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Technically a GO/SPN crossover, following on from Shadow Play, but purely GO Crowley and Aziraphale this time. Also, again, very strange. This whole verse is very strange -_-;
Title: Forfeit of a Kiss
Rating: Light R (for implications mostly)
Fandoms: Good Omens, Supernatural
Continuity: Set immediately following Shadow Play, mid S5 SPN, 20 years post-GO
Characters/Pairings: Crowley, Aziraphale, OC (Julie), mention of SPN!Crowley. Crowley/Aziraphale.
Summary: Earth is strange to them, now. And maybe that's the demon's trick, his vengeance, for them to see how far Hell had brought them from what they were. Crowley and Aziraphale's first days back on Earth after Hell.
Wordcount: 4006
Warnings: Aftermath of torture. Um. I don't know.
Disclaimer: Oh, so very much not mine
Title: Forfeit of a Kiss
Rating: Light R (for implications mostly)
Fandoms: Good Omens, Supernatural
Continuity: Set immediately following Shadow Play, mid S5 SPN, 20 years post-GO
Characters/Pairings: Crowley, Aziraphale, OC (Julie), mention of SPN!Crowley. Crowley/Aziraphale.
Summary: Earth is strange to them, now. And maybe that's the demon's trick, his vengeance, for them to see how far Hell had brought them from what they were. Crowley and Aziraphale's first days back on Earth after Hell.
Wordcount: 4006
Warnings: Aftermath of torture. Um. I don't know.
Disclaimer: Oh, so very much not mine
The Forfeit of a Kiss
Earth felt ... different, now. Felt ... strange. Crowley didn't quite understand it, not yet. Hell had never affected him that way before. Hell, no matter how long his various subjective experiences of it had been, had never damaged him this way, never made everything seem so ... so halting, and stiff, and unbearably bright. Hell had never changed him like this before.
But then, Hell had never held his angel before, either. Hell had never meant watching what they did to Aziraphale. Hell had never meant the strange half-life they had lived together in its confines, never meant the slow slide of centuries as his angel crept ever closer to despair, and Crowley helpless even to whisper encouragement. Never before had Hell meant the place of an angel's withering, or the white stare of eyes that would never see again. Never before had Hell been a place of torment, until he saw Aziraphale there, and been unable to do anything to help. Never had Hell been that.
Now it was. Now Hell was a horror lurking in the burn of his freshly-freed lips, and in the milky absence in Aziraphale's eyes, and in the hollow emptiness under his breast-bone. Now Hell was a gnawing thing at his heels, and Earth a bright, desperate and almost painful reprieve. Crowley had never expected that.
Crowley had never expected to see it again.
The first few moments had been ... almost terrible, in their wonder, in the freshness of hope, and the terror of it. It would have been such a Hellish thing to do, such a very demonic trick. To grant them the brief illusion of reprieve, and then snatch it away. And the demon who had offered it, the child with power in his voice and wry desperation behind his eyes ... Crowley had expected him to break the deal. Or simply not to honour it in the first place. They both had. Hell did not foster a hopeful spirit, and Crowley had seen the demon's face in the galleries before. Watching them. Desiring them. Wanting to touch, for a moment, something demons were never meant to have ...
He understood that, at least. Almost forgave it, even. Aziraphale ... He looked down at the angel curled against his chest, felt the brush of Aziraphale's wings along his side. The warmth of the hand tucked into his own, twitching faintly in aborted dream-messages, talking silently to Crowley even as he slept. Oh yes. Crowley understood the young demon's yearning. He understood the lure of the forbidden. So very, very well. He understood what had driven him to make his offer, and why what little they could give might have only wounded, and given the poor bastard cause to harm them in return. Understood why the demon might take a forfeit for their kisses.
But the demon hadn't. The demon had ... understood, genuinely, that what he desired couldn't be taken by force. And he had ... rewarded them for what little they had been able to show him. He had stuck by his word, and brought them to Earth. Even with only the half-kiss Crowley had been able to give him. Even with only a touch between them to show him what he yearned for. The demon had still freed them. The demon had still honoured the deal. Which was ... almost as strange to them as Earth suddenly was. Almost as unreal. Maybe more. The rules on Earth may have been stringent, but in Hell a demon only had to take what he wanted, and give nothing back. And yet ... this one had let them go.
Perhaps it had been revenge enough, in its way. Crowley felt his mouth twist, the careful movement habit and the bindings of Hell had ingrained in him, and curled a little closer around his angel. Perhaps showing them what had become of Earth in the decade since they left, perhaps showing them, so starkly, what had become of them, how different and clumsy and ill-suited Hell had made them ... perhaps that had been a glimmer of vengeance from a demon denied. Perhaps that had been the demon's intent. Perhaps.
The world had seemed so ... bright, in those first few moments. So ... noisy, and rich, and beautiful, and painful. They had staggered away from the Gates, staggered away from the demon's sad stare, back out into a world they had almost forgotten. Aziraphale had clung to his arm, had held on tight as his feet touched grass for the first time in centuries, at least for them. His angel had lifted blind eyes to feel the sun on his face, and for a second Aziraphale had glowed. Not power, or returning Grace, or anything except pure joy, a moment of such boundless relief and gratitude and uplift that Crowley had honestly felt his heart stagger in his chest. For a second, as Aziraphale shone like the sun they hadn't seen in years, Crowley would have offered the demon anything he wanted, in sheer gratitude.
But then ...
They had forgotten they were naked. Or rather, forgotten that being naked meant anything. Forgotten that there was a world outside Hell, where shame was not a constant and dignity was something more than a distant memory. Innocent as Adam and Eve before the apple, he and his angel had wandered back out into a world they'd spent six thousand years coming to know, and realised only too late that they'd forgotten how it worked.
Someone had tried to arrest them. Crowley had figured that out later. Someone had noticed the pair of naked, emaciated men walking dazedly down some country road, and tried to politely suggest that they might like to come with him, in the back of this nice, comfy car, while he tried to figure out what the hell had happened to them. He hadn't meant to harm them at all, only take them in so he could keep an eye on them, and get them some help. Later, when the adrenalin had died down again and he could think straight, Crowley had realised that. At the time ...
Aziraphale had flinched. When the car pulled up, the noise and strangeness of it after so long away, and when the policeman came close, when he spoke next to the angel and tried to touch him ... Aziraphale had flinched. Had curved away in old terror, pressed himself back against Crowley's chest, and Crowley had just ... reacted. Simply lashed out, shoving the human away with strength he shouldn't have had, and reached out to pull his angel to him and ... fly. And fly.
He hadn't been able to do that, in Hell. He hadn't been able to run. Neither of them had.
They had landed, a frantic time later, in the backyard of some house. He had no idea where, in what country, on what continent, no idea where he was or what he was doing. He had forgotten so much of Earth, let so much of it slip away as a dream he couldn't afford anymore, and in the rush of adrenalin as he remembered the existence of humans again ... that frightened him. That terrified him. He didn't know what to do. Couldn't remember how to live in this world. How to keep his angel safe ...
Aziraphale had kissed him, then. Had curled around him, smiling just faintly, nuzzling at Crowley's jaw as he tangled their wings together. His angel had held him close, and whispered to him, and teased him back out of his panic. Pressed his hand against the frantic thumping of Crowley's heart, as he had so many times in their prison, and rested it there until the beat had calmed beneath it. Aziraphale wrapped around him, and held him until the fear went away. And Crowley had raised a hand, brushed along his angel's flank and tapped out silent words of thanks before he remembered that that he had another way, now. Before he remembered that their freedom had not been the only gift the demon had given them.
He had opened his mouth. Opened lips long since sealed shut, and tried to remember how to speak. Tried to remember how to whisper words of thanks that his angel could hear, that could be more than a thread of touch in the darkness. Tried to give Aziraphale maybe something of what he had felt, when he'd seen his angel in the sun once again.
It hadn't ... worked very well. It hadn't ... worked at all.
He didn't know how to describe the sound that came from his throat. Didn't know the word for the mewling, rasping thing that remained of his voice after centuries of disuse. He didn't know the name for it. Only the name for his angel's startled reaction. Shock. Fear. A hint of disgust as Aziraphale flinched back from him, hands reaching towards his face in stunned worry. Only the name for the expression that crossed his angel's features as he touched Crowley's face, felt the edges of his opened mouth, and realised the source of the sound.
Pain. The expression on Aziraphale's face had been ... pain. Crowley had shut his mouth, then. He had sealed it tighter than the threads of Hell had ever managed. And his angel had felt him do it, and there had been such a world of sadness in Aziraphale's face. Such a world of loss.
"I'm sorry," his angel had whispered, hands tracing the ragged edges of Crowley's mouth. "I'm so sorry, my dear ..."
Crowley still wasn't sure if he had any right to be grateful that the owner of the house had interrupted them before he had to answer that. He wasn't sure he should have been relieved that he didn't have to find some way to express ... the wrongness of that, of Aziraphale apologising, of the sound of what had once been his voice, of the horror of what he had meant as a gift, as a thank you. He wasn't sure he was allowed to be grateful to be spared that explanation. But ... he was anyway. He was.
The human woman had pointed a weapon at them, as she came down off the back porch towards the two winged, naked men in her backyard. She had pointed a gun at them, expression somewhere between cautious and awed and pissed off as all get out, and Crowley had felt a sluggish, reluctant surge of amusement, admiration, as he stepped smartly in front of his angel. While the woman had pointed a shotgun at his nose and snarled at them to tell her who the hell they thought they were, showing up on her lawn trying to look like angels, naked as the day they were born ... Crowley felt his torn mouth twitch into the memory of a smile.
And then his angel was stepping around him, his hands coming up in easy supplication, already placidly murmuring calm little lies as he waved a hand blindly until he managed to push the shotgun away: that they were only lost, that they meant no harm, that she hadn't really seen their wings, and do please excuse his companion, they were just a little jumpy of late, and Crowley was so very protective, the dear ...
For the first time in centuries, for the first time since he had seen what happened to an angel in Hell, Crowley found himself feeling the old, familiar urge to strangle Aziraphale, to cheerfully slap him upside the head and remind him of how stupid he could sometimes be ... And it was a beautiful feeling. Free of guilt and old pain, just pure irritation and fond exasperation. A beautiful, beautiful feeling, and Crowley barely realised that he was grinning dopily at his angel's back, barely recognised that he was staring at Aziraphale in outright adoration. Until the woman let the gun drop to her side. Until much of the wariness in her expression slipped away, as she looked between them and put two and two together, and realised that at least one of her fears was very, very unlikely to come to pass, under the probable circumstances. Then, Crowley realised what he was doing.
"You boys had best come in, then," she'd said, grumpily, but a sort of pity had started creeping into her eyes as the fear receded, and she accepted the illusion of their humanity for the moment. As the memory of wings faded, and she saw instead only two naked and battered men, one scarred and the other blind, obviously frightened and exhausted and desperately clinging to each other as they stood in her yard. She had looked at them, and there had been kindness in her eyes.
Crowley had forgotten that, too. He had forgotten a lot of things.
He remembered some of them, in the next few hours. He remembered many things Hell had convinced him to forget, as the woman determinedly set about making him and his angel feel safe in her home.
Julie (that was her name - she was a widow, apparently, and something of the local crazy, which made Crowley wonder if it wasn't quite happenstance that brought him down out of his panic in her yard) had taken to Aziraphale immediately, bustling around him and clearing his path through her house, chatting hesitantly at first, and then more freely, as Crowley's angel dredged up every scrap of friendliness and compassion Hell had tried to drive out of him, and coaxed their sudden hostess in relaxing around him. Crowley had simply shadowed the pair of them, glued to his angel's back, and let the conversation wash around him. He had made his last attempt to speak for a long, long time. He trusted Aziraphale to manage it for them. And he did. Oh, he did.
There had been ... food. Or perhaps something close to Heaven, masquerading as food, because Crowley was sure chicken soup had never tasted that ... that rich, that different, that amazing ... And for all the pain of his ruined voice, he decided he had to be grateful yet again to the demon, for opening his mouth, for letting him taste that ... Granted, yes, it hadn't been nearly so pleasant later when his body, starved down to the bone and completely unable to handle even that much, had brought it convulsively back up again, but it was worth it. To have tasted that first, it was worth it. To have watched his angel remembering the slightly carnal joys of Earth, to have seen Aziraphale digging in with some phantom of his old enthusiasm ... Worth it, yes. Very much so.
Then there had been the clothes. Julie had been content to let them eat dinner wrapped in blankets, for modesty's sake and a starving man's priorities, but she put her foot down about letting them remain like that. Her reputation was bad enough, she'd said, without having two naked young men wandering around her house. Aziraphale had blushed, at that, and Crowley had forgotten ... he had forgotten what that looked like, too. They hadn't blushed, in Hell. You needed a sense of dignity before you could be embarrassed, and there was nothing they could do to prevent their shame. But here ... here, his angel could blush. Here, they had dignity again, and it could bring colour to Aziraphale's cheeks. It was ... something he had missed, though he hadn't realised it. It was ... good.
But the clothes ... the clothes, not so much. The clothes had been ... Too much. Too much memory, too much sensation, all wrapped too close together. Julie had pulled some things out of her husband's old closet that she thought might fit, picked some things for Aziraphale first and handed them to Crowley. She was a quick study, their hostess. She had realised quickly that she wasn't to touch his angel, that Aziraphale flinched in fear from touches he couldn't see coming and Crowley had trouble containing himself when it happened ... Not that Crowley was much better. Not that he could keep himself from flinching when she touched him, either. But at least he could see it coming. At least he could prepare himself. She understood that, and carefully pressed the bundle into his hands, stepping back and leaving them alone with a smile. So he could dress his angel. So he could dress Aziraphale.
It had been so strange. Unbearably so. It had brought back ... so many things, and taken away so many more. And Crowley had done it, had managed it, because this was Earth and that was how things were done on Earth, he remembered that, and wanted that, but ...
He had learned his angel's body, in the centuries of imprisonment. He had learned every line, every curve, had whispered words across every plane of it. Aziraphale had become ... something different, in Hell. A strange new creature, in Crowley's eyes, a body strange and clean and familiar, and now ... now he was changing again. Now, while Crowley's hands pulled dark cloth slowly up his legs, hid away those parts that he had only known in Hell ... Now, while Crowley pulled the jumper carefully over his head, watching his hair fluff and tangle as he did so, watching the thick, warm folds disguise the body he'd learned so intimately ... Now, Aziraphale was something different again. Something close to what he had once been, something close to the angel Crowley had spent six thousand years coming to know on Earth, coming to love and cherish and fight with and annoy. And yet ... not quite. Something still remained, of Hell. Aziraphale became ... a halfway thing, caught between the past and the present, between the distant, comfortable memory, and the intimate and damaged reality.
It had been ... it had been too much. Almost too much. Though Crowley had done his best, held it as best he could ... it was too strange to bear, taking too much, giving too much, and then ... Then he had found Julie's last little gift. Honestly, kindly intended. To disguise the white blindness of his angel's eyes. Gently meant, but Crowley ...
He had stood in front of his newly-dressed angel, in front of the phantom of long evenings in a bookshop in distant England, in front of the memory of warmth and amusement and lost comfort, and stared down at the pair of sunglasses in his hands. Felt the weight of them, the familiar shape, watched the gleam of tinted glass and remembered who he had been. What he had been. Remembered the demon who wore only the most stylish of clothes, remembered the indulgent, important, impressive creature he'd once been. Remembered the purr of the Bentley around him, remembered Aziraphale's then-pudgy hand reaching up to pull the sunglasses down and admonish him not to wear them indoors, at least when there were no humans around ... He remembered, all the things he had forgotten, all the dreams he had forced himself to let go. He remembered.
He hadn't realised he'd made a sound. Hadn't realised he'd dropped to his knees, curled down to the floor at his angel's feet, not until Aziraphale followed him down, warbling in concern, hands reaching out to catch arms, to follow them down, to curl around his hands and find the source of his distress. He hadn't realised he was crying, hot, silent tears, until Aziraphale lifted his hands from the sunglasses to touch Crowley's cheek, to brush at the wetness there. Hadn't realised he had broken, finally, until his angel gathered him together and wrapped him in his arms, crooning gently while Crowley burrowed into his jumper and the pain of distant memories. He hadn't realised his despair, until the damn demon had offered them Earth again, and he remembered who he and his angel had used to be.
He had broken, then. Gone ... perhaps a little insane. Perhaps a little mad. He had pulled himself closer, pulled Aziraphale to him. Tried to climb inside him, tried to pull his angel apart and hide inside the memories, inside the warmth and familiarity of him. Tugged at cloth with desperate fingers, reached beneath it for skin, for the planes he'd written his secrets on where all of Hell couldn't reach them, for the warmth of something he knew, something that was real and not the phantom memory of something he hadn't dared let himself believe in. He cried out, all the ugly little noises of his ravaged voice, and burrowed into his angel. Burrowed into Aziraphale.
And his angel ... his angel had curled around him. His angel had broken in his turn, whispering frantic little things, pained and desperate as he tugged Crowley close, as he tugged until he found Crowley's face, until he could lean blindly down and bump his nose to Crowley's, ignore the pain and search out torn lips and press against them. Until he could find the kiss, and cry around it, and whisper in Crowley's mouth where all his words were safe. His hands clenched around the sunglasses, squeezed them until they shattered in his hands, glass and blood and forgotten pain, and he held Crowley close enough to fuse, to pull him inside and never let him go, and in their terror they forgot the hold upon their wings, and disappeared inside a cocoon of feathers, inside a battered shelter that only kept the storm inside, where prying eyes couldn't see.
Julie found them, like that. Julie saw them that way, maybe only minutes after Crowley had crumpled to his knees, and came back, hours later, when they and she were calmer. Came back, when the storm had passed, and stood quietly over them until Crowley looked up at her. Until Crowley had looked up at the sudden understanding in her eyes, and the awe, and the desperate pity, and whispered it with the flash of fingers to his angel. Whispered that she knew, that she saw, and that she understood. Julie waited until she saw that they both knew that, that they both ... understood it, trusted it. And then Julie left. Not far. Never far. But enough to let them ... rest. Let them ... understand.
That had been six hours ago. Yesterday evening, as time ran on Earth. They were curled now ... wrapped around each other in Julie's guest bedroom. Curled up together on a bed, wrapped in sheets and wings, in comforts they'd forgotten. Aziraphale was still mostly dressed. Still wearing trousers and that jumper, both now considerably more ragged. Crowley was still naked. He hadn't ... he couldn't bear it, not then, not now, not yet. Aziraphale had been too much already. He hadn't been able to bear it.
Tomorrow, perhaps, he could. Tomorrow ... perhaps he could bear a lot of things.
Earth was different, now, he thought, looking down at his angel, looking down at an angel he had thought lost centuries ago in Hell, and an angel that had never seen Earth. He watched Aziraphale sleep, this strange being both familiar and new, so different in this light, in this world. His being. His angel. No matter if he was six thousand years familiar and centuries strange, or a being born in Hell who only vaguely remembered what he'd once been. Earth was different now, they were different now, but either way ... Either way, Aziraphale was still his. Still curled at his side, fingers whispering silent secrets against Crowley's skin even in his sleep, still something he had never been meant to have, and had paid the price for, and counted it, even now, so very, very worth it.
Maybe this had been that demon's revenge. Maybe Earth, with all its strangeness and all the memories of what had once been, had been the trick the little bugger had pulled, the forfeit on an inadequate kiss.
If it was, if they ever met again ... Crowley would have to thank him for it. Crowley would have to thank him.
Contd: Julie's Young Men
Earth felt ... different, now. Felt ... strange. Crowley didn't quite understand it, not yet. Hell had never affected him that way before. Hell, no matter how long his various subjective experiences of it had been, had never damaged him this way, never made everything seem so ... so halting, and stiff, and unbearably bright. Hell had never changed him like this before.
But then, Hell had never held his angel before, either. Hell had never meant watching what they did to Aziraphale. Hell had never meant the strange half-life they had lived together in its confines, never meant the slow slide of centuries as his angel crept ever closer to despair, and Crowley helpless even to whisper encouragement. Never before had Hell meant the place of an angel's withering, or the white stare of eyes that would never see again. Never before had Hell been a place of torment, until he saw Aziraphale there, and been unable to do anything to help. Never had Hell been that.
Now it was. Now Hell was a horror lurking in the burn of his freshly-freed lips, and in the milky absence in Aziraphale's eyes, and in the hollow emptiness under his breast-bone. Now Hell was a gnawing thing at his heels, and Earth a bright, desperate and almost painful reprieve. Crowley had never expected that.
Crowley had never expected to see it again.
The first few moments had been ... almost terrible, in their wonder, in the freshness of hope, and the terror of it. It would have been such a Hellish thing to do, such a very demonic trick. To grant them the brief illusion of reprieve, and then snatch it away. And the demon who had offered it, the child with power in his voice and wry desperation behind his eyes ... Crowley had expected him to break the deal. Or simply not to honour it in the first place. They both had. Hell did not foster a hopeful spirit, and Crowley had seen the demon's face in the galleries before. Watching them. Desiring them. Wanting to touch, for a moment, something demons were never meant to have ...
He understood that, at least. Almost forgave it, even. Aziraphale ... He looked down at the angel curled against his chest, felt the brush of Aziraphale's wings along his side. The warmth of the hand tucked into his own, twitching faintly in aborted dream-messages, talking silently to Crowley even as he slept. Oh yes. Crowley understood the young demon's yearning. He understood the lure of the forbidden. So very, very well. He understood what had driven him to make his offer, and why what little they could give might have only wounded, and given the poor bastard cause to harm them in return. Understood why the demon might take a forfeit for their kisses.
But the demon hadn't. The demon had ... understood, genuinely, that what he desired couldn't be taken by force. And he had ... rewarded them for what little they had been able to show him. He had stuck by his word, and brought them to Earth. Even with only the half-kiss Crowley had been able to give him. Even with only a touch between them to show him what he yearned for. The demon had still freed them. The demon had still honoured the deal. Which was ... almost as strange to them as Earth suddenly was. Almost as unreal. Maybe more. The rules on Earth may have been stringent, but in Hell a demon only had to take what he wanted, and give nothing back. And yet ... this one had let them go.
Perhaps it had been revenge enough, in its way. Crowley felt his mouth twist, the careful movement habit and the bindings of Hell had ingrained in him, and curled a little closer around his angel. Perhaps showing them what had become of Earth in the decade since they left, perhaps showing them, so starkly, what had become of them, how different and clumsy and ill-suited Hell had made them ... perhaps that had been a glimmer of vengeance from a demon denied. Perhaps that had been the demon's intent. Perhaps.
The world had seemed so ... bright, in those first few moments. So ... noisy, and rich, and beautiful, and painful. They had staggered away from the Gates, staggered away from the demon's sad stare, back out into a world they had almost forgotten. Aziraphale had clung to his arm, had held on tight as his feet touched grass for the first time in centuries, at least for them. His angel had lifted blind eyes to feel the sun on his face, and for a second Aziraphale had glowed. Not power, or returning Grace, or anything except pure joy, a moment of such boundless relief and gratitude and uplift that Crowley had honestly felt his heart stagger in his chest. For a second, as Aziraphale shone like the sun they hadn't seen in years, Crowley would have offered the demon anything he wanted, in sheer gratitude.
But then ...
They had forgotten they were naked. Or rather, forgotten that being naked meant anything. Forgotten that there was a world outside Hell, where shame was not a constant and dignity was something more than a distant memory. Innocent as Adam and Eve before the apple, he and his angel had wandered back out into a world they'd spent six thousand years coming to know, and realised only too late that they'd forgotten how it worked.
Someone had tried to arrest them. Crowley had figured that out later. Someone had noticed the pair of naked, emaciated men walking dazedly down some country road, and tried to politely suggest that they might like to come with him, in the back of this nice, comfy car, while he tried to figure out what the hell had happened to them. He hadn't meant to harm them at all, only take them in so he could keep an eye on them, and get them some help. Later, when the adrenalin had died down again and he could think straight, Crowley had realised that. At the time ...
Aziraphale had flinched. When the car pulled up, the noise and strangeness of it after so long away, and when the policeman came close, when he spoke next to the angel and tried to touch him ... Aziraphale had flinched. Had curved away in old terror, pressed himself back against Crowley's chest, and Crowley had just ... reacted. Simply lashed out, shoving the human away with strength he shouldn't have had, and reached out to pull his angel to him and ... fly. And fly.
He hadn't been able to do that, in Hell. He hadn't been able to run. Neither of them had.
They had landed, a frantic time later, in the backyard of some house. He had no idea where, in what country, on what continent, no idea where he was or what he was doing. He had forgotten so much of Earth, let so much of it slip away as a dream he couldn't afford anymore, and in the rush of adrenalin as he remembered the existence of humans again ... that frightened him. That terrified him. He didn't know what to do. Couldn't remember how to live in this world. How to keep his angel safe ...
Aziraphale had kissed him, then. Had curled around him, smiling just faintly, nuzzling at Crowley's jaw as he tangled their wings together. His angel had held him close, and whispered to him, and teased him back out of his panic. Pressed his hand against the frantic thumping of Crowley's heart, as he had so many times in their prison, and rested it there until the beat had calmed beneath it. Aziraphale wrapped around him, and held him until the fear went away. And Crowley had raised a hand, brushed along his angel's flank and tapped out silent words of thanks before he remembered that that he had another way, now. Before he remembered that their freedom had not been the only gift the demon had given them.
He had opened his mouth. Opened lips long since sealed shut, and tried to remember how to speak. Tried to remember how to whisper words of thanks that his angel could hear, that could be more than a thread of touch in the darkness. Tried to give Aziraphale maybe something of what he had felt, when he'd seen his angel in the sun once again.
It hadn't ... worked very well. It hadn't ... worked at all.
He didn't know how to describe the sound that came from his throat. Didn't know the word for the mewling, rasping thing that remained of his voice after centuries of disuse. He didn't know the name for it. Only the name for his angel's startled reaction. Shock. Fear. A hint of disgust as Aziraphale flinched back from him, hands reaching towards his face in stunned worry. Only the name for the expression that crossed his angel's features as he touched Crowley's face, felt the edges of his opened mouth, and realised the source of the sound.
Pain. The expression on Aziraphale's face had been ... pain. Crowley had shut his mouth, then. He had sealed it tighter than the threads of Hell had ever managed. And his angel had felt him do it, and there had been such a world of sadness in Aziraphale's face. Such a world of loss.
"I'm sorry," his angel had whispered, hands tracing the ragged edges of Crowley's mouth. "I'm so sorry, my dear ..."
Crowley still wasn't sure if he had any right to be grateful that the owner of the house had interrupted them before he had to answer that. He wasn't sure he should have been relieved that he didn't have to find some way to express ... the wrongness of that, of Aziraphale apologising, of the sound of what had once been his voice, of the horror of what he had meant as a gift, as a thank you. He wasn't sure he was allowed to be grateful to be spared that explanation. But ... he was anyway. He was.
The human woman had pointed a weapon at them, as she came down off the back porch towards the two winged, naked men in her backyard. She had pointed a gun at them, expression somewhere between cautious and awed and pissed off as all get out, and Crowley had felt a sluggish, reluctant surge of amusement, admiration, as he stepped smartly in front of his angel. While the woman had pointed a shotgun at his nose and snarled at them to tell her who the hell they thought they were, showing up on her lawn trying to look like angels, naked as the day they were born ... Crowley felt his torn mouth twitch into the memory of a smile.
And then his angel was stepping around him, his hands coming up in easy supplication, already placidly murmuring calm little lies as he waved a hand blindly until he managed to push the shotgun away: that they were only lost, that they meant no harm, that she hadn't really seen their wings, and do please excuse his companion, they were just a little jumpy of late, and Crowley was so very protective, the dear ...
For the first time in centuries, for the first time since he had seen what happened to an angel in Hell, Crowley found himself feeling the old, familiar urge to strangle Aziraphale, to cheerfully slap him upside the head and remind him of how stupid he could sometimes be ... And it was a beautiful feeling. Free of guilt and old pain, just pure irritation and fond exasperation. A beautiful, beautiful feeling, and Crowley barely realised that he was grinning dopily at his angel's back, barely recognised that he was staring at Aziraphale in outright adoration. Until the woman let the gun drop to her side. Until much of the wariness in her expression slipped away, as she looked between them and put two and two together, and realised that at least one of her fears was very, very unlikely to come to pass, under the probable circumstances. Then, Crowley realised what he was doing.
"You boys had best come in, then," she'd said, grumpily, but a sort of pity had started creeping into her eyes as the fear receded, and she accepted the illusion of their humanity for the moment. As the memory of wings faded, and she saw instead only two naked and battered men, one scarred and the other blind, obviously frightened and exhausted and desperately clinging to each other as they stood in her yard. She had looked at them, and there had been kindness in her eyes.
Crowley had forgotten that, too. He had forgotten a lot of things.
He remembered some of them, in the next few hours. He remembered many things Hell had convinced him to forget, as the woman determinedly set about making him and his angel feel safe in her home.
Julie (that was her name - she was a widow, apparently, and something of the local crazy, which made Crowley wonder if it wasn't quite happenstance that brought him down out of his panic in her yard) had taken to Aziraphale immediately, bustling around him and clearing his path through her house, chatting hesitantly at first, and then more freely, as Crowley's angel dredged up every scrap of friendliness and compassion Hell had tried to drive out of him, and coaxed their sudden hostess in relaxing around him. Crowley had simply shadowed the pair of them, glued to his angel's back, and let the conversation wash around him. He had made his last attempt to speak for a long, long time. He trusted Aziraphale to manage it for them. And he did. Oh, he did.
There had been ... food. Or perhaps something close to Heaven, masquerading as food, because Crowley was sure chicken soup had never tasted that ... that rich, that different, that amazing ... And for all the pain of his ruined voice, he decided he had to be grateful yet again to the demon, for opening his mouth, for letting him taste that ... Granted, yes, it hadn't been nearly so pleasant later when his body, starved down to the bone and completely unable to handle even that much, had brought it convulsively back up again, but it was worth it. To have tasted that first, it was worth it. To have watched his angel remembering the slightly carnal joys of Earth, to have seen Aziraphale digging in with some phantom of his old enthusiasm ... Worth it, yes. Very much so.
Then there had been the clothes. Julie had been content to let them eat dinner wrapped in blankets, for modesty's sake and a starving man's priorities, but she put her foot down about letting them remain like that. Her reputation was bad enough, she'd said, without having two naked young men wandering around her house. Aziraphale had blushed, at that, and Crowley had forgotten ... he had forgotten what that looked like, too. They hadn't blushed, in Hell. You needed a sense of dignity before you could be embarrassed, and there was nothing they could do to prevent their shame. But here ... here, his angel could blush. Here, they had dignity again, and it could bring colour to Aziraphale's cheeks. It was ... something he had missed, though he hadn't realised it. It was ... good.
But the clothes ... the clothes, not so much. The clothes had been ... Too much. Too much memory, too much sensation, all wrapped too close together. Julie had pulled some things out of her husband's old closet that she thought might fit, picked some things for Aziraphale first and handed them to Crowley. She was a quick study, their hostess. She had realised quickly that she wasn't to touch his angel, that Aziraphale flinched in fear from touches he couldn't see coming and Crowley had trouble containing himself when it happened ... Not that Crowley was much better. Not that he could keep himself from flinching when she touched him, either. But at least he could see it coming. At least he could prepare himself. She understood that, and carefully pressed the bundle into his hands, stepping back and leaving them alone with a smile. So he could dress his angel. So he could dress Aziraphale.
It had been so strange. Unbearably so. It had brought back ... so many things, and taken away so many more. And Crowley had done it, had managed it, because this was Earth and that was how things were done on Earth, he remembered that, and wanted that, but ...
He had learned his angel's body, in the centuries of imprisonment. He had learned every line, every curve, had whispered words across every plane of it. Aziraphale had become ... something different, in Hell. A strange new creature, in Crowley's eyes, a body strange and clean and familiar, and now ... now he was changing again. Now, while Crowley's hands pulled dark cloth slowly up his legs, hid away those parts that he had only known in Hell ... Now, while Crowley pulled the jumper carefully over his head, watching his hair fluff and tangle as he did so, watching the thick, warm folds disguise the body he'd learned so intimately ... Now, Aziraphale was something different again. Something close to what he had once been, something close to the angel Crowley had spent six thousand years coming to know on Earth, coming to love and cherish and fight with and annoy. And yet ... not quite. Something still remained, of Hell. Aziraphale became ... a halfway thing, caught between the past and the present, between the distant, comfortable memory, and the intimate and damaged reality.
It had been ... it had been too much. Almost too much. Though Crowley had done his best, held it as best he could ... it was too strange to bear, taking too much, giving too much, and then ... Then he had found Julie's last little gift. Honestly, kindly intended. To disguise the white blindness of his angel's eyes. Gently meant, but Crowley ...
He had stood in front of his newly-dressed angel, in front of the phantom of long evenings in a bookshop in distant England, in front of the memory of warmth and amusement and lost comfort, and stared down at the pair of sunglasses in his hands. Felt the weight of them, the familiar shape, watched the gleam of tinted glass and remembered who he had been. What he had been. Remembered the demon who wore only the most stylish of clothes, remembered the indulgent, important, impressive creature he'd once been. Remembered the purr of the Bentley around him, remembered Aziraphale's then-pudgy hand reaching up to pull the sunglasses down and admonish him not to wear them indoors, at least when there were no humans around ... He remembered, all the things he had forgotten, all the dreams he had forced himself to let go. He remembered.
He hadn't realised he'd made a sound. Hadn't realised he'd dropped to his knees, curled down to the floor at his angel's feet, not until Aziraphale followed him down, warbling in concern, hands reaching out to catch arms, to follow them down, to curl around his hands and find the source of his distress. He hadn't realised he was crying, hot, silent tears, until Aziraphale lifted his hands from the sunglasses to touch Crowley's cheek, to brush at the wetness there. Hadn't realised he had broken, finally, until his angel gathered him together and wrapped him in his arms, crooning gently while Crowley burrowed into his jumper and the pain of distant memories. He hadn't realised his despair, until the damn demon had offered them Earth again, and he remembered who he and his angel had used to be.
He had broken, then. Gone ... perhaps a little insane. Perhaps a little mad. He had pulled himself closer, pulled Aziraphale to him. Tried to climb inside him, tried to pull his angel apart and hide inside the memories, inside the warmth and familiarity of him. Tugged at cloth with desperate fingers, reached beneath it for skin, for the planes he'd written his secrets on where all of Hell couldn't reach them, for the warmth of something he knew, something that was real and not the phantom memory of something he hadn't dared let himself believe in. He cried out, all the ugly little noises of his ravaged voice, and burrowed into his angel. Burrowed into Aziraphale.
And his angel ... his angel had curled around him. His angel had broken in his turn, whispering frantic little things, pained and desperate as he tugged Crowley close, as he tugged until he found Crowley's face, until he could lean blindly down and bump his nose to Crowley's, ignore the pain and search out torn lips and press against them. Until he could find the kiss, and cry around it, and whisper in Crowley's mouth where all his words were safe. His hands clenched around the sunglasses, squeezed them until they shattered in his hands, glass and blood and forgotten pain, and he held Crowley close enough to fuse, to pull him inside and never let him go, and in their terror they forgot the hold upon their wings, and disappeared inside a cocoon of feathers, inside a battered shelter that only kept the storm inside, where prying eyes couldn't see.
Julie found them, like that. Julie saw them that way, maybe only minutes after Crowley had crumpled to his knees, and came back, hours later, when they and she were calmer. Came back, when the storm had passed, and stood quietly over them until Crowley looked up at her. Until Crowley had looked up at the sudden understanding in her eyes, and the awe, and the desperate pity, and whispered it with the flash of fingers to his angel. Whispered that she knew, that she saw, and that she understood. Julie waited until she saw that they both knew that, that they both ... understood it, trusted it. And then Julie left. Not far. Never far. But enough to let them ... rest. Let them ... understand.
That had been six hours ago. Yesterday evening, as time ran on Earth. They were curled now ... wrapped around each other in Julie's guest bedroom. Curled up together on a bed, wrapped in sheets and wings, in comforts they'd forgotten. Aziraphale was still mostly dressed. Still wearing trousers and that jumper, both now considerably more ragged. Crowley was still naked. He hadn't ... he couldn't bear it, not then, not now, not yet. Aziraphale had been too much already. He hadn't been able to bear it.
Tomorrow, perhaps, he could. Tomorrow ... perhaps he could bear a lot of things.
Earth was different, now, he thought, looking down at his angel, looking down at an angel he had thought lost centuries ago in Hell, and an angel that had never seen Earth. He watched Aziraphale sleep, this strange being both familiar and new, so different in this light, in this world. His being. His angel. No matter if he was six thousand years familiar and centuries strange, or a being born in Hell who only vaguely remembered what he'd once been. Earth was different now, they were different now, but either way ... Either way, Aziraphale was still his. Still curled at his side, fingers whispering silent secrets against Crowley's skin even in his sleep, still something he had never been meant to have, and had paid the price for, and counted it, even now, so very, very worth it.
Maybe this had been that demon's revenge. Maybe Earth, with all its strangeness and all the memories of what had once been, had been the trick the little bugger had pulled, the forfeit on an inadequate kiss.
If it was, if they ever met again ... Crowley would have to thank him for it. Crowley would have to thank him.
Contd: Julie's Young Men
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