𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐍, ineffable husbands

falling in love again

Year five: To Crowley's demise, Aziraphale had been noticing how distant he'd forced them to become. Sometimes days passed without them saying a word, and sometimes the obnoxious angel forced them to communicate, no matter how uncomfortable it was. He just couldn't bring himself to face the man he had killed when he was a human. It was the worst memory he could think of.

They had gone a month without speaking before Aziraphale gently knocked on Crowley's door. He had opted to stay in his room this entire time. For some reason unknown to him, he vaguely spoke for him to come in. It was unsure if the words were his or someone else's. He stayed in his armchair that he started to leave less and less often.

"Hey," the angel started as he quietly stepped into the room. It was all he said, but it was enough to make Crowley realize how much he truly missed him. He still refused to look him in the eyes; he was afraid he'd fall in love again. He opted to nod in response. If he spoke it might come out garbled. For some reason, his eyes felt warmer than usual.

With the silent agreement, he went to sit on the edge of the unused bed. Crowley had gained a truly horrible habit of sleeping in the armchair. The silence between them was horribly thick and it slowly drowned the both of them in the most horrendous way they could think.

"You've been avoiding me," Aziraphale spoke up, stupidly. Crowley figured it was obvious that he was avoiding him. This was the first time he saw him in a month. "Why?"

His body was contorting against him. His eyes felt hot and heavy, and his throat closed up to allow no air to breathe. He didn't need to, of course, but that didn't mean this was a comfortable feeling. Glancing at his hands, he noticed how they shook. What was happening to him?

He forgot to respond, so the angel responded for him. "I know you killed me years back."

There was a strange source of water on Crowley's cheek. He immediately brushed it off, or really more smacked his skin until it was gone. The corners of his vision were getting fuzzy so he closed his eyes. More water appeared out of nowhere. Instinctively, he covered his eyes. What the hell was happening to him?

His shoulders started shaking and, desperately trying to breathe, his throat made sounds that resembled hiccups and struggles. He was panicking; this had never happened to him since he could remember. He kept pitifully trying to fight the stream of water storming out of his eyes but the more he scratched and clawed at his eyes, the more the water rushed. His mind was a panicked fog and any time he touched anything, regardless if it was his own skin, it was overwhelming to where he'd cry harder.

He was crying.

Relentlessly, tears streamed down his face as he sobbed and sobbed, every memory of every person he had killed in his past life flashing through his skull and his mind like lightning in the sea. Eyes flashed, piercing his own, each pair more desperate than the last. Visions of hopeless people soaked in crimson blood and mangled intestines screamed in his ears, and he could only think, think, think of how he deserved to be in hell.

He wasn't in his armchair, the one place he trusted; he was back on Earth creating nightmares from the palms of his hands. He dreamt of blades of knives, ropes of hay, desperate pleas, and haunting screams. It was like he was caught in a twister of lies and half memories, half memories he lied to himself. How many times had he lied to himself, insisting his job was fun? How many people had he murdered? Was it five, ten, fifteen, or fifty?

He didn't notice the hand on the small of his back, pressing just deep enough to remind him it was there. The only things that were real to him was that feeling and the storm of tortured souls that he had taken. It was the first time he let himself draw upon the fact that he had done it, he had killed the person sitting next to him.

His shrunken chest ached from sobbing and screaming, and his throat had gone scratchy. He was so, so exhausted and his mind wouldn't give him a break. His loud cries turned into silent hiccups, affecting his breathing and his stamina.

He opened his eyes. Everything was a blurry grey. He blinked, and the angel's halo beamed slightly above him. Now he was looking into the same eyes he cried about, but they were kind, open, and accepting. There wasn't a smile on Aziraphale's face, but it was more of a patient line etched into his perfect skin. He had switched his hands from his back to haphazardly around his neck, slowly inviting a hug. Crowley had been forgiven.

Without hesitation, he returned the hug, with him sitting anxiously forward in his chair and Aziraphale returning the gesture on his knees, sitting up. Crowley rested his head in the crook of his neck, whispering seamless apologies that he couldn't hear. He was probably hugging too tightly, but at the moment, he didn't care. Hot tears flooded onto warm skin and they both shook with some power that changed Crowley himself. He couldn't name it; he had never felt it before.

The sun, uncaring, set and the room slowly darkened. The halo above Aziraphale's head shined lovingly, acting as a substitute for some semblance of humanity. Slowly, his shoulders stopped shaking, and his throat opened up so he could gasp for breath. He poked his head out cautiously and forced himself to break the hug; they couldn't stay like that forever, after all.

Cautiously, as if he were approaching an animal, the angel gently placed a hand on his cheek. Though he flinched, he graciously accepted it. It was like being held as a young child. His eyes closed on his own. Neither of them opened their mouths, silently agreeing upon peace.

Aziraphale stood up, gently grabbing his wrist. He complied, eyes half open. He was so exhausted and emotionally drained. It had been a while since he felt like this. He found himself lying in the singular bed with the other; it was soft and amazingly comfortable.

There was an arm thrown around him lazily. He couldn't quite remember how they got here, but he didn't complain. Hesitantly, he snuggled closer against his chest. It was funny; he couldn't recall Angel's having heartbeats. But it drummed with a hum, a beautiful hymn that lulled his eyes closed.

"I love you," Aziraphale mumbled.

A minute passed.

"I love you too."