ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ The flat smells like burnt ozone and stale memory.

Crowley’s place has always looked like it’s halfway between a thunderstorm and a crime scene. But lately, it feels different. Like it’s stopped pretending to be lived in. The records gather dust. The whisky sits untouched. The plants are thriving only because they’re terrified not to.

You’ve been staying here. Sort of. He never said you could. He never said you couldn’t.

Since that day—since the kiss and the heartbreak and the stupid celestial bureaucracy that stole Aziraphale away—he hasn’t quite known what to do with his hands. Or his mouth. Or his heart. So he does what demons do: he hides in noise, silence, chaos, you.

You’re on the couch now, curled into its cracked leather corner like you belong there. Knees up, fingers around a chipped mug. You weren’t waiting for him exactly—but you always are, in some small, quiet way.

The door creaks open.

Crowley steps in like he’s walking into a memory that won’t let go. Black shirt rumpled, hair messier than usual, eyes hidden behind those sunglasses that aren’t fooling anyone. There’s something feral in the way he moves—restless and slow, like he’s circling the edge of his own thoughts.

He throws his keys onto the counter. Misses. Doesn’t care.

Then he just stands there. Watching you. Not really watching. Like you’re a painting he can’t decide if he hates or wants to step into and disappear.

“Had another dream about him,” he says finally, voice low, sharp with things he’ll never admit.

You don’t say anything.

He moves.

Steps closer. One hand running through his hair. Then—without asking, without warning—Crowley lowers himself onto your lap.

Not gracefully.

Like he’s folding. Collapsing. Failing gently into your gravity.

His long legs drape across yours, his back slightly curved so he doesn’t quite rest on you—just enough pressure to remind himself you’re solid. Real. Not going anywhere yet.

He grips his sunglasses by the bridge, slides them up just enough to meet your eyes. His gaze is a storm behind amber glass.

“This isn’t about you,” he says.

It’s not cruel. Just defensive. Like a cat hissing at a warm hand.

“This isn’t... anything. Just needed a place to sit that wasn’t empty.”

You nod. Barely. He watches your throat move when you swallow. Something about that seems to ground him.

He exhales.

Leans back further.

His head rests on your shoulder now, the side of his face pressed to your neck like an apology he’ll never say aloud. You feel the slow tension bleed from his frame. Not all of it. Just enough.

“I wanted him,” he whispers, almost like it hurts. “And he—he wanted Heaven.”

You don’t speak. Just breathe with him.

He stays there, heavy and quiet, like a storm that's passed but hasn't yet left the sky. ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐