like the holding of hands, like the breaking of glass
read on ao3
Summary:
Aziraphale is alive. Armageddon was stopped. The bookshop was saved. Aziraphale is alive.
Throughout his tenure on Earth, Crowley has found that he greatly enjoys sleep. He’s learned that it’s nice to have a break from, you know, eternity. But he never knew how much he had come to rely on it until he couldn’t sleep through the night without being woken by–
By the fire.
And it absolutely baffles him. Because Aziraphale is fine. Aziraphale is alive, as he reminds himself every second of every day. Crowley should be fine too. (Except he’s not.)
Author’s Note:
hey everybody! guess who's still down the good omens hole! it's me. and this one hurts.
please take care reading this one! it involves nightmares, some issues with reality, some suicidal thoughts and very explicit descriptions of panic attacks along with imagery of fire and being burned alive (there's no gore, but again it's rather explicit about the concept) so please be careful if any of this might be a trigger
i've done my best tagging this for those things, but i'm rather new to posting on ao3, so if anyone has any advice on how it could be better tagged so people can navigate their triggers, don't hesitate to let me know!
that said, i'm pretty proud of this one, so please enjoy!
Text:
Crowley can’t breathe.
He doesn’t necessarily need to breathe, but the impact of the firehose against his chest forces all the air out of his lungs as it knocks him flat on his back.
An ice-cold sensation seeps into his clothes, his skin, his bones, his everything.
But it’s not the water. It’s something much, much worse.
Aziraphale is dead.
The thought makes his fingers go numb and his head go fuzzy.
He stays on the ground, his face tilted upwards towards the burning pages fluttering through the air like ashen doves. Aziraphale’s precious books. His misprinted bibles, his prophecies, his poetry. Centuries of collection used as kindling.
But it doesn’t matter anyway. There’s no one left to miss them.
Aziraphale is dead.
Crowley takes a long, ragged breath, letting the smoke settle deeply into his lungs until it stings something awful. He wants to stay here. He wants to let the fire burn up his corporeal form. He wishes it would take everything else that makes him up with it.
And so it does.
As the flames crawl up his scalp, lick at his sleeves, swallow him up right down to his snakeskin shoes, he doesn’t find himself back in Hell. Somewhere, in the depths of his mind, he knows for certain that he’s finally approaching the end. The release.
Crowley will be gone. The world will end. Adam Young will make it so. And that is fine.
As Crowley slips away, he’s thankful.
Because Aziraphale is dead. And life without Aziraphale is no life at all.
But Crowley wakes up.
He bolts upright, half expecting to be met with unbearably humid air thick with the smell of sulfur. The smell of Hell.
He’s in bed, his entire body is covered in a cold sweat, tears streaming down his face. His breath is coming in shallow gasps as his body tries to hack up the smog that isn’t truly there.
He exhales shakily. He has this routine down to a science now.
His clock read 3:36 AM. He shuts his eyes and presses his hands over them tightly.
Aziraphale is alive. Armageddon was stopped. The bookshop was saved. Aziraphale is alive.
He needs to shower. Crowley knows by now that there’s no use trying to get back to sleep. He could easily rid himself of all the sweat and tears with a single thought, but a cool shower always helps him come back to himself a little easier.
The first time that Crowley had a nightmare about the bookshop, he got violently sick.
It was so vivid, so faithful to the experience he had, that he didn’t quite realize what was going on until he was slumped on the tile floor of his bathroom, sobbing and retching into the toilet like some hammered university student. He’d hoped it was a one-time thing, a fluke brought on by all the recent Armageddon-induced stress.
It’s been weeks like this.
Throughout his tenure on Earth, Crowley has found that he greatly enjoys sleep. He’s learned that it’s nice to have a break from, you know, eternity. But he never knew how much he had come to rely on it until he couldn’t sleep through the night without being woken by–
By the fire.
And it absolutely baffles him. Because Aziraphale is fine. Aziraphale is alive, as he reminds himself every second of every day. Crowley should be fine too. (Except he’s not.)
It occurs to him, he should probably reflect a bit on that, as he strips and steps under the cooling spray, but his nightmares leave him too drained to think much of anything other than his new mantra.
Aziraphale is alive. Armageddon was stopped. The bookshop was saved. Aziraphale is alive.
He rests his flushed forehead against the tile.
Aziraphale is alive.
–––––––––
Aziraphale also can’t leave well enough alone.
“Respectfully, Crowley, you look awful.”
“You say the sweetest things, angel.”
He’s stopped by the bookshop a few hours prior to their plans to dine at the Ritz, dropping himself onto the sofa with propped his legs up on the arm, his feet dangling over the side. (He visits more often now for the purpose of staying rather than going out. It eases his heart to see the place intact.) Aziraphale has abandoned his finances for the moment to pester Crowley about the dark half-moons he’s sporting under each eye.
He had been fine for a while, but now the lack of sleep is truly taking its toll on him. He’s the kind of tired that stuffs your head full of cotton and lines your bones with lead. It makes your eyes burn and your feet drag. And as oblivious as the angel can be at times, he’s noticed the recent change in his best friend.
Crowley knows he looks awful, and he knows why he looks awful, but that doesn’t mean he has to admit it.
“Are you sleeping, Crowley?” Aziraphale peers at him over his reading specs (that he doesn’t need) and furrows his brow.
“Don’t worry about me, Aziraphale. I was marathoning Golden Girls all night, had a lovely time.”
“I always like a good chamomile tea in the evening if I’d like to sleep that night, puts me right–“
“Come on, I brought this on myself and it’s fine. You can drop it.”
The angel narrows his eyes at him, but abandons the subject for now and turns back to his computer.
Thank G–Thank… Someone.
So Crowley relaxes into the sofa as Aziraphale babbles on about a lovely new bakery that opened down the block recently, letting the lilting tones of his voice wash over him.
Before he knows it, his eyelids are getting heavy.
He thinks about fighting it, sitting up and listening more closely in the hopes of keeping his exhausted body awake. Surely his falling asleep would only exacerbate Aziraphale’s worries just as Crowley’s gotten him to drop the subject.
But he’s just so tired. So he gives in.
He’s awoken by the sound of crackling flames.
He sits up, his eyes wide. His head still feels thick with sleep, he’s not sure how long he’s been out for.
He’s still in the bookshop, Aziraphale is still at his desk, chattering away as he works.
But there’s fire coming up through the floor beneath him.
Hellfire.
“Aziraphale, get away from there!” Crowley wants to jump up and pull him away from the flames, but he’s rooted on the spot, unable to move.
Aziraphale turns towards him, entirely unbothered. “Whatever are you talking about?”
The flames snake upwards, slowly engulfing Aziraphale as they go.
Crowley wants to scream and yell and fight. He wants to drag the angel out of the blaze. But his voice is trapped in his throat as if he’s choking on his screams. His muscles refuse to move an inch.
Aziraphale’s tan trousers and cream-colored jacket turn black as they burn.
The angel doesn’t seem bothered by the heat. He’s looking at Crowley with concern on his face. (Entirely misplaced concern, as Crowley isn’t the one who’s currently being burned alive.)
The heat stings his eyes but he can’t look away. He has to sit and watch as the inferno eats his best friend whole.
Aziraphale is dead.
Finally, a scream rips its way out of Crowley’s throat.
“Aziraphale!”
A sharp pain on his face snaps him back into reality.
“Crowley, dear, are you alright?”
Crowley’s on the ground next to the sofa. As he rolls over, he suspects that he smacked his cheekbone against the floor when he fell. The impact’s left him somewhat dazed as he takes in the bookshop around him, breathing hard.
There’s no fire.
Aziraphale is kneeling next to him, looking absolutely distraught. Crowley takes a deep breath.
Aziraphale is alive. Armageddon was stopped. The bookshop was saved. Aziraphale is alive.
“Crowley, what on earth is going on? You were yelling in your sleep. And your cheek! It’s already bruising. Oh, you poor thing!” The angel reaches for Crowley’s face to better inspect the bruise, but he flinches away, no matter how badly he craves the grounding touch.
He has to squeeze his eyes shut against Aziraphale’s devastated expression.
“Crowley, please talk to–”
“I have to go. I’ll take a raincheck on the Ritzsss– On the Ritz.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, this is– Crowley, stop!”
He can’t do this. He scrambles to his feet, startling Aziraphale enough to fall backward from where he’s crouched on the floor. The longer he looks at Aziraphale, the more vividly he remembers the sight of him ablaze. Dead.
So Crowley does what he does best. He runs away.
–––––––––
He’s in the Bentley, breaking every traffic law known to man as he speeds back to his flat.
He’s tripping up the stairs, he doesn’t trust his hands not to shake as he unlocks the door, so he opens it with a thought.
He slams it shut and collapses against it, slapping a hand over his mouth to muffle his sobs and squeezing his eyes shut to keep the tears inside. And it hurts.
God above, does it hurt.
It’s a feeling that starts deep in his chest, a pressure that grows and grows until it permeates not just his body but his being, everything that makes Crowley, Crowley. It makes his lungs shudder, his stomach turn. His fingers go numb and his vision goes spotty. It makes his head spin and his heart ache. The worst part about it is that it just doesn’t make sense because Aziraphale is fine.
Aziraphale is alive. Armageddon was stopped. The bookshop was saved. Aziraphale is alive.
Aziraphale is alive. Aziraphale is alive. Aziraphale is alive.
He wants it tattooed on the insides of his eyelids. So that even if he doesn’t know anything else, even if he doesn’t know himself, at least he knows that Aziraphale is alive.
Because since that day, the fear has been ingrained in him like a program that can’t be rewritten, the fear that Aziraphale is–
Is Gone.
Just the thought drives all the air out of his lungs. He feels somewhat faint. His head is pounding. Pounding. Pounding… On the door?
He should yell at whoever it is to go away. Or open it. He should do something, anything, but he just can’t. He’s gasping desperately for air and his skin feels too tight. It’s as if there's a spring wrapped around him coiling tighter and tighter until he’s crushed in its center.
He can distantly hear someone speaking. It’s as if he’s underwater. Drowning. Sinking down, down, down.
The water runs down over his shoulders. It’s almost soothing.
Wrong. Not water. Hands.
Hands.
Crowley takes a slow, ragged breath. The smog and confusion start to clear from his brain. He takes stock of himself: He’s curled into a ball on the floor, knees up against his chest, face pressed tightly down against them, arms wound over his head. Somewhere between the bookshop and his flat he’s lost his sunglasses. His back is up against the inside of his front door. There are hands on his shoulders and a voice speaking in soothing tones. There’s an urgency to the voice, though. A fear. A fear that the voice’s owner trying and failing to conceal.
Crowley exhales. Lifts his head and opens his eyes.
Aziraphale.
“–that’s better, isn’t it? There you are, just keep breathing with me, just a little bit slower, love, breathe with me. You’re in your flat, and I’m here with you. I’m not going anywhere, just watch me and breathe, darling–”
It’s a steady stream of sweet nothings and nonsense, but it’s steady so Crowley hangs onto it with all his might.
He keeps his gaze locked on Aziraphale’s and he breathes. They breathe.
Aziraphale is alive.
Crowley’s not sure how long they stay there, him curled up in a ball and Aziraphale cross-legged in front of him, but he feels the some of the tension drain out of his body, his head lolling to one side as his exhaustion catches up with him once again.
Aziraphale takes both of his hands. “Crowley, will you please tell me what’s wrong?”
His voice is solemn and deep in a way that it so rarely is. Crowley sighs, his eyes fluttering shut as he nods. He knows that this is a conversation that needs to happen, but it doesn’t make it any less difficult.
Crowley refuses to take his eyes off of his toes as he concedes, “I’ve been having these… dreams–” Oh, he hates how small his voice sounds. “–Nightmares, I suppose, is the more accurate description.”
When he doesn’t continue, Aziraphale nudges him a little further. “And what happens? In these nightmares?”
“Well, they vary, from time to time, but there’s–” His voice catches in his throat. He’s already worked up again at just the thought, at the way Aziraphale looks so anguished, so he drops his forehead to his knees once again, squeezing his eyes shut and focusing on the grounding feeling of Aziraphale’s hands in his. His voice escapes as a strangled croak once he forces himself to continue. “But in every single one, you die Aziraphale. You burn just like– Just like I thought you did, that day in the bookshop. You burn, and you’re dead, and I’m all alone and it’s–” His throat closes up and he can’t continue. There are tears gathering in his eyes again. Aziraphale’s hands tighten around his before disappearing.
Crowley panics for a moment, eyes flying opening as he picks up his head, fearing the worst. But Aziraphale is only shifting to sit by his side instead, wrapping his arms around Crowley’s slight frame and drawing him close so that he can rest his head against the angel’s chest. Crowley spares a thought that he’ll ruin Aziraphale’s shirt and vest with his snot and tears but then gentle fingers are carding through his hair and he really can’t be bothered.
“Listen, Crowley, right there. You can hear my heart beating,” He could. He could feel it, too, a gentle thudding sensation against his cheek. “It’s symbolic more than anything else, really, but it’s proof. I’m here and I’m not leaving you, Crowley. I’m here, I’m alive and so are you.”
Aziraphale is alive and so am I.
The dam breaks and Crowley weeps.
But it’s different than before. It’s not out of terror, or loss, or the sensation of hot smoke in his face as everything burns down before his eyes. For the first time since Armageddon, a sensation of catharsis sweeps over him as he cries. He cries for little Adam and his friends, swept up in something so much bigger than themselves, he cries for Anathema and Newt, the weight of the world upon their shoulders. He cries for Aziraphale, so good and human and ineffable.
And for once, Crowley cries for himself. Because he’s literally been dragged to Hell and back again and he’s tired. Tired of the overarching plans and orders and the bigness of it all when there’s so much pleasure to be found in the smallness. The smallness of people and their cups of tea and television programs and postcards and fancy wines and CDs. The smallness of the smile thrown his way when he’s said something witty, pink flustered cheeks, and the feeling of soft hands in his.
Crowley trembles and wails and it’s fine because now there’s someone there to hold him.
Soft kisses in his hair and on his forehead, fingertips wiping away his tears, and a soothing hand up and down his spine.
Eventually, his sobs subside and they stay curled up against the door as Crowley sniffles against Aziraphale’s chest.
“How long has this been going on?” Aziraphale asks quietly, continuing his comforting touches.
“Since that day.”
“Oh, love.” The angel sighs and rests his cheek against the crown of Crowley’s head. “Gosh, I should’ve noticed–”
“You did notice. And I was doing everything in my power to hide it from you.”
“Still. I hate the idea of you going through that on your own,” Aziraphale lifts his head and shifts himself into Crowley’s eyeline, purposefully meeting his eyes. “Please come to me, the next time your experiencing something like that. You’re not a burden, it’s not a difficulty. I want to be there for you, and I’d love it if you’d let me.”
Crowley nods and places a hand on Aziraphale’s cheek, drawing him in for a chaste kiss.
Thank you for being here when I need you. I love you.
Aziraphale kisses him back, placing his hand over Crowley’s.
I love you, too. I’ll always be here.
“Well, I think it’s about time we get you to bed.”
“Will you stay with me, angel?”
“Always.”
