sleep might never come again.

They hold space for all of it.

No aesthetic montages.

Just chaos. And two celestia

l beings anchoring you through it. Doing the one thing no one else ever quite managed— They stay. 

___________

The apartment is too quiet in that way that makes your skin itch. You’ve turned off the music. The lights are dimmed, but not soft enough. Your brain’s still pacing, restless. Everything feels too much, but also not enough. You sit on the edge of the bed, elbows digging into your thighs, head low like you’re trying to fold yourself in half. Maybe disappear entirely.

You haven’t moved in twenty-three minutes. You know that because you checked the clock. Twice. The thought loop in your head is stuck:
Do something. Fix it. Why can’t you fix it? You were fine earlier. You laughed earlier. So what the fuck is this now?

You don’t hear the door open. Just the creak. Just the voice that follows.
“Still breathing?” Crowley’s silhouette leans against the frame. Loose shirt. Bare feet. Sunglasses still on despite the dusk.
You answer without looking up. “Barely.”
He comes in. Sits beside you with the kind of weight that doesn’t pull focus but steadies gravity. Leaves a gap, but not a chasm. You can feel him beside you like a grounding wire.
No jokes. No sarcasm. Just Crowley-shaped presence.
“I can’t shut it off,” you whisper. “It just keeps going.”
He nods like he gets it. Because of course he does.
“I know,” he says. “It’s a bastard like that. Doesn’t come with an off switch.”

The silence after is thick, but not cruel.

Then you hear soft footsteps. And the smell of cinnamon and bergamot. Aziraphale walks in with a worn book in hand—one of yours, not his. The one you re-read whenever your world frays. He places it on the nightstand like a quiet offering.
His voice is so gentle you almost cry at the sound of it.
“Would you like to talk, my dear?”

You try to answer, but the words pile in your throat. You nod instead. Just once. It’s enough.
“I’m so fucking tired,” you breathe out. “Not just sleepy. Tired. I’m tired of this brain. Tired of trying to do everything right. Tired of pretending it’s okay. Nothing’s actually wrong, and I still feel like I’m drowning. And I know it’s my ADHD. I know it’s just noise. But it feels real. It feels like everything is on fire and I’m the only one who smells the smoke.”

You cover your face with both hands. Your voice cracks.
“And what if I don’t come back from this one?”
There’s a pause. A long one. Then Crowley’s voice, soft and steady.
“Then we’ll stay right here until you do.”
You let out a sound, half-sob, half-laugh. “You can’t babysit me through every breakdown.”
“Bet your ass I can,” Crowley mutters, nudging your leg lightly with his own. “What else am I gonna do? Watch Golden Girls alone?”

You sniff, smiling despite the ache. Aziraphale smiles too, but his eyes are all focus.
“You don’t have to come back tonight,” he says. “There’s no deadline. And you—my dear—are not your clarity. Or your productivity. You don’t have to earn rest. Or kindness. Or love.”
You’re quiet. You let that sink in. You want to believe him. Part of you does.
“And what if I’m sick of needing help?” you whisper.
Crowley shrugs. “Then be sick of it. We’ll still help you anyway.”

Aziraphale sits on the other side of the bed, close enough for warmth. He doesn’t touch you yet. Just opens his palm in offering.
You stare at it for a long second before you take it.
“I’m sorry I’m like this,” you say, broken and quiet.
Crowley leans forward, voice low. “You’re not like anything. You’re just you. And that’s never something to apologize for.”

There’s no miracle. No sudden silence in your head. The storm doesn’t end. But the weight shifts.
You feel tethered. Held.
Aziraphale squeezes your hand. Crowley scrolls his phone and quietly puts on one of your comfort playlists—no lyrics, just soft noise and string instruments. You recognize the first track. It’s one that always makes you cry. So you do.
They let you.
No one tells you to stop. No one asks you to explain. No one tries to fix you. And for now, that's enoug.
…..

It's been just a couple of hours... possibly. Yet It’s happening again. That feeling in your chest, that tightening grip, like everything’s crumbling into sand and you can’t stop it. The storm in your head howls and you’re stuck in the middle of it, lost in a hurricane of noise.

That pitch.
The fuckin’ pitch.

It screeches—louder, louder, getting worse, cutting through everything, until it’s the only thing you hear. And maybe you’re fighting it now, maybe you’re screaming back at it, but nothing helps. No distractions. No jokes. No funny tweets to get lost in.
Nothing.

It’s all crumbling. It won’t stop.
“I’m gonna be admitted again,” you whisper hoarsely. “I’m gonna lose everything. They’re gonna send me away. What happens then? What if I can’t come back? What if I can’t be here anymore? What if they stop being here?”

The darkness closes in around you, your head spins with thoughts like broken records—whirling, crashing into each other, faster, louder.
Am I dreaming?
This isn’t real.
No one’s here. No one is real. It’s all in my head. Right?
And suddenly, it’s so quiet in your ears. All you can hear is that sound—the pitch—until it’s so much you feel like you’re about to split apart.
You want to get out, but you can’t. You feel trapped. You can’t breathe. It feels like the walls are pressing in from every side. How much longer? How much longer can I keep this up?
“No, no, no…” Your voice trembles, breaking. You’re not supposed to be here. This can’t be happening again.

But Crowley is still there, steady beside you, Aziraphale’s hands never leaving your skin. Don’t pull away, they’re silently urging. Stay. You’re still here.

You struggle in the bed, shivering, your body on the edge of panic. “I need to fucking rearrange the furniture,” you gasp, shaking, eyes wide with fear. “I need to—if I don’t—if I don’t—I’m going to die. I have to fix this. I have to—”
“No,” Crowley interrupts, voice hard but careful. “No, you don’t.”

Your legs kick out, trying to push yourself out of the covers, but Aziraphale's hands are firm, gentle on your wrists. “Stay, love. You’re safe. No more rearranging right now. Just stay.”
The words don’t land. You can’t hear them. The thoughts in your head are too loud.
“I can’t—I can’t. I need to.” You’re on the edge, tearing at the blankets now. “You don’t get it. You don’t understand!”

Crowley’s grip on your shoulder tightens, steady, pulling you into him with surprising strength. “Stop. Listen. You’re spiraling, and I get it. I know it. But we can’t let you get lost in this right now.”
Suddenly, it’s the force of his presence, the black leather warmth of his body, that cuts through the chaos just enough for you to hear him. “You’re real. We’re real. And this thing in your head? It’s not gonna win. Not this time.”

You’re breathing fast now, tears falling like a waterfall, your chest heavy with grief and fear—fear you can’t name, fear that keeps you trapped in that endless loop. Aziraphale doesn’t let your hand go. He’s there, right beside you, his voice quiet, almost a whisper. “We’re not going anywhere. We’re here.”

But your head won’t stop. “What if this is all in my head?” you cry out loud. “What if you’re not real? What if I’m imagining everything? What if I’m just—losing it?”
Crowley shifts, sliding closer, his presence a solid mass beside you. He speaks quietly, but there’s a rawness there. “Maybe it doesn’t matter if we’re real or not. What matters is we’re here. We’re in this with you. You’re not alone.”

You turn your head to him, eyes wide, breathing still erratic. “What if—what if… I'm losing it?”
“You won’t,” he says. It’s a promise. “Because we’ll be here with you. Every damn second. Don’t you dare do this alone. Not this time.”
Your body is shivering, but it’s not cold. It’s from the fight, the struggle of trying to escape yourself and trying to control what you can’t. You fight it. You fight it hard. The pitch becomes unbearable.
“Make it stop…” you whisper, like a prayer on loop. “Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop.”

Aziraphale’s voice, steady and soft, cuts through. “You don’t need to make it stop. Not right now. Just stay with us. Breathe, love. Just breathe.”
Your breathing is ragged, fast. It’s almost too much, too quick. The weight of everything is crushing.
Crowley holds you tighter, his hands moving over your arms in that familiar, calming gesture. “You’re not losing control. It’s not your fault. You don’t need to fix it by yourself. Let us help.”

You cry out again, the sound raw and real, and in that moment, they hold you. They just—hold you, strong and sure, until the storm inside your head is no longer a hurricane, but a soft rumbling.

Time passes. You don’t know how long. Minutes? Hours? But somewhere between the chaos, you hear them again—their voices. Stronger now, both steady and kind. “You’re not alone, love. You’re safe. You’re real. You’re loved.”

And that’s what you cling to.
Not the pitch.
Not the noise.

Just them. Their constant presence, anchoring you when nothing else feels real.

Chapter Text

You didn't remember agreeing to therapy. You barely remembered agreeing to be awake. And you certainly don't remember how the fuck did you got to the middle of London in a blink of an eye.
But somehow, you were curled on the yellow settee in Aziraphale’s back room, wearing a fuzzy blanket like a ceremonial robe, while Muriel set out mugs of cocoa with the reverence of a high priest.

“We’re here to, um, process feelings,” they said, cheerfully. “Which I read is important when you’ve… experienced a great deal of existence.”
Crowley muttered something under his breath that sounded like bollocks, while Aziraphale beamed like Muriel had just invented the concept of compassion.
“I've prepared an agenda,” Muriel continued, holding up a glittery notepad. “Step one: everyone says one thing that makes them feel a little bit weird, but in a good way.”

You blinked. “Like... emotionally or physically?”
Muriel tilted their head. “Yes.”
Crowley sighed and kicked his boots off. “Fine. I like the sound of rain on metal. And the smell of petrol." He waved a vague hand toward the room — toward you and the other angel attending the impromptu session. “And you, when you snore just a bit. There. I shared. Can I leave now?”
“Nope,” Muriel said brightly, plopping down next to you and passing him a cookie shaped like a cloud.
You intercepted it midair — it looked especially good — and took a bite without hesitation.
“Quick question, Crowley,” you said through a mouthful of divine-grade shortbread, flashing a shit-eating grin. “You means: You/me? Or You/Aziraphale?” There’s a glint in your eyes, the first spark of your usual chaotic self, making a reappearance after days of emotional flatlining.

Crowley stared at you, deadpan, but a with a little bit of redness in their ears “Do I look like the sort of demon who’d get misty-eyed over Aziraphale’s snoring?”
Muriel nodded a little uncertain. “A bit, yeah.”
He threw his hands up and hissed. “You’re all insufferable.”
“And yet,” you added sweetly, reaching for another cookie, “you’re still here.”
He flopped back dramatically into the big chair Aziraphale insisted on keeping "for company" and muttered, “I was lied to. This was supposed to be torture. I’m being emotionally supported against my will.”
Muriel giggled.

Aziraphale, who had been quietly observing from the armchair nearest the window, finally chimed in with a soft but pointed “Those were meant for after the journaling exercise.”
You grinned wider, absolutely unrepentant, halfway through your second cookie. “Consider it emotional first aid.”
Crowley, eyeing the plate, muttered, “Well, if it’s medical…” and took one too, without making eye contact.
Aziraphale sighed, resigned. “I suppose structure was always a long shot with this lot.”
“Exactly,” you replied, crumbs on your lip and chaos in your smile. “That’s why it works.”

Muriel flipped through the battered old self-help book with such reverence, you’d think it was scripture. "‘The Five Emotional Languages of Inner Fulfillment’… this one’s got diagrams!" they announced proudly.
Crowley groaned. “Where did you even find that relic?”
Aziraphale cleared his throat delicately from behind his cup of tea. “We occasionally stock titles like that at the shop. For... appearances. It sells surprisingly well during Mercury retrograde.”
Crowley turned slowly toward him. “You’re enabling this, Angel.”
Muriel beamed. “It says here you’re supposed to identify your core emotional blockage through an exercise called ‘Mirror Truthing’.”
“I did that once,” Crowley said, draping himself again, over the back of the sofa like a snake that had given up. “They made me talk to Sigmund.” he added with a grudge disguised as sarcasm.
Aziraphale blinked. “Sigmund Freud?”
“Yeah. Idiot didn’t even let me finish my sentence before he went off on ‘Tell me about your mother.’ I said ‘Well, technically speaking, it’s God’ and he didn’t blink. Just started writing furiously.”
Muriel looked scandalized. “That’s not very person-centered.”
You snorted and nearly choked on your tea. “Bet he charged the Almighty by the hour!”
Crowley stared at the ceiling snarking. “They put notes in my file, angel. Notes. They passed it around at the quarterly Hell check-ins.”
Aziraphale smiled into his teacup, the kind that said he was very fond and very doomed. “I always thought Hell HR lacked tact.”
Crowley shot him a look. “You read my file?”
Aziraphale didn’t deny it. Just smiled, cheeks pink.

You watched them both, your grin stretching as wide as your heart felt full. Because this — this trifecta of nonsense and accidental affection — was healing in its own, ridiculous way.

Muriel held the book upside down now, frowning thoughtfully. “It also says that hugging releases oxytocin. Should we try that next?”
Crowley bolted upright. “Absolutely not. That’s how cults start.”
“But we’re already a group with shared emotional goals and pastries,” Muriel said, utterly sincere. “Isn’t that kind of the same thing?”
Aziraphale looked a bit too pleased with that answer.
You raised your hand. “Seconded. We have tea, sugar, shared trauma. We can easily make Kool-Aid! At least we qualify as a gentle cult.”
Muriel clapped their hands. “Yay! Hug time!”
Crowley hissed like a cornered cat. “You people are monsters.” But he didn’t actually move when you and Muriel leaned in, just grumbled under his breath as he was engulfed in a pile of warm, well-meaning limbs and over-sugared cloud cookies.

Aziraphale, from his armchair throne, watched it all with that soft, unmistakable fondness only someone completely besotted can wear. He didn’t join in. But when you looked over, he gave you the smallest nod, while sipping his tea, like he was saying “I see you. And I’m glad you’re here.”

And honestly? You were too.

Chapter Text

It’s been a bad day. A bad week. Hell, a bad month.
And tonight the whisper in the back of your head is getting sharper.

Now’s the time. You’re alone. There are knives. You have options. There’s a way…

So you do what you always do when the whisper draws blood: you reach.
A text. A meme. A desperate call into the dark.

But time is cruel in this state. Seconds feel like hours. Minutes like days.
And then… nothing.

It wasn’t the dark.
It wasn’t the power outage.
It wasn’t even the silence.

It was the voice.

That low, cruel murmur in the back of your skull that knows exactly where to cut.
They’re busy.
They don’t care.
You’ll always be the afterthought.

Your grip tightens around your phone, thumb hovering over contacts you can’t bring yourself to call again. You’ve already sent the messages, already left words that fell like stones in water.

Every minute without a reply, the voice gets bolder. Louder. Meaner. Until it isn’t just whispering doubts—it’s carving them into you.

Your phone was heavy in your hand, screen dim with the weight of all the messages that hadn’t been answered. A few green ticks, not even blue. A voicemail left just to hear yourself speak, then deleted before it finished sending. You had tried. You had reached. And nothing came back.

Your chest aches with it, heavy and sharp all at once. You want—desperately—for someone to prove it wrong. And that's when the ache sharpened, cruel and familiar: maybe no one was coming. Maybe you were too much, or not enough, or both. The thought sat heavy in your stomach, dragging you further into the couch cushions like quicksand.

The room stays in darkness.
And the screen stays blank.

The flat was dim. Not the romantic kind of dim, but the frustrating, teeth-grinding kind that meant the electricity had gone out. Again. You had lit a few candles, more for the ritual of it than for light, and sat curled up on the couch with your knees tucked in and a blanket draped like a defeated flag.

Your stomach churned. Your skin was too hot and too cold all at once. You were teetering at the edge of tears and nausea and that particular brand of hormonal apocalypse that made even your thoughts feel too loud.

That’s when you heard the soft thump of wings.

You didn’t even lift your head.

“Just let the darkness eat me,” you mumbled.

“Absolutely not,” came Crowley’s voice, already dropping onto the couch beside you. “You’re ours, not the darkness’s. It’ll have to get through me first.”

Aziraphale appeared a second later, looking like a warm scone in human form, already holding a mug of tea that smelled like a hug.

“Power’s out, but the ineffable hospitality is still running,” he said, kneeling to place the cup gently in your hands. His fingers lingered around yours for a second, grounding. “Darling, you don’t have to talk. Just breathe.”

Crowley stretched an arm behind you and gently pulled you into his side. No dramatics. Just heat and presence and leather. He didn’t say anything more, just hummed quietly under his breath—something not-quite-tuneful but oddly soothing, like the vibration of a cat purring in a punk rock bar.

You stared at the candle for a while, then quietly asked, “What if I never feel okay again?”

Aziraphale settled onto the arm of the couch, placing his hand carefully on your shoulder.

“Then we stay with you until you do,” he said simply.

You let the tears come then. No pressure, no expectations. Just warmth. Arms. The safe sound of Crowley’s jacket rustling when he adjusted to keep you tucked in closer. The soft clink of porcelain as Aziraphale refilled your tea. The feeling of being held without being fixed.

The silence was the worst part.

Not the calm kind of silence. The kind that buzzed in your ears. The kind that made every unanswered message feel like a door slammed in your face. The kind that told your brain: See? No one’s coming.

Except... someone did.

“Crowley,” you whispered, voice cracked, curled on the couch with your phone limp in your hand, “I don’t think anyone’s gonna answer.”

Crowley didn’t speak right away. He was already crouching beside you, sunglasses off, his eyes scanning your face like he could read every storm behind your eyes.

“Well,” he finally said, voice low and rough, “they might not. People sometimes... get lost in their own stuff. Doesn’t mean they don’t love you. But it bloody well feels like it. And that—” He touched your shoulder gently, “that’s when we step in.”

Aziraphale appeared behind the couch with a blanket that somehow felt like warm sunlight even though the lights were still off.

“My dear, it’s not your fault that the lines are quiet. And it doesn’t mean you’re forgotten.”

You blinked, tears hot, head throbbing, stomach flipping.

“But I don’t know who to ask for help,” you croaked.

“You just did,” Crowley said simply.

“You called us,” Aziraphale added, placing the blanket around your shoulders like a cloak of protection. “And we always answer.”

You buried your face in the blanket, letting the tears come again, softer this time. Not desperate—just tired.

Aziraphale sat close, running his fingers through your hair like you were something sacred. Crowley stretched out beside you and muttered a list under his breath:

“Things I’d personally hex today:

1. WhatsApp.

2. The emotional equivalent of voicemail.

3. The universe for not protecting you like it should’ve.”

You sniffled. “That’s a long list.”
“I haven’t even started on capitalism,” he said, deadpan.
Aziraphale kissed your temple. “You are not alone, precious one. We are here. You can feel everything. You can fall apart. We will hold you.”
And they did.
No noise. No advice.
Just presence.

Until the buzzing quietly faded.
Until the grief softened.
Until you remembered that even in the absolute stillness—you matter.

You were so tired that even your bones felt heavy. Not the “I had a long day” kind of tired. The kind that curled into the corners of your brain and whispered: sleep won’t help, nothing helps.
But still—your body asked for it. Pleaded for rest. For quiet. For a place where nothing demanded anything from you.

Aziraphale was the first to notice you rubbing your face like it might stop the ache behind your eyes.
“Oh, love,” he said gently, “you don’t have to stay awake anymore. It’s alright to rest. We’ll watch the world while you sleep.”

Crowley didn’t even say anything. He was already adjusting the pillows around you, tucking the blanket just right. Not too tight, not too loose. Like he knew your body better than it did in this moment. Like he'd been taking notes every time you'd crashed like this before.

You blinked at them, slow and watery.
“I don’t know how to fall asleep.”

Crowley crouched beside you, one hand resting lightly against your arm.

“Then don’t try,” he said. “Just... lie here. Listen to our voices. That’s enough.”

Aziraphale sat by your head and began to speak softly, rhythmically. Not a story, exactly. More like a spell disguised as bedtime talk:

“You’re safe now.
You’re warm.
You are made of softness and stars.
The weight you carry is not all yours.
You can set it down. Just for now.
Let your breath be slow. Let your heart be tired.
It’s okay to stop holding everything.
We’ll hold you.”

Crowley’s voice joined in, gravelly but low, grounding.

“The fridge doesn’t need you.
The messages can wait.
No one’s keeping score.
The night is long, but we’re right here.
You don’t have to earn rest. You just get it.
Because you’re loved.
Full stop.”

You didn’t remember closing your eyes. But you felt the pressure in your chest ease, just a little.

Aziraphale was still humming something quiet—a song without words. Something that sounded like teacups clinking gently in a soft-lit kitchen.
Crowley sat at your feet like a guardian, arms crossed, sunglasses resting in his shirt pocket, watching the shadows like he might bite one if it got too close.

And then, just as you began to drift...

You heard Aziraphale whisper, like a secret not meant to wake you:
“Sleep, love. We’re not going anywhere.”

Chapter Text

The bell over the bookshop door didn’t so much ring as surrender — a startled jingle as you shoved it open, storming in like you’d just been personally betrayed by the universe and had the receipts to prove it.

Aziraphale looked up from his desk with a soft oh dear, carefully placing a ribbon in his book. Crowley barely lifted his head from where he was draped across the sofa, boots on the armrest, sunglasses halfway down his nose, thumbs lazily scrolling through his phone.

You paced in fast, sharp loops, coat half-off your shoulders, eyes flashing with a fire that could ignite poetry or arson — probably both.

“They said they needed space—space!—and then had the nerve to post a story from some rooftop party with a DJ named Zentauris and a caption that said ‘healing energy only 💫’. I swear, if one more person uses healing as an excuse to be emotionally unavailable, I’m going to hex a salt lamp.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, probably to offer tea or sympathy. You were having none of it.

“Don’t. I’m not even mad about the party. Go. Live. Your. Life. But don’t make me feel like I’m intense for wanting bare minimum clarity while you’re out here calling me your anchor one night and then pulling a ‘vibe shift’ the next!”

Crowley snorted. “Sounds like someone read half a self-help book and decided ghosting was spiritual.”

You kept pacing. A notebook fell off a nearby shelf in your emotional wake. No one dared pick it up.

“I am done with these half-relationships,” you snapped. “These... these situationships — which, let’s be honest, are just slow-burn disappointments dressed in aesthetics and horny poetry. I don’t need that. I don’t want that. I’m better alone.”

You turned sharply, pointing a finger at no one in particular. “Seriously. I’m done. Love is a scam. Attachment is a trick of biology. I am a self-sustaining galaxy of one and I will not be emotionally colonized ever again.”

Crowley set his phone down and whistled low. “You’re on a roll, there."

“Situationships are just slow-motion self-esteem theft disguised as companionship. It’s like a Groupon deal for heartbreak: limited time only, no refunds, and somehow you’re still paying for dinner!”

you laughed maniacally.

Crowley finally glanced up over his sunglasses. “I mean… you are not wrong.”

Aziraphale delicately cleared his throat. “Perhaps you’d like to sit down and—”

“No. If I sit I’ll start crying. And I am not giving this little shitface the satisfaction of knowing I cried over his commitment allergy disguised as polyamory. Which, by the way, is not an identity if you only ever sleep with women and emotionally exploit them while calling it ✨expansive love✨.”

You stopped in front of a shelf, gripped the edge like you might physically shake the dust out of the past.

“I don’t even want a conventional relationship!” you continued, as if you'd been interrupted (you hadn’t). “I don’t want shared bank accounts or co-parented houseplants or matching sweaters. I just want someone who brings me food, looks at me like I’m real, talks with me like a human, and has good sex with me without acting like affection is a limited resource.

“Is it too much to ask to be heard? Am I aiming for the impossible? It feels like I keep trying, again and again, to open myself up — and the only people who answer are the ones willing to give me the bare minimum.

You keep on pacing the room, pulling slightly your own hair

“I’m done begging crumbs off people who keep the feast for themselves. I’m done auditioning for roles in someone else’s half-written love story. If that’s all romance has to offer, then romance can choke on its own fucking clichés. I’m not signing up for another round of being half-loved and fully drained.”

Crowley let out a low, dangerous laugh, sliding his sunglasses down just enough for you to catch the sharp glint of his eyes.
“Good,” he drawled. “Burn the script. Let the bastards choke on their Hallmark horseshit.”

Aziraphale stood slowly, smoothing his waistcoat. He walked over like he was approaching a skittish cat in a thunderstorm — with reverence.

“My dear,” he said gently, “that doesn’t sound like too much. That sounds like enough.”

Crowley slid off the couch, all limbs and languid danger, until he was standing just behind you, like backup in a fight you didn’t start but were definitely ready to finish.

“Also, for the record,” he added, voice low, “you don’t have to declare independence just to prove you’re not broken. You’re allowed to want people — even weird, tender, complicated people. Just not the ones who make you forget how electric you are.”

The silence settled heavy but not empty. You laughed — sharp and shaky — and a tear slipped out right after, uninvited but honest.

“I just… I want to be held like I’m real. Not like I’m some kind of life lesson.”

Crowley tilted his head. “You are real. And they? They’re a bloody footnote.”

Aziraphale touched your shoulder, warm and steady. “You’re not a burden,” he said firmly. “You’re a force. You deserve to be met with care, not caution.”

Crowley reached past him and draped a blanket around your shoulders. “And we’ve got limbs, food, fury, whatever you need. We’re not going anywhere.”

And in that moment — wrapped in fabric and firelight and two very odd immortals who somehow got it — you felt the storm inside you finally ease.

“Still,” you muttered, sniffing. “Fuck them.”

Crowley grinned. “Oh, absolutely. With the force of a thousand middle fingers.”

“And the moon they rode in on,” Aziraphale added primly, which for him, was practically a mic drop.

The laugh that broke out of you wasn’t bitter — it was messy, damp, alive. It shook the grief loose from your ribs and left space for air.

The storm hadn’t passed. But it had somewhere to land. And tonight, that was enough.
Maybe you didn’t have to be alone to be sovereign.
Maybe you didn’t have to be cold to be strong.
Maybe you were already whole. And loved.
Even now.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t a bad day. In fact, by all accounts, it had been a lovely string of days — the kind with laughter and shared meals and new people who actually seemed to like you. The kind where you felt, just for a moment, like someone bright. Capable. Connected.

But now it’s quiet. The good kind of quiet, technically. No emergencies. No disasters. No expectations.

And still, you feel... heavy.

Not in pain. Just emptied out. Like someone wrung all the joy out of you with both hands and left you limp and blinking in the afternoon light. Not sad. Not quite. Just... tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix.

You’re still curled on the sofa in yesterday’s clothes when Aziraphale totters in with a tray like he’s serving high tea in a Jane Austen fever dream. You blink at him.

“I’m not very good company today,” you mumble.

“Nonsense,” he says, setting the tray down with theatrical flair. “Company doesn’t require performance. Just presence.”

Crowley slinks in after, sunglasses perched lazily in his hair, holding a hot water bottle for some reason, which he tosses gently onto your lap. “For the emotional hangover,” he says, flopping onto the other side of the couch like a dramatic cat.

“I didn’t drink,” you point out.

“No,” he agrees, “but you peopled. Which is worse.”

Aziraphale hums in agreement, pouring tea like it’s a sacred rite. “You’ve been giving so much of yourself, dear. It’s perfectly natural to feel a bit... wrung out.”

You sigh, letting your head fall back. “But I had fun.”

“No one’s questioning that,” Crowley says, stealing one of the biscuits off the tray. “Doesn’t mean your brain didn’t just run a bloody marathon in party shoes.”

Aziraphale hands you a mug. The tea smells like honey and quiet afternoons. “Even stars flicker, my darling. Rest isn’t a failure. It’s part of the cycle.”

You let the tea warm your hands. “I just hate feeling like this after good things.”

Crowley shrugs, tapping your knee. “You’re a human being, not a fireworks show. You’re allowed to go dim for a bit.”

“Besides,” Aziraphale adds with a soft smile, “we like you just as much when you’re quiet.”

Crowley grins. “More, actually. You’re less likely to rope us into helping with social charades or those cursed group selfies.”
“Oi! I thought you invented those!” you answer, laughing softly, and the ache in your chest loosens just enough to breathe.

Crowley smirks, tipping his head back against the couch. “Might’ve suggested them to the right mortal at the right rooftop party, but I refuse all responsibility for selfie sticks and the concept of ‘candid but curated.’”

Aziraphale huffs, delicately offended. “You once told Queen Victoria to ‘hit it with more eyeliner and attitude,’ so I wouldn’t be so quick to dodge blame.”

“That was historically necessary,” Crowley replies with mock gravity. “You should’ve seen her before. Absolutely no edge.

You chuckle, nestling deeper into the couch cushions, cradling your mug like a tiny hearth. “Why are both of you like this?”

Crowley smiles. “Centuries of emotional repression and no fixed bedtime.”
Aziraphale complements nodding. “Exactly. Also: being terribly, irreversibly fond of you.”
You pause, warmth crawling up your face. “That’s not... ridiculous?”

“No,” Aziraphale says gently, settling beside you with his own tea. “Not everything tender has to be explained.”

Crowley snorts. “Did you just compare emotions to tea again?”
Aziraphale sips serenely. “If the metaphor fits.”
You laugh again, and this time it doesn’t feel forced. Just small and real, like sunlight sneaking through the curtains.

Crowley leans over to peer at you. “Better?”
You nod. “Getting there.”
He reaches for the water bottle he’d flung at you earlier and plops it gently back on your lap like a very squishy crown. “Good. ‘Cause we’ve got plans.”

“Plans?”
“Blankets,” he says. “And one of those comfort shows you’ve seen a hundred times.”
Aziraphale perks up. “Oh, yes. Something with predictable dialogue and emotional resolution. The kind of story that knows how to end well.”

Crowley stretches out on the other side of the couch. “We’re talking minimal brain effort, maximum comfort. Bonus points if there’s a dog in it.”
Aziraphale adds, “Or baking. Ideally both.”

You smile, eyes already fluttering a little with the kind of tired that comes after being seen and not expected to give anything back. Just be.
“Sounds perfect,” you whisper.

Outside, the rain taps gently on the windows like it’s asking permission to stay. Inside, there’s tea, steady presence, and two beings who understand: there’s nothing wrong with needing to be quiet for a while.
The show is playing in the background — soft voices, familiar lines, the kind of comfort that wraps around your thoughts like a well-worn sweater.

You’re tucked in between them now. Crowley’s legs stretch out lazily, socked feet propped on the coffee table like he owns time. Aziraphale is half-watching the screen, half-stirring his tea like he’s trying to divine something in the leaves. No one’s talking. There’s no need.

So of course, that’s when your brain starts up again.

Not loud, at first. Just... a small static hum. That thing you said to your coworker — was it weird? Too blunt? Did they smile because they meant it, or because they didn’t know how to end the conversation? And your friend — the way they looked at you when you made that joke. Were they actually laughing?

And what about that moment in the café — when you thought you were being charming, but maybe it was too much. Maybe you talked too much. Maybe you took up too much space. Maybe—
You shift slightly, the blanket rustling.

Crowley glances sideways without turning his head. “Still breathing?”
You nod, automatically. “Yeah.”
Aziraphale looks over too. “You don’t have to explain, of course,” he says gently. “But if something’s crawling around in there, you can let it out.”

You stare at the screen, but you’re not watching anymore. You clutch the mug tighter, knuckles gone pale.
“I just…” you begin, and stop. The words feel stupid. Small. Too much and not enough.

“You just what?” Crowley prompts, voice soft now, no bite.

“I just keep thinking I messed something up,” you say finally, the words spilling out in a quiet rush. “That maybe someone’s mad and I didn’t notice. Or I said the wrong thing, or acted weird, or took up too much space, or—”

Crowley’s hand comes to rest on your shin, grounding. Aziraphale’s mug clinks softly as he sets it down and scoots a little closer.

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, not unkindly. “The post-social spiral.”
“Classic,” Crowley adds, like it’s a weather pattern. “Brain’s just going through its usual rerun of 'how you might’ve ruined everything.'”

You let out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “It’s exhausting.”
“It is,” Aziraphale agrees, taking your empty mug and replacing it with one of his hands. “But it’s also not true.”

“How do you know?”
Crowley shrugs. “Because we were there. And you were fine. You were you. No disasters. No secret scandals. Just human messiness, which is kind of the point.”
“And,” Aziraphale adds, “even if someone did misread something — they can speak up. That’s not your burden to carry forever.”
You nod slowly, the weight in your chest a little lighter, but still real.

“You’re not too much,” Crowley says firmly. “And even if you were, I’m not exactly in the business of loving small things.”
Aziraphale clears his throat, cheeks pink. “Nor am I.”

The silence that follows is different now. Quieter. Not the buzzing kind, but the kind that holds space for breathing.

Outside, the rain has softened to a whisper.
Inside, your thoughts are still a little loud — but now they’re shared. Witnessed. Not so heavy.

Crowley pulls the blanket tighter around your legs.
“Now shut up and let your brain reboot,” he mutters. “The dog’s about to do something very important in this scene.”
You smile, and this time, it almost reaches your eyes.
“See?” Crowley says triumphantly, nudging your knee with his. “Told you the dog had range.”
“I don’t think the dog has range,” Aziraphale says mildly.
“She’s a better actor than half the cast. Watch this part — the look she gives the man with the baguette? Pure betrayal. Oscar-worthy.”

Aziraphale sniffs. “Well, if we’re giving Oscars to dogs now, I’d like to nominate the spaniel in that one cooking show—”
“Oh my god,” Crowley groans. “The spaniel who stole an entire roast off the table? That wasn’t acting, angel, that was theft.”

“And yet,” Aziraphale counters, “it told a compelling story. Hunger. Temptation. Boldness in the face of adversity.”
“You’re just describing yourself at a bakery.”

You giggle — an actual giggle, to your own surprise — and both their heads turn toward you like it’s the best sound they’ve heard all day.

“Good,” Crowley says, satisfied, then immediately turns back to Aziraphale with narrowed eyes. “And another thing — you can’t call yourself a movie buff if you keep falling asleep halfway through.”
“I rest my eyes during the dull bits.”
“They’re plot critical!”
“Darling, no one’s plot should involve that many explosions and a slow-motion sandwich.”

You lean your head back against the couch cushion, letting them bicker around you like a warm, ridiculous storm. The spiral is still there — background noise — but it’s losing volume. Replaced with the kind of arguing that only happens between people who know each other’s rhythms down to the breath.

Crowley waves his hands. “Look, you picked the movie with the talking hedgehog last time—”
“Which had a surprisingly tender emotional arc!”

“It had a hedgehog named Jerry who solved crimes by sniffing people’s shoes!”
“And he was very good at it.”

You snort into your sleeve, and Aziraphale glances over at you with a pleased little smile.
“See?” he says. “We’re better than cognitive distortions.”
Crowley grins. “Speak for yourself. I am a cognitive distortion.”

You dissolve into laughter — tired, uneven, but real — and both of them soften in unison.

The rain outside keeps falling.
Inside, you are wrapped in blankets, in noise, in a kind of love that doesn’t demand stillness or perfection. Just presence. Just laughter.
Just this.

You dissolve into laughter — tired, uneven, but real — and both of them soften in unison.

Crowley leans back, smug. “Knew that talking hedgehog would win you over.”
“I still think you made up half that plot,” you say between chuckles. “There’s no way Jerry the Hedgehog also ran a soup kitchen.”

Aziraphale raises a finger. “Ah, but he did! Episode four, ‘Too Many Onions.’ Quite moving.”
“Okay, now you’re both gaslighting me.”
Crowley shrugs. “Not our fault you keep falling asleep during the good parts.”
“You keep watching them at 2 a.m.!”
“Prime storytelling hours,” Crowley says, dead serious.
Aziraphale sighs, lifting the remote like it’s far too heavy for this nonsense. “Shall we skip to your favorite scene?”
You nod. “The one with the rainy train platform.”
Both of them smile, a little too knowingly.

Crowley hits play.

The screen glows soft in the dim room. The dog trots into view. A scarf blows dramatically. You’ve seen it a dozen times, but now it feels like the first. Your breath evens out. Your shoulders drop. The spiral doesn’t vanish, but it quiets. It’s no longer driving.

You rest your head lightly on Crowley’s shoulder, and he doesn’t even flinch — just shifts a bit so you fit better. Aziraphale reaches behind you for another blanket, and without a word, drapes it over your legs.
The dialogue on screen fades into background hum, just rhythm and light.

Eventually, Crowley murmurs, almost absently, “You gonna crash soon?”
“Probably,” you mumble.
“That’s alright,” Aziraphale says softly, fingers brushing your arm in a slow, grounding touch. “You’ve done quite enough today.”
“Enough what?”
“Just... being,” Crowley says. “Existing through all that static in your head. Being present. That’s not nothing.”

You don’t have a reply, but you don’t need one. The quiet is safe now. The kind that holds, not crushes.
Your eyelids grow heavier. The rain has softened to a steady hush, like the sky is breathing with you.
Aziraphale lowers the volume.
Crowley’s hand finds yours, casual, steady.
“You don’t have to say goodnight,” he mutters. “You can just... sleep, if you want.”
You do.

Not all the way, not at once — but enough. Enough to let go of the questions for now. Enough to feel held. Enough to remember that you’re not alone in the noise.

And the world spins on. You let yourself enjoy the stillness, and tea, and two voices that won’t let you fall too far.

Chapter Text

You hadn’t expected it. Just a normal errand, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the echo of children’s sneakers on the polished floor. And then—there. A familiar tilt of the shoulders. The way he dragged his feet. The color of his coat, the light of his hair. You froze before your brain even had time to decide.

Your heart hitched, throat locked, and suddenly you weren’t in the mall anymore. You were then, all over again. Small, helpless, afraid.
The world blurred. Too bright, too loud, and your body was already in flight even though your feet hadn’t moved.

“Breathe, love.”

Crowley’s voice, low and grounding, cut through the static like the first drag of smoke after a storm. He leaned against the shop window as though he’d been there the whole time, sunglasses reflecting the harsh lights.

“You’re not there. You’re here. With us.”

A warm pressure settled against your shoulder. Aziraphale. His hand was steady, thumb brushing in soft circles.

“You’re safe, my dear. No one can touch you now. He’s not part of this moment.”

Your knees buckled, and suddenly they had you between them, like a wall shielding you from every angle.

Crowley’s grin was a little sharp, but his voice was soft as he tilted his head to catch your eyes.
“Let me handle him. One snap and he’s a puddle. Or better—trapped in an escalator that never stops going down.”

Aziraphale gave him the kind of look that meant he’d argue later. For now, his attention was all on you.
“No, no, don’t worry about punishment or retribution. Just you. Just your breath. In… and out. Yes, that’s better.”

The crowd shifted, and for a moment you thought you saw the figure again. But Crowley moved, tall frame sliding in front of you like a curtain.
“Eyes on me. You’ve got more important things to see than ghosts.”

Aziraphale’s voice chimed in, gentle and insistent.
“Let the memory pass through you. You are not what he made you feel. You are here, with us, and that is all that matters.”

You clutched Aziraphale’s sleeve, grounding in the fabric, in the warmth. Crowley’s hand found the small of your back. The tremor in your chest began to ease.

Finally, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

“Good,” Crowley murmured. “That’s it. Knew you could do it.”

The mall air turned sour in your lungs the moment you caught sight of him—or thought you did. A blur of movement, a jacket too familiar. Your chest locked. Your breath caught sharp as glass.

You knew it wasn’t then, but your body didn’t care. Your stomach churned, your hands went cold. The crowd pressed close, faceless and loud, and all you could do was freeze.

“Oi.” Crowley’s voice slipped in like a hook, sharp enough to tug you back toward now. He was leaning against a pillar that absolutely hadn’t been there two seconds ago, arms folded, shades crooked.

“Don’t look at him. Look at me. C’mon, pet, I’m prettier anyway.”

Aziraphale bustled in from the other side, all warmth and indignation, one hand firm at your elbow.
“Oh really, Crowley, now is not the time to preen. They’re shaking.”

“They’ll shake worse if they keep staring at that git.” Crowley tilted his head, his grin thin and mean. “One miracle and he’s stuck on the escalator forever. Up and down and up and down—poetic, yeah?”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s tone had all the bite of a schoolmaster, but his hand stayed soft, grounding you. “We are not turning shopping centers into karmic prisons.”

Your knees wobbled. The floor tilted. The world blurred again.

“Easy.” Crowley’s arm slid around your waist, his body heat a shield. “You’re not gonna fall. Not on my watch.”

“Deep breaths, my dear,” Aziraphale coaxed, thumb smoothing over your knuckles. “In and out. That’s it. You’re with us now.”

Someone jostled past and your throat closed again.
Crowley stepped in front of you, tall frame blocking the crowd. “Eyes on me, not them. That’s right. Here, see? Snake eyes, sunglasses, ginger menace. I’m the whole bloody view.”

Aziraphale huffed, though fondness softened his scold. “Menace, indeed. You could try gentleness for once.”

“Gentle’s your department, angel. Mine’s making sure the bastard doesn’t get within a mile of them.”

The mall stretched too wide, too bright. But they steered you between them, a quiet bubble in the chaos. By the time the Bentley gleamed into view at the curb, your legs felt half yours again.

Crowley opened the back door with a flourish. “Your chariot awaits. Dark glass, leather seats, no exes allowed.”

Aziraphale guided you in, murmuring, “See? Safe and sound. Nothing to fear but Crowley’s driving.”

Crowley snorted, sliding behind the wheel. “Oi! Best driver in London and beyond.”

“You crashed into a flower shop once”

“Deliberately.”

“Mm-hm.”

The banter washed over you, ridiculous and steady. For the first time since the mall, you breathed without it catching. The car purred to life, and you let yourself lean back, caught between angel and demon, held safe in the argument they would happily repeat forever.

The Bentley door shut behind you with a heavy thud. Dark leather. Engine humming low like a purr. You thought it might feel safe, but instead your skin prickled worse.

Too close. Too quiet. Too… you.
Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Your jaw ached from clenching.

Crowley twisted in the driver’s seat, one arm hanging over the wheel. “You’re alright, pet. He’s nowhere near. Just shadows in your head now.”

Something in you snapped.

“Yeah? Well it doesn’t fucking feel like shadows!” Your voice was sharp, foreign even to yourself. “Feels like he’s still right there. Like I’m still—” The words choked, too jagged to finish.

Aziraphale turned gently toward you, face full of patient worry. “It’s all right to feel this way, dear. Truly.”

You barked out a laugh that had no humor. “Oh, wonderful. I’m allowed to feel like a victim. Thanks.” The bitterness stung even as it left your mouth. “That’s what I hate, don’t you get it? I don’t want to be this person. I don’t want to be the one who breaks down in a mall because I thought I saw him. I’m not—”

Crowley cut in, sharp but not unkind. “You’re not weak. Don’t you dare call yourself that.”

The words kept spilling, hot and angry, but aimed at yourself.
“I survived him. Years and years, and I still—still flinch at a shadow. I make jokes about it, act like I’m over it, and then this? This is proof I’ll never be free. Proof I’m still broken.”

Your hands dug into the seat. You wanted to claw your way out of your own skin.

Crowley’s sunglasses slipped down his nose just enough to show his eyes, burning gold. “Proof, my arse. It’s called being human. Happens when you’ve been through hell.”

Aziraphale leaned closer, voice soft but firm. “My love, surviving doesn’t erase the scars. And having scars doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you lived. It means you chose to keep living.”

“Even if it feels like being a fucking ghost,” you muttered.

Crowley’s grin turned wry. “Then you’re our ghost. And we’re not letting anyone exorcise you.”

The anger didn’t vanish. Not yet. But it twisted, softened at the edges. The Bentley's engine hum filled the silence.

You leaned your head back, breath ragged. “I just… I don’t want to keep feeling like this. Like I’m trapped.”

Aziraphale’s hand found yours, steady, grounding. “Then let us help carry it until it’s lighter.”

Crowley revved the engine just a little, smirk curling. “And if the bastard ever dares show his face again—I’ve got an escalator waiting for him.”

The Bentley rolled forward, headlights cutting through the night. The hum of the engine should have been steadying, but it only made your pulse hammer harder.

You slammed your palm against the seat. “Stop looking at me like that!”

Aziraphale startled slightly but kept his voice calm. “Like what, dear?”

“Like I’m fragile glass! Like I’m just this—this poor thing you’ve got to rescue every fucking time!” Your chest heaved, rage tearing through the fear. “Yes, I was groomed. Yes, I was raped. Yes, I was beaten and abused for years. But that’s not everything I am! And I hate that after all this time I still get triggered and can’t do shit to stop it!”

The words hit the roof of the car like stones. Your throat burned. Your eyes prickly with angry tears threatening to drip down.

Crowley’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look away from the road though “Good. Shout it. Scream it. You’ve got every bloody right. Don’t you dare swallow it just to keep the world comfortable.”

Aziraphale’s eyes glistened, but his tone was firm. “We don’t see you as fragile, dear. We see you as fierce. Terribly, painfully fierce. And still deserving of gentleness.”

Your hands shook harder. “But I hate it! Hate that I can’t switch it off. Hate that I’m still that terrified kid in their hands. I survived, but it feels like surviving is the only thing I am capable of. And I don’t want that to be my whole life!”

The anger cracked into something sharper, wetter.
“I’m so fucking tired of feeling like his shadow is stitched into my skin.”

Crowley’s hand left the wheel just long enough to snap his fingers—Queen swelled from the speakers, deep bass rattling the doors. Something primal, grounding. “Then drown his shadow out. Drown it in noise, drown it in rage, drown it in whatever the fuck you want. But don’t even think for one second that you’re only what he did to you.”

Aziraphale laid a steady hand over yours. “You are so much more than the worst thing that ever happened to you. So much more than the pain he left behind. That pain is real, yes. But you—” he swallowed, voice thick “—you are brighter than he ever allowed you to see.”

The car roared forward, the city blurring by. Your chest still ached, your hands still shook. But between their voices—the venom and the velvet—you felt the rage burning clean instead of turning inward.

Crowley shot you a sideways glance, wicked grin tugging at his mouth. “And if it helps, I can still arrange the escalator.”

Aziraphale sighed, exasperated but fond. “Crowley…”

“What? It’s poetic justice.”

And despite yourself, despite the fire still raging under your ribs, you barked out the smallest, roughest laugh.

You keep your angry eyes fixed in the road passing by through the window purposely not facing… well, them. You couldn’t sit still—your skin was a cage, your breath hot and ragged.

Aziraphale’s hand reached warm over yours, steady, patient. Too patient. Too kind. You glance to the mirror and see his gentle eyes fixed on you.
You ripped your hand back immediately. “Don’t. Stop looking at me like that Aziraphale !”

“Like what, my dear?” His voice was honey-soft.

“Like I’m pitiful! Like I’m some poor tragic creature to be… coddled. I’m sick of it! Every time I say something dark, every time I bleed a little truth, I see it—the stare. The fucking condescending stare. And I hate it. I hate it from everyone and I hated even more coming from you.”

Aziraphale recoiled as if struck, mouth parting. “I never—”

“You do! Maybe you don’t mean to, but you do! It’s the same look everyone’s given me since I left him. Like I’m a broken mirror they don’t want to step on. Like I’ll never be anything but the victim. And I’m DONE. I don’t want gentle! I don’t want pity dressed up as kindness. I want to… not feel like a goddamn case file!”

Crowley’s knuckles went white on the wheel, jaw set. “They’re not pitying you. We’re not. Angel’s just bloody worried.”

“Don’t defend him!” Your voice cracked sharp as glass. “You don’t get it either. You smirk, you joke, you threaten escalators, but underneath—you still see me as some small human to protect. Someone weak.”

“Because you matter, stupid human!” Crowley snapped. “Because I don’t want to see you torn up again!.”

“And you think that makes it better?!” You slammed your fist against the door, the thud echoing. “It makes it worse. It makes me feel small and insignificant. And okay maybe I am. And I’m so tired of being small. I’m so tired of being defined by what he did to me!”

Aziraphale leaned towards you, eyes wide, wounded but steady. “We don’t see you as small.”

“I don’t care how you see me!” you shouted, throat raw. “I care how I feel—and right now I feel like every smile, every soft word, is just another reminder that I’ll never stop being that helpless kid in his hands. That no matter what I build, it all collapses the moment I see his shadow in a crowd.”

Your vision blurred. Heat, anger, shame, all burning together. The threat of tears in the corner of your eyes only makes it worse.

Crowley’s voice came rough, almost a growl. “Then hate. Shout. If that’s what it takes to get it out, do it. But don’t you dare think for a second that you’re less than. Not to us. Not ever.”

Aziraphale’s throat bobbed, his words quiet but cutting through: “If you could see yourself the way we see you… you’d never mistake it for pity.”

But you didn’t want to hear it. Not yet. The rage was still too loud. You turned away, forehead pressed to the cold glass of the window, shoulders heaving, heart still racing as if it hadn’t yet escaped.
The silence after your words was thick, suffocating. The Bentley growled under Crowley’s hands, his grip iron on the wheel.

Aziraphale stayed quiet—hurt flickering across his face, but still soft, still trying to hold steady for you. That look only fanned the rage in your chest.

You whipped around, voice raw: “Stop it! Stop acting like you’re so bloody saintly about it. You don’t understand. You’ll never understand what it’s like to be used up and spat out and still have people look at you like you’re a porcelain doll they can’t put back together. That’s all you see—broken pieces!”

Aziraphale flinched, just barely, and opened his mouth to reply.
He didn’t get the chance.

Crowley slammed the brakes. The Bentley screeched to a halt at the side of the road, your whole body jolting forward against the seatbelt.
His shades were off before you even realized, eyes blazing gold in the dim. His voice was venom, fire, uncoiled serpent fury:

“Not. Another. Word. About my angel.”
The words hit like a whip, vibrating in the air.

“You can scream at me all you like. Call me a bastard, a hypocrite, a bloody menace—I don’t care. I’ll take it. But you don’t get to tear him apart just because you’re drowning in your own storm. You don’t get to rip into the one being who’s done nothing but love you without condition.”

Aziraphale gasped softly, eyes darting between the two of you, but Crowley wasn’t finished.

“You think his worry’s pity? Bollocks. It’s love. Fierce, ridiculous, stupidly human-like love. And if you can’t see the difference right now, fine. But don’t you dare project your bastard’s crimes onto him. He’s not the one who hurt you.”

The Bentley was silent except for the engine’s low snarl. Your breath came fast, uneven, rage still boiling—but beneath it, something cracked.
You’d expected Crowley’s usual smirk, his deflection, his dark humor. Not this. Not raw, burning loyalty.

Aziraphale, pale and wide-eyed, reached across the seat, voice breaking. “Crowley—”

But he only growled, softer now but still lethal. “No one gets to hurt my angel. Not even you.”

The silence in the Bentley was razor-sharp after Crowley’s words. Your pulse thundered in your ears. Shame bloomed hot in your chest, burning hotter than the rage had. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. The fight was gone, scattered, leaving only the wreckage.
Your throat clenched, eyes stinging before you could stop them. And then it broke—ugly, gasping sobs tearing free, your body folding in on itself like it had finally run out of strength to pretend.

“I—I’m sorry…I” The word splintered. “I don’t deserve—”

Crowley twisted around in his seat, sunglasses forgotten, gold eyes fierce and unblinking. “Don’t. Don’t you dare say you don’t deserve this. You’ve already paid for that bastard’s sins ten times over. You don’t owe anyone penance for being loved.”

Aziraphale leaned in then, no hesitation, gathering you against him as though your anger had never struck. His waistcoat smelled faintly of old books and tea, his hand smoothing over your back in steady circles.

“My dear,” he murmured, voice trembling but sure, “you are worthy. Not because you’ve suffered, not in spite of it—but simply because you are.”

The words only made the sobs come harder. The shame was unbearable—you didn’t want them to see you like this, snot and tears and broken sounds. But Crowley’s hand landed firm on your knee, anchoring you to the leather seat.

“Cry, then,” he said roughly. “Better than bleeding yourself dry pretending you don’t need to. You’ve been holding it in so bloody long, no wonder it’s eating you alive.”

You pressed your face into Aziraphale’s soft shoulder, sobbing harder, every gasp clawing out years of swallowed grief.

The sorrow wasn’t just for what he did to you, but for what you still carried. For the way you couldn’t believe—even now—that you deserved to be loved without conditions.
And yet, here they were.
An angel’s hand your's. A demon’s fire at your side. Neither flinching, neither letting go.

The sobs came violent, tearing, shaking you so hard the leather seat creaked beneath you. Aziraphale only held tighter, murmuring nonsense syllables, little “there, there, love” sounds that weren’t pity at all but still felt like too much. Crowley stayed close too, his hand steady on your knee, his voice rough and low.

“Let it out. All of it. Don’t hold back for us. We’re not porcelain either.”

The Bentley rolled on through the city night, engine’s growl matching the ragged rhythm of your breath. You lost track of time, lost in the flood, until the sobs burned themselves smaller, smaller—leaving you hollowed out, trembling, clinging to Aziraphale’s waistcoat like a lifeline.

By the time the car slowed, you were drained, eyes swollen, throat raw.

The Bentley purred to a stop at the familiar curb. The glow of the bookshop spilled like a beacon through the windows, warm against the dark street.

Crowley slipped out first, coming round to open the door with unusual gentleness. No flourish this time. Just a quiet hand, palm up, steady as stone.
“C’mon, love. Home.”

Aziraphale helped you out, keeping close as the three of you stepped into the haven of paper and dust and candlelight. The door shut behind, cutting off the world outside.

The silence here wasn’t suffocating like in the car. It was thick with comfort, alive with the scent of old books and wood polish.

You sank onto the worn sofa, arms still wrapped tight around yourself. Aziraphale busied himself at the kettle, movements soothing, while Crowley prowled the shelves like a restless panther, sunglasses back in place but tension still coiled in every line of him.

Finally, Crowley broke the quiet, voice sharp but not unkind:
“Right. Talk. No more bottling it up until it explodes all over us. You tell us what’s rattling in that skull, yeah? Even if it’s ugly. Especially if it’s ugly.”

Aziraphale returned with a mug of tea, setting it gently in front of you. “We can take it, my dear. Whatever it is. You don’t have to protect us from the dark bits.”

The tea trembled in your hands, untouched, steam curling upward like smoke from a battlefield. The quiet of the shop pressed close.
You broke it first, your voice ragged. “I’m just… so fucking tired.”

Crowley stilled mid-prowl, shades glinting. Aziraphale leaned closer, brow furrowed.

“Of what, my dear?”

Your laugh cracked, bitter. “Of this. Of PTSD. Of the god-damned flashbacks, the nightmares, the way a shadow can ruin an entire day. I want to feel safe, just once. Proper safe. But I don’t. Not even here sometimes. And it drives me mad. I lash out at the few people who still tolerate me, and then I hate myself for it.”

Aziraphale’s hand hovered, then settled gently over yours. “Oh, love…”

But you pulled back a little, words spilling sharp. “Don’t ‘oh love’ me. You don’t know what it’s like to wake up every night choking on screams that don’t belong to the dream, to feel your body betray you at the sight of a stranger’s coat in a crowd. To be so fucking exhausted that you want to crawl out of your skin—and then hurt the people who care enough to stay.”

Crowley leaned against a shelf, arms folded tight, voice cutting through. “Then hurt us. We can take it. Scream, snap, throw the tea if you want—but don’t you dare think lashing out makes you unlovable.”

Your eyes burned again, but the fury wasn’t there this time—just the hollow ache. “But it does. It should, doesn't it? Everyone in their right mind should leave. They would eventually get tired. Who wants to stay with a walking reminder of trauma? With someone who can’t stop cycling back, who keeps bleeding on people who didn’t cut them?”

Aziraphale’s voice was quiet but fierce. “We do. Because you’re not just the trauma. You’re not just the exhaustion or the lashing out. You’re you. And that is worth staying for.”

Crowley nodded once, sharp. “Yeah. And if anyone else doesn’t get that, sod them. Let ‘em leave. We’re not going anywhere.”

The words didn’t erase the ache. Didn’t banish the exhaustion. But they wrapped around you anyway, steady as the walls of the shop. For the first time all day, your breath came without hitching.

And for the first time in too long, you let yourself believe—just a little—that maybe you weren’t impossible to love.

The weight of your words still hung in the air, heavy as lead. Your tea had gone lukewarm in your hands. You stared at it, eyes burning, throat raw.

Aziraphale broke the silence first, his voice steady, warm. “You’re right—it isn’t fair. To live with such shadows, to never feel entirely safe. It’s exhausting, my dear. Of course it is. Anyone would be weary under such a burden.”

Crowley dropped onto the arm of the sofa, long legs sprawled, shades dangling from his fingers. His gaze was molten gold, unflinching. “But you’re not doing this alone anymore. That’s the part you keep forgetting.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “I always forget. All I see is the broken pieces scattered.”

“Then borrow our eyes,” Aziraphale murmured. “See yourself as we do—fierce, stubborn, still standing after everything. Someone who laughs, and loves, and deserves gentleness not as charity but as birthright.”

Crowley leaned closer, his grin crooked, sharp, but soft around the edges. “And if you can’t believe him, believe me: you’re not just the storm. You’re the bastard miracle who’s survived it. And I’ll fight anyone—including you—who says otherwise.”

Your breath hitched, tears spilling again—but softer this time, not ripping you apart. You felt Aziraphale’s hand over yours, steady and warm, Crowley’s presence solid as stone at your side.

Aziraphale pressed gently, “You are allowed to be tired, to be furious, to break. None of it makes you unworthy of love.”
Crowley’s voice came rough, final: “And none of it makes you alone. Not while we’re here.”

The words wrapped around you like a cloak, like something unshakable. For the first time in longer than you could remember, you let yourself lean into them—into the angel’s warmth, into the demon’s fire—and felt the smallest flicker of safety spark alive.

Not because the nightmares were gone. Not because the PTSD had disappeared.
But because, for once, you weren’t facing it by yourself.

Chapter Text

You didn’t always knew what to call it.

Back then it was weather—unpredictable and personal. A pressure system that rolled in behind your ribs without warning. Grey edges to everything. The sinking kind of quiet. You tried to outrun it with projects, travel and good intentions; you tried to charm it with jokes; you tried to ignore it until it became the only thing in the room.

Later, you learned words for it. One name, then another, then more. Each one landing like a marker on a map. The words didn’t fix it. But they gave it shape. They gave you a way to say this is real—and a way to reach for help.

Now you have tools. A playlist that hums you back into yourself. A blanket that feels more like armor than fabric. And your little tins and dispensers—quirky, bright, the kind that make the day’s medicine look like sweets instead of survival. Small rituals that turn treatment into care.

Tonight, the weather changes again. You feel it first in your chest—like a small hand tightening a string—and in the way your thoughts begin to tilt, just a little, toward the old familiar edge. Nothing’s wrong, exactly. But everything feels farther away. The cup is too heavy. The lamp too sharp. Even your own voice feels like it’s echoing from another room.

You sit on the couch and pull the blanket up, not because you’re cold, but because ritual has become a form of mercy.

The door clicks. Leather, sunlight, and the faint smell of paper—only these two could be both storm and shelter.

Crowley tips his head, sunglasses already pushed up into his hair. “Barometer says drop,” he murmurs, like a meteorologist who moonlights as a bodyguard. He doesn’t ask if he’s right. He doesn’t need to. He crosses the room and sinks into the cushion beside you with exactly the weight that steadies, not sinks.

Aziraphale follows, something small and warm cupped between his hands. Tea, yes, but also the way his eyes soften when they find you, the way his whole face becomes permission.

“Hello, darling,” he says. “I thought we might try the quiet blend tonight.”

You manage a sound that isn’t quite a word. It’s enough. He sets the cup within reach and lays a tiny dish on the table: one tin with your pill for tonight, a square of chocolate beside it, as though kindness and medicine always belonged on the same plate.

“Your tools,” he says gently, like naming stars.

Crowley nudges the corner of the blanket up and tucks himself under it with you, shoulder to shoulder. He thumbs his phone without looking away, and then a low wash of strings fills the room. No lyrics, just the kind of sound that teaches your lungs how to move again.. You’ve used this track so often it’s muscle memory. 

“Right,” he says, voice a notch lighter. “Inventory time. Have you eaten?”

You nod.

“Taken the cavalry?” He tips his chin at the dish.

You hesitate. Aziraphale’s hand appears, palm up. You place the pill tin in there and he opens it with careful fingers, tipping the tablet into your hand as though passing you something sacred. He doesn’t make a ceremony of it, not exactly; he makes a kindness of it. Water waits. The chocolate waits. When you swallow, Crowley bumps his knee against yours—casual, proud.

“There’s our clever creature,” he mutters softly. 

You let out the smallest breath. The string around your chest loosens half a knot.

“I hate that I still feel it coming,” you say, very quietly. “Even with… you know. Everything I know now.”

Aziraphale nods like you’ve said something holy. “Knowing the tide doesn’t stop the sea,” he says. “It does let you choose your harbor.”

Crowley’s mouth crooks. “And we’re the kind that comes with free docking and a very grumpy lighthouse.”

You huff, which is almost a laugh. The lamp seems less bright.

It isn’t like the old days—when the fog meant you did something wrong, were something wrong, and the only answer was to run faster. Now it’s more like: Oh. Weather. You still don’t like it. But you can name it. Dysthymia. Anxiety. ADHD. PTSD. Major Depression. They sound clinical in your head, but in your body they feel like textures you’ve learned with your hands—coarse, slick, brittle, heavy. Not moral. Not failure. Just fabrics with rules. And naming the weather means you can reach for hands.

“Would you prefer conversation,” Aziraphale asks, “or quiet company?” already lowering the lights to a warmer hush.

You think. The fog hums. “Short conversation,” you say at last. “Then… the other thing.”

“Done.” Crowley leans back, ankle over knee. “Make your case, Counselor.”

You pick at the blanket edge. “It’s stupid.”

“Doubt it,” he replies.

You try again. “It’s… a little thought… My brain is whispering that if I still need all this—labels, meds, playlists, the two of you—I’m not really better. That I should’ve grown out of needing care.”

Aziraphale’s face softens in that specific way that means you’ve said the ache under the ache.“Care is not a phase, my love.” he says simply.

Crowley murmurs. “Put that on a mug.”

Aziraphale continues, quiet but precise. “You didn’t grow out of needing water or sleep or kindness, either. You grew into knowing when to ask for them.”

Crowley taps the armrest. “Also, I’ve been doing this for several millennia and I still need snacks, naps, and the angel telling me to touch grass. Improvement isn’t abolition; it’s scaffolding.”

Something unclenches. The fog thins enough to feel gratitude without guilt.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Okay.”

“Now,” Crowley says, “the other thing.”

You nod. You all know what it means. The ritual you agreed on months ago, when naming the storm left you both relieved and raw, and you needed something to do that wasn’t fixing—just surviving, just a way through.

Aziraphale turns the lamp down to a warm hush and dims the room until edges feel kind, not sharp. He takes your hand and sets it over your own pulse, then lays his palm lightly over your other wrist, to mirror.

“Feel that?” he says, almost a lullaby. “Proof.”

Crowley slides down a little on the couch until he’s half sprawled like a dangerous cat, one hand resting heavy over your ankle—another anchor, a different point in the map. “Count the steadies,” he says. “Not the thoughts.”

You close your eyes.

Aziraphale breathes in for four, out for six, and you match him without trying. Crowley hums under his breath, that off-key line you’ve come to love because it insists the room is not a performance. Tea steam lifts like a soft flag. The blanket smells faintly of lavender and the last sunny afternoon.

When the fog tries its old trick—you’re falling behind, you’re wasting time, they’re bored—Aziraphale squeezes once. “No scoreboard,” he murmurs.

When it says—you’re too much, you’re still broken—Crowley drums, the rhythm you know from the road in summer. “Lies,” he says. “Louder, slower lies.”

And when it says—what if this never ends—both their grips hold. “Then we stay,” they say together, as if they practiced it (they did).

Minutes pass, or hours. Enough. The fog doesn’t lift completely; it rarely does on nights like this. But it stops being the whole sky. You can feel the couch under you, not just the weight on top of you. You can feel your breath arrive and leave like a tide you don’t have to supervise.

“Report?” Crowley asks eventually, like a pilot landing a stubborn plane.

“Less sharp,” you say. “More… quiet.”

“Good enough,” he says, smug, the bastard.

Aziraphale beams. “We adore quiet victories.”

Crowley nudges your foot. “Loud ones too, but this will do.” Then he adds with a grin “I'll bring the fireworks next time”

You smile faintly, The room breathes. The tea warms. Crowley stretches like a cat guarding a hearth. Aziraphale tucks the blanket so it doesn’t slip.

You sip your tea. The chocolate has melted a little; it tastes like softness. You think about those words over the passage of time. Each new word was a door you walked through, even when it creaked. Even when the hallway after wasn’t the miracle you wanted—just a better kind of truth.

“I’m glad I know the names,” you say. “I’m glad I have… this.” You gesture vaguely: pills, playlists, palms, presence.

Aziraphale’s eyes shine. “We are, too.”

Crowley stretches, bones and attitude. “Right. Administrative matters.” He holds up fingers, counting. “One: you text me the tiny emoji when the weather dips—I don’t need words, just the cloud. Two: Angel here continues to be a smug tea wizard. Three: you remember that needing isn’t failing; it’s connecting.”

“Four,” Aziraphale adds, dimple flashing, “we keep chocolate on the medicine dish. Non-negotiable.”

“Five,” you say, surprising yourself, “we change the lamp.”

Crowley’s grin is immediate, wicked and proud. “Now we’re talking.”

Aziraphale claps, pleased. “A practical benediction.”

You’re not fixed. You’re not broken. You are a person with weather and a map, with soft armor and sharp love on either side of you. The night may try again tomorrow; you’ll meet it then, too. With names. With tools. With hands.

For now, the room breathes. The tea warms. The music hums like a river under the floorboards. Crowley tips his head onto the back of the couch, sunglasses sliding down; Aziraphale tucks the blanket just so, like he’s learning the borders of a country he intends to protect.

“You don’t have to shine tonight,” Aziraphale keeps reminding you, on days like this, while stroking a thumb over your knuckles.

“You just have to be,” Crowley adds. “And look at you. Being.”

You let yourself be. And they stay.