Waking up, Aziraphale decides, is a rather dreadful experience, truth be told. He doesn't recommend the experience and doesn't understand how Crowley can enjoy sleeping if this is how it feels awaken.
When consciousness returns to the angel, he opens his eyes to a quiet, dark room. His bedroom, he realises belatedly. His flat at the bookshop has a bedroom, of course, it's just scarcely used unless Crowley really needs to sleep off a bender or something and doesn't want to miracle himself sober for whatever reason. Aziraphale has only ever lied on the bed when reading, as he sometimes gets tired of the seated posture when reading, but that is the only time he has ever used this bed.
Now he is using it as, well… a bed, it seems.
And he feels absolutely awful. Everything hurts—literally everything. HIs core, his wheels, his human body—it all aches. His head aches. Everything aches. Even opening his eyes hurts, and that has certainly never happened before. He tries to remember what happened but keeps coming up blank; his mind is exhausted, his head throbs, and being awake is just… exhausting, right now.
The door to the room opens as he's closing his eyes again. He forces them back open, peering up at Crowley, who looks—
"Oh, dear," he says quietly.
Crowley stops where he stands, halfway to the bed, head snapping up from where his gaze was focused on the floor, it seems. He's not wearing his sunglasses and his eyes look absolutely dreadful, as does the rest of him, if Aziraphale is being honest. Seeing Crowley in pain has never been a pleasant experience, hereditary enemies or otherwise.
"Angel."
A second later, Crowley is at his side, and there are warm fingers grasping his own. Oh. Oh, that feels nice… a cool presence slithering through him and around, shielding him from the agony of his body. His eyes fall shut again.
"Stay awake." Oh, that tone is simply awful. Why does Crowley sound like that?
It's terribly hard to open his eyes, but he does it nevertheless, because something is clearly wrong with his demon, and that simply won't do. Those reptilian eyes are ever so wide, and oh so yellow, no hint of white showing. Crowley's fingers crush his own, and that presence washes over him again. The cool touch is a relief to his aches and pains, and he fights the urge to close his eyes again. He needs to know what's wrong, first.
"Are you alright, my dear?"
Crowley splutters for a moment—incomprehensible sounds escaping his lips. "You—you just worry about yourself, you stupid idiot."
Stupid idiot. Oh, they do need to work on Crowley's vocabulary…
"What's wrong?" Aziraphale tries again.
A muscle jumps in Crowley's jaw. "What do you remember?"
"Remember…?"
Is he supposed to remember something? Is there something to remember?
Well, there must be, he reasons. He was sleeping again. And Crowley certainly looks like he was put through a wringer, which leaves Aziraphale more than a little concerned. Was Crowley fighting? Was Aziraphale? Did they win? Well, they must have. They're still alive.
"I'm sorry, dear," he says to Crowley's hopeful expression, "I don't recall what happened. Were we fighting? Were you hurt?"
"Ngk," Crowley says.
His thumb rubs across the top of Aziraphale's knuckles, almost absently. Those yellow eyes still stare down at him, and he still looks absolutely dreadful. Paler than usual, eyes so very yellow, and he looks so… so…
Upset, his mind supplies. Distraught. Ruined.
No, not ruined. They're both alive, so they must have escaped whatever they were fighting.
Heavens, his head hurts.
His eyes slip shut again.
"Don't sleep," Crowley says sharply. There's a crushing vice around his hand. "Angel, stay awake. You've—you've been asleep for days."
Days?
He's been asleep for days?
And he can't even remember what happened.
Some angel he is.
"I'm… very tired," Aziraphale murmurs. Speaking the words is almost too much effort. Why is he so tired?
"Can you just…? For a few minutes, stay awake?"
Oh, he hopes he never hears that tone again. That… that desperation. That panic. That uncertainty. Crowley shouldn't have to ever ask him for anything, and especially not like that. The fact he's basically just asking him to stay awake a little longer is rather telling, he thinks, if he could just remember what happened.
"Aziraphale?" Crowley's voice is a soft whisper.
" 'm awake, dear," he manages. It is increasingly hard to speak, but he's awake—for now, at least.
A shaky breath escapes the demon. That won't do. No, that won't do at all.
He forces reluctant eyelids open. Squeezes Crowley's fingers. "What's wrong?"
Crowley's eyes fall shut. "Nothing, angel. Everything's fine. You just… need to finish healing, is all."
"Healing…?"
"You… You got hurt, angel."
"Oh," he says quietly. "Was it… bad…?"
That muscle ticks in Crowley's jaw again. "Yeah," he says roughly, like it's hard for him to speak as well.
Maybe their throats got singed or something?
"And you?" He asks, because that's what is most important. He clearly got hurt himself, and he will worry about that later when he can think straight and hopefully remember what happened, but Crowley looks wretched, and that won't do. "Were you… hurt?"
"No," the demon says. "I wasn't… hurt."
Crowley is alright, then.
"Tha'ss… good, m'dear…"
Crowley's eyes shoot open. "Angel? Aziraphale?"
Aziraphale's eyes close once more. He's so dreadfully tired, and Crowley is okay. Maybe he can just… take a little nap… just a short one…
"Azira—"
But he's already gone.
xXx
The next time he wakes, the experience isn't much better, except everything doesn't hurt as much. He thinks. He can't remember if he dreamt such pain, if angels can even dream, or if it actually happened. Has he woken in this bed before now?
Hmm. He's in bed.
Waking up again.
Sleeping is the absolute worst experience, he decides. How can Crowley stand it?
Speaking of the demon, he is nowhere to be seen. Well, he had to get rest himself sometime, surely. Hopefully he's sleeping somewhere, since he enjoys it so much and looked… hmm. Crowley looked so wounded before. So tired. Or was that a dream too?
His head hurts.
Sitting up takes actual effort, which strikes him as wrong, but nevertheless the manages it and throws his legs over the side of the bed. The world spins around him, vision blurring in and out, and for a moment he just sits there. Spinning while sitting still.
Oh, come on now. It's not that bad, surely. Come on.
He takes in a slow, steady breath, and forces himself to stand up.
And lurches sideways instantly.
He barely manages to catch himself before he trips over his nightstand, and after a few staggered steps he seems to have found his balance at long last. He smiles, proud of himself, and makes his way toward the door. Right, you can do this. One foot in front of the other. Come on now. Move.
He pries the door open and steps into the hallway. Ah. Stairs.
Stairs.
Something slams into him, then. Something about stairs…
And then he's lurching sideways again.
This time he hits the wall hard and slides to the ground. The world spins around him—it's too much. He closes his eyes.
Footsteps thunder up the stairs.
"Angel? Aziraphale?" Warm hands grab at him, and he blinks his eyes open to see Crowley's twisted expression peering own at him.
"Oh," he says. "There you are."
"What? What are you doing out of bed?"
"Hmm…? Oh, bed." He blinks sluggishly. Oh, why is he so tired? "I'm tired of waking up."
"What?"
"Sleeping is awful. I don't know how you do it."
The sound Crowley releases isn't a laugh—it's too… something, for that. Too broken? No, not broken. Crowley has never been broken. Hands grab at his arms and haul him back up, and the world is spinning again. Crowley presses him against the wall, holding him steady.
"You alright?" The demon asks.
"Once everything stops spinning, I will be," Aziraphale says, somewhat irritably. Why must everything keep spinning. Why does he feel so… so… "What happened? Did we get completely sloshed?"
"No, we didn't drink," the demon says quietly. His hand presses against Aziraphale's shoulder, warm and soothing as his thumb presses in against Aziraphale's collarbone. Oh, that feels nice. Yes, there is an ache there, and Crowley's cool essence soothes it.
"Mm, that's nice," he says sleepily. Oh, why is he standing in the middle of the hallway? Wasn't he trying to go somewhere?
"Can you…"
"Hm, dear?"
Crowley's expression twists. Crumples, it seems. "Would you like to go downstairs? You've been asleep quite a while."
That should worry him. It stirs at something inside of him, but he's too busy nodding at Crowley's suggest. "Yes, downstairs, please."
Stairs. He looks at them again. The world tilts. Something about stairs.
"Stairs…" he murmurs.
"Whoa—angel, easy."
Hands right him when he lurches sideways again.
"Something about… stairs," Aziraphale says, eyes falling shut.
And then he drifts away again.
xXx
The third time he wakes up, he's decidedly done with sleeping. Forever.
His mind is far more clear than before, he thinks, and this time when he stands up from the bed, he doesn't immediately lurch sideways. It takes a single step to get his bearings and then he's striding out of the room because if he never sees that blasted bed again it will still be too soon.
He stops at the top of the stairs. Stairs. Something about stairs. No, not stairs. An escalator, maybe? A stopped escalator?
A broken escalator can only become stairs, he can't help but think.
He doesn't want to step foot on the stairs. Something screams at him from deep within, at his core. Don't go there, it says. Please don't go there again. It hurts so much.
Stairs that hurt? What does that mean?
Regardless, he will step on these stairs. He needs to go downstairs; he doesn't know where Crowley is and he's tired of sleeping. Tired of waking up.
He can't decide which one is worse.
One by one, he makes his way down the stairs and is decidedly proud of himself once he reaches the bottom. He's not sure why stairs bother him, but he made it down them anyway. Somehow, that feels like progress. He's been here before, he thinks.
Yes. Something about the hallway. Crowley.
Crowley. He needs to find the demon.
Was that a dream, or did Crowley look awful last time?
Last time. How many times have there been now?
Well, at least he's made it down the stairs. Baby steps, he tells himself.
Crowley isn't in the kitchen, which is where the stairs lead down to. He stops at the counter near the stove and leans against it for a moment as the world spins, but it's not completely awful. He remembers spinning before—always spinning, and falling.
He pushes away from the surface once he feels more steady, and makes his way out of the kitchen.
Crowley sits on the couch, hunched forward with his head in his hands, and his shoulders are shaking.
For a moment, the scene fails to register in Aziraphale's mind. Why on Earth would Crowley ever look like that?
He steps closer to the demon.
Crowley stiffens and lifts his head, whipping around to face Aziraphale. Wide yellow eyes meet his, and he can't help but think that Crowley looks absolutely exhausted. The demon is on his feet in the next instant, and then suddenly in front of him, hands reaching out. This feels familiar, he thinks.
"You're awake," Crowley says quickly, "tell me you're awake."
"I'm awake," he says, frowning. "What happened?"
Crowley doesn't answer him. He just yanks Aziraphale forward into his arms, wraps his own arms around the angel, and squeezes for all he's worth. It knocks the breath from Aziraphale's lungs but the demon is shaking again—trembling, it seems, and that seems far more important.
His arms come around the demon as well. "Oh, my dear. Whatever is the matter?"
A wretched sound escapes Crowley's mouth, followed by a shaky inhale. "You… Are you alright?"
"Of course I am," Aziraphale tells him. "But what's the matter with you, dear?"
"What… what do you remember?"
Aziraphale frowns. That also sounds familiar. He should remember something. Something about stairs…
"Stairs…" he says quietly.
Those arms around him tighten. Aziraphale's legs feel rather shaky and his body drags downward somewhat, but Crowley crushes him tightly, face burning into Aziraphale's shoulder. "No, stay awake," the demon hisses. "Just ssstay awake."
"I am awake, dear," Aziraphale says. "My legs just… ache."
"Oh," Crowley says quietly. But he doesn't move. Doesn't pull away, just seems to hold on tighter, like Aziraphale will wither away if he loosens his hold. "You ssshould sssit down."
"Perhaps I should."
But neither of them move.
Aziraphale can't move even if he wants to, which he doesn't—not with how upset Crowley seems. It doesn't appear that the demon is injured, but he's still trembling and that is worrisome. "Will you please tell me what's wrong? Are you hurt?"
Crowley is either shaking his head or trying to bury his face more into Aziraphale's shoulder, he's honestly not sure which at this point. Either way it's worrisome, because if he's not hurt, then why is he behaving this way? Something must be wrong. And if he's just burrowing closer, that is also worrisome.
The two don't touch very often, if at all. They just… don't. They are not normally very physical in any way. They share presences, and speak to each other, but physical contact has never been something they do very often. A light brush of a hand there, a touch of fingers here, something like that is fine, but this? The way Crowley is literally crushing him right now? What on Earth brought this on?
"Crowley—what is going on?"
Crowley releases a shaky exhale and finally releases Aziraphale. Pulls away from him and looks at him. "What do you remember? And don't mention stairs."
Aziraphale frowns. "But… all I remember are stairs… I think…"
Something about stairs. Something at the edge of his mind. Something…
The world spins around him.
There are fangs in Crowley's mouth, he thinks.
"No, no, no," the demon is chanting, and when did he get so tall? "Aziraphale?"
Oh. He's on the floor. When did that happen? Why does his head hurt so much…
"Stay awake," Crowley says, eyes wide and fangs protruding. "Ssstay awake, Asssziraphale, ssstay—"
The world is spinning. Why is it always spinning?
Something… about… stairs…
Darkness.
xXx
The next time he wakes up, he is ready to smite something or someone.
Hesitates at the top of the stairs. Something gnawing at him, nagging at his mind. Something…
Makes his way down the stairs without staggering or tripping. His head doesn't even hurt, he thinks, and for some reason that seems important.
He's just not quite sure why.
Oh, what happened? Why can't he remember? Where is Crowley?
The demon is on his couch, it seems. Completely sloshed, if the empty bottles around him are anything to go by.
Oh. Maybe they drank too much last night and that's why he can't remember much of anything. For whatever reason, maybe they didn't miracle it away like usual.
If that's the case Aziraphale is going to be terribly cross with Crowley for making him worry.
For making him sleep.
He debates waking Crowley, but one look at the demon's face tells him Crowley really needs the sleep. He looks utterly exhausted. But there's a crease to his brow Aziraphale will not tolerate, no matter how cross he might be with the demon for being this drunk.
Crowley tosses his head to the side, a low keening whine escaping him, and Aziraphale's blood runs cold. No. Crowley can't ever sound like that again.
He presses his hand to Crowley's forehead. "Enough of that, my dear. Dream of whatever you like best."
The blessing settles over Crowley, who is too exhausted to even think about fighting it, and that crease smooths in his brow. Aziraphale nods to himself; that is much better.
He looks around his bookshop then, now that Crowley is settled. There's a thin layer of dust over everything.
How long has…?
He remembers caring for the bookshop yesterday. It was yesterday, right?
Stairs… something about…
Something inside of him wails. Screams. No. Stairs are Bad. Stairs hurt. Don't think about the stairs.
The world spins around him. He sways, catching himself against a bookshelf. Everything in him screams to Stop Looking. Don't Look. Just Don't Look.
He looks.