This chapter's full title is: Flickering, Circling, Angels and Demons, oh My
Also, this story is currently sitting at 69 chapters over on AO3 if you'd like to check it out there in its entirety. Posting to FF can be super annoying which is why this site has been lagging sooooo far behind. It is on AO3 under the same title and by AkuChibi.
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When Crowley wakes from a sleep he never truly meant to have, he lies there on Aziraphale's couch for a long, long time, just staring up at the ceiling. He knows he should get up to go check on Aziraphale, but if he has to hear Aziraphale ask about stairs one more time before passing out and keeling over yet again—well, he isn't certain what he'll do. Nothing good.
What day is it? Thursday? Friday? He doesn't know. They all sort of blur together at this point. For nearly two weeks, Aziraphale has been in and out of consciousness, and just when Crowley thinks he's finally awake for real, he keels over again, mumbling about stairs, and Crowley hates bloody stairs. Stairs were invented by Hell, he decides, they have to have been, because stairs shouldn't make him so… so…
Right. I should get up.
He vaguely remembers getting absolutely plastered after Aziraphale passed out again. He's earned the right to drink, he thinks, because he's the one stuck here watching his best friend keel over again and again and again, after the sodding idiot very nearly died on him. He doesn't know what else to do at this point to keep Aziraphale awake, and doesn't know if Aziraphale will even truly be awake again.
His True Form sustained damage, after all, and his memories are… tied to it, it seems. He's stuck in a loop of forgetting and trying to remember and asking the same questions over and over—what's wrong, Crowley, and what happened, Crowley, and are you hurt, dear and Crowley doesn't know what he'll do if Aziraphale asks them again. He just… doesn't.
Sometimes Aziraphale seems more lucid than others, but sometimes he just babbles about stairs, and wails as if in agony again, and Crowley Looks at his True Form over and over to make sure there aren't any new wounds, but sometimes… sometimes they start seeping again, not fully healed, and he honestly doesn't know how much more of this he can take.
Aziraphale, that is. How much more Aziraphale can take. Crowley is perfectly fine, of course. He's not panicking. He's not. He didn't break down the other day and crush Aziraphale against him, constricting him like the snake he is. Nope, that never happened.
And when Aziraphale collapsed again, he certainly didn't scream or want sob or anything nonsensical like that. Not him.
Crowley blinks at the sting of his eyes. Right, not thinking about any of that. Aziraphale is on the mend, slowly but surely, and this can't happen forever. This can't be the loop they're always stuck in from now, with stolen moments of lucidity and consciousness and stairs—
Something… flickers.
At first Crowley thinks it's just the lights in this bookshop. They've been on for quite some time and he doesn't remember Aziraphale ever changing any bulbs; he probably miracles them to perfection again when they start to dim, but he can't quite do that right now.
But it's not the lights.
He rears up, panic settling over him like a second skin.
No, no, no, don't you flicker, you bastard— "Don't even think about it," he hisses as he lurches from the couch.
Aziraphale isn't upstairs, though.
The angel is on the floor a few steps from the couch. Books surround him, like he caught himself on a shelf and dragged them down onto him.
Crowley stares down at the sight for two long seconds, unable to comprehend it in that moment. Aziraphale was awake again, it seems, and lucid enough to make his way downstairs, and Crowley was—sloshed.
He drops to his knees next to the still form, hands hovering over the downed angel, uncertain how to fix this. Finally he settles on grabbing Aziraphale's shoulder and shaking him. "Angel? Aziraphale?"
Aziraphale's head tosses to the side, brow furrowed in pain, and he mumbles something under his breath, something Crowley doesn't quite catch.
"What was that, angel?"
"St…airs…"
With a hiss, Crowley hovers over the angel, hands pressed tightly into both shoulders, fingers pressing into skin with a bruising grip, and he Looks to see that Aziraphale's form is—
No, no, you're not doing this to me again, Aziraphale, you bastard—
Old slices have ripped open in the astral form, and golden light seeps through, and that presence is flickering.
"Stop," he chokes, "don't think about the stairs, Aziraphale, there aren't any stairs! We just—we… we drank too much and passed out and that's all that happened, I… Stop flickering, you bastard—"
"There were… stairs," Aziraphale says, and oh, Someone, his eyes are open. "Heaven…"
"Stop," Crowley says again, shaking his head firmly. "Stop, angel, you can't think about it. You can't remember. You have to stop."
Blood drips from the corner of Aziraphale's mouth. A whine catches in Crowley's throat and he bites it back, pressing his hand to Aziraphale's forehead. He wills his essence into the angel, picturing himself slithering in a circle around that flickering essence, and he holds tight to it.
"Oh…" The word spills from Aziraphale's bloody mouth and he has the audacity to smile at Crowley. "I remember, dear."
"Don't you bloody remember, Aziraphale, if you don't stop—stop flickering—ssstop it, ssstop—"
He circles tighter to that essence, pressing in on all sides. The golden, holy light is blinding and painful, attempting to push him back and away from that holy essence, but he won't do it. It's like holding onto shards of glass, cutting at him in every way, but he won't stop.
"You're… hurting yourself… dear."
Flickering… flickering…
Then it stops. It stops flickering.
For one horrifying moment, Crowley thinks he's lost him. This is it. He failed the one person he wanted to protect, and he's alone. He's alone. He's alone and he should never be alone, they're eternal, why is he alone—
But Aziraphale is still Bright. Still warm and soothing.
He stopped flickering, but not because he faded away.
Crowley still curls in tighter around him, both physically and metaphysically, circling that presence, watching as the flames within are stoked and rekindled, watches as they form stops seeping. His forehead is pressed against Aziraphale's again and his eyes are screwed shut tight and there's a sob lodged in his throat but Aziraphale is alive.
"It's alright, my dear."
A hand lands at the back of his neck, simply holding on and ebbing warmth and radiance. That sob slips past his lips and his shoulders—his entire body, actually—are trembling and shaking as he bites back the rest of the sobs, because he will not—will not cry—because Aziraphale is alive. He's alive. There is no need to panic and no need to fall apart because—
A flood of calm calm calm safe I'm here I love you I Love you calm safe ebbs into him from the pressure at the back of his neck, Aziraphale pushing his presence back against Crowley's, and while it does calm his rampant thoughts and ease his fears to some degree, he can't be calm. Not really. Not right now.
"Shh, dear. Shh. I have you."
There are fingers in his hair, toying with the strands at the base of his neck where his hairline meets skin, and Aziraphale keeps pushing out with his presence while Crowley's own circles him, nudging against the entity. What was was once white-hot pain, akin to shards of glass slipping through his hands, the presence is now a warm fire in a sea of darkness, and that light is everything to him.
"It's alright, Crowley. Shh. I'm here now, and I am ever so sorry to have kept you waiting."
A sob, in his throat again. He swallows it back, circling, circling—
Keep this safe, he tells himself. Keep this spark safe. Don't let it flicker again. Don't ever let it flicker again.
"You…" he wheezes, once he's found his human voice, "are not allowed to flicker. Not ever."
"Everything's alright, my dear. You grounded me."
You grounded me. The words flit through his mind, crashing against rampant thoughts, but never really connecting. Not truly sinking in. He keeps circling the warmth and light that is Aziraphale. Warmth and love and a sense of calm is still ebbing into him from that hand on the back of his neck, and slowly, so slowly, Crowley lets himself sink into the offered comfort.
He's too wrecked to even try to shy away from that sense of safety, like any good demon would do. Any self-respecting demon wouldn't be caught dead accepting such Love from an angel.
He's always been a poor excuse of a demon, though.
A ragged breath escapes him, but he thinks he finally feels steady enough to pull back. To give Aziraphale a little space. He lifts his head and stops circling, thought a part of him wants to keep circling forever. "You…" His voice sounds awful even to his own ears, like he's been gargling nails or something. Aziraphale's eyes are watching him, half-lidded, but there's not a pained crease to his brow and the blood has stopped dribbling down from the corner of his mouth.
Crowley's hand moves on its own, and his thumb brushes away a stray drop of blood. Aziraphale's eyes fall shut at the touch, and while his hand fell away from Crowley pulled back and sat up properly, his other hand has caught hold of Crowley's and gives his fingers a reassuring squeeze.
"I had to remember," Aziraphale tells him quietly. "There was no way not to think about it, my dear. I am sorry for worrying you, though." Those eyes open again and the angel frowns at him. "You look absolutely dreadful, by the way."
A shaky laugh escapes him. Oh, how long has it been since he laughed? Two weeks at the very least. "I look dreadful, he says. Clearly you haven't seen yourself in the mirror, Aziraphale."
"All in good time, I suppose." A pause. "My hair and clothing must be a mess."
Oh, of course. Of course. Yep, that's what the angel's worried about, his appearance not—
Another laugh escapes him. It doesn't feel as weak or fragile as the first one, somehow. His thumb smooths across the top of Aziraphale's knuckles and he is grateful for the contact—grateful Aziraphale seems to recognise his need for it in this moment. He doesn't know if Aziraphale truly knows the extent of what happened, or how close he came to slipping away, but in this moment Crowley needs the physical contact. Any contact.
But circling that presence forever is… something he's not allowed to do. It would be wrong of him, to sully an angel like that. Especially Aziraphale.
"How long has it been?"
Crowley frowns at the question. "You've been in and out of consciousness for two weeks now, angel. It was… a long time."
"Two weeks," Aziraphale all but moans, but the irritated note to his voice leaves Crowley feeling strangely relieved. "Oh, I won't ever sleep again. That was truly awful. I don't know how you sleep, dear."
"That… that wasn't sleep," he says, and then shakes his head. "Never mind. Sleep isn't for you." And I'll be happy if you never sleep again, angel.
"On the… bright side," Aziraphale says, ever the optimist, "I clearly haven't had any Urges in the past two weeks."
Crowley groans. "That's not a silver lining, Aziraphale. You were unconscious." But he smirks anyway, and Aziraphale smiles back at him like he's the sun, and fuck, I almost lost this.
That panic tries to rear its head inside of him again.
"No, dear, none of that."
Warmth presses against him, a light touch of Aziraphale's presence, and Crowley's eyes fall shut.
Right. None of that.
Aziraphale is alive, and Crowley is going to keep him that way, no matter what it takes.
He won't let that presence ever flicker again.
"I am worried about Heaven," the angel says.
Crowley hisses, glaring down at said angel. "Heaven's fine. Okay? They're fine, they're probably up there throwing some sort of party for… Look, angel, they don't are about you." They never have. "Don't worry about them."
"Crowley, that… event on the escalator was clearly a Do Not Disturb sign."
"Oh, a sign, he says," Crowley mutters, "yes, 'course, it was a bleeding sign, how silly of me to think otherwise."
"Something is clearly wrong with Heaven."
"That's their problem," Crowley hisses. "Not oursss. Not yoursss."
"Well, it seems it is my problem, dear. People are remembering me and praying to me."
Right. That. Almost forgot about that with the two-week long nightmare.
"We'll figure it out," he say sharply. "Jussst… not right now."
He can't think about all of that right now, and Aziraphale shouldn't either. He needs to recuperate, to finally—finally—heal.
"Very well," Aziraphale says.
And then they just linger there—connected by a hand, with Crowley on his knees next to the angel, and Crowley takes in every curve of his face, every dimple in his skin, that warm look in his eyes—he takes it all in, because he came so very, very close to losing this forever.
He and Aziraphale have been friends for 6000 years, and he doesn't know how to go back to being alone. He won't ever go back to being alone.
It's a thought he's had for a while now—deep, deep down inside of himself. But losing Aziraphale is a fear he's never spoken into existence, tries hard not to think about, because should anyone catch wind of what the angel means to him, then it's all over.
They're on Their Side now, and that should have meant the freedom to be open about everything, but now it seems just another way to cut at him, little by little. He's spent two weeks watching Aziraphale wither and recover, two weeks losing the angel to unconsciousness no matter what he tried, and he simply can't go through any of that again. Not any of it, not ever again.
If Aziraphale had flickered out and left him alone…
If Crowley hadn't gotten past that stupid ward…
If he hadn't had the strength to miracle them both off that escalator…
If, if, if.
Life is fragile, but Crowley is only just now realising this fact. He's only had to worry about losing Aziraphale a handful of times, most of them rather recently, but the past two weeks have put things in stark perspective.
The thing about loving someone, though, means they are suddenly something you can lose.
"Dear. Stop."
Crowley blinks his eyes, noticing they are rather wet and burning. He swipes a hand across his face, wiping away the grittiness, and refocuses on the angel frowning up at him. Aziraphale's lips are pursed into a thin white line and his brow is creased again. "Sorry," he says. " 'm sorry, m' not trying to… I just… it's been a long two weeks."
"Well, it's over now," Aziraphale tells him. "And I won't have you punishing yourself."
A weak smile flits across his face. Oh, when was the last time he smiled? " 'course, angel. Whatever you say."
Aziraphale shifts, then, to sit up. Crowley presses a hand flat against his chest, pushing him back down with a low hiss, but Aziraphale's warmth spreads through him again and he finally relents, letting the angel sit up. Aziraphale doesn't sway like he has so many times before and doesn't look like he's about to keel over again, so Crowley tries to be hopeful.
This time, he thinks, this time he's awake for real. It's over.
"I feel I would like some tea," Aziraphale says quietly.
"Right, yeah, I'll get it. You just sit tight."
"I am quite alright to—"
"Ngk," Crowley says. "Stay put. There."
He pushes to his feet. It's difficult to leave Aziraphale there on the floor, but remnants of his presence are still pressed into Crowley's skin and he carries that with him to the kitchen. The fact Aziraphale has made it down to ask for tea is a blessing, he tells himself. He's tried to lure Aziraphale into staying awake with tea in the past, with a book, with anything, and it hasn't quite worked out. But this time… this time will be different.
Shaking hands pull down the kettle.
Stop. Stop shaking.
Aziraphale is awake. It's over. It's over.
It's just… going to take some time, to adjust back to normal. After living in constant fear for two long weeks. Demons aren't supposed to feel such fear, they aren't supposed to panic and wail and get totally sloshed because an angel might be dying upstairs, and they aren't supposed to care.
If Crowley was a good demon, he'd not be feeling so shaken right now. So out of sorts, so… so broken.
He's always been broken, though. Too dark to be an angel, too… nice, to be a demon. No matter what he does, he's just… broken.
Pull yourself together. Come on. Aziraphale wants tea.
Right. Tea.
He exhales slowly and fills the kettle with water.
Tea. This is something simple, he can do this.
He can do this. He can…
I almost lost him. Oh, fuck, he almost—
"Crowley, stop."
He whirls around. Aziraphale stands just inside the kitchen, leaning against the small table at the edge of the room. "Tea will be done in a minute, angel," he says, almost numbly, because it's all he can focus on right now.
Everything else is just… too much.
"Oh, dear."
Aziraphale steps toward him. Warm arms come around him, tugging him closer, and he can't help but melt into that warm, soft body. He all but crumples against Aziraphale, legs refusing to hold him up any longer, and Aziraphale accepts his weight and just—holds on. Holds him.
"My dear, you are exhausted."
He is. He really is. Demons don't need to sleep any more than angels do, but Crowley has always enjoyed sleep and his body is rather used to doing it occasionally. At least once a month. He hasn't really slept since Armageddon, hasn't felt the need to do so since he was enjoying his freedom, but the past two weeks have drained him completely. He just… can't. It's all too much. All of it.
"Why don't you go upstairs and sleep? The bed isn't awful."
A shaky exhale escapes him. He shakes his head but says nothing, still pressed into warmth and comfort and safety.
"Crowley. I'm worried about you."
"Don' be," he manages. " 'm fine."
"You're exhausted. Just get some sleep, dear. I'll be here."
He really should, he knows. He might feel better once he's not mentally and physically exhausted, and actually be able to process what's happened, but he can't. He won't.
" 'm fine," he says again, and forces himself to push away from Aziraphale. He wants nothing more than to sink heavily into that embrace, but that presence is too inviting, and if he stays there, he'll sleep. He turns away from Aziraphale, back toward the stove as the kettle whistles. "Tea's ready."
Aziraphale sighs behind him. "I can't make you sleep. Alright. But please take care of yourself. Your well-being is vitally important."
His well-being? No. He doesn't matter.
Well. He does matter to someone.
Aziraphale has always looked after him.
" 'course, angel. I'll be fine. Just… tickety-boo."
He pours Aziraphale a mug and conjures a bottle of scotch for himself. He won't get completely plastered, but the numbing alcohol will help. It has to. Something has to help this… this feeling. This ache.
"So…" He takes a long swallow from the bottle. It burns all the way down, but it's a pain he can tolerate. "Heaven is a no-go. Any other bight ideas?"
"Oh, I have a few. I'm just not certain you want to hear them."
Of course. Crowley takes another long chug from the bottle. "Right. Lay it on me."
"Not right now, dear. I think we both just need a moment to relax."
"Just… just get it over with."
"Crowley."
Crowley slams the bottle down on the corner, whirling to glare at the angel over his shoulder. "Tell me."
Aziraphale sighs, shoulders slumping in defeat. "There is… another way, to get to Heaven." He sips at his tea, carefully avoiding Crowley's gaze.
"The Hell there is," Crowley hisses back. "There's just… just the entrance, the circle you already tried, and—and…" The panic is back in full force. "No. Absolutely not."
"I didn't say it was a good idea. Just that it was an idea."
"You are no being discorporated, are you—are you absolutely mad?"
"It's an option," Aziraphale says calmly, sipping his tea. "One I'd rather not resort to, of course, but it is an option."
"It's not an option at all! We don't even know if the Entrance was the issue, Aziraphale. What if it's Heaven itself? What if…"
What if you get discorporated, and are immediately shredded to nothing?
Oh. That is an unpleasant thought. One he hadn't thought of before.
Aziraphale is suddenly so very, very human. Discorporation wasn't an option before, of course; getting sent back to Heaven meant he would likely be stuck there, as they would not issue him another body, but at least Aziraphale would be alive.
Now, though…
"Crowley, my dear, I am right here. It's alright. We're alright."
Warmths spreads over him and through him as Aziraphale's presence nudges at him, a sense of calm ebbing through him.
"Shh, that's it, my dear. You are ever so exhausted. Why don't you just sleep…"
The recognises the blessing a little too late.
"No, wait—" he manages, and then he sags downward, Aziraphale catching him easily.
He's… so… tired…
Why is he still awake?
Sleep sounds… amazing…
"Shh, that's it, love. Dream of whatever you like best."
His eyes fall shut and darkness takes him.