Chapter Text
London 1941
"That was very kind of you." Aziraphale's voice practically oozed gratitude, Crowley told himself that it makes his skin crawl rather than tingle.
"Shut up." Playing it cool, Crowley finshed cleaning his glasses and slid them back on to his face. Minute tremors in his fingers were amplified up the arms and risked him poking himself in the eye.
"Well, it was. No paperwork, for a start. The books! I forgot all about the books-"
This was Crowley's cue, the real payoff for his efforts tonight. While Aziraphale fretted about the lost books, Crowley prised the leather bag from the hand of a dead Nazi. He held the bag out towards Aziraphale, willing it to stay still and not betray the shivers he couldn't quite calm. Aziraphale's jaw fell open and that sweet rush of affection swamped Crowley. Mission accomplished, then.
"Little demonic miracle of my own" Crowley felt Aziraphale's fingers make contact with his own and pulled his hand away faster than he wanted to. "Lift home?"
He had to walk away then, his facade was cracking and he had put too much into this rescue, this too-cool act, to have it all come crashing down now like the walls of a recently bombed church. He walked to the car nearby, carefully keeping his hands in his pockets and his face turned away from Aziraphale to hide the pained winces everytime he took a step.
After making some very complimentary comments about the Bentley, Aziraphale lapsed into silence. There was a lot that would need to be discussed before long, but it appeared that Aziraphale was just as unwilling to damage their fledgling reunion as he was. Driving gave him something to focus on, something to take his mind off the immense catastrophe he'd just barely escaped.
"Can I interest you in a celebratory drink?" Aziraphale offered once they were stopped outside the bookshop.
Crowley looked at the blackout blinds and the spiderwebs of tape crossing the windows. He didn't really feel like socialising just then, it wouldn't be right. And besides, he still had a lot to process.
"Not tonight, angel. Soon, though." He gave a tightlipped smile and gripped the steering wheel with with whiteknuckled fingers.
Once he’d seen Aziraphale safely inside the bookshop with the door locked behind him, Crowley sped off, desperate to put some distance between them.
Without thinking about where he was heading or any destination in mind, Crowley drove around London and tried to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach. It shouldn’t have been a surprise to him when he ended up back outside the ruined church, but it was.
People had come outside by now, checking for damage to other buildings and digging out the remains of the dead. Some were trying to rescue valuable or significant items from the rubble whilst others were looting, shamelessly. Crowley watched them, his vision getting blurry with unshed tears.
It had been far too close a call for comfort. He’d felt it when the bomb hit, the strain on Aziraphale keeping them safe, the pressure from the church protesting Crowley’s unholy presence, the fabric of belief and reality and ineffability stretched further than Crowley had ever felt. His feet still hurt, sharp burn sensations shooting up his leg with every movement.
It was all too much, he had come too close to losing everything that mattered to him. Aziraphale had given no sign that he understood how serious the situation had been. Damned stupid angel, running about and playing spies in the middle of a war. Bloody stupid Crowley, having to play the hero all the time, with maximum dramatic effect. There were a hundred better ways to have gotten Aziraphale out of that church in one piece, he felt sick just thinking about the danger he’d put them both in.
Crowley got out of the car, shivering with pain as his feet hit the pavement. There was an eagle lectern, standing proud amongst the rubble, Aziraphale had been stood in front of it less than an hour previous. As a souvenir, it would serve as a reminder not to be so bloody dramatic the next time Aziraphale needed rescuing, and there would be a next time. Crowley lifted his hand to pull the demonic energy he needed to miracle it home but the tremors of earlier had evolved into full-blown shakes. He couldn’t snap his fingers, he could barely hold his hand up.
Crowley sat in the wreckage of the church, put his hands over his face, and cried. Finally letting himself feel the weight of the fear he’d been suppressing.