Notes: Dom Aziraphale, sub Crowley. Warning for bondage, shibari, anxiety attacks. No sexual content.
He didn't use the best rope.
They keep that at the flat.
The rope wrapped around him is frayed.
Worn.
Gives him slivers.
Bulges in spots.
Is stretched beyond belief.
But it's all they had at the bookshop.
They only dabble here - lock the doors and break out a skein when the mood to dip their toes in the taboo hits them.
The flat has more room to move. More room to spread their wings. Higher ceilings to rig without destroying historical architecture.
Aziraphale didn't intend on being gone long. He took an assignment, which he doesn't do often.
But this one spoke to him.
He'd invited Crowley to come with, but the demon got high and mighty about Aziraphale kowtowing to Heaven.
That hurt Aziraphale's feeling, so he left Crowley behind.
And Crowley was fine with that.
For about a day.
Possibly a week.
But even that was pushing things.
Crowley needed Aziraphale so much. He needed to feel him, to hold him, to hear his voice whisper in his ear, heaping on him love and praise. They'd spent so much time apart over the past 6000 years. But now that Crowley had Aziraphale, he had trouble being left alone.
Anxiety came for him like drops of rain.
One drop, two drops - that he could handle. But they piled up quickly. Became an ocean.
And he started to drown.
He didn't know when Aziraphale would come home, but he knew his angel would return to the bookshop before the flat, so that's where he went.
But he couldn't keep still.
He paced like crazy, felt trapped among stacks of books he knew so well they should have felt like friends by now.
And they did, especially the misprinted Bibles, since that's how he feels sometimes.
Like a misprint.
But it wasn't enough.
He needed something stronger, more tactile to settle his frazzled brain.
He needed Aziraphale, but since Crowley couldn't have him, he tried what he considered the next best thing.
When Aziraphale returns, he finds Crowley kneeling on the floor, covered in so much rope he has no idea whether Crowley is naked or not.
The knots are messy.
He didn't magic them. He tied them by hand.
And it shows.
Over the course of his existence, Crowley has been a pirate, an officer, and a sailor. But he's not much of a rigger.
There's too much slack in some spots. Others are too tight.
Thank goodness he didn't try to hoist himself up. He'd have slipped right through.
Aziraphale examines him, wearing the same look of wonder one might use on a toddler whose found themselves dangling by their ankle from a clothesline.
The knots Crowley tried are ones Aziraphale created on his own. Complicated knots. Difficult to do to one's self without help regardless of skill level.
Aziraphale reaches out, fingers the lines crisscrossing Crowley's chest, hanging at odd angles like an ill-fitted suit.
"My dear, you need a little practice," Aziraphale says with a smile meant to calm Crowley's nerves.
But it does the opposite.
"Don't make fun of me!" he growls in a voice that shakes. Then, after a hard swallow: "Please?"
"What happened, my love?" Aziraphale asks, adjusting the lines, fixing the knots, shortening the ropes and tying them securely. "Why did you do this?"
"I missed you," Crowley replies, sighing at the tightness that surrounds him, the comfort it brings. "And I wanted to feel your arms around me again."