Okay, this fandom hit me harder than expected. I was on vacation when the mini-series came out, so I watched all episodes just a few days ago.

Then read some fic.

Went over my old fic.

Decided that no, I wouldn't get back into that AU, but I wanted, needed, to write those two loveable idiots again. I have positively fallen in love with the on-screen portrayal of both Crowley and Aziraphale. I have watched all their scenes together so many times now and can still watch them again. Kudos to the actors! Really!

This fic is a little different from what I usually do when a fandom hits me like a freight train (and I go into writing frenzy, which is not pretty and has me all hyper and binge-writing). I attempted snippets and ended up with one growing story anyway, just in pieces.

Slightly AU. Altered some small events from the end, just so you know.

XxXxXx XxXxXx XxXxXx

I.

"Do something or I'll... I'll never talk to you again!"

He was exhausted.

His body hurt in places it had never hurt before. It had never ached like this. It had never burned down to his very soul.

Not even when he had Fallen.

Well, Crowley hadn't really fallen-Fallen.

He had hung around the wrong crowd, had asked too many questions, and when everyone had been cast out, Crowley had sauntered after them. Vaguely downwards. One way street.

But he hadn't Fallen, had only taken a mildly downward incline. He hadn't plunged head-first into the abyss in an uncontrolled descent.

None of that had been painful per se. It had been… weird. Like trying on new clothes that didn't really fit but everyone insisted you looked positively magnificent in. And he hadn't liked the new scenery, the décor, nor the crowds. There had been no style. There had been no sophistication.

The black wings were rather cool and nifty, though.

Now, today, after so much time had slowly passed since then… he was at the end of his physical, metaphysical and even emotional rope. His very soul felt raw, abused, as if he had used up all his power.

And maybe he had.

Something trembled deep inside him. Something desperately needing a rest, needing to simply shut down and recuperate.

Needed to heal from the blow it had taken just feeling the Lord of Hell himself.

Demons were resilient bastards. Crowley was even more so. He was a right bastard, Tenacious and hard to pin down. He had made it to this point in one piece, right? He had defied the odds and he had survived.

But Crowley had been through the emotional wringer, had been physically pushed to his limits and then past them, and he had taken on Lucifer personally. He had never been in his personal presence, so feeling the endless power, that well of infinite energy of All Hell, the rage and the wrath, had seared him, had almost broken his soul into pieces.

It had brought him to his knees with a cry of pain torn from his lips.

He would never forget that pain, the seconds of utter terror burned into his mind.

Excruciating. Single-minded. Destructive. One snap of a finger, just one look, and he would have been no more.

And then there had been that feeling of steel shooting through his spine, of endless support, of hope, of faith and despair, of… love.

Crowley had looked into the eyes of his counterpart on Earth, non-flaming flaming sword raised over his head, and he had known where it all came from.

Aziraphale.

His angel.

His backbone, his shield, his sword…

The one he could always count on, who would never betray him. The one who was ready to be obliterated with him in defense of not just humanity but the whole of Creation.

The one demanding he do something or he would never talk to him again. He. Anthony J. Crowley.

And what Crowley had done had surpassed his limits as a lower demon, had leeched him of everything. Absolutely everything. It had sucked him dry, left him vulnerable, without shields, without a single snap left. He would have been easy prey.

Not that he had shown it. Not that anyone would be the wiser.

Except…

Except the one being in the whole of creation who knew Crowley better than anyone; maybe even better than the demon knew himself.

Soft hands touched him without startling the exhausted entity. Calm, reassuring, directing him toward an unfamiliar bed. Crowley knew he should be alarmed, but as long as he felt Aziraphale's presence, he knew he was safe.

Safe.

His body shuddered and he almost heard his bones creak. His soul felt empty, his power levels non-existent.

Maybe there were cracks in his demonic soul now. Tiny, tiny cracks that were responsible for the exhaustion, the feeling of imbalance and vertigo; the unchecked emotions.

He was such easy prey, even for the lowest of demonic or angelic life-forms.

Just one strike.

Probably just a push.

With one finger. Little finger.

"Relax," Aziraphale said.

He was trembling. It was embarrassing. His hands were shaking and he didn't even have the energy to make them stop.

The mattress was unfamiliar, too. Everything was. He wasn't in his own flat, nor in the bookshop. Which was a burned-out husk anyway. So where…?

"We're in a safe place, Crowley. Very safe."

He groaned.

Not his flat. Not anywhere near his flat. A safehouse. He almost laughed.

"Dear," Aziraphale murmured and there was a rustle.

Warmth. A clean smell. Angelic. Heavenly. And still not so much. Unique and known.

He might have whimpered and maybe he was even turning into the soft, pliable angel as wings folded over them, but Crowley would deny doing any of it to his last day in this existence.

Gentle fingers ran through his hair, along his neck, stroking and caressing.

"You ran yourself ragged, my dear. You fell asleep in the bus."

Face mashed into the angel's jacket, soot and grime smudging all over it. Crowley knew he had looked like a mess, was still a mess, and would probably continue being a mess.

"S'vn t'wrld," Crowley mumbled into the pristine clothes that smelled less like Heaven and more like pure Aziraphale.

Who was an angel. Who should smell like Heaven.

And didn't.

He smelled just like his angel. Only his.

And Crowley himself currently smelled of fire, ash, sweat and grime, but not brimstone and damnation. No, it was soot and probably some a lot of less desirable things.

Long fingers held on tightly to the soft fabric of Aziraphale's so hopelessly outdated clothes like a drowning man. His lifeline. His anchor. Grounding his fluctuating senses and realigning his energy with the bruised and battered form it should inhabit.

His balance.

"I know," Azirphale whispered. "I know. Thank you. For everything. Saving the world and all Creation."

"…nh… welcome," he managed, voice raw, filled with emotions he would refuse to name.

Aziraphale continued his petting caresses, carding infinitely gentle fingers into the dirty, unruly strands of his hair. Uncaring of the dirt. Uncaring of so many things.

"Stay the night. Here. It's safer than the flat. They might be looking there."

"Nh."

"No one knows of this place."

Crowley heard himself sigh as knots untangled. Not just physically, but also on a more metaphysical level. His very aura grew, though it was far from strong in any sense of the word. He felt Aziraphale's all around him, a protective shield, feeding him strength.

An aura that could smite him. An aura that could just crush him right now.

He was defenseless. More than even a baby bird.

But Crowley trusted him. Absolutely.

"…zira…"

"Sleep, my dear. Just rest and sleep."

So he did.

"Tomorrow will be a lovely day."

Because Aziraphale was there.

tbc...