Chapter Text
It took Crowley a moment to find his bearings, once Aziraphale transported them home. He blinked into the warm, muted light of the cottage… felt the soft, yielding surface of the sofa beneath them… smelled the familiar mingled scent of strong tea and old books. There was a sense of surreality to it all, a part of his mind that could scarcely believe it was real, he was really home.
He was really home.
Fresh tears slipped from his eyes, in hot tracks down his face. His hands trembled as he clutched at Aziraphale’s jacket. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a choked, anguished sound that in no way resembled words - not that he could even begin to imagine what he would have said.
It was strange, Crowley thought, with some distant part of his mind that wasn’t currently falling to pieces in his angel’s reassuring embrace… strange, how it was the relief of rescue that had finally undone him.
He’d remained reasonably strong in the face of torture and violation, refusing to surrender to his captor’s demands, fighting until the very moment when he was not physically capable of fighting anymore. He’d talked back and tossed insults at the disgusting human, until the power of speech had been taken from him.
That’s the only reason you didn’t fall apart, a nasty, taunting little piece of his brain reminded him, and he shivered in Aziraphale’s arms. Because he didn’t let you. Because you couldn’t cry... couldn’t move... could barely breathe …
He could breathe now ; he was gasping in deep draughts of cool air, soothing to the roiling sensation in his stomach, reassuring in their simple existence, the simple fact that he could . He felt Aziraphale’s arms firm around him, heard his angel’s voice hushed and calming, very close.
“Shh, my love, it’s all right, you’re safe now. You’re safe. We’re home, and I’ve got you, and you’re safe …”
He allowed the words to resonate around him, to echo in his mind and drown out the ugly accusations, the memory of Pervy’s sneering mockery as he’d violated him. He held onto Aziraphale tighter, sliding one hand up his back to cup his shoulder as he buried his face in Aziraphale’s neck and breathed in the sweet, heady scent of him, relished the soft warmth of his body pressed against him - gentle and comforting and close.
His eyes drifted shut, and he felt himself at last relaxing a little, drifting toward the relief of a temporary oblivion.
Aziraphale shifted slightly, rousing him a little, and Crowley blinked up at him, sleepy and a bit disoriented. The angel’s eyes were concerned and uncertain.
“Would you like to go to bed, my love? You must be exhausted, you probably haven’t slept in days...”
Crowley nearly asked if being driven to unconsciousness by repeated magical electric shocks counted as sleep, but he doubted Aziraphale would see the humor in it.
He didn’t see it, either. There wasn’t any.
He glanced toward the half-open bedroom door. From where they sat on the sofa, he could see the right lower corner of the bed. He closed his eyes, swallowing slowly. The memory was vivid and visceral, the feeling of a soft mattress beneath him, still and undisturbed as he desperately, uselessly struggled to make his body move. The feeling of another body over his, hard grasping fingers at his hips, greedy hands twisting and groping at his exposed, helpless corporation.
He shuddered, turning his head down into Aziraphale’s chest again.
“Better not,” he muttered, trying for a light tone - well aware that he’d missed the mark entirely. “If I go to sleep now, you might not see me for a month.”
Or a year. Or a decade. Wouldn’t be your first century-long nap, would it?
If you could stay asleep. If you don’t dream about…
“Well, I couldn’t have that, could I?” Aziraphale murmured, pressing a tender kiss to the top of Crowley’s head. “I’ve only just got you back.”
He, also, was attempting for humor which was utterly undone by the tremor of grief in his voice. He was quiet for a moment, just gently stroking Crowley’s back, before he spoke again, tender and searching.
“Is there anything you need, my love? Anything I can do, or get you, or…?”
Crowley shook his head without lifting it, swallowing slowly and warring to get his voice under control before he replied. “No, just… just you. Just this.”
“All right,” Aziraphale readily agreed, hesitating just a moment before cautiously continuing. “I’ve an idea that might… help you rest a bit. Not in the bed, and not alone,” he assured Crowley before he could protest. “Just… please go get comfortable, change into something you can rest in, and meet me back here in a few moments?”
Crowley didn’t want to leave Aziraphale’s side, and he didn’t want to be in the bedroom - but he nodded dutifully, stifling a weary sigh as he sat up, and then rose to his feet. He made his way on trembling legs to the bedroom they shared. He studiously avoided looking at the bed itself as he stripped off the clothing that Aziraphale had miraculously put back on him, tossing it into the far corner of the room, and struggling to shut out the vivid sense memory of the hands that had torn it away while he had lain paralyzed, helpless to stop it. He shivered, his hands trembling as he hurriedly took from his dresser a soft black cotton t-shirt and red and black patterned pajama pants, and swiftly changed into them.
His heart raced, his mouth dry as he reminded himself again and again that Pervy was dead, that he was home and safe now. Aziraphale had burned the book that had allowed Pervy to capture him, to hurt him. There was nothing to fear.
But… that isn’t the only book. And he wasn’t the only human monster out there. What if someone else gets their hands on that kind of summoning magic?
What if it happens again?
Crowley hurried to make his way back out to the living room, where the warmth of his angel’s presence would at least drive back the worst of his fears. He found Aziraphale no longer on the sofa, but settled comfortably into the soft, overstuffed armchair where he liked to relax and read. It was the same chair as always, well-worn and familiar, except that now, it had been altered somewhat in size.
Aziraphale sat to one side, patting the ample space beside him, giving Crowley a warm, inviting smile. Crowley settled into the space that was miraculously just wide enough to accommodate him as he curled up into his angel’s side, his head resting against Aziraphale’s shoulder, Aziraphale’s arm firm and steadying around him. The high arms of the chair were a soft pressure that held them in on either side.
With a snap of his fingers, Aziraphale materialized a soft, comfortably weighted blanket that settled over both of them.
“I thought that perhaps this might be just comfortable enough to allow you to sleep, but… not for too long?” he suggested.
So close to Aziraphale that he could feel his heartbeat under his palm, the soft warmth of the blanket covering him, Crowley was quite certain that he could sleep for a week just like this, without so much as stirring. Already his eyelids felt heavy, and he could feel the fine tremor of anxious tension slipping away from him as he surrendered to his exhaustion. He glanced at the small side table beside the chair, noting the stack of books that had been there for as long as he could remember, ever varying as Aziraphale added to it, or removed from it as he finished a book.
“And… you’ll read while I’m sleeping?”
“Perhaps a bit,” Aziraphale conceded with a slight shrug, tenderly brushing Crowley’s hair back from his face. “Mostly I intend just to hold you. To watch over you.” Crowley blinked up at him, startled by the quiet, honest intensity of Aziraphale’s answer. “Our home is warded,” he reminded Crowley softly, but the faint desperation in his eyes made it clear that he was reassuring himself as well. “No one can take you from here.”
The loving concern, the ache of grief for what he’d come so near to losing, was so starkly bared in Aziraphale’s eyes that Crowley had to look away, and all at once he remembered with dismay his sunglasses, still tucked away in Pervy’s shirt pocket, last he’d noticed. In their absence, he was left with no alternative but to simply tuck his head down against his angel’s chest, swallowing back the aching knot in his throat and closing his eyes against the burning of fresh tears.
“Thanks, angel,” he whispered, trembling fingers finding their way past the buttons of Aziraphale’s shirt and beneath the soft fabric.
Aziraphale said nothing, but his hand covered Crowley’s, and his lips brushed his demon’s temple in a soft breath of a kiss.
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Crowley did not, in fact, sleep for a week.
He did not, in fact, sleep for an hour before awakening with a startled cry of alarm, his body jerking into wakefulness against Aziraphale, who hurried to soothe him, whispering reassurances and holding him close until he drifted back to sleep again.
For another couple of hours, before his rest was ripped away from him again.
His body tensed against Aziraphale, and he drew in a sharp, shuddering gasp, golden eyes wide and blinking and filled with sheer terror. He lowered his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder again in weary defeat, his chest heaving with deep, shaky breaths. Aziraphale ran a hand slowly through his sweat-damp hair, pressing a kiss to his brow - hesitating before finally breaking the heavy silence, his voice hushed and cautious.
“I - I could help you, my love. If you wish.”
“You can’t,” Crowley whispered, softly despairing. “It just… is what it is, and there’s nothing you can…”
“I could block out those memories. The ones that are stealing your sleep.”
Crowley looked up at him again sharply, incredulous. “ Take my memories?” He looked away, his gaze distant and pensive, and Aziraphale couldn’t tell whether he was more disturbed or tempted by the suggestion.
“Not… take them, exactly,” Aziraphale hurried to clarify, shaking his head. “They wouldn’t be... gone .” He was quiet for a moment, weighing his words, and when he spoke again, his voice was soft and careful. “As terrible as they are, they’re… they’re yours , Crowley. And I wouldn’t think of compounding one violation with another.”
Crowley was silent, not looking at Aziraphale, a slow swallow visible in his throat, a troubled frown furrowing his brow. Aziraphale instinctively reached up a gentle hand in the desire to soothe it away, his heart aching when Crowley closed his eyes and turned his face into the touch.
“Think of it as…” Aziraphale hesitated, then continued, his tone brightening as he thought of a rather apt comparison. “...taking the phone off the hook, so you can’t be bothered while you’re trying to rest,” he explained.
Crowley appeared to be mulling it over a bit. “Or… silencing my mobile,” he amended, the barest upward quirk at the corner of his mouth betraying a touch of tolerant affection, at Aziraphale’s choice of metaphor.
It wasn’t a smile, wasn’t even an indication of true amusement - but it still made Aziraphale’s heart swell with relief to see it - that slight trace of his Crowley, nearly buried beneath the weight of the traumatic images that repeatedly assailed his mind and tore him from sleep.
Aziraphale wanted so desperately to lift that weight and bear it for him - just for a little while.
“Precisely,” he agreed with a warm smile, though Crowley was still looking away, his expression distant and wary. “Just temporary, my love. When you wake, it will be - un-silenced, as it were, and you’ll have full access to all your memories as usual. But, while you’re resting…” He paused, wrestling for a moment with his own emotions before continuing, gently, “... they can’t… assault your mind against your will. Can’t… steal your sleep.”
Crowley considered Aziraphale’s clarification for a few moments, a wistful, longing look in his distant gaze. At last he nodded slowly, lowering his head to rest in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck again - and Aziraphale nearly wept with relief.
“Yeah,” Crowley whispered. “All right, angel.” He swallowed slowly, audibly, as near as he was to Aziraphale. “Just - just for tonight, yeah?”
“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale gratefully agreed. “Just for tonight.”
But it wasn’t.
The following night, Crowley attempted to sleep without that same assistance, pointing out that the angel wasn’t going to sleep, anyway, and there was no reason he should be pinned down by Crowley all night long. He would be all right, he insisted. He’d just sleep on the sofa, and as long as he knew Aziraphale was nearby, he’d be fine. However, his attempt met with much the same results as the first night. After a couple of hours of tossing restlessly, he finally surrendered, getting up and crossing the room to where Aziraphale waited in the chair, which was still comfortably wide enough for two. Aziraphale wordlessly held out his arms for his love. Crowley wrapped himself around his angel, tucked in close to his side.
“Just… one more night,” he whispered.
And while Aziraphale hated to hear the shame and defeat in his voice, he was relieved to be allowed to help Crowley again.
He helped him again the next night - and the night after that, and the night after that. Every night, Crowley started on the sofa, alone, and ended up in the chair with Aziraphale. He hardly ever ventured into the bedroom, except when he needed to retrieve something from there. Aziraphale would have gladly gone for him, and Crowley was capable of miracling whatever he needed to him, without actually going into the room; but Aziraphale suspected that either of those options would have felt too much like defeat, too much like surrender, to Crowley. So instead, he would push himself to enter every so often for clothing or whatever it was that he needed, and Aziraphale would pretend not to notice the tremor in his hands, the panicked dart of his too-wide eyes, when he’d come out again.
Crowley seemed unwilling to leave the cottage as well, even to work in his garden - which he did miracle to health from the safe distance of the front window. He cared too much about the vulnerable flowers and vegetables and herbs he tended to so lovingly, to allow them to perish because he couldn’t bring himself to step outside - couldn’t bring himself to so much as leave Aziraphale’s sight, despite the warding that protected the entirety of their property.
Aziraphale helped in every way he could think of, constantly alert and observant to whatever Crowley’s needs might be, and any small way in which he could meet them without drawing attention to what he was doing, or making Crowley feel weak or needy.
But there were still moments - aching, desperate moments when it seemed that Crowley could feel nothing else.
His dreams were guarded by Aziraphale’s protective influence, but that didn’t prevent him from occasionally starting at an unexpected movement too close beside him, or being abruptly overwhelmed with panic when a certain scent, or sound, or mere trick of the light took him back to some dark, secret memory of breathtaking terror and pain.
Aziraphale felt utterly helpless. Most of the time, he couldn’t possibly know just exactly what had triggered Crowley’s reaction, especially when Crowley seemed most unwilling to talk about it. So Aziraphale would just speak to him softly, talking him through it, touching him where he could see it coming, where he knew it was safe, and infusing as much angelic peace and comfort as he dared, hoping that Crowley wouldn’t notice it in the steadying hand against his back, Aziraphale’s gentle fingers through his hair, or tenderly brushing away his tears.
When Crowley was resting, Aziraphale engaged in a painstaking process of examining every single book in his rather extensive occult library, locating every last one that contained any sort of demon-summoning or demon-controlling magic, and then proceeding to obliterate them from existence. He was troubled by the knowledge that many of these books had other copies out there, somewhere, and determined that eventually, he would find a way to destroy those as well.
Over the course of the couple of weeks that followed Crowley’s return, Anathema visited several times. Without fail, Crowley kept his distance, napping on the sofa in the afternoon sunlight, or busying himself somewhere else in the cottage, while she and Aziraphale pored over books she’d brought, or that Aziraphale owned. She helped him to perform a few rituals that would fortify the warding in and around the cottage, and added a couple of new protections of her own.
Their home had long since been well-warded against demons and angels. Now, they were guarded against human threats as well.
During her fourth such visit, after a full afternoon of research and spellwork, they had just about decided that the cottage was as safe as it could possibly get, and were relaxing over a cup of tea, when Aziraphale glanced up with surprise to see Crowley leaning in the kitchen doorway, silently watching them. His hair hung loose and disheveled, his eyes were heavy-lidded, and the blanket he’d been using was draped over his shoulder.
“Hey,” he said, his voice a soft rasp, thick with sleep.
He looked so ridiculously warm and relaxed and snuggly that it was all Aziraphale could do not to immediately go to his soft, sleepy demon and wrap himself around him. But he was fairly certain that Crowley wouldn’t appreciate it in the presence of their company, so he settled for a warm smile, as he extended a welcoming hand to his love.
“Come sit with us, my dear,” he invited.
“Yes, it’s good to see you!” Anathema agreed, a little too eagerly.
Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand, squeezing it lightly for a moment as he sat down, before Aziraphale let go in order to get up and pour Crowley a cup of tea. He hurried, well aware of the somewhat awkward silence that had descended over the table. Aziraphale knew that Anathema was just glad to see Crowley, to see for herself that he was more or less all right. But he also knew that the last time Anathema had seen Crowley, he’d been huddled, naked and bruised with only a soiled blanket to cover him, in the backseat of her husband’s car - and that Crowley was acutely aware of that fact, as well.
It was likely all he could think about right now.
“I made you a present!” Anathema broke the silence, a hopeful note in her voice.
Aziraphale turned in time to see Crowley’s gaze flicker up from his folded, fidgeting hands with guarded interest, not quite meeting Anathema’s eyes.
“Yeah? What is it?”
Anathema reached into the outer pocket of her bag and produced a slim black band - very flexible, with many thin strands woven together to form a delicate braid, in an intricate pattern that vaguely resembled the spine and quills of a feather. She held it out to Crowley, and he took it from her hand, running his fingers lightly over the soft leather.
“It protects against summoning.”
Crowley went very still, his eyes locked onto the gift.
“When you’re wearing it, summoning spells won’t work on you,” she explained. “Your home is warded. You’re completely safe, whenever you’re here. Aziraphale and I just made sure of it.” She nodded toward the bracelet, before looking up to search Crowley’s face, solemn and certain. “That will make sure you’re safe the rest of the time, too.”
Crowley was quiet for a long moment. He swallowed slowly, and then finally looked up to meet Anathema’s anxious, searching gaze. It was the first time since she’d seen him in that dark room, naked and bruised and humiliated, that he’d actually looked her in the eyes. Then, his expression warmed with gratitude, eyes shining with unshed tears, as he slid the thoughtful offering onto his wrist.
And even if it was through tears, Aziraphale was deeply grateful as well; for it was the first time that he’d seen Crowley smile in weeks.
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A few days after Anathema’s visit, Crowley made it through the night without needing Aziraphale’s miraculous assistance.
A few days after that, he decided to try sleeping in the bed - but only with Aziraphale at his side.
He had not seen the last of his nightmares, or had his last panic attack in daylight; but, reassured by the restoration of his sense of safety, Crowley began to feel a little calmer, a little more secure.
He began to feel like he was actually home , again.
One afternoon about a month after his rescue, Crowley actually spent enough time in the bedroom to take notice of the pile of discarded clothing in the corner of the room - once one of his favorite outfits, it was now just a faint reminder of a terrible ordeal. He drew in a shaky breath and let it out in a rush as he picked them up, mentally debating for a moment as to what to do with them. An instant before snapping them into non-existence, Crowley’s mouth went dry, his stomach lurching as he noticed something sticking out of the pocket of the dirty black jeans.
A strip of bright floral fabric, stained with blood.
He let his own clothing fall to the floor at his feet, unheeded, as he pressed the soft material between his fingers, sitting down slowly on the edge of the bed.
Aziraphale found him there, some time later.
“There you are, my darling,” he said, bright and cheerful as he bustled into the room, scooping up the pile of clothing and heading for the laundry hamper in the corner of the room. “I was wondering where you’d gotten off to…”
His words trailed off, and his pace slowed as he turned to take in Crowley’s very still posture, his silent, subdued demeanor, and the soiled scarf twisted between his trembling fingers. He stood there for just a moment, before closing the remaining distance between them, sitting down next to Crowley on the foot of the bed, and reaching out a careful hand to rest on his knee.
“He said he lied,” Aziraphale reminded Crowley, not for the first time. “That he didn’t kill her. He just thought you’d be more cooperative if you believed he had.”
“I was,” Crowley pointed out with a shamed grimace. “If he was lying… it worked. But… maybe it’s you he was lying to. Trying to save his own skin, yeah?”
“We can’t really know , Crowley…” Aziraphale’s hand gently squeezed his leg, and Crowley reached down somewhat absently to clasp it in his own.
“Where’d the blood come from?” Crowley asked in a hoarse whisper, shaking his head slowly, sadly. “If he didn’t kill her, then… why did he have it, and where did the blood come from?”
Aziraphale did not have an answer. When he spoke again, his words were quiet and certain. “Whatever did happen to her, it was not your fault, my love. You tried everything within your power to help her.”
“Thought I was helping her,” Crowley retorted, soft and regretful. “Just got her killed.”
“Oh, Crowley ,” Aziraphale gently protested.
But Crowley cut him off before he could repeat the same meaningless reassurances he’d offered him numerous times since his rescue. “Anathema knows a lot of spells. And - we’ve got her blood, and - a personal effect. Maybe there’s a way we could… find out for sure what happened to her, or… at least who she was? Someone’s got to be missing her, yeah? We could at least… find a way to get some word to her family? Give her loved ones some peace?”
Aziraphale frowned, troubled and uncertain. “We could at least find some answers, and… decide what to do with the information once we have it.”
Crowley understood his hesitation. If they did learn beyond all doubt that Pervy had killed the girl, then he wasn’t sure which would be kindest - or cruelest - to her family left behind: knowing the horrific fate that had befallen her, or holding onto a false hope that would never be realized.
They called Anathema, and she came armed with a spell capable of using a person’s blood to find their identity and location. A magic circle drawn in chalk on the kitchen floor, with the scarf in its center and a few words of Latin spoken over it, and they had a name, and a pin point location on a map - more than fifty miles away from the house where she and Crowley had been kept.
“Why would he go so far to dispose of a body?” Aziraphale wondered aloud as Anathema followed the map toward their destination. There was a hopeful note to the question. “You said he was going off to work every night, correct? So when would he have the time?”
“He’d make the time, if he’s smart,” Crowley pointed out, grim and resigned - determined to brace himself for the worst. “Keep a bit of distance between his life, and any evidence of his crimes.”
“ Or ,” Aziraphale pointedly countered, with an encouraging smile and a little nudge. “He didn’t take her there. She did. Because she’s alive .”
Crowley didn’t respond, just gazed out the window at the passing scenery, and tried very hard, despite Aziraphale’s best efforts, not to get his hopes up.
Marie Payton.
The name echoed in his thoughts as the car carried them closer and closer to answers that he wasn’t really sure he wanted.
He was fairly certain that Lucy had escaped. Pervy had produced no evidence of her death, and his uncontrollable rage upon returning to find her missing seemed to indicate that he was surprised that she was gone. Crowley wondered about her from time to time, and felt tremendous regret for the harm that he had allowed to befall her before finally letting her escape - but he felt sure that she was somewhere out in the world, alive , if not well.
He felt no such certainty for Marie Payton.
Crowley could feel the anticipatory tension building, and even Aziraphale’s endless stream of optimism eventually fell silent as they grew nearer and nearer to the point on the map. He expected it to lead them out into the countryside, to some field or cave somewhere, where a body could be easily hidden.
Instead it led them to a residential area in a small village.
“It’s here,” Anathema announced, as she parked the car at the side of the road. “Right here. This house.”
They got out of the car, and Crowley found his gaze drawn to the sprawling field behind the house. Perhaps the body of the young woman he’d failed to save lay in that field. He froze, swallowing hard. His heart was racing. He couldn’t bring himself to go any farther. Aziraphale’s hand on his shoulder momentarily startled him, but then he relaxed into the comforting touch, raising his own hand to cover his angel’s and letting out a shaky sigh.
“Crowley!” Anathema’s voice called, and he looked up to see her standing by the mailbox, indicating the side of it with one hand, a beaming smile on her face. Crowley followed her gaze, and his heart leapt with the first stirrings of hope he’d allowed himself to feel when he read the lettering there.
PAYTON
“She lives here!” Aziraphale clapped his hands with joy. “I knew it!”
“Or… lived here,” Crowley suggested, still cautious.
“And he just… delivered her body back home after murdering her?” Anathema lifted a single brow as she met Crowley’s eyes.
Crowley blinked at her. “Well, no,” he admitted, a bit embarrassed. “S’pose that doesn’t make much sense.”
That was when the front door opened, and Crowley looked up - and saw her. Standing in the doorway, staring directly at him in shock - same hair, same eyes he remembered, wearing a scarf in a colorful geometric pattern this time, rather than a floral. A slow, disbelieving smile spread across her lips as she took a single step out onto the porch.
“It’s you,” she said, in wonder.
And then, everyone was looking at him, and Crowley felt abruptly quite awkward. He gave her a slight, self-conscious little wave, and a smile he hoped wasn’t too nervous.
“Crowley,” he reminded her, because she certainly could have been forgiven for forgetting, given the mind-numbing terror of the circumstances under which they’d met.
“Yeah,” she replied in a tone that made it clear she hadn’t forgotten. She shook her head a little in wonder. “You’re alive .”
Crowley let out a startled little bark of laughter. It somehow just seemed funny, given how he’d agonized over whether or not she had survived their ordeal. And once he’d started laughing, he couldn’t seem to stop - until he couldn’t laugh anymore, but only because he was sobbing instead, deep, wrenching sobs that stole his breath and would have driven him to his knees in the grass, if Aziraphale hadn’t caught him, supporting him and holding him up.
Marie Payton came off the porch, hurried and concerned, glancing up and down her street for any nosy neighbors who might have noticed the strange procession that had just shown up at her door.
“It’s all right, I’m all right,” she assured Crowley when she reached him, reaching out to touch his face, and he looked up to see that hers was streaked with tears as well. “Come on,” she said with some urgency, glancing around at all three of them. “Let’s go inside.”
Four cups of tea and the ruination of two handkerchiefs (both the one Aziraphale carried in his coat pocket as a matter of habit, and a second one he’d miracled out of thin air when the need became apparent) later, the four of them were seated around Marie’s kitchen table, as she explained to them what had happened.
“I remember, now,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with the miracled handkerchief that was no less soft and fine than the one that had started the day in Aziraphale’s pocket, and was currently damp and crumpled in Crowley’s fist. “But… I couldn’t, then. Once I got clear of his property, it was like - there was this fog in my mind. I could remember - little bits and pieces. Being - tied up, and - and scared out of my mind.” She shivered, took a warming sip of her tea. But then she smiled up at Crowley, eyes red-rimmed, but bright. “Your eyes,” she said softly. “I couldn’t remember… who you were, but... I could see your eyes, in my mind, and I knew that you were… someone safe . Someone who helped me.”
Crowley felt his face flush, self-conscious under the focus of her warm appreciation, and he wished he’d thought to miracle up a fresh pair of sunglasses before leaving the cottage. He’d scarcely needed them since his rescue, as he hadn’t so much as stepped outside before today.
But the way Marie was looking at him, with something bordering on adoration - the way she talked about how the memory of his eyes had made her feel safe - made him think that perhaps he didn’t need them so badly at the moment, after all.
“I didn’t remember at first, and then - all at once, a few days later… I did ,” Marie continued. “But… I was so confused, and - and I’d told everyone I couldn’t remember what happened to me, and - it was all so strange and unreal, I didn’t think they’d believe me.” She paused, looking away. “ I barely believed me. I went back to that house, and - it had burned to the ground.”
Aziraphale cleared his throat, a bit self-consciously, studiously avoiding the eyes of anyone else at the table. He knew very well exactly when and why she’d gotten her memories back - as well as how the house had ended up obliterated by fire. Crowley suppressed a grin and squeezed his hand under the table.
“I thought maybe I’d… imagined parts of it? Maybe it wasn’t all real?” Marie grimaced, meeting Crowley’s eyes apologetically. “I remembered you’d mentioned… your friend, Mr. Fell, and where to find him…” Aziraphale gave her a little acknowledging nod, and she looked at him as she continued, “But I didn’t know what to tell you if I did find you. The house was gone. The man who took me was gone. You were gone,” she looked back at Crowley, shaking her head helplessly. “I just - I half-believed it was all in my head. Delusions to help explain my amnesia. At least, I knew that’s what anybody else would tell me, if I told them about the guy who held me and a demon prisoner by using magic and then somehow wiped my memory after - until I suddenly got it back for no apparent reason.”
“Well, yeah.” Crowley nodded. “When you put it like that.” He shrugged a little, dismissing her guilty explanations. “They found me. Got me out. ‘S all right.”
Marie shook her head, blinking back tears. “It’s not ,” she quietly insisted.
Silence descended for a few moments, before Crowley broke it, redirecting the conversation, hoping to turn her thoughts from her own failure to help him in return.
“How’d you get out?” he asked with a slight frown. “I mean… all the way out? He showed me your scarf. There was blood on it. He - he said he killed you, and I…” He swallowed hard, looking away.
“He didn’t do that,” Marie explained, a note of contempt in her voice for Pervy’s lies and posturing. “I fell, running through the field. There was a branch, and I tripped, and cut my leg. It was bleeding rather badly, so I wrapped it with my scarf. But I was - really scared, and shaky, and in a hurry to get away, and I guess I didn’t wrap it very well. By the time I got to town, the scarf had fallen off. I never knew just where I lost it.”
“So he must have seen it out there as he was coming in,” Crowley concluded with a slow nod of understanding. “Stopped and picked it up. Used it to - to convince me he’d killed you. That… that I got you killed.”
The sheer relief , the weight of that guilt lifting off Crowley’s shoulders, brought fresh tears to his eyes… even before the soft touch of Marie’s hand, as she reached across the table to place it over his. Reluctantly he looked up to meet her gaze, and was overwhelmed by the awe and gratitude he saw there.
“You saved me,” she declared softly. “He - was going to do terrible things to me. I know he was. But he didn’t get the chance to. Because you helped me get out.” She shook her head, her mouth quirking upward into a wry smile. “He called you a demon…”
“He wasn’t wrong,” Crowley confirmed flatly.
Marie shook her head, dismissing his claim. “Not to me, you’re not. To me, you’re like… some kind of angel. Like… my guardian angel.”
Crowley couldn’t suppress the laugh that burst out of him at the irony of her observation - a real laugh, whole and strong, born of the relief and peace he felt at knowing that he hadn’t failed Marie, after all. He hadn’t cost her her life, as he’d feared. In fact, she was alive and more or less unharmed, because of him. She was safe.
And he was safe.
And for the first time since he’d been taken, Crowley was finally certain. He might not be just yet, but he would be all right. He smiled, reaching across the slight space that separated his hand from Aziraphale’s, intertwining their fingers and looking up to meet his eyes with warmth and gratitude.
“Yeah,” he said softly, addressing Marie, but holding Aziraphale’s gaze. “Yeah… I’ve got one of those, too.”