The tension bleeds out of Aziraphale the further they get from the city. He didn't realise how coiled he'd gotten until he could finally breathe again as the city disappeared behind them. Yes, getting out of the city is just what he needs, and he knows it will be good for Crowley too.
The thing about Crowley is he gets overwhelmed, sometimes, and starts to shut down. If he's unable to shut down and sleep it all away, then he gets more wound up and starts lashing out.
This isn't a flaw, necessarily, to be emotional. Emotions are a very good thing, Aziraphale has decided, but too much emotion can be completely overwhelming and poor Crowley can get rather wound up about something, especially if he's worried. The demon might not mention that he's worried and will steadfastly avoid any conversations surrounding those words like the plague, but Aziraphale can always sense his worry—it circles the demon like a dark cloud overhead, and that essence cries out for him. He's not sure if this is because he's an angel and can sense heartache and strife, or if it's just because he's so familiar with Crowley's presence, but either way, he can see how tense the demon has become since this whole mess started.
He tries to picture himself in Crowley's shoes, and finds the whole thing unthinkable. To know Crowley was hurt, that his True Form, his very essence, was damaged and to be unable to do anything about it except wait while he healed… Yes, that is feeling Aziraphale can't let himself think too much about right now.
Angels aren't as emotional as demons. Emotions are for the humans, is the general motto among the elite in Heaven, which Aziraphale thinks is a bit odd, if he's being honest. Angels are meant to be filled with Love, after all, and to spread all those warm feelings, stoke them to life within humanity. Yet Heaven is filled with emotionless angels who mostly look down on humanity as something beneath them, despite still being filled with Her Love and grace.
Demons, on the other hand, are bitter and full of rage, and rage comes from passion. You can't be furious if you don't feel anything, so they are filled with emotions. Usually darker ones, like the desire to hurt, destroy, and this sense of bitter rage, but sometimes they feel other things. Nicer things.
Granted, Aziraphale's experience with demons is rather limited, despite the fact he's spent the last 6000 years toying with a friendship with one. Crowley is more familiar to him than any of the angels in Heaven, but Crowley also isn't a typical demon. He stands out from the rest, which is what drew Aziraphale to him in the first place. For all the things he'd been told about demons after the Great War, he thought they'd all be the first to attack an angel, or anything or anyone, but Crowley broke all of those expectations when he simply stood next to him and started a conversation about the merits of good and evil.
Demons are emotional, and Crowley is that times ten, Aziraphale thinks. He is rather melodramatic at times, and when he worries, he does so with his entire being, winding himself into knots, and he won't admit he needs help. He will never admit to what's actually bothering him, but that's okay, because Aziraphale can usually guess.
This time away will be good for both of them.
They pick out a little cottage in the South Downs which has miraculously become suddenly available. There's not another house for miles, which is good news. Aziraphale certainly doesn't want to deal with further Urges, especially if he is going to keep losing himself little by little when they happen.
It worries him in a way little else ever has.
Angels can't be possessed any more than demons can be possessed, and when humans are possessed it's always demons doing it—save for that time Aziraphale road around inside Madame Tracy's head for a couple hours during the end of the world, but even then he didn't have full control, not even a little. The thought of something pulling his strings and marching him around like that is actually terrifying, if he's being honest with himself.
He doesn't like it one bit, even if he's grateful to be helping people. The Urges are always dire, a matter of life or death, and he is happy to help, but he doesn't appreciate being yanked around like that.
The cottage has two bedrooms, a rather large kitchen, and a cozy living room. The couch in it is much newer than the one at the bookshop, but it does look comfortable. There's even a small fireplace in the living room. No one around for miles and it will just be the two of them in this cozy cottage, living a rather domestic life for at least a couple of days.
It's everything Aziraphale didn't know he wanted.
A quiet life with Crowley. Just the two of them.
Suddenly, he wonders why they are even living in different flats, considering the fact they are always together anyway.
Crowley takes the room downstairs while Aziraphale takes the one upstairs—the master bedroom, with its own private bathroom. Not that angels need to sleep or use the restroom, of course; but the bed looks like a lovely place to read for a while.
The kitchen has marble countertops and several large windows with a nice view of the lake outside. If Aziraphale listens very closely, he can just make out the sounds of waves lapping at the edge of the water, churning under a small wooden bridge.
It's all very peaceful and quiet, and just what he needs.
Crowley pokes his head into the kitchen. "I'm gonna make a run for some food, do you want anything?"
"I can go with you, if you like," Aziraphale offers. "We can—"
"That kinda defeats the purpose of bein' out here, though, doesn't it?"
"Whatever do you mean?"
Crowley scowls, though most of it is hidden under his sunglasses. "The Urges, angel. We're avoiding them."
He deflates. "Oh. Right. Yes, that makes sense. I'm not craving anything in particular, my dear. Whatever you get will be fine."
He doesn't need to eat, of course. Neither of them do, and Crowley usually doesn't, even though a large part of their relationship has revolved around getting lunch or dinner together. Crowley prefers the alcoholic beverages at restaurants and will occasionally munch on something, but normally he simply watches Aziraphale eat.
Aziraphale, on the other hand, enjoys food immensely. The simple comforts on Earth are the best. Such flavours wouldn't exist if they weren't meant to be savoured and eaten, now would they?
"Right, back in a second," Crowley says, and leaves the kitchen.
The front door opens and closes, signalling Crowley's departure.
A moment later, the hum of the Bentley's engine announces its leave of the driveway.
Aziraphale goes outside. It is a sunny day, the sky dotted with clouds, and the temperature is nice. He doesn't need to worry about things like temperature, usually—unless it's fire, of course. Angels are rather weak to flames. A human fire won't do much to his True Form, but it will still burn and hurt, and will destroy his human body, while if he's out in the snow too long, nothing happens. His body doesn't feel the cold, but it does feel the warmth.
Still, he has it better than Crowley, he suspects. Crowley was originally a snake, after all, and snakes are cold-blooded. They can't control their own body heat. Temperature certainly bothers demons—though fire doesn't seem to do anything, human or otherwise. They are, however, susceptible to the cold.
Maybe God has a sense of irony, or poetry.
He walks down the path leading to the small wooden bridge, and stands there just over the water, looking out at the lake. The waves ripple the sun's reflection and somewhere nearby, a bird hoots from a tree.
Aziraphale likes nature. There is beauty in absolutely every part of the world, down to the grains of sand or as big as a mountain's peak. She really outdid Herself when She made the Earth.
It is all so very peaceful, and Aziraphale can breathe here.
That's where Crowley finds him later, on the bridge overlooking the water as the sun moves across the sky and clouds darken along the horizon, signalling a coming storm. Aziraphale likes storms just as much as he likes sunny days, for there is beauty in the bad weather just as there is beauty in the light. Rainy days are spent with a book in hand, and it always rather relaxing to hear the patter of rain on his windows.
He follows Crowley back inside and they sit down for some food. Empty bags line the counter and Aziraphale quirks a brow at the demon.
"I, uh… got some stuff," Crowley says.
"Stuff?" Aziraphale repeats.
"For… the refrigerator. We can't be going into town all the time when you get hungry, angel, that defeats the whole purpose of this little outing. So I thought—I thought I'd stock up on… stuff."
Crowley apparently got groceries while he was out.
Aziraphale smiles. "That was nice of you, dear."
Crowley mumbles under his breath, probably something about how he's absolutely not nice.
If only you could see yourself the way I do, Aziraphale laments.
The two eat in relative silence, and it is comfortable and warm, like a cotton blanket on a cold winter's day.
It can't last forever, staying at this cottage—but in this moment, Aziraphale is content. There is nothing to worry about—not Heaven, not the angels, not these Urges, nothing.
It's just him and his demon, and he wouldn't have it any other way.
xXx
This cottage is a little too cozy, Crowley thinks.
It's certainly nice, don't get him wrong, but it lures you into a false sense of security. They haven't even been here a day yet and as the sun sets over the cottage and the lake sparkles with purples and oranges, reflected from the sky, and as he joins Aziraphale out on that bridge, he can't help but feel like this is where they belong.
Away from the bustle of the city. Away from prying eyes. Away from everything and everyone—just alone, together.
It's nice.
For too long, they've been surrounded by so many prying eyes. Humanity, angels, demons—they've all been suffocating to deal with, on some level, despite how much Crowley enjoys humanity. There's just so many people, he thinks, and it's customers all day in the bookshop which Aziraphale keeps turning away when they actually try to buy something instead of simply browse the shop. It's people in the building Crowley lives in, bustling in and out of the building, kids running down the halls. It's the people Aziraphale feels compelled to save.
It's the demons and angels looking over their shoulders for millennia, forcing them apart.
It's all been suffocating. Crowley didn't see it that way until now, of course, but this cottage is rather nice.
He's downright giddy at the thought of being all boring and domestic with Aziraphale. He can picture their life here now, if they were to move here and never leave the cottage. He'd put up a garden in the back, along the path to this lake. His plants would be luxurious and verdant, the best in all of England. Aziraphale could move his books here; they could add on, if needed, and build him a library if he wants one.
He can picture quiet nights sitting on the couch together, with the fireplace aglow and a book in Aziraphale's hands, and Crowley sprawled on the couch as much as he can with the two of them sitting on it. He pictures going to sleep feeling safe, and waking up to something domestic and peaceful.
He's never been for the whole domestic life before, but then he's never really given it much thought until now. Now it all seems so bloody perfect, and it tries to lull him into a false sense of belonging.
They can't stay here.
Aziraphale would never go for such a thing—away from his precious bookshop and the park and the people and everything he's built for himself for so many years now. Aziraphale loves Soho, and he only agreed to come here in the first place because…
Well. Crowley's not really sure why Aziraphale caved.
The angel can be quite stubborn. It's why Crowley slept for almost a century after their spat at Saint James's Park all those years ago, over holy water. He didn't want to deal with Aziraphale's silent treatment, because when the angel wants to avoid something or someone, he just—does. Call it divine intervention, call it whatever you like, but Crowley had hated the thought of the distance between them after his request, and he'd slept the time away.
It took 105 years for Aziraphale to change his mind. Well, perhaps change is the wrong word. He still disagreed with Crowley having access to holy water, but nevertheless handed over the tartan thermos anyway. But it came after 105 years of stubbornness.
Again, once Aziraphale sets his mind on something, it's set in stone for the most part. Can be very annoying, sometimes.
The point is—Aziraphale caved and they are here now, but it won't last. It can't last.
As much as Crowley wants to extend their vacation forever, he knows Aziraphale won't allow it. Not while there's this mystery concerning Heaven to solve.
She gave him a bloody sword, for Someone's sake. A sword.
Obviously, She expects there to be some sort of conflict. A confrontation.
It leaves Crowley's stomach twisting, thinking about it. And today isn't about that; this trip isn't about that.
So he forces such thoughts from his mind for the time being. This trip is about relaxation, and keeping Aziraphale safe.
Because Crowley really, really needs him to be safe for a few days, at the very least.
He's never come so close to losing the angel before. Sure, Aziraphale could have been discorporated in the past, but they'd never had reason to fear one of them dying permanently. Not until Crowley brought up holy water in that park that day, at least—then Aziraphale stubbornly walked away to keep such temptations away from the demon. But Crowley had never worried about losing Aziraphale—not in that way, at least. Oh, sure, he worried about losing him all the time to discorporation and what if he doesn't come back, what if they don't send him back, what if he gets reassigned, but he was usually the only demon stationed above ground, and hellfire was the only thing that could kill an angel outright.
How does he know this?
He's seen it happen before. Once. A long, long time ago.
After the Fall but before Eden, he'd watched a demon summon a spout of hellfire and kill an angel. The way the angel screamed still haunts him some days—a twisted sort of wail, piercing and agonising, something he never—ever—wants to hear again. He watched as it ate the angel's essence and dispersed them into nothing.
Just poof, and then they were gone. Just wiped out of existence. Destroyed completely.
He only saw it the one time himself, but he's heard stories of it happening a lot more than that. Demons can be quite proud of destroying an angel, after all.
Still, he never had to worry about hellfire too much in the past. Aziraphale, for all his non-combative nature, does have a lot of eyes on him, and he can certainly look after himself. Plus, Crowley made it his business to know if another demon was topside ever. He'd usually pop in and lure Aziraphale into having lunch with him or something, until said demon returned to Hell.
Then came the bookshop fire on the day the world was supposed to end.
Since then, hellfire has been a rather constant thought in his mind.
And now this—Aziraphale getting shredded out of nowhere, on his way up to Heaven. Sleeping and waking for days, for weeks, slipping in and out of lucidity with wounds which kept randomly reopening and seeping that precious light.
So, yeah. He's never come so close to losing Aziraphale before, and it terrified him.
This freedom isn't worth it, he thinks, if Aziraphale isn't there to share it with him.
"Deep thoughts, dear?"
Crowley glances over at the angel next to him on the bridge. Aziraphale's gaze is out over the water, and he looks so relaxed and peaceful in this moment. The setting sun causes the blue in his eyes to shimmer somewhat, reflecting the splash of purple across the sky, and for a moment, Crowley is mesmerised.
"Just thinking," he says finally, and looks out over the water as well.
"Well, this vacation isn't about thinking," Aziraphale tells him idly. "It's for relaxing."
"Point taken."
Aziraphale glances at him out of the corner of his eye. Crowley catches the slightest movement and looks back over himself. "I appreciate you taking me here," the angel says quietly, with a soft smile. "Thank you, my dear."
Crowley shifts his weight from foot to foot. "Ngk," he says. "Was nothing, angel. Just thought we needed a getaway."
"This cottage is rather lovely, isn't it?"
"It's… nice," Crowley settles on. Best not to get too attached to this place, after all. It can't last. It won't.
"What would you like to do now?"
Crowley rolls his shoulder in a small shrug. "Not sure. Was thinking I'd take a quick nap on the couch, if it's all the same to you."
"Of course," Aziraphale says. "You get some rest."
"The uh… the couch looks comfy for reading."
"So it does."
"So you could, uh… read, while I sleep. If you want."
Aziraphale's smile could rival the sun, he thinks. "Lead the way."
Crowley grins and turns to leave the bridge. They enter the cottage as the sun sets behind them.
Aziraphale waves his hand, summoning a book out of the ether, and sits at the edge of the couch to read. Crowley waves his hand as well, starting the fire in the fire place. It casts a soft warm glow across the rustic room, and it's like the walls are burning golden brown. He sits on the couch and eyes the length of it.
Well, this might pose a problem.
He doesn't think he can scrunch up enough to fit with Aziraphale sitting at the edge, but he's not going to ask the angel to move. Nope. Aziraphale needs to be sitting with him right now, so Crowley can relax and unwind after the past couple of weeks.
Aziraphale seems to sense his hesitation.
"Come here, my dear."
He wraps his hand around the back of Crowley's neck and gently tugs him sideways. Crowley stretches out on the couch, his head in the angel's lap, and Aziraphale's fingers give a single stroke through his hair—the briefest of touches, an assurance that this position is perfectly fine, and Crowley shuts his eyes.
Finally, he can breathe.
xXx
He wakes up later, feeling lighter than he has in a long time.
He keeps his eyes shut, though, and doesn't move. Aziraphale is quietly humming to himself, and there's the faintest sound of his finger turning the page of his book, and his other hand is nestled in the strands of Crowley's hair—just lightly grasping, a reassurance he is there, and Crowley's throat burns slightly.
Aziraphale might never know how much he appreciates these little things, but Crowley will never take them for granted. Never again.
I love you, he thinks, but he's never said those words aloud. He's kept them nestled deep inside his mind for the same reasons he never gave voice to his fear of losing Aziraphale—once you put that into the universe, it has the power to break you. If he admits to these things, it all suddenly becomes real.
For now, at least, he will just linger here in this moment, where he knows he is loved, and hopes Aziraphale knows he loves him, too.