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Crowley startled as the door to his and Aziraphale's flat slammed open and then closed, dropping the clothes in his hands that he had been folding and laying neatly on their bed. He cursed colorfully for a moment, scowling at the pile of smoke-tinged T-shirts that had fell onto its side, before disregarding the clothes with a huff and ambling out of the bedroom and into the open, slightly wary; Aziraphale usually did not make too much noise whenever he moved about. He was surprisingly quiet and gentle for an EMT; that was something that Crowley had learned both back when they had first met, in the lot outside the burning church as the paramedic pressed an oxygen mask to the wounded firefighter's ashen face, and now that they had been together for a little while, enough so to have moved in together and for Crowley to know that slamming doors was not a very Aziraphale Fell-esque thing for the blonde-haired man to do.
Though, Crowley thought absentmindedly to himself, checking his watch; Aziraphale was due to get home from his shift right about now, so it probably was him. Maybe, the redhead thought hopefully, he was just tired; it had been the night shift, after all, which Crowley teasingly griped was worse for him, with no real body heat in their bed to warm him up. Aziraphale usually quipped that 'you're a firefighter, my dear Anthony, you should hate the heat, now shouldn't you?', to which Crowley would bemoan that the heat was precisely the reason he got into the field in the first place, to which Aziraphale would point out yet another comparison to the redhead's snake tattoo inked onto his burly shoulder.
Shaking away his smile, Crowley sighed and traipsed out into the doorway that led to their small kitchen and living room. “Aziraphale?” He called out amiably, ruffling a hand through his messy, rustic copper hair, which was pulled up in a half-bun, and yawning behind his hand. He himself had gotten off-call only an hour and a half ago, but there hadn’t been anything called in all night, so really, it had been a merciful shift of sitting around doing absolutely nothing. Those nights were rare; no one said anything about it, though, because if at any time someone were to point out how quiet it was, it was a guarantee of fires suddenly springing up all around town. “Sss’at you?”
There was no response, and Crowley frowned, rubbing at his eyes and straightening his posture. He had napped right when he had gotten home, only for around an hour, which had left him in the dredges of sleepiness, but he wasn’t tired at all anymore.
Worry began to curdle like rotten milk in his chest, and he bit his lip, tensing and untensing his muscles. What-if's raced through his mind, increasingly ludicrous, from what if he's hurt? to what if someone broke in? to what if God finally came knocking?, and he urged himself inwardly to breathe; to not panic. Everything was perfectly fine, he was sure; if anything, Aziraphale had had a bad shift, and would need comfort that Crowley was happy to provide.
He was about to call out his partner’s name again, clearing his throat to rid it of any lingering audible anxiety, but then there was a very, very soft voice from their small kitchen, just around the corner, that made his shoulders sag with relief — and, at the same time, stiffen with worry for an entirely different reason.
“I’m here, my dear.”
Aziraphale's voice was quiet and distant, only a wisp of a whisper, and as Crowley turned and caught sight of his angel, his eyes rounded with sympathy, and a silent sigh of understanding and sadness blew from his lips. His last guess, it seemed, had been the correct one.
Oh, he thought, sympathy and care and the need to protect and love and comfort aching through his throbbing heart, it’s one of those days.
They both knew those days.
Those days being, the days when they lost someone. Those days being, the days when there were calls that were far, far too close. Those days being, the days when they were too late. Those days being, the days when they had to tell people that they did everything they could.
Aziraphale was hunched over the counter, head bowed, eyes closed and hands clasped. To anyone who didn’t know him, he would’ve looked like he was praying; beseeching and pleading to a God who was not listening.
Crowley sighed sadly as he slowly approached him and placed a hand on his shoulder, rubbing gently and reassuringly, an attempt to ground his partner, who was clearly anywhere but here with him. The blonde still had on his uniform; he smelt of sweat, and blood, and grief. He was shaking.
These kinds of jobs weren’t for the faint of heart. But even still, they got to you. No matter how strong you were.
“Angel,” Crowley whispered, resting his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder and pressing a kiss to the side of his face, closing his eyes as his nose nuzzled into the curve of the blonde’s cheek. He took in a steadying breath, inhaling his love, one hand curling around Aziraphale's middle and holding him close. “Are you alright?”
“I — I — perfectly so, darling, I just —,” Aziraphale took a deep breath, his entire body seeming to shudder. He covered his face with his hands, fingers splaying out, his back hunching over forward as he shook; he was shielding himself, Crowley knew, and he winced at the thought.
They had both been getting better at actually saying when something was wrong, and at actually accepting the care and gentle comfort that accompanied their respective loves, but it was still very difficult, for both of them but for Aziraphale especially. He had been raised, Crowley had learned, to hide whenever anything was wrong out of fear of being ‘unmanlilike’ or ‘ungodly’; out of fear of disappointing anyone and everyone; out of fear of being vulnerable, of being weak.
Aziraphale had told Crowley that he had gotten better, over the years, once he had gotten out from the toxic thumb of his family and their mentality of God and Catholicism, but that it was still so very difficult for him, to believe that it was alright for him to not be alright. Crowley helped, though; Aziraphale had told him so himself, and Crowley had assured him that that was very mutual. And he knew, by now, that sometimes, all they needed — all Aziraphale needed — was that little push, so that he knew that he could be vulnerable, and that it was okay.
“Aziraphale,” Crowley murmured, and he slowly wrapped his hands around Aziraphale’s body, pulling him close, turning him to face him. The blonde was trembling badly, his blue gaze downcast as he clearly and visibly fought tears. He wanted to be strong, Crowley knew; but there was so much strength in letting go of those tears, and in allowing them to fall, and in allowing himself to be comforted.
“You don’t have to hold yourself up with me,” Crowley told him. “I’ve got you. Let go, love.”
Aziraphale’s gaze tipped upward, and a single tear slipped down his round, dirt-smudged cheek.
A sob hitched his shoulders. And then another. And then he was half-falling into Crowley, clinging to him desperately, anger and pain and sorrow and grief tearing from his chest in violent sobs. Crowley just drew him close, offering all the comfort he could through caressing the back of Aziraphale’s head, carding calloused fingers through soft curls and holding him close, sharing their warmth, their love. He would wait for Aziraphale to tell him what was wrong; until then, though, he’d simply be here to offer all of the comfort that he could, because it was what his angel deserved.
“You’re alright, I’ve got you,” he soothed his partner, as if Aziraphale were a wounded victim of a fire that Crowley had dragged from the rubble. He moved one hand around to hold onto Aziraphale’s, squeezing tightly and pressing his lips against his knuckles in a kiss. His other hand moved up to Aziraphale's face, cupping his cheek, wiping away the tears as they fell. “I’ve got you, angel. I’m here.”
Art by tanpopomugishu
“I — I — I lost her,” Aziraphale choked through sobs, his breath hot and stuttering against the firefighter’s freckled skin as he pressed into his neck, still cradled carefully in Crowley's hands.
“Lost who?” Crowley asked, keeping his voice gentle and soft, already knowing the answer, or at least the outline of it. Aziraphale, he knew, had a very, very good record of saving people in his care, but sometimes, it was just too late, and there was nothing that could be done. And even after so many years, Aziraphale still struggled with each and every death. Each and every life that slipped through his fingers. He clasped onto the memories, and sometimes woke up screaming with their names on his lips, and Crowley held him through it, just as Aziraphale would do the same for him when it was his turn to lose someone and grieve them as if they were family.
“A little girl,” Aziraphale confessed, his voice so heartbreakingly filled with grief, and Crowley’s heart twisted; children were the worst to lose. “Her name was Sarah. Oh, Anthony, we tried, but — but we couldn’t — it was, we were en route, we were so close . . .” Another sob tore from his throat, and he pulled back from Crowley’s hold, desperate blue meeting sympathetic gold. “She was just a child, she — she had so much potential, so much life to live, but we — but I, I couldn’t — I couldn’t save her . . .”
“Oh, Aziraphale,” Crowley murmured sadly. He pressed a kiss against the blonde’s forehead and held him close, closing his eyes. He thought vaguely that he wouldn’t dream of doing this for anyone else, but he and Aziraphale did it for each other; their jobs were taxing, and too often filled with pain and death and grief. But they had one another for comfort, now; it made it more manageable, the pain and the grief. The loss. But it wasn’t any less hard, especially not in the moment. “I’m so sorry,” Crowley said earnestly, keeping his voice gentle. “I’m so sorry, angel. I’m here, and you can grieve. I’m here.” He paused for a moment, and then, when Aziraphale went quiet, added: “It wasn’t your fault.” He knew his partner, and he knew exactly who he was blaming — himself.
“But . . .” Aziraphale tried, his voice muffled against Crowley’s collar; the firefighter shushed him with a gentle press of his lips against the blonde’s, having to bend down a little to do so. It wasn’t intimate or heated, not like most of their kisses were; it was chaste, and calming. Grounding. Anchoring. Crowley felt Aziraphale relax into him once more, and then and only then did he pull slightly back, pressing their foreheads together.
“It was not your fault, love,” Crowley murmured, his voice cracking slightly. He cupped Aziraphale's face in his hands, cradling him in his palms. “Can you say that for me?”
“It . . . it wasn’t my fault,” Aziraphale whispered, his own voice wobbling. He was so very vulnerable in these moments in the way that terrified him, Crowley knew; it felt like grace, to Crowley, that he himself could play witness, and to give Aziraphale the help and comfort that he so very deserved and had craved for so, so long.
"Good. Thank you," Crowley murmured. Aziraphale had started doing that first, when Crowley had had to evacuate a building, and it had collapsed on top of two men that they hadn't been able to save; he had been wracked with guilt, cursing himself, and Aziraphale had sat him down and made him repeat that it wasn't his fault until he believed it.
Aziraphale didn't believe it yet, Crowley knew, not in this case; but he would, because one could only deny the truth of the matter for so long, and taking an oath to save did not always mean that you could do so. That, too, was a cycle; it always felt like whatever bad thing happened, it was their fault. The blood was on their hands. But it wasn't. They did their jobs, but sometimes, no matter how hard they tried, it was simply too late. They did everything they could, and sometimes still lost. But it wasn’t their fault. Only God knew the secrets of the universe; of life and death. They weren’t angels, they weren’t demons. They were only human, and that was not a fault.
"Tell me about her, Aziraphale," Crowley prompted gently, guiding his partner to sit down on their couch, shoving the books off to one side and feeling his lips twitch up at Aziraphale's tiny squeak of dismay at the rough treatment. "If you want." That helped, sometimes. Even if there was nothing to say. Even if all that they could tell you was their name and the color of their hair. It helped more than expected or anticipated, more often than not.
Aziraphale smiled wateringly up at him, breathing shakily and squeezing Crowley's hands in his, books forgotten. "Thank you, my dear," he whispered, his voice so very small, and Crowley's heart twisted. Sometimes, when Aziraphale was offered comfort — like right now — he sounded almost bewildered, as if he couldn't believe that someone could possibly care enough about him to offer care. "You are ever so kind."
"Ngk," Crowley mumbled, his cheeks flushing. They had both had to work to get used to compliments; being called brave, and strong, and wonderful, and lovely, and kind; but that was definitely one of the harder feats for Crowley. But, as if to further prove his partner's point, he reached to wipe Aziraphale's tears away from his cheeks, his fingers trembling slightly as he did so. Aziraphale leaned into him, and his heart positively ached.
"You're the damn angel," he muttered, and Aziraphale smiled wider, even as more tears welled in his eyes.
"I believe that that is an oxymoron, my dear," he quipped teasingly — thank Satan, Crowley thought to himself, he's still in there, still my Aziraphale, and of course he was; no matter how hard it got, how much grief and pain and anger they struggled through in the unfairness of life and death, Aziraphale would always be his angel — and then his smile softened.
"You truly would like to hear about it — about her, I mean? About Sarah?" He asked, his voice soft. Truthfully, there really was nothing to tell, and they both knew it; just a young girl named Sarah, already fighting with severe epilepsy, who had suffered a seizure too great for her small body to handle, and who had already had no heartbeat even before the paramedics had got there. It was nothing new, and nothing to tell much of a story over. But talking about what there was was better than nothing. It was better than crying alone; bottling it up, and then finding solace at the bottom of a bottle.
"'Course," Crowley responded gently, wrapping an muscled arm around Aziraphale's broad shoulders, letting the blonde lean into him and pressing a reassuring kiss to the side of his head. "I'm here to listen, angel."
"Oh, Anthony," Aziraphale whispered, his voice cracking. He looked almost awestruck, as if he were caught up in a dream of love and felt that he would wake any second, something that made Crowley's heart twist. When the redhead had met him that day in the aftermath of the fire, he had been the one needing help; now, it was the other way round, and Crowley was only too glad to be able to offer that. Especially when, in return, he got things such as Aziraphale's next words; six words, softly spoken, but carrying so much adoring love that Crowley almost crumbled, because, God, he would never tire nor get used to the feeling of having it said to him.
"I love you so, my dear."
This — the comfort, the gentleness, the kindness — it meant everything to Aziraphale, Crowley knew, because he knew that he had never had it before. They were alike in that way, and Crowley understood. He always would, and it would always be the same the other way round; the two of them, tangled up in their string of red that had tied them together for so many years.
Crowley moved his hands up to Aziraphale's soft cheeks and cradled his face in his palms, brushing sweat-damp blonde curls away from his forehead and pressing his own against it before kissing him again, soft and chaste, barely a brush of his lips against Aziraphale's. It said everything that could not be said, because even when Crowley spoke the echoed phrase, it was nothing compared to the gravity of their true connection and love through nothing more and nothing less than offering their mutual comfort and care. It was their tangled string of fate, twisting among them even now in a way that not only connected, but anchored.
“I love you, too, angel.”