Basically just Aziraphale with OCD, and Crowley comforting him. I have OCD myself and OCD!Aziraphale is a headcanon I've toyed with for a long while.
Warnings for descriptions of OCD, panic attacks, and intrusive thoughts - I don't describe the content of the intrusive thoughts, but Aziraphale does react negatively to them.
"Angel?"
Aziraphale startled, clattering his fork against his plate. "Yes, my dear?" he said hurriedly as he sat up straight in his chair. "I'm so sorry, I must have drifted away for a moment. What was it you were saying?"
He tried to focus on Crowley, sitting at the opposite end of the table across from him. It was more difficult than he expected, like some part of his mind wasn't yet fully there. He could only process fragments of the whole picture – Crowley's thin fingers wrapped around the stem of the wine-glass, his tie slightly loosened, Aziraphale's own reflection in the glossy surface of Crowley's sunglasses. He couldn't see Crowley's eyes like this, but the way Crowley leaned forward to peer more closely at him had a concerned air.
"Are you alright?" he said. "You seem a bit… out of it."
Aziraphale smiled weakly. "Just a little too much wine, I think," he said, hiding his grimace behind his napkin. "Please, do continue."
Crowley studied him for a moment longer. "If you say so," he said, a trifle dubiously. He launched back into his retelling of that one time in ancient China, when he'd sidled up to a scholar's side and pointed out that hey, the number six in Chinese sounded awfully similar to the Chinese word for 'flowing', and wouldn't it make a nifty pun if you combined three sixes together to mean 'everything goes smoothly'?
It really was quite the amusing story, and Aziraphale did try to listen, but it was like there was a faint buzz rising at the back of his mind, melding with the chatter of the diners around them and forming into insidious little whispers that whispered vile things into his ears that he did not want to hear. Aziraphale sucked in a breath and discreetly moved his chair closer to the table, trying to zero in on Crowley's face and voice. It worked, for a moment. For a moment it was all fine, and they were simply Aziraphale and Crowley, dining at the Ritz one lovely summer evening, free from all worries and superiors breathing down their necks. Crowley's voice became comprehensible again as he enthused about "that fellow Chao who wrote the poem about the lion-eating poet in the stone den, you would've loved him, angel –"
Aziraphale's gaze drifted past the curve of Crowley's throat, which of course was when his thrice-accursed imagination decided to bombard his mind's eye with a – well. A thoroughly unpleasant image that sent a shudder of pure revulsion down Aziraphale's spine. Stop it, he thought furiously at this intrusion. I would never do such a thing – but no. There was no use arguing against it; he would only risk getting lost further in his head if he persisted. He stared fixedly at the tablecloth, but the buzzing thoughts in his head only grew louder. Be quiet, he snapped back at his mind before he could stop himself. The next breath he drew caught tight in his chest, and never mind the fact that he didn't strictly need to breathe, the frustration and disgust and faint panic that it caused seemed to clog his throat and crawl beneath his skin like so many ants. He tugged at his tie, which suddenly felt far too tight around his neck.
"–ziraphale? Hey, Az?"
Aziraphale jumped at the gentle press of fingers against his shoulder. Crowley was somehow standing beside him, bending down to peer anxiously into his face. His dark glasses slipped down, revealing a flash of wide yellow eyes.
"Oh, dear," Aziraphale muttered, trying not to gulp too audibly. "I'm so sorry, let me just –" He tried to rise, but Crowley stopped him.
"Sorry, hold on. I have to call for the bill, but do you want to go wait in the car or sit here for a while longer?"
Aziraphale blinked, momentarily stunned out of his turmoil. "The bill? But, Crowley, we haven't even finished our –"
Only, when he looked over at their table and at his own nearly-full plate, the last remnants of his appetite shriveled up and died, leaving a vague queasiness behind. He glanced at the chattering diners all around them, crowded and noisy and bright and everywhere at once. Always moving, never stopping. It was just… too fast. All too fast and all at once, and Aziraphale was dimly aware of Crowley rubbing his shoulders as he hunched over, squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to steady his breathing.
It took a few tense moments, but eventually he was composed enough to look back up at Crowley, who had taken Aziraphale's hand in his. Crowley tentatively wound their fingers together, tawny against warm brown, and it was an anchor amidst the churning storm of Aziraphale's thoughts.
"We can stay, if you want to," Crowley said quietly, "but I don't want to force you to do anything you don't want to do."
Aziraphale took another shuddering breath and nodded. "I can wait here while you get the bill," he managed. "Thank you, my dear."
Crowley pressed a kiss to Aziraphale's fingers, then turned to wave for a waiter. Aziraphale focused on pulling his suddenly-refilled teacup over, letting the heated ceramic settle his nerves and recognizing Crowley's particular touch in the faint whiff of peppermint that rose from the tea's surface. Soon Crowley was draping Aziraphale's camelhair coat over his shoulders and wrapping a protective arm around him, leading them both towards the door, while Aziraphale stared down at the tiles and blinked away the horrifying images that flickered behind his eyelids.
The Bentley was parked illegally on the curb outside, though it had been sitting all the way down the street only a minute before. Once out in the cool night air, away from the crowds, Aziraphale's hands flew back to his collar, and Crowley helped him gently tug his tie loose until he breathed more easily. Then they were driving sedately down Piccadilly under the watery yellow glow of the street-lamps, and if the streets seemed unusually empty of people for this time of night, neither of them mentioned it.
Aziraphale pressed his cheek against the Bentley's window. The glass was cold against his skin, and a relief after the crowded warmth of the restaurant. The radio hummed softly with the refrain of Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy, a welcome distraction from his muddled brain.
"Your place or mine?" Crowley asked softly.
After an evening like this, all he longed for were the comforting walls of his shop. "The bookshop, if it isn't too much trouble," he mumbled, eyes closed.
Cloth rustled, and Crowley's hand stole back into his. "You're never a trouble, angel. We'll be home soon."
Thanks for reading! Reviews are always appreciated.