Normally a trip like this would take more than a fortnight. Human travel is, after all, not especially sophisticated, and a lot of things can go wrong at any given time. But Aziraphale is impatient to be away, to put as much distance between his angel and Seville as he can in the shortest possible amount of time. So he helps the journey along, here and there, covertly.
All the while he gives Crowley quiet, sometimes punctuated by music or a little conversation. In return Crowley allows Aziraphale to take care of him, as he never has before. For a few precious days before they reach the border of Iberian lands, the angel lets himself be fed, held, comforted. Sometimes he falls asleep against Aziraphale’s shoulder, tucked into the seat beside him; sometimes he simply curls up on his side on the seat opposite. Each day that passes sees Crowley looking a little healthier, a little more himself, even if his dreams grow more troublesome.
(Leave him be, Aziraphale thinks, in the moments when he notices his angel’s face contorting with remembered or imagined grief. You’ve had hold of him long enough. He’s mine now. Then he reaches out to take Crowley’s hand, or begins a song on the flute or vihuela, and watches the shadows withdraw.)
He doesn’t ask about Seville. The memory of Crowley shuddering in his arms, trying to hide from the world, is still far too sharp. Now and again Aziraphale will catch a glimpse of the small cloth bag attached to Crowley’s belt—he’d insisted on bringing his hacked-off hair along, though he still won’t tell Aziraphale what he means to do with it.
(Light-fingered and silent, Aziraphale dips into the bag while Crowley sleeps. He finds a lock of hair not hopelessly matted, folds it up in a handkerchief and hides it in one of his sleeves.)
When at last Crowley himself insists they stop for a while, Aziraphale’s heart takes notice. Suddenly, and not for the first time, he feels the presence of his own spectacles like a shield: he’s always felt as if Crowley could see all his secrets, and is glad not to have them exposed now.
Aziraphale waits for their coachman to disappear inside the inn, then takes Crowley’s hand. Their fingers knot together easily.
I suspect they’re much like my ideas on the matter. ;D
All the while he gives Crowley quiet, sometimes punctuated by music or a little conversation. In return Crowley allows Aziraphale to take care of him, as he never has before. For a few precious days before they reach the border of Iberian lands, the angel lets himself be fed, held, comforted. Sometimes he falls asleep against Aziraphale’s shoulder, tucked into the seat beside him; sometimes he simply curls up on his side on the seat opposite. Each day that passes sees Crowley looking a little healthier, a little more himself, even if his dreams grow more troublesome.
(Leave him be, Aziraphale thinks, in the moments when he notices his angel’s face contorting with remembered or imagined grief. You’ve had hold of him long enough. He’s mine now. Then he reaches out to take Crowley’s hand, or begins a song on the flute or vihuela, and watches the shadows withdraw.)
He doesn’t ask about Seville. The memory of Crowley shuddering in his arms, trying to hide from the world, is still far too sharp. Now and again Aziraphale will catch a glimpse of the small cloth bag attached to Crowley’s belt—he’d insisted on bringing his hacked-off hair along, though he still won’t tell Aziraphale what he means to do with it.
(Light-fingered and silent, Aziraphale dips into the bag while Crowley sleeps. He finds a lock of hair not hopelessly matted, folds it up in a handkerchief and hides it in one of his sleeves.)
When at last Crowley himself insists they stop for a while, Aziraphale’s heart takes notice. Suddenly, and not for the first time, he feels the presence of his own spectacles like a shield: he’s always felt as if Crowley could see all his secrets, and is glad not to have them exposed now.
Aziraphale waits for their coachman to disappear inside the inn, then takes Crowley’s hand. Their fingers knot together easily.
“Of course,” he says, gentle but not smiling.