Let's the fluff begin
In the heart of York's historic Shambles, Crowley secured lodging at a quaint bed and breakfast. Legends and whispers of curses had woven an enigmatic aura around the house. Eerie occurrences seemed to dance in the shadows, their presence felt in every nook. The building itself bore the marks of history—intricately carved wooden accents, floors that seemed to shift beneath one's feet, and narrow windows casting an otherworldly glow. This structure had served as a hideout for demons since the grim days of the 14th century, when the notorious bubonic plague had desolated humanity. Crowley's own connection to the place stretched back to the 15th century, he hated it, the smell, the boredom and the rats.
Behind the shops that lined the street, slaughterhouses were hidden. The grisly practices within them were obscured by the buildings, shielding the narrow lane from direct sunlight. This arrangement preserved the meat displayed for sale, allowing it to remain relatively fresh for extended periods. However, the unhygienic butchering rituals, which involved the disposal of entrails, offal, and blood into street runnels, repulsed Crowley, who was more than relieved when his efforts to propagate a second round of the plague were thwarted by one certain angel, Crowley was extremely happy to leave the place.
By the 17th century, demons had abandoned this territory, seeking refuge in other parts of the city. Now the once-dreaded locale had transformed into a petite hotel that appeared charming and enchanting to an unsuspecting human eye. For Crowley and Aziraphale, it served as a sanctuary, a neutral haven akin to the bookshop, where neither angel nor demon could intrude without express consent. Moreover, thanks to the fact that rooms could only be reserved online, it was impossible that neither side had the slightest idea of how to enter.
Crowley executed the reservation with a touch of demonic dexterity, manipulating the website to ensure their stay was financially covered. An email with the entrance codes arrived promptly, a testimony to the wonders of modern era—he loved technology.
Aziraphale lay sleeping in the back of the Bentley, his breaths marked by the subtle cadence of pain—a suffering that clung to him throughout their journey to York. Even in slumber, he murmured, his voice a mix of discomfort and distress, a lament that echoed through Crowley's mind. It was a sound that fuelled a growing anger within him. The Metatron, that bastard, had caused this suffering. He had hurt Aziraphale, mistreated him, and left him languishing in a cell. The fury surged within Crowley's chest, a primal instinct to protect and avenge the wrongs inflicted upon his beloved angel.
Aziraphale, the being that Crowley held most dear in the vast expanse of the universe, had been hurt. It was a wound that cut deep into Crowley's heart, a wound that fuelled his resolve to ensure such pain never visited Aziraphale again. But amidst the simmering rage, Crowley knew his immediate priority lay with his angel. He understood what needed to be done—Aziraphale needed care, new clothes, nourishment, and something soothing to drink.
Ignoring parking restrictions, he positioned his Bentley right outside the medieval house, which Crowley thought might have been refronted in brick, perhaps in the late 17th century.
As Crowley's gaze lingered on the sleeping form of Aziraphale, his anger slowly gave way to a well of concern that stirred deep within him. Leaning in closer, his voice soft and tender, he whispered into the quiet of the Bentley's cabin, "Hey there, angel. I know you can't hear me right now, but I need you to know something. You're not alone anymore. I'm here, and I won't let anything hurt you again."
His fingers brushed lightly against Aziraphale's hair, the touch as delicate as his words. "I promise you're going to feel better, angel. We'll get through this, together, okay?" Crowley's eyes softened as he watched Aziraphale's features relax in slumber, his pain momentarily eased. "You're stronger than you know, Aziraphale. We'll figure it out, just like we always do."
Stepping through the threshold after entering the code, Crowley found himself greeted by whimsical décor that imbued the atmosphere with a fanciful air. Ascending to the first floor, he went up a late 18th-century staircase of simple Chinese fret design. Once in front of their door he introduced the second code, a safeguard to their private refuge, unlocking the door to their room.
Swiftly descending the stairs, he retrieved Aziraphale with the utmost tenderness, each movement shrouded in the obscurity of the night. The cosy suite was designed in Tudor style mirroring the history of the building itself. There were two distinct rooms—a library-inspired space upon entry, complete with a spacious leather sofa, a writing desk, a modern flat screen TV, and an array of shelves brimming with books. The second room housed a regal king-size canopied bed, complemented by an en-suite replete with both a bathtub and a shower.
Gently settling Aziraphale onto the bed's surface, in the right side of the bed, as he knew he would enjoy the warmth of the sun in the morning. Crowley's heart clenched at the prospect of leaving his angel alone, even for a brief moment. The angel was sound asleep, breaths laboured and painful. "Sleep well, my dear angel. We're in this together."
The damage that Aziraphale had suffered weighed heavily on Crowley, a burden he felt personally responsible for. He wished he had noticed the situation sooner, wished he could have shielded Aziraphale. It was something Crowley knew Aziraphale couldn't understand, his feelings ran deep, a love that stretched across millennia. Crowley had loved Aziraphale since the dawn of creation, and he held him dear in ways Aziraphale might never fully comprehend. He had enough just being near him, keeping an eye on him, making sure he was safe, and happy.
But after the events of the Armageddon, their relationship had evolved at a fast pace, as it had been still for millennia. Small gestures, fleeting touches—they had been the hallmarks of their interactions. But after their connection deepened, after touches turned into a language of their own, after they became confidants and friends, his world shifted. Their newfound closeness was a balm to Crowley's heart, a salve to the longing he had felt for so long.
He was happy. And just when they were on the cusp of something beautiful, when they were finally free to be together, to be them, Aziraphale was taken from him. It had destroyed Crowley's will to live. So his anger, his rage at the wicked deceit that has caused Aziraphale to leave him, that made them be separated was incommensurable. He was going take revenge to the Metatron.
But now, with Aziraphale before him, vulnerable and in need, Crowley knew he had to focus on the present. He calmed himself down, he needed to help his angel heal first. A thought struck Crowley, and he extracted the cushion from the nearby chair, deftly removing its stuffing. Holding the cushion cover like a makeshift bag, he went to find the Bentley, and parked it the nearest underground parking, so wondering eyes couldn't find it. He then used the pillow case as a bag, to carry the Book of Live back with him, a powerful item that he would not leave behind.
As he walked York's labyrinthine medieval streets, Crowley calmed the fire of his anger, reminding himself that Aziraphale's healing was the priority. Revenge would come, but for now, he had to care for his angel. He soon spotted one of those shops that closes late and opens early that sell everything, its shelves stocked with an eclectic assortment. The middle-aged shopkeeper, sporting a mustache, greeted Crowley with a nod as he entered. Selecting a blue basket near the entrance, he ventured toward the rear fridge, his destination clear. Coffee and hot chocolate awaited in ready-to-drink containers. He picked up both, along with sandwiches that hopped weren't be disappointingly dry, a bottle of water, and a bottle of wine.
Supplies secured, he returned with haste to the hotel, racing against the minutes that ticked away. While the car journey had provided some peace of mind, his smouldering rage rekindled, his being consumed by a need to shield his angel from further pain.
Aziraphale's eyelids fluttered open, greeted by a coldness that gnawed at him. Gradually awakening, he found himself in a dimly lit chamber, a soft bed cradled his body, a stark contrast to the torment he had endured. His condition had improved, but hunger gnawed at him, and a sense of isolation lingered. Was this real, or a product of his fevered mind? He questioned the authenticity of the scene unfolding before him—was he hallucinating, delusional, lost in some ephemeral dream? Amidst the uncertainty, one undeniable truth seemed to surge within him: he had sensed Crowley's presence. Warm and reassuring, it had embraced him in a tender cocoon, igniting a flicker of hope.
"Crowley?" he croaked, his voice a raspy whisper from disuse.. His call echoed, unanswered, him leaving him with a painful solitude. The sense of companionship he had fleetingly experienced was gone.
His heart still carried a fervent wish—a prayer he had uttered countless times: for Crowley to appear, to rescue him. Gingerly lowering one leg to the floor, the world spinning fast around him, he tried again. "Crowley!" Moonlight filtered through a window, casting faint illumination upon his surroundings. His view was partially obscured by the silhouette of a gothic church, lending an air of mystique to his confinement. Silence.
Aziraphale examined his aching hands; he couldn't escape the pain that pulsed within him. Summoning his willpower to rise, he overcame the resistance of the soft bed. But his strength waned, and the battle was short-lived, ending with a defeated slump back onto the mattress.
A creak, followed by a weighted thud—someone was entering the room. The footsteps sure and unwavering. The bedroom door creaked open, its movement slow and careful, revealing the figure that Aziraphale had dreamed to see for so long.
It was him—Crowley. His Crowley, illuminated by the dim glow of moonlight. A surge of emotions flooded Aziraphale's being, rendering him momentarily speechless.
Crowley took off his glasses, squinting. "Are you awake?" He whispered.
"I was wrong!" Aziraphale blurted, the confession tumbling forth without restraint, as he released the sentiment that had dwelled within him. "You were right." His voice trembled, tears brimming in his eyes, his gaze locked onto the demon who had become so much more, his guardian, his confidant, his friend and his love. It has been his secret for centuries, a reality so forbidden, so against the heavenly precepts that even he himself had been slow to accept, denying himself his own feelings until it was no longer possible, that night Crowley saved him from the Nazis when he decided he was in love. "I was wrong." Aziraphale repeated, a statement to himself.
Crowley, lowered the plastic bag to the floor and settled beside him, a wellspring of concern etched onto his features. "It doesn't matter."
"I'm sorry!" Aziraphale's voice broke, high pitched, the words spilling forth, each syllable bore the burden of his regrets, and the depths of his longing. "I'm so sorry!" he repeated, the words a confession, a torrent of thoughts and feelings surging through him—the agony of captivity, the uncertainty of rescue, the profound relief of Crowley's presence.
"Angel" Aziraphale looked at Crowley who was moving closer, his hands fumbling with uncertainty, a blend of worry and affection etching his features. "It doesn't matter."
"I need you." Aziraphale pleaded desperate. Time seemed suspended, an ephemeral moment where moonlight mingled with the amber depths of Crowley's eyes.
A sense of reassurance washed over Aziraphale as Crowley reached for him, drawing him close, and their bodies aligning in a tender embrace. "I'm here," Crowley whispered, his voice a soothing balm that caressed Aziraphale's heart. "I'm here."
The angel's hand found its place upon Crowley's chest, the rhythmic cadence of his heartbeat a tangible affirmation: Crowley was real. As he closed his eyes, tears began to spill, and he allowed himself to simply be, to nestle into Crowley's embrace, finding solace in a long-lost home.
He didn't know it, but Crowley was crying too.
Aziraphale didn't say a word as his mind calmed, his hand tucked beneath the demon's vest, fingers resting over the fabric of his black shirt. The rhythmic thrum of Crowley's heartbeat resonated against his palm. Aziraphale relaxed into the demon lean body. He was happy to just be there, feeling safe, contentment radiated from Aziraphale as his tears ceased.
After a while Aziraphale realized Crowley's fingers were tracing a gentle path through his hair, each tender stroke a simple gesture, imbued with so much more—hope, love, and the promise of better days ahead.
And then, an unexpected interruption— his belly growled.
The physical reminder brought forth a chuckle from Crowley, a sound that reverberated with warmth through both of them. The demon reluctantly let go of him, and reached for the bag he had brought. "I've bought you something," he mentioned casually, as if their circumstances were commonplace. "Sandwiches, water, some chocolate. I knew you would be hungry."
As Crowley extended the contents of the bag, Aziraphale seized the sandwiches with a voracious appetite. He favored creamy cheese sandwiches over other flavors. Aziraphale smiled at Crowley; he had remembered it—a simple yet profound detail.
"Angel, we must be very careful." Crowley said his serious face tinted with a hint of concern. "The Metatron is surely aware that you are free."
"No miracles then" Aziraphale understood the situation, he didn't want them to draw any attention. "We're are we?"
"A hotel in York, it was an old abandoned demonic embassy." Crowley explained, gold eyes focused on him. "Like the bookshop, is neutral now. We are safe."
The sandwiches disappeared quickly as Crowley talked, Aziraphale devoured them with hunger that had been left unattended for far too long. The water too was consumed with urgency.
It was more than just sustenance that Crowley had brought him, with each bite, with each sip, Aziraphale felt his strength returning, his spirit rekindling with all the love Crowley was pouring onto him as he observed him eating, a small smile adorning his lips.
Gathering all the wrappings and placing them inside the bag, he got up. "Are you still hungry?" Crowley asked, his beautiful amber eyes bearing down at him, a red brim to them as if he had been crying too.
"Mm, no. I'm good." It was a lie, but Aziraphale found himself reluctant to let Crowley out of his sight. "I've missed those eyes so much." He said out loud without even realizing it. But he didn't regret it, Aziraphale was smiling, after so much time, he was smiling again. Smiling as the love he felt for Crowley threatened to burst out.
Crowley stood there, his mouth agape, hand tight around the bag. "Ngk" he muttered. "Wine?" He asked tentatively, after clearing his throat.
"I will take the chocolate, if there's any way to warm it up." Aziraphale asked.
"Consider it done." Said Crowley sauntering out.
Aziraphale felt exhaustion, the stiffness of his shoes and suspenders digging into his skin. He heard the unmistakable sound of a wine bottle popping out, and the tell-tale of a microwave bell. He eased his shoes off with his feet, and began to unbutton his coat.
Crowley returned with the hot chocolate and a glass of wine for himself. After placing them both on the nightstand, he turned his attention to Aziraphale, helping him gently remove his coat and vest. Each gesture was laden with tenderness, a reminder that Crowley was attuned to his needs. "Where's my bowtie?" Aziraphale asked as he realized it was missing.
"Mm, I've got it." Crowley said taking the suspenders from Aziraphale hands. "You had a hard time breathing."
Aziraphale smiled gratefully at him. "Thanks." He took the cup between his hands, the warmth comforting him. "Thanks, Crowley, for rescuing me, for talking care of me".
"You would have done the same." Crowley said, taking a sip of wine. He added thoughtfully, "Though I must admit, I wouldn't have looked half as dashing in your clothes."
Aziraphale chuckled softly, a genuine warmth in his eyes. "Well, we must always strive for impeccable fashion, even in the direst of situations."
Crowley's lips curved into a smirk. "Of course, because that's the only way to face the end of the world."
"Maybe we could savage this, I'll find a dry cleaner." Crowley said, more to himself than to Aziraphale who couldn't help but look at him and smile as he sipped the hot chocolate, the comfort of the moment began to wash over him.
Crowley took his coat and vest to the next room and returned with a couple of knitted blankets. He set down one of them at the chair. Then, he helped Aziraphale to lay back into the bed, his movements gentle and careful. As Crowley carefully pulled the other blanket over him, he leaned in close and whispered, "Good night, angel."
A silent plea lingered in Aziraphale's gaze, a desire unspoken as he fought the fear of separation that had haunted him during his captivity. "Good night." Aziraphale's eyes closed, as exhaustion took over.
But just as he was about to drift off, he heard Crowley's voice again, this time softer and filled with a reassuring warmth. "Rest well, Aziraphale. You're safe now, and I'll be right here if you need anything."
With a final, affectionate pat on Aziraphale's hand, Crowley retreated to the chair, the soft glow of the room casting a gentle halo around his figure. As Aziraphale's breathing steadied, the room was filled with a peaceful silence
A serene smile graced Aziraphale's lips as he let himself be enveloped by the promise of safety and the comfort of Crowley's presence. "Thank you, Crowley. For everything." And with that Aziraphale fell asleep again.
Aziraphale woke again to the sound of the door closing, or perhaps it was the sun's warmth that graced his face. Regardless, this time he recognized the steps in the other room as Crowley's. He opened the door shortly, a content smile on his lips and the first light of morning making his yellow eyes shine.
"You're awake!" Crowley ventured to the nightstand placing a tray with pastries and a cup of hot chocolate. "I went out to fetch something for you."
Aziraphale heart filled with gratitude. "Thanks."
As Aziraphale indulged in the breakfast, he found himself savoring more than just the flavors—it was the love, the care, and the bond they shared that filled every bite. He couldn't help but muse that as much as he had missed eating, he had missed Crowley far more.
"We should try not to be noticed" Crowley said as he drank a dark coffee, his voice trailing off. "Or maybe we should move in a couple of days? Once you are better off." He added.
Safety seemed to permeate the very walls, a tangible reminder of the refuge they had found in each other. "Isn't it safe here?"
"It is, but… we must be careful angel." Crowley said, gesturing with his free hand. "Let's just say that our escape from Heaven did not go unnoticed." He lounged in the chair were he had spent the night, next to him. "Mary King's Close in Edinburgh, how does it sound to you?"
"Crowley…" Aziraphale felt good- happy to be there with Crowley, and he didn't want to think about the horrible things that could happen. "I think I need a shower." He knew that sooner than later they would both have to face it. But for now he wanted to enjoy that little refuge his Crowley had found for them.
Crowley smiled, as if he sensed his inner turmoil. "Fine, I will leave you to it." He pushed himself up, and left, taking the discarded tray and paper cups with him.
Aziraphale got up, this time his body was able to pull his own weight. He walked around the bed, and opened the door at the left side of the room. There was a small bathroom with both a bathtub and a shower. He undressed, and stepped into the shower, he felt it was safer in his state than de bathtub. He tuned the faucet, allowing the water to wash away not only the physical residue of his captivity but also the remnants of fear that had clung to his spirit. As the water cascaded over him, he reflected upon the journey that had brought them to this point, the pain and the longing, the moments of darkness and now the promise of renewal. Crowley was healing his body and mind. He loved him, it had been a difficult conclusion to reach, but he wanted Crowley to know it, as he know Crowley loved him back. He loved him, he adored Crowley, and he didn't care that he was a demon, and that his soul was grey, and not white, because his wasn't either. Crowley couldn't be more perfect. And Aziraphale wanted to tell him, wanted him to know that he deeply regretted not listening. He wanted Crowley to feel cared for and loved the way he did.
Stepping out of the shower, Aziraphale discovered carefully chosen clothes laid out on the bed. In the midst of his thoughts, Crowley had been busy tending to his needs, ensuring that he had fresh clothes to wear. Socks and undies in a soft shade of blue, a pair of beige pants, a light blue shirt, a sweater that merged beige and blue and a new beige trench coat—the choices reflected Crowley's intimate knowledge of Aziraphale's tastes and preferences.
Each garment felt like a statement, a testament to Crowley's profound understanding.
As he donned the attire, he marvelled at how perfectly they fit, both in terms of size and style. The mirror reflected the changes that captivity had wrought—his long hair, and the more pronounced angles of his cheekbones. Gazing into the mirror, Aziraphale marvelled at the fact that Crowley had recognized him in that cell. It was a reminder that their connection was deeper than appearances—it was a bond of souls, a friendship that had stood the test of time.
After a refreshing shower, Aziraphale felt invigorated and ready to face whatever lay ahead. As he stepped out of the room he took in the small room, decorated like a bookstore, with the leather sofa in the centre and a small desk by the window. He was sure that Crowley had chosen this place to make him feel at home. He was by the window, seemingly lost in thought.
"Ah, there you are," Crowley said, turning his attention to Aziraphale. "Feeling better?"
"Much better, thank you," Aziraphale replied with a smile. He walked over to the window and looked out, his gaze thoughtful.
Crowley's gaze wandered, taking in Aziraphale's appearance. "You know, with that long hair and those clothes, you're looking quite the modern gentleman, Aziraphale."
Aziraphale's fingers unconsciously moved to his hair, a hint of uncertainty in his expression. "Well," he began, "I'm not quite sure about the long hair, Crowley. It's a departure from my usual style.'"
Crowley chuckled, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Oh, come on, angel. We've had our fair share of style changes over the millennia. Remember the time we tried to pull off a toga? And don't even get me started on that period when I had a penchant for bell bottom pants."
Aziraphale couldn't help but smile at the memory. "Ah, yes. The toga incident was quite the disaster. And bell bottom pants... well, let's just say it was a rather colourful phase."
"Exactly," Crowley said with a grin. "So, long hair or not, you're still you, and you're still gorgeous."
Aziraphale's smile widened, his affection for Crowley shining through. "Thank you, my dear."
"Anytime, angel," Crowley replied, his smile genuine.
"Crowley, about what you mentioned earlier... moving and all. I think it's a good idea. I do believe we should be prepared for anything, especially if there's a chance of stopping the 'Second Coming'. "
Crowley blinked, taken slightly off balance by Aziraphale's agreement. "You... you trust me to make the decision?"
Aziraphale turned to him, his eyes warm with affection. "Of course, my dear. You've always been the one to take charge, to make the decisions." He paused, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "And as much as it pains me to admit it, you've often been right."
Crowley's surprise softened into a gentle smile, his usual swagger momentarily replaced by a quiet sincerity. "Well, then," he responded, "We'll go wherever is best, whenever you're ready."
Aziraphale reached out and placed a hand on Crowley's arm, the touch a reassurance of their unbreakable bond. "Thank you, Crowley. For everything. And for understanding my... limitations at the moment."
"Anytime, angel," Crowley said, his voice softening as he covered Aziraphale's hand with his own. "You rest, and when you're up to it, we can discuss our next move. Together."
Aziraphale nodded, a sense of peace settling over him. "Together," he echoed, his gaze steady on Crowley's.
And as they stood there, side by side, looking out at the world beyond, their unspoken understanding filled the room with a profound sense of unity and purpose.