#soft crowley

But he soon concluded that, under the current circumstances, his mind had no right to ruin what was meant to be a peaceful holiday. Not after the effort he had taken to appease it by distancing himself from everything that had happened.

He had chosen the perfect place: a cozy cabin nestled in the snow, just the two of them, with the promise of watching Northern Lights. And they had indeed seen them some nights ago, dazzling hazes of colour dancing across the dark sky. The lights had been breathtaking, almost as beautiful as Crowley’s smile upon seeing them, the same smile Crowley had given Aziraphale when he first proposed this trip.

Finally decided to go off together, Angel?

And yes, perhaps Aziraphale had, even when there wasn’t anything left to run from anymore except for his own irrational fears. Disappointingly, they refused to be left behind so easily. After all the challenges he and Crowley had been through, they would have deserved to be happy here, in their little refuge in the middle of nowhere.

Far away from sparks of anxiety whenever the bookshop’s doorbell announced unexpected visitors.

Far away from the subtle, sickening smell of almond syrup he seemed to detect in every single one of Nina's coffees.

Far away from the resounding echo of a door slamming shut behind Crowley with horrible finality.

Far away from …

Enough.

Aziraphale shifted again, trying to derail his train of thought, and this time Crowley stirred beside him. There was no use. As much as Aziraphale hated trading the warmth of Crowley’s presence for the chill outside, lying still felt impossible with his thoughts closing in on him like that. And he certainly didn’t want to wake Crowley. He slipped out of bed, dressed quietly, and stepped outside into the pale daylight.

The crisp air bit at his face as he carefully closed the door behind him, mindful to keep the cold out. The storm from the night before had increased the layer of snow to a level high enough to soak his trousers up to his knees as he took hesitant steps away from the cabin.

Aziraphale inhaled deeply, slow and deliberate breaths, but they failed to fulfill their purpose. The snow’s suffocating whiteness closed in on him, each breath growing more shallow than the last. Even the sky was just an unbroken pale gray, bathing everything in a sinister white light.

So much for distancing himself from haunting memories.

He pressed a trembling hand to his painfully constricted chest, willing his heart to slow, but the sensation of being trapped only intensified. His thoughts sounded much too loud in this white emptiness.

It’s not safe for you here. You’re alone. You always were and you always will be.

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the blinding whiteness. His hands shook violently, but the cold had nothing to do with it.

He’s not coming to help you. You wanted to stop destruction but destroyed everything you had with him in the process.

You’re pathetic for even needing him like that.

“Angel?”

Crowley.

Crowley’s voice forged its path through the fog swirling in Aziraphale’s mind, grounding in its familiarity, soothing in its softness. Suddenly, Aziraphale was able to breathe again, deep, calming breaths, the cold air burning its way into his lungs.

The snow crunched beneath Crowley’s feet as he approached Aziraphale, not quite invading his personal space, only hovering at the edge of Aziraphale’s vision as if closing in on a wild animal prone to flight.

His calm presence reminded Aziraphale of one undeniable truth: He wasn't alone.

Even when they had exchanged harsh words in the past, they had always been there for each other when it mattered. Aziraphale hadn’t truly been alone since he had sheltered Crowley under his wing so many millennia ago. No decision in his entire existence had ever felt so right as that one.

“Everything alright?”

Aziraphale interlaced his fingers to hide how much they were still trembling, his thumb tracing slow, soothing patterns across the back of his hand. Guilt worked its way through his already tangled emotions. He wanted Crowley to be happy here, not burden him with needless worry over … over nothing.

At least Aziraphale desperately wanted it to be nothing. Wanted the flashbacks and anxiety attacks and self-doubts to vanish. Wanted to curl up in Crowley’s arms without dreading to lose their connection again if he dared to enjoy it too much.

Aziraphale had always wanted too many frivolous things to be considered a proper angel. Were these feelings the price he had to pay for his transgressions?

“I'm perfectly fine,” he replied, almost reflexively, his voice not nearly as fine as intended. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

There had been a time when Aziraphale might have gotten away with his pretense, a time when Crowley wouldn’t have dared to hint that he could see right through him, determined to honour their unspoken agreement never to delve too deeply into each other's true emotions.

That time had passed.

“There’s no need to pretend with me, Angel.“

Crowley's voice was soft, each word merely tiptoeing forward as if probing this still unfamiliar ground between them. He took a few more steps until Aziraphale sensed the promise of touch in Crowley’s closeness. But for some reason, Crowley hesitated, every shaky brush of breath against Aziraphale’s ear carrying an unspoken doubt.

Touching wasn’t something that came easily to them, not after 6,000 years of carefully crafted boundaries. And considering their first experience with physical intimacy … well, certainly not something to be remembered fondly. Since averting the Second Coming, they had become more comfortable with touch, but they were far from casual about it.

At this moment, Aziraphale wished they were.

Touch me, Crowley. Please.

But Crowley didn’t move. He simply stood there, a steady, motionless presence right behind him. They were deadlocked, each of them waiting for the other to take the first step.

Finally, Aziraphale gave in, exhausted from resisting a temptation he had never really wanted to resist in the first place. Leaning back ever so slightly, he narrowed the gap between them, the movement almost imperceptible. Crowley embraced him, drawing him close against his chest as though he had been waiting for the tiniest of hints.

Aziraphale exhaled, a long, slow release of tension, and closed his eyes, savouring the warmth behind him. Did Crowley realise the power his touch held? How it calmed and grounded Aziraphale, acting as a physical reminder that the danger they had hidden from for millennia was finally gone?

Touching also opened up new ways of communicating, and though they didn’t have much practice, it often proved more effective than fumbling for these words they had left unspoken between them for such a very long time. Aziraphale sensed the comfort in Crowley’s embrace, but it felt just a little too tight, a little too possessive how Crowley’s fingers clutched the fabric of his clothes.

“You'll tell me, right?” Crowley asked after a few moments of silence. “When … everything becomes too much?”

The way Crowley's grip on Aziraphale’s clothes loosened ever so slightly signalled that he had implied something different with his words.

When I become too much. When I go too fast. When I overwhelm you.

Before Crowley could pull away completely, Aziraphale covered his hand with his own, giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

“There really is no need for you to worry about that,” he said softly.

And there wasn’t. Aziraphale might feel anxious, restless, and overwhelmed. But Crowley's presence made it better. It released some of the pressure weighing on his chest, and slowed his spiralling thoughts to a manageable level.

If anything, Crowley’s careful restraint had always felt like not enough rather than too much.

Crowley didn’t respond, but when Aziraphale turned his head, he caught the doubts written on Crowley’s face. As if he believed there was plenty to worry about.

“I … I didn’t want to upset you,” Aziraphale whispered apologetically. Then, with the faintest trace of frustration creeping into his voice, he added, “This isn’t how I imagined this trip to be.”

“Hmm.” Crowley rested his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder, pulling him even closer. “Don’t guilt-trip yourself, Angel. ‘S nothing to worry about.”

Now Aziraphale realised just how unhelpful his own words must have sounded.

***

Aziraphale did a decent job of not worrying over the next few days, which might correlate with Crowley and him doing an equally decent job of finding their balance. They had begun to figure out what felt good for them, holding hands, hugging each other close, and even kissing felt nice when it wasn’t driven by desperation. Aziraphale’s hand found its way into Crowley’s hair with an almost indulgent frequency, but he loved it too much to feel self-conscious about it. Crowley, who had never been particularly good at denying Aziraphale anything, would simply close his eyes in quiet appreciation every time Aziraphale's fingers brushed his hair, savouring the contact.

One afternoon they were sitting together on the sofa in front of the crackling fireplace. Crowley’s head rested comfortably in Aziraphale’s lap, his eyes closed in relaxation. One of Aziraphale's hands sifted through his hair, while the other held a book he hadn’t truly been reading for the last hour. Something occupied his mind, persistent enough to keep him from focusing, but too meaningful to address without fretting about it for what he deemed an appropriate amount of time. Nothing unpleasant, just … something significant. Something that had been building up with each day they spent here, with each reassuring touch and with the sense of safety their closeness provided to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale’s gaze wandered to the dancing flames. It was a miracled fire that radiated warmth but was not nearly hot enough to set anything ablaze. Crowley had insisted on it, refusing to let a real flame anywhere near Aziraphale.

Crowley tilted his head slightly, guiding Aziraphale’s fingers to just the right spot. The soft, appreciative noise he made disrupted Aziraphale’s thoughts, and the subtle smile on Crowley's lips gave him the final push to speak.

“I've been thinking,” Aziraphale said at last, carefully closing the book and setting it aside on the small table next to the mug of cocoa Crowley had prepared for him earlier. With both hands free, they instinctively found their way back to Crowley's hair, carefully brushing through the soft strands.

Crowley reluctantly opened his eyes, looking up at him with a mixture of curiosity and caution.

“I thought we agreed to stop worrying,” Crowley murmured, his voice low and gentle as he studied Aziraphale's expression, searching for any hint of unease.

“Who says I've been worrying?” Aziraphale retorted a bit too defensively.

Crowley raised a single eyebrow, not even trying to hide his skepticism. Aziraphale sighed. This wasn’t the direction he wanted the conversation to take.

“Thinking doesn’t equal worrying, you know,” Aziraphale clarified stubbornly, tilting his chin up a little. “Just for your information, I was thinking about pleasant things.”

Crowley’s expression softened slightly, though a flicker of doubt lingered in his eyes. “And that would be...?”

“Us,” Aziraphale replied firmly.

A smile tugged at Crowley’s lips, and Aziraphale was determined to coax it into a real one. Seeing Crowley smile in an open, completely unguarded way was still a rarity, and Aziraphale counted it as a small victory every time he managed to be the reason for it.

“I was wondering …” Aziraphale began. “Wouldn’t it be nice to always have something like this?” He gestured with one hand to indicate their surroundings, the small kitchen and dining area, the cozy living space with its crackling fireplace.

To his dismay, Crowley didn’t look enthusiastic.

“If you want a fireplace in the bookshop I can't exactly stop you, can I?” Crowley said, frowning slightly. “Although I’d prefer you didn’t—”

“Ah, well,” Aziraphale cut him off before Crowley could spiral too deeply into concerns about fire and the bookshop. “That's not what I meant. You see, I was thinking more … broadly.“

Crowley blinked up at him, his confusion glaringly obvious. Aziraphale smiled helplessly. He hadn’t expected to need so many words to get his point across.

“Well, I really enjoy this little cabin and the privacy it provides,” he continued cautiously. “No customers, no unexpected visitors. Just the two of us.” Aziraphale spoke faster with each word, afraid his courage might leave him if he stopped to think too much. “We'd need more space of course, for the books and your plants. And perhaps there could be a bit less whiteness around, but … considering how lovely these last few days have been, I thought…”

“Angel.”

Crowley's voice was hoarse, his expression an odd mixture of hope and disbelief. He sat up abruptly, withdrawing from Aziraphale’s touch and leaving his hands feeling strangely empty. “Are you trying to tell me we should be looking for a place to live together?”

“Well …” Aziraphale hesitated, his attempt at a cheerful smile failing as a pang of disappointment drove through his chest. “If you don’t want to move, that's quite alright. I just thought …”

“You … you want us to live together?”

The raw emotion in Crowley’s voice brought Aziraphale's thoughts to a screeching halt. He smoothed his hands over his thighs, utterly confused and unsure of what to say.

“I …” Aziraphale’s voice didn’t cooperate, so he cleared his throat before continuing. “I thought we already did?”

Or what else should he call it when Crowley stayed at the bookshop practically every night? When the thought of being apart for more than a few hours had been unbearable for them ever since they had reunited?

“Ngh, yeah, technically,” Crowley admitted, still staring at Aziraphale as if seeing him for the very first time. “But me moving in was … mmmh … circumstances. We never … you never …”

Crowley trailed off, his voice finally failing him as he shifted his gaze away, studying the flickering flames in the fireplace instead.

And at that moment, Aziraphale realised that he had done it again: uttered something without thinking, assuming that Crowley already knew what he had tried to communicate without words for ages. Something Crowley obviously hadn’t dared to believe until the words had finally been spoken aloud.

Something like I love you.

Luckily Aziraphale hadn’t anticipated that they would slip into a conversation about moving in together rather than discussing the comparatively harmless topic of moving. Otherwise, he would have needed so much more time to fret beforehand in order to work up the courage to broach that particular subject.

Aziraphale reached for Crowley’s hands, holding them firmly in his own.

“Yes, I want us to live together,” he said, with a clarity that defied any misunderstanding. “I want to find a place for us. Where I can have a library, and you can have your garden, and … and…”

Where I won’t be reminded of everything that has happened. Where you won't feel like being too much ever again because it will be a place where you belong. Where we both belong. Together.

Aziraphale couldn’t put these feelings into words, but his expression must have spoken volumes. Crowley's thumb traced soft, deliberate circles on the back of Aziraphale’s hand, and the uncertainty in his eyes slowly vanished, making room for a hopeful glint instead.

“I thought you loved living in the bookshop,” Crowley murmured, and the words hit a painful mark right in Aziraphale’s chest where a fragile sense of safety used to reside. The bookshop had been his refuge for centuries, but since his return, his feelings had become more complicated.

“Ah, well…” Aziraphale swallowed hard, his grip tightening around Crowley’s hands, looking for something to hold onto. “It hasn’t exactly been the same since …” Aziraphale paused, still overwhelmed by the crushing sense of regret he felt whenever he thought of the bookshop. He inhaled deeply. “I … I constantly expect the Metatron to walk through the door, no matter how unlikely–”

“Impossible,” Crowley interrupted sharply, not leaving any room for argument, and Aziraphale appreciated the attempt at making him feel safe.

“... it may seem,” Aziraphale finished, his voice quieter now. “Besides,” he added, and a smile spread on his face, a genuine one, the one he knew Crowley enjoyed to see no matter how well he tried to hide the fact, “what I'd love even more than the bookshop is for us to have something that’s truly ours.”

He watched Crowley closely, waiting for a reaction. For a long moment, Crowley simply stared before a smile slowly crept onto his face, growing more open and unguarded with each passing second until Aziraphale thought he might need to redefine which of Crowley's smiles counted as a victory.

And for the first time since he had stretched out his wing to shield Crowley from the rain all those millennia ago, an overwhelming, unshakable certainty settled over him. There was no room left for doubt or lingering fears. For the first time in a very long time, Aziraphale knew one thing with absolute clarity: