Chapter Text
'It will be fine,' Aziraphale assured himself.
Just as he had done during his so-called trial. All the way through a guilty verdict and even his inevitable banishment. Of course, he had been found guilty. Of course, they had been unable to answer what he was guilty of, as they had dragged him to his death.
Guilty of not being the perfect little king they had all expected him to be, he knew. Of having opinions and making sure they were heard. Of refusing to- Of being his own person, the worst thing a king could be, at least, in the eyes of his advisors.
'It will all be fine,' Aziraphale vowed to himself.
It was getting harder to believe that, as he fought the icy water to stay afloat. There was faint sunlight coming from the hole above him, so menacing-looking when he had been placed on his knees before it, but now, nothing more than a speck of light in the otherwise perfect darkness.
Aziraphale was going to die here. The thought came to him unbidden but undeniable. If not in the water that was trying to drag him down into its grey embrace, then outside of it. In this cold and dark underground cave, freezing and starving to death. And being a creature with an unusually long life-span... Well, that only made it worse.
Of course, he had made sure to look into all the maps he could get his hands on, once the whispers of mutiny had begun to sound a lot less like whispers. He knew the way out of this cave, had made certain to remember every twist and turn of the tunnel that could lead him back to safety. But there were a lot of things that could go wrong between now and salvation.
He should just give up, a traitorous voice that sounded a lot like his advisors whispered in his ear. What good was an alive exiled king? What would his life even look like, assuming he even made it out alive?
Just before the thought had managed to sink its poisonous claws into him, actual claws were doing just that. Aziraphale didn't even dare gasp with the pain of sharpness sinking into his flesh as something cold wrapped around his wrist and tugged. And suddenly, he found himself on a shore, the water burning at his throat as he tried to chase it out of his lungs. More out of habit than anything, he twisted his head to thank the person who had saved him.
It wasn't a person.
It was a mass of shadows and danger, looming over him. Making him shiver, that forgotten, ancient part of his very soul that knew the darkness was alive and coming to harm him, lighting up inside him.
"Never had a pretty one before," a voice drifted from the shadows, rough and scratchy, just as Aziraphale had managed to raise himself. He shivered again, but, he was horrified to realise, for an entirely different reason.
There was a sort of calm that nipped at the heels of knowing that the worst that could have happened, had already happened, it seemed. Aziraphale rolled his shoulders back as he pulled himself up to his full height.
"Who are you? Show yourself," he demanded, in a way that did not suit his circumstances, but certainly fit his title. His former title now, he supposed. The thought hurt no less now than it had a few weeks ago, when he had been officially stripped of what should have been his birthright.
The shadows shifted, the darkness as if a curtain, pulling aside to reveal...
A dragon. Aziraphale stared, even as he knew that there was nothing else that shape could be. Scales as dark as midnight, the creature sat on his hind legs, watching Aziraphale with something that if he had been a bit more human-like, could have even been called amusement. Smaller than might have been expected but still standing a few heads taller than Aziraphale was.
"Never had a bossy one either. Name's Crowley," the dragon drawled, lips pulling back to reveal sharp teeth in what was undeniably a smirk.
Aziraphale hesitated, before manners ingrained in him since birth ultimately won out.
"My name is Aziraphale. It is a pleasure to meet you."
He gave a short bow, uncustomed to doing so but knowing full well that it was expected. Especially when he was in the presence of something that could eat him in two bites. One, if particularly peckish.
The dragon, Crowley, chuckled. The sound dark and heady, had no business making Aziraphale's head swim quite as much as it did. But before he had even tried to decipher the feeling pulsing through his veins and then throw out the findings when the truth turned out to be unpleasant... Before any of the exercises in futility and denial he had turned into an art form over the centuries, the dragon was moving. Shifting fully into the light and, oh, Aziraphale could see his features more clearly now.
Golden eyes blazed as the creature moved towards him in languid strides. Swaying as if drunk, and it would have been funny if it was not terrifying. Because like this, on all fours and yet towering over him, it was very clear the damage that the dragon could do to any of Aziraphale's vital organs. One slash of those long claws that clacked against the ground as the creature moved. One twist of that elongated head to bring close blood-red horns until they were truly covered in blood. And it wouldn't matter that Aziraphale was virtually immortal.
Everything bled. He, above all, should know that.
Crowley circled him, a predator playing with his prey. Acting purely on some latent instinct, Aziraphale tried to back away. It didn't matter to him that what awaited behind him was the icy maw of the underground lake. Anything, his mind was screaming, anything was better than the creature looking at him with hunger in those mischievous eyes.
How poor his attempt at escaping had been didn't seem to matter, in the end. No sooner had he moved, a spike-covered tail was wrapping around his torso, stealing his breath and his ability to move.
"So why are you here, Aziraphale?" Crowley hissed, forked tongue lashing at the space between them.
The question hurt more than if the dragon had caused him physical pain. Something Crowley seemed intent on avoiding. The scarlet spikes were not digging into flesh, Aziraphale couldn't help but notice, the dragon's tail twisted in such a way as not to so much as graze his robe.
And yet it felt like they were hooked into the tender of him, splitting him open.
"I-" he tried, still. Nobody ignored a creature like this. But the words were stuck in his throat, thorn vines against his heart. "I-"
Another chuckle and Aziraphale supposed he had to be grateful for the tail holding him upright.
"Kidnapping? Murder? Stole some cattle, did you?" Crowley asked. He was still circling him, that tail a continuous drag against Aziraphale's stomach and Aziraphale really had to focus. And not on the way those scales felt, silk against the scratch of his robe. "Don't tell me you did nothing wrong. It is so infinitely dull when humans insist on that lie."
"Not human," Aziraphale mumbled, automatically. From behind his curls, still plastered to his temples, his ears twitched, as if insulted for having been overlooked.
His words did make Crowley pause in his predatory stroll.
"So I see," the dragon whispered, and for once that dark note was hidden too deep beneath something else to cause any damage to Aziraphale's psyche.
The tail tightened its hold, managing to steal the last of Aziraphale's breath, before it was retreating. And with it, it seemed, Aziraphale's ability to stay upright.
Aziraphale was going to crash to the ground. The cold, hard, unforgiving ground that had every intention of splitting his head open. He could see it so very clearly, even as he tipped forward, unable to stop any of it. Squeezing his eyes shut, he prepared for the inevitable. Did it even matter? At least, like this, he was saving Crowley the trouble of killing him before he could roast him over a fire or- or- or whatever dragons did to their victims.
The ground felt unbearably soft under his body. That was the first thing Aziraphale noticed as he waited to bleed to death. There was also something warm, tickling his neck. Aziraphale let his hand trail over the closest mass, too dazed to even question his ability to move. Scales, under his fingers. Sleek and soft and without thinking, he pressed against them, leant into the feeling of them shifting underneath his touch.
"I've got you," the ground whispered, a note too tender to be anything unbelievable like the dragon, that had made his heart flutter.
But then two hands were wrapping around his shoulders and Aziraphale was forced to accept the touch for what it was. A dragon's touch. Crowley's touch.
"Can you stand?" Crowley asked and his breath was warm, so very warm. Aziraphale felt himself sink into it. He might not have suffered any debilitating injuries, but his mind was slow and sluggish, as if he had. It was that warmth, he decided. An infernal flame that managed to set his bones on fire, as the dragon pressed him against the strict lines of his body.
What else could it be?
Aziraphale nodded. Part of him wanted to lie, wanted to enjoy the flames warming up pieces of his very soul, he hadn't even known were frozen solid. Part of him didn't even think it would be a lie, that same muddy, blurry one that had failed at keeping him upright.
Crowley didn't let go of him, anyway. The claws tightened, the hold strong but careful, as Aziraphale was lifted off the ground and cradled against a scaled chest.
"Hold on tight," was the only warning Aziraphale got before he was flying.
It took a few minutes of coaxing for Aziraphale to relinquish his hold on the dragon's long neck.
Crowley didn't seem to mind, talons trailing down the other's back in what could have been mistaken for tenderness. There even were a few chuckles, pressed against the elf's curls, as the dragon whispered something soothing into his ears. None of which was particularly helpful for Aziraphale's ability to stand.
Once he was sure he would not stumble to the ground like a toddler, just learning how to walk, Aziraphale finally let go. Only then did he take a look around the cave chamber he had been transported to.
They must have been closer to the surface, he realised, the sunlight able to penetrate the thick darkness a little bit better here. It was still dim and gloomy, nothing but the blank cavern walls, but it felt... Homely, almost. Loved.
Crowley watched him for a few seconds, clearly expecting a reaction. When one did not follow, at least not in a way that could easily be distinguished in the lack of sunlight, the dragon huffed. A small puff of fire burst out of his nostrils and how strange, it only made Aziraphale wish he was closer.
He was cold, he reminded himself. He missed the warmth.
"Sorry. Wasn't expecting any guests," Crowley drawled, clearly mocking. Voice molten. Aziraphale had to fight back a shiver. "Take off your clothes."
The words came out in such a flippant way, as if an order the dragon uttered every single day.
Aziraphale flinched, arms coming to wrap around his ruined clothes protectively.
"I beg your pardon?" His own voice took on an authoritative edge, the same one he had used when one of his advisors tried telling him how a good king should behave. He couldn't quite help it, not when he was faced with those words coming out of that needle-sharp mouth.
Crowley's head tipped to the side, golden eyes sliding over the other's still shivering form. His gaze burning so brightly, Aziraphale could almost feel it, a physical caress.
"You are soaking wet. I'm not having you die from hypothermia before your people've managed to rescue you."
Aziraphale couldn't help it, he laughed. The notion that someone, anyone, was coming to save him so very absurd that it managed to penetrate through the haze the dragon had put over him with his demands.
"Nobody is coming for me," he said and was surprised to realise there was no bitterness to his voice. He didn't want them to come. He just... he just wanted to get on with his life, somewhere far away.
But for that, he had to survive the dragon first.
The dragon that was now trailing his hand over Aziraphale's shoulder, a claw idly picking at the knot keeping him decent. And it looked so silly, next to Crowley's hand, so small and fragile. One swipe of those danger-sharp talons and the elf's robe would be ruined completely, falling to the ground, leaving him-
Despite himself, Aziraphale shifted closer.
So did Crowley. "Fell down the hole, did you?"
His words were mocking, his voice even more so. As if Aziraphale was that stupid, to willingly or even accidentally throw himself down the hungry maw.
"No," he growled. It was anger, he told himself, the contributing factor to the breathless quality of his voice. Indignation at the accusations hurled at him and not that sharpness-heavy hand dipping down to run over his chest now, so large it would also cover his stomach, was the dragon to shift it ever so slightly.
Flaming eyes snapped up from where they had been tracing the curves of his soaked through robe.
"Then how did you find yourself here, Aziraphale?"
The elf gasped. For once, it had nothing to do with the unexpectedly tender touch, gnawing through his restraints. It was the question, that had done it, in the end. The insistence of it, the sheer insolence of the creature before him.
"How does anyone end up hurled down a hole, used to send prisoners to their death, Crowley?" he snapped around the cutting edges of his words.
And immediately regretted it. His words might have been serrated, whetted by centuries of being ignored and overlooked. Oh, but they had nothing on the very real razor-edged smile blooming before him.
Aziraphale had forgotten, it seemed. How very easy it would be for the dragon to end his existence.
"I- I am so-"
Crowley didn't even let him finish, before he was chuckling. Finally drawing back.
"I thought you elves were supposed to be perfect. Innocent little angels, incapable of doing any wrong. What did you do?"
Stubbornly, Aziraphale stayed mute. The answer, for it was no answer at all, hurt.
He expected the dragon to push. Hadn't he been doing just that, relentlessly, ever since he had saved him from that freezing lake? Instead, Crowley turned around, massive body swaying towards a corner of the cavern.
"Still, need you to change. 'm not gonna take care of your snivelling ass, royalty or not." Despite the cutting words, Crowley's voice was careful. Gentle. A stark contrast to what Aziraphale had been expecting. When the dragon turned around, he had in his hands something grey and soft-looking. "Left-overs from- From the people before you."
Aziraphale opened his mouth, to thank the dragon or to try and apologise again, he wasn't sure. It seemed he would be unable to find out either, as before his lips had managed to wrap around kind words he had not expected he would need, Crowley was shoving the bundle of clothes into his hands and turning away. The message, albeit infuriating, was clear. Aziraphale tugged at his robe silently.
He was dressed in a simple tunic, the material rough and scratchy. Nobody, not even him, not really, had expected Aziraphale to survive the fall. There had been no use sacrificing something valuable, along with their king. As such, he was grateful to finally be able to take off his clothes, made even more uncomfortable by the cold water seeping through the material. Even if his skin remained damp and clammy beneath it.
His eyes lingered on the dragon before him. Crowley was fully turned away, sitting on his haunches, wings spread behind him. Like this, it felt more than simple respect for Aziraphale's privacy. It felt... Goodness, but it felt like he was guarding him, keeping him safe and something warm and stupid filled the entirety of the elf's ribcage.
"I refused to kill a child," he whispered, hoping desperately that Crowley would not hear. And yet knowing that he would repeat himself, if only the dragon wished him to.
It still hurt, the admission. The reason why he had been destined to die. The reason why those who had sworn to protect and guide him had doomed him to his death. Even now, despite everything, he didn't wish them to be so evil as to want- As to demand a fate like this for an innocent child, whose only mistake had been to be born to the wrong family.
Crowley's head lolled back, curled horns catching the stray sunlight in a blood rainbow. Their eyes met, the guilt and shame in Aziraphale's set alight by the kindness in Crowley's.
"I did say your lot was too nice to be true. You are not helping your case, angel."
And there was a careful tease in those words, a measured mocking, that despite everything, made Aziraphale's cheeks burn. Or was it the fact that he was still very much naked in front of this creature that had done nothing but make him shiver all day.
Crowley's gaze did not linger. Didn't even waver from his face. Aziraphale wasn't sure how he felt about that.
"Yes. Well-" He shrugged, unable to say the words. Unable to admit, even to himself, even now, how close he had been to going through with it. "Not everyone. Not always."
Another puff of fire, before the dragon was turning away again.
"Seems more like the thing you'd expect my lot to do," he said, almost as an afterthought.
Something in his words made Aziraphale hesitate, before he realised he had done so in the middle of tugging on his new robe, and the cave was freezing. Crowley's lot.
Dragons were not as common as they had used to be, back when Aziraphale had been a child. But they were still around, he knew that. Had seen one just last decade, flying over the tops of the mountains that bordered his mother's kingdom. He had been so envious of it, the bright purple wings spread against the blood red sky, the freedom in its movements as it twirled its massive body, so graceful as to look almost impossible.
Aziraphale hadn't seen a lot of dragons but he had seen, and read, enough to know- To realise the different silhouette the creature before him cut.
Crowley must have sensed the direction his thoughts had taken. Must have thought that Aziraphale was drawing comparisons between the dragon before him and the ones it was common to see, and finding him lacking. His wings fluttered, tail dragging against the ground with a heavy hiss.
For a moment, Aziraphale had to fight the urge to step closer, run a hand over those shadow scales, chase the tension away from those hunched shoulders. Perhaps even utter words, meaningless but for the comfort they might try to provide.
He didn't. Of course not. He barely knew the dragon before him. The dragon that could still kill him with the same ease one would smack a mosquito, if Aziraphale displeased him.
But manners were something else. Ingrained in him, written into his very genetic code.
"Thank you," the elf said, hoping that the meaning would be clear. Not realising that he was trusting that a creature he had only just met would be able to understand him, when his words were too small to contain the gratitude in his soul.
"Don't mention it," Crowley said with a shrug, because he did understand.
He did.
It should have terrified Aziraphale. So why did it make him feel so warm, instead?
Despite the day, and quite frankly the month Aziraphale had had, sleep eluded him. His body, unaccustomed to the cold hard ground and the chill that accompanied it, fought valiantly against the fatigue permeating the elf's very bones. And worst of all, it appeared to win. He was, he could admit it to himself freely now, somewhat spoiled. A whole lifetime of comfort would do that to anyone.
His brain heavy with the weight of everything that had happened to him, slow and hazy, he couldn't even use the time to formulate a plan. A way to escape the clutches of a dragon he didn't necessarily want to leave just yet. But that sort of thinking was dangerous. It could only lead to hurt. Both physical, when Crowley tired of this good creature act and... Not.
When he did manage to fall asleep, rest came in exhausting bursts of oblivion that left him feeling weaker than when he had first laid down. Far too soon, and Crowley's heavy gait was snapping him out of his fitful rest.
"I caught you some fish for breakfast. Prisoners don't get a lot of choice, I'm afraid," Crowley said, that ever present teasing edge to his words a touch poisonous now.
It occurred to Aziraphale how strange it was. He had expected that scratchy voice to feel like gravel against his sensitive temples. At the very least, it should have been uncomfortable after the night he had spent, thrashing around on the cold floor. Instead, it was almost soothing.
Slowly, he uncurled his limbs from the fetal position he had assumed during the night, in an attempt to keep a hold of as much warmth as he could, and lifted his head. Despite the way every part of him ached, it felt imperative that he manage to assure the dragon that fish was fine. Perhaps even thank him for everything he had already done for Aziraphale.
Crowley was leaning above him in seconds. How someone so massive was able to move so quickly, and worst of all, borderline soundless, was not something Aziraphale's mind was able to understand at that moment.
"Are you okay?" the dragon whispered, voice soft but urgent. "For Someone's sake, I warned you this would happen. You should have taken off your clothes when I told you to."
Aziraphale had been a king for almost a decade now. Nobody spoke to him like this. And there was a faint voice in his head, demanding he be outraged at the way the dragon was behaving.
But how could he? When he could clearly see the worry behind those lava-bright eyes, the subtle way claws tightened in the air above his shoulder.
He shook his head, slowly, carefully, conscious of the way it was pulsing. "I am fine. Truly."
Even he didn't believe his words. The faint hope that Crowley might not know him well enough to realise how false his statement had been, was dashed with the rise of a single scaled eyebrow.
"You don't look fine. You look like you are about to paint my home with the insides of your guts." Crowley's voice was rising, both in volume and in distress. Aziraphale almost wished he was feeling better. Not for himself, and the thought felt too angular against the smoothness of his mind, but so he could soothe the dragon's worries. So he could have the strength to reach out and bury a hand in those sleek looking scales, run his thumb over nostrils that were flaring in something too kind to be anger.
Aziraphale was unable to stifle his gasp, when Crowley finally let a claw run over his cheek. Was too weak to try, anyway. It didn't seem to matter, and the way his body had shivered again, he had thankfully been able to attribute to the fact he might just be a tad too feverish.
"You are burning up," the dragon hissed. His palm so big it covered most of Aziraphale's face, even if it was obvious how hard he was trying to not touch him too much.
Why wouldn't he? Aziraphale wanted him to. Wanted to feel those smooth scales against his cheeks again, down his chest, over his stomach. Those sharp talons ghosting over his thighs, leaving a trail of flushed skin and ruined clothes.
Crowley, at least, seemed too entrenched in his panic as to be able to hear the thoughts echoing in the elf's too empty head.
Aziraphale was just feverish, he assured himself. He didn't know what he was thinking. This too would pass, he knew. He would get better and then he would leave and this would remain nothing but the ghost of a memory to him. The first time someone had fussed over him.
"I need to warm you up. Is that okay?" Crowley leant forward, his wings unfolding behind him, bathing the already dim cavern in a thick shadow. His hands were back to hovering over Aziraphale's body. As if he couldn't snap the elf in two if he wanted to, take everything the other was so desperate to give him.
Aziraphale started with a nod. Seemed a safe enough option, considering the alternative.
Immediately, hands were sinking into his shoulders, his hips, sliding behind his knees. With a sigh and an exhausted little shiver, Aziraphale leant into the onslaught.
He didn't remember falling asleep. But he must have, because the next thing he knew, he was waking up, warm and pliant. For a moment, it all seemed like a bad dream. Here he was, on his soft bed, in the darkness, enjoying the handful of moments of peace he would get that day. There was the subtle smell of something dark and earthy, like charcoal, hanging in the air and he tried to chase it away. Not now, not during the only time he got to himself, before the servants rushed into his bedroom, his advisors on their heels-
And then his bed moved. Claws ran down his back, their sharp points digging into his ruined muscles with expert precision, before he was being tugged even further into the warm abyss.
In the darkness, two amber eyes flashed mischievously.
"You drool when you sleep," Crowley said, the teasing edges of his words cutting at the last shreds of worry left in his voice.
Aziraphale blinked at him, before bringing a hand to the corner of his mouth. Where, true to the other's words, he found a tiny bit of moisture. It only then occurred to him that the sinful warmth below him was Crowley's body. The darkness around them - the dragon's wings, stretched above them, forming a tight cocoon.
"And you were huffing out fireballs in your sleep last night," he retorted, a touch too childish for his advanced age.
The petulance in his voice didn't seem to bother Crowley. The dragon roared with laughter, belly shaking underneath Aziraphale's whole body. A few fire puffs escaped from his nostrils, which only made him laugh harder. Even Aziraphale, who was feeling marginally healthier, and better rested than he remembered being in years, couldn't quite contain his smile.
"You are a right bastard, has anyone told you that?" the dragon asked. It might have sounded like a reprimand, except, his voice was soft and marvel-stricken. His hands tightened around Aziraphale's waist, a pleasant weight on top of his body.
Like that, surrounded by the dragon's heat, it occurred to Aziraphale that somehow he felt safer than he had ever done, back home. Well, in recent years that was almost a given. But even before, back when his mother had still been alive and he had been unimportant enough to be overlooked...
There was something, in the way Crowley was wrapped around him, keeping him close. Something that made the anxiety bleed out of his body for seemingly the first time in his life.
"Tell me a story?" he mumbled, already feeling the weight of sleep settle above him again.
And immediately regretted it. His eyes snapped open, the hand he had pressed above the dragon's heart, to measure the calm of its beats, curling into a fist.
How easily he had forgotten. The danger he was in. His escape plan. Even his desire to escape.
Seemingly oblivious to his terror, Crowley hummed. His whole body shifted as he tried to make himself more comfortable, his hands tightening their hold to keep Aziraphale steady. It couldn't have been an easy task, with his wings and the spikes covering his back perhaps digging painfully into his body. And yet he had readily put himself between Aziraphale and the hard ground. Had put the elf's comfort before his own.
Would it be so bad, Aziraphale wondered, if he stayed a few more days? Just until he was certain he was fully healed?
The talons were back, drawing soothing circles over his skin. And if that hadn't been enough to help him decide, then there were Crowley's gentle whispers into his hair.
"How about something my mum loved to tell my clutch when we were just hatchlings?"
It had been longer than a few days.
It was hard to gauge just how long, with the limited amount of sunlight they got. Aziraphale knew that it should have worried him. The readiness with which he had deserted his plans for a new life. To be replaced with the unexpected happiness that came with living in an underground cave with a dragon.
But it was hard to care about such trivial things. Especially when more often than not, he found himself perched on the lap of said dragon, scaled arms wrapped around him. Crowley sitting against a wall, knees raised, forming a little divot that had quickly turned into Aziraphale's favourite place to rest. It couldn't have been the most comfortable of positions for the dragon, his wings trapped against the wall, and yet he never complained.
No, that was a lie. He did complain. Relentlessly and without fail. But every time Aziraphale made to slide off his lap, apologies bursting at the seam of his mouth... Crowley would slide an arm around his middle and tug him back into place.
The fact that Aziraphale never protested being so generously dragonhandled, did not escape either of their notices, the elf was sure. Still, neither of them mentioned it and so it remained. Yet another unspoken truth between them.
Aziraphale was warm and comfortable, cheek pressed against a scaled chest, legs drawn up, body tipped against a soft stomach. The only vulnerable part of Crowley, the scales here a stark white and so infinitely soft, and yet the dragon had presented it to him, again and again.
Was it any wonder that the urge to reveal all those secrets reared its insistent head again? Butted against Aziraphale's chest, squeezed at his throat.
"I was never meant to be king," he whispered to the gentle flutter of the dragon's ribcage. Not even a secret, all things considered.
A start, nonetheless.
Sharp claws pressed against his back, the touch soothing in how familiar it was. There were always hands pressed against his back, running over his shoulders, in his hair, these days. He suspected it should have bothered him far more than it actually did.
Above him, Crowley said nothing. Didn't push for his tale, didn't even show that he was listening. Somehow, it made it easier.
"I have an older brother. Gabriel. It was always going to be him. I was just... there. The spare, I suppose." Aziraphale had the urge to laugh, even though his lungs felt like burning. Or maybe because of it.
From above him, Crowley hummed. A sound, designed to soothe him more than urge him to continue.
"Please don't misunderstand, I- I was happy with the arrangement." Aziraphale tipped his head back so their eyes could meet. And almost gasped when he saw the way Crowley was looking at him, something so soft in eyes that should have been incapable of it. "That is, until Gabriel could no longer rule."
"Did he-"
Aziraphale shook his head. When he let himself laugh this time, it was genuine.
"No. No, I have it on good authority he is alive and quite happy with his current life. He used to live not far from here, with his partner. They recently had a child together. I suppose, he found something more important than being king."
Crowley tilted his head to the side, the gold in his eyes tarnished.
"That was the child they wanted you to kill, wasn't it?"
All his life, Aziraphale had lived in the shadows. He had felt comfortable there, away from prying eyes and people who would insist that the way he was, the way he had always been, was wrong. So to be perceived, fully, easily, by someone who had known him for such a short amount of time... It made his chest ache in the most unusual of ways.
And some of that discomfort must have shown on his face, because the claws were running over his shoulders now, the back of his neck. An urgency to the touch that tasted bitter.
"Sorry, angel, not my place. I know that. Forget I-"
"Yes." The admission that had eluded him for so long came easy now, if it meant extinguishing the anxiety in that perpetually gentle touch. "The child, they have elven blood. That makes them royalty, gives them a claim to the throne. My advisors were not very happy with that, the prospect of a child, raised outside the palace, being able to claim possession of it one day."
"So they asked you to-" Crowley's voice trailed off. Smoke was coming out of his nostrils, like thick mist, and he waved a hand before his snout to disperse it. Despite all the times they had teased each other, that had never happened before and all at once Aziraphale realised how angry the dragon truly was. "You can't kill kids."
The elf nodded. Inside of him, there was a desire, an ache, to calm the creature underneath him. To soothe him like the other had done for him, so many times. He let his hand linger on Crowley's chest, pressed slightly where the thump of his heart was strongest.
"I made sure my brother knew of this," he explained quickly, because that felt important. The fact that the child had not, would not, be harmed. "The child is safe. I am certain."
The smoke around them was all-consuming now, burnt wood and rage that dragged against the back of Aziraphale's throat.
"And they tried to kill you for that." It wasn't a question. Aziraphale still nodded. The roar that tore from Crowley's mouth was deafening. "I will kill them. I will rip them all to shreds, I will reduce them to nothing but meat that I will tear from them in chunks, until all they know is pain."
The ribcage beneath his fingers was shaking. It occurred to Aziraphale how strange it was that here was a creature, twice as big as him and infinitely stronger, vicious rage coursing through his veins. And yet, the elf found himself not the least bit afraid. Even stranger, he found his lack of fear completely normal.
So when he tried to comfort the other, it was entirely for Crowley's benefit.
"Have you done that before?" he asked, aiming for ridiculous enough to snap the dragon out of his murderous rage.
"Have I done what? Killed someone?" Crowley's voice was incredulous, but, Aziraphale couldn't help but notice, devoid of any further anger.
Aziraphale shrugged, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible. Made a little harder by the smile he was fighting.
"Yes. Or tortured them?"
"No. I have never killed nor tortured a person." Crowley's voice still held an edge, but it was dulled by some unknown emotion. Unspeakable emotion. "Or a child, before you ask."
Aziraphale wouldn't have asked. It was becoming very clear to him how wrong he had been in his initial assessment of Crowley. How he had seen nothing but a monster, destined to destroy him in the most painful of ways. How those claws that were now scratching gently at his scalp had seemed incapable of anything other than torment. The sharpness of those teeth and words that he still felt the sting of, but in a way he found delightful.
But that had been rather the point, he suspected. No creature could survive wearing the soft of their heart painted on their chest.
"I know, my dear," Aziraphale assured him, with both his words and his touch. His fingers skidding over the small horns that adorned Crowley's face, before sliding down his long neck. To finally rest above the wild thump of his heart.
He let himself relax fully into the dragon's gentle hold. Be lulled to sleep by the soft rise and fall of Crowley's chest, the smoke coming out of his nostrils. Now just yet another way for Aziraphale to escape the cold rather than anything quite as alarming as before.
Like this, boneless and pliant and on the verge of falling asleep, he almost missed Crowley's hissed threat,
"Never too late to start, though."
"Oh, I wish you could have seen it, my dear. It was simply-"
Aziraphale was perched on top of Crowley, sitting primly on his stomach as if a throne. He had been just in the process of describing the vast library the palace housed, when his stomach decided to voice its displeasure of being so thoroughly ignored for seemingly too long.
Flushing a deep red, he opened his mouth, ready to apologise. Crowley was quicker.
"Sorry, angel. Guess I haven't been taking care of you as well as I should have."
The dragon shifted, making Aziraphale wobble slightly and... Well, there might have been a reason as to why Aziraphale had not insisted on being fed as regularly as he would have liked.
Every time Crowley disappeared to bring him food- fish, it was always fish- he would be gone for so very long. And Aziraphale... he missed him. Enough to ration his food and ignore the hunger gnawing at his stomach in favour of the one gnawing at his soul, every time Crowley was gone.
Sharp talons wrapped around his hips, made to move him away. And in something ridiculously close to desperation, Aziraphale curled his own fingers around them.
"Wait," he yelped. It might have been the urgency in his voice or perhaps the wild spark in his eyes, because Crowley froze at once, twisting his long neck so they were face to face. "Wait! Perhaps I can- Perhaps I can come with?"
Despite all the time he had spent in the cave, he hadn't had much of a chance to explore. Crowley had only ever shown him the main cavern where they slept and the lake where Aziraphale had first fallen in that day. The occasional underground hot spring where he took his baths. He didn't mind, there was hardly any light to aid him, even if the dragon was happy to let him wander around.
And it wasn't why he offered his help.
As silly as it was, he just wanted to be with Crowley. Even if it meant sitting on a cold rock in complete darkness, while Crowley caught them dinner. As long as he could be with the dragon, talk to him, just feel his presence there. He knew nothing could make him happier.
Crowley relinquished his hold on Aziraphale's hips, twisting his hands so they could wrap around the elf's wrists instead. Something inside Aziraphale fluttered, ached almost painfully, at the way those smooth, sleek scales felt against his soft skin. His hips, taking advantage of their freedom, twitched forward. Seeking more.
Using the grip he had on the other's arms, Crowley hauled him forward. It shouldn't have felt so exhilarating, being dragged over the dragon's stomach with such ease, and yet it made something deep inside Aziraphale throb. An insistent urge lighting up in his chest, impossible to ignore. Another hand wrapped around his waist keeping him upright, so big that its talons were brushing over his stomach too. For a moment Aziraphale imagined swaying forward, his whole body sliding over those scales, and an irrational anger at the dragon's thoughtfulness engulfed his whole body.
There was already an uncomfortable hardness underneath Aziraphale's robe, the same scratchy one he had been sacrificed in, and he wiggled slightly, trying to avoid pressing it against the dragon's stomach. Trying to ignore the desire to do just that, too. To brush against those scales, pant and moan and plead until Crowley gave him just what he needed.
No. No, he tried to chase away the thoughts from his mind. Crowley had been nothing but kind to him, taking care of him and protecting him even if he didn't have to. How dare Aziraphale sit here and twist that kindness into something else, something wretched?
Oh, but it was getting harder and harder to suppress his urges. His desires. Especially when Crowley was so very lovely.
And yet, such a devious bastard, too.
Talons dug at the tender of his wrists as his arms were raised, up to Crowley's snout for inspection. A forked tongue flickered against his palm, and Aziraphale felt as if he had been punched in the chest. Gasped like it, too.
"Soft," Crowley hissed against his hands, as if a completely normal statement and not something that made Aziraphale's whole body shake with need. "Just like I thought. Haven't seen a day of work, have you?"
It somehow made it better, the fact that Crowley was teasing him. It felt familiar.
Didn't quite quell the hunger in his bones but it didn't make it any worse either. At least not until he felt those lips pull back into a smirk, the ghost of fire singeing his palms. Not enough to burn or even hurt him. Simply a tingling sensation he could imagine spreading over his whole body, the dragon warming up his skin as he-
Aziraphale tugged his hands out of the other's hold, which Crowley loosened without any hesitation.
"I have standards," he pointed out, a touch too indignant for the position he was currently in. A trace of desperation in his voice, that he could only pray the dragon wouldn't notice.
Crowley refused to comment. Not with words, at the very least. The hand around his body inched down, claws dancing over the edges of Aziraphale's robe, needle tips catching at the fabric. Almost on instinct, the elf's body relaxed into the contact. More than that, leant into it, thighs falling open, chasing that familiar, reliable touch.
Crowley's chuckle came out dark and full of charcoal.
"Sure, angel. Hold on to me?"
It was almost disappointing when the lake turned out to be a mere minute of flight away from them. Like this, arms wrapped around Crowley's neck, body pressed against his chest... Aziraphale wouldn't have minded if they had spent hours in the air. As long as he had an excuse to keep touching the dragon.
The lake was similar to the one he had first found himself in, except for two major differences.
There was fish, happily swimming in the shimmering water. That was the second one. The shimmering water. The slit in the wall, about Aziraphale's eye level that water would flow freely through.
Water, and light.
Just that was enough to make Aziraphale's heart leap in his chest. He turned around, a smile already pulling at his lips, eager to share his delight with the one creature that would best understand it. Only for his heart to lurch again, trying to soar right past his suddenly tight throat.
So used to having Crowley only in the shadows and the dim light, it took him a moment to realise he could see him fully now. There had been that first day, of course. A day he would perhaps never forget. Nor the way those horns had caught the light, molten eyes flashing against the dark of the cavern, elongated snout tipping down towards him, thin lips curling into a hungry smile.
It was different, now. The light, for it could only be the light, made something soft play over reptilian features. Made those flaming eyes turn warm. A blazing fire, still, but contained somehow.
Before he had even realised what he was doing, Aziraphale's fingers were curling around Crowley's face, tugging it down so it could be level with his own.
"See something you like, angel?" Crowley asked, a mocking, bitter little thing.
Aziraphale nodded. What else was there to do?
Like this, he could finally appreciate the way those scales he knew every inch of flashed in the light. He had thought they were black, the colour of midnight on a moonless night. He had been wrong. Here and there, a flash of starlight as Crowley's body swayed slightly, unable to stand still. Those lips he had dreamed of countless of times, so pink and inviting now. Tempting, almost.
Had it always been like that, he wondered. Or was it all the time they had spent together, the bond they had forged, strictly in the shadows, that was making him see the creature before him anew.
But no, because he could remember that same hunger scratching at the cage of his ribs the moment Crowley had wrapped his tail around his torso and tugged. This, now, it served as nothing but proof that the desire had always been there. Only to be illuminated now by a few stray sunrays.
So when Aziraphale replied, "Yes"... It sounded final. Felt real.
The scales beneath his fingers flashed indigo, an iridescent shimmer that was more delightful than anything Aziraphale might have seen that day.
"You are stunning," he said, because it felt important that Crowley knew this. And when the dragon made to shake his head, eyes shifting sideways to avoid his own, he insisted, "You truly are, my darling. The most beautiful creature I have ever had the pleasure of meeting."
"Shut up," Crowley glowled. The elf didn't need to know him as well as he did, to recognise how half-hearted it sounded. "If anything, you are the one who is stunning. Look at you, you are gorgeous."
Aziraphale felt his own cheeks heat up, his fingers shaking where they were wrapped around the little horns around Crowley's face. There was that urge to shy away from the gentle words, the reverence in those golden eyes. He fought against it, holding Crowley's gaze. Just like the dragon had, even when he had been visibly uncomfortable.
The moment lingered between them, sweltering and sticky. Aziraphale wanted to kiss him. The thought, one that he had chased away millions of times before, made its way into his mind like a dear friend. Before him, like countless times before, he could already see that mouth dip down to lay over his own. The serpentine tongue flickering against his lips, ghosting over his own. Claws digging into his sides, keeping him still, holding him in his place.
A moan tore from his lips, as his eyelids grew heavy.
"Crowley," he said, or he beckoned, or he pleaded. It didn't matter.
Crowley wrenched himself away, one sinful sway of his body enough to put so much distance between them, Aziraphale could feel it in his very bones. The chill that came with the other being so very far away from him.
"Let's see what these soft hands are capable of, Your Highness," the dragon teased lightly.
But it was obvious his heart was not in it, his gaze fixed firmly above Aziraphale's left shoulder. Body - a strict line of tension. Even his wings were fluttering behind his back, as if eager to fly him away.
Crowley had said, that first day, that prisoners did not get much choice. Aziraphale was starting to suspect it hadn't only been him, the dragon had been referring to.
He had tried asking about it, once. "How did you end up here?"
Crowley had shrugged. "How does anyone end up down a hole, Aziraphale? Sauntered vaguely downwards, didn't I?"
Except, it was very hard to fall down that particular hole by accident. A lot of thought and effort had been put into preventing just that. Something Aziraphale had wisely decided not to mention.
Crowley had never pushed him to reveal more than he was comfortable with about his past. Surely, he could extend him the same courtesy. And it wasn't like they had nothing else to talk about. In fact, they hardly did anything else but talk to each other. Day and night, the walls echoing with both things shared in a reverent whisper as well as silly daydreams and feverish musings.
It was normal, expected even, for Aziraphale to find himself sitting on the ground, resting against Crowley's stomach, as the dragon curled around him. It must have been approaching summer now, the chill in the air giving way to a sweltering feeling that filled Aziraphale's lungs. It was probably why Crowley had failed to grumble when Aziraphale hadn't climbed on top of him.
Aziraphale didn't like it. He missed the feeling of the dragon's body underneath his own, the drag of scales against his exposed skin as Crowley twitched and shifted minutely. The smell of charcoal, enveloping them both so often now, so thick it felt almost like a physical caress. But Aziraphale's excuse had always been the coldness of the cavern and he didn't want to appear clingy or ungrateful, taking more than the other was willing to give.
"Tell me a story?" Crowley murmured around him, a sleepy haze to his words. That too was a regular occurrence and they often swapped the role of storyteller and audience. The result was always the same. Laughter followed by peaceful sleep, as they clung onto each other.
It made Aziraphale feel quite warm, how quickly they had created rituals of their own. How well they fit around each other.
"Once upon a time, there was a dragon," he started, body relaxing into the warm mass around him.
Crowley's ears seemed to perk up. "A cool dragon?"
"Oh, the absolute coolest, my dear." Aziraphale couldn't quite help the indulgent smile, pulling at his lips. "There was nobody cooler than him. However, and this is the important bit, he was also the softest dragon there ever was."
"No." Crowley didn't even bother opening his eyes as he shook his head. The petulance in that gravelly voice made Aziraphale chuckle.
"Yes. A lovely dragon, always there to help a lost soul." A hand swatted at his shoulder, more a gentle caress than anything that could have brought him harm, so Aziraphale ignored it. "And he had a friend, a best friend-"
"An elf," Crowley added without any hesitation. The warmth inside Aziraphale's stomach thumped insistently.
"An elf, yes. And-"
"Tell me about the elf."
The dragon's eyes remained closed but there was an urgency to his voice that was hard to ignore. Aziraphale's words still faltered. Even after so long basking under the dragon's sunlight-like attention, it was hard for him to find the words to describe himself. At least not in a way that would earn him another gentle caress.
"Just a normal elf," he finally settled on. It seemed the safest option. "Nothing much special."
A golden eye peeked at him. And when a huff of smoke billowed in his face, it was clear Crowley had seen through his hesitation.
"I'm sure you are mistaken, angel," Crowley drawled slowly, evenly. As if what they were discussing held no interest to him. Aziraphale knew him well enough to recognise it as a sign of how important it truly was. "I believe this elf, whoever they are, is something else entirely."
"Crowley-"
Aziraphale's voice, in contrast, shook in warning. One that the dragon paid no heed, as he shifted slightly, body tightening around the elf, engulfing him in that familiar feeling of scales and warm weight all over him. A tail sliding over his calf, creeping further towards his thighs, and Aziraphale had to fight every one of his conscious and unconscious instincts to keep them firmly pressed together.
Crowley stretched his neck lazily, eyes blinking open, until he was towering above him in such a way that Aziraphale had to tip his head back so their eyes could meet. The moment they did, a claw was trailing over Aziraphale's exposed throat, up towards the curve of his chin.
He bit at his lips, stifling a whimper.
"See, I like my elves beautiful. Soft skin and full lips." The claw brushed over his mouth, which fell open readily, hungrily. It only earned him a chuckle from the dragon above him. "The cutest upturned nose ever seen and eyes that seem to change their colour with each different emotion."
The claw ghosted over his nose, putting the slightest bit of pressure on the tip of it that, were Aziraphale not trembling in an entirely different need, would have made him giggle.
"Hair as soft as silk and as bright as if moonlight had been weaved into it." Crowley's hand disappeared into his curls, scratching at his scalp, tugging at his locks. Making his head tip even further back and Aziraphale could barely breathe. And only partially due to the way his neck was twisting, the way Crowley was twisting it. So arousing it had no time to be painful at all.
His own hands were fisted into his robes, fingers shaking with the need to reach forward, satisfy their own greed. How easy it would be, to grab the curled horns on either side of Crowley's head, to tug on them until the dragon could do nothing but bring that sinful mouth down, that clever tongue. And, goodness, but how many times had he felt the dragon's scalding breath on his exposed skin, nothing but a playful tease. What would it feel when-
"Please." The word slipped out, even when his lips were bloodied from his attempts at keeping them sealed.
Crowley's chuckle, when it scratched against his skin, felt darker and heavier than he had ever heard it.
"What do you want, sweetheart? Anything, and it's yours."
The question so very simple, Aziraphale wasted no time or thought into answering it.
"You."
The hand in his hair froze, claws flexing in a way that dragged the tips of them against the elf's scalp and made him whine. Goodness but like this, boneless in the dragon's grasp, Crowley could do anything to him. Could drag him closer, could bring him to lie on top of that broad stomach. That familiar feeling turned unfamiliar by the fire in his veins.
"Please, Crowley. Want you."
His words, urgent, jumbled all up. No trace of the careful way he usually spoke. Aziraphale's hips twitched forward, insistent, and he let them, hopeful that he might just get what he wanted. What he had perhaps always wanted.
Yet, Crowley made no effort to touch him. In fact, his hand snatched away, the dragon shifting slightly, devastatingly, so no inch of him was pressed against the other. Taking away all the warmth and pleasure Aziraphale had so quickly grown accustomed to.
The elf forced his eyes open, unaware that he had even closed them. Made a questioning noise, not yet able to form anything more challenging. Unsure he ever would.
Crowley was watching him, the fire in his eyes burning cold, like black gold.
"You have me, Aziraphale," the dragon growled. The admission making something painful squeeze at Aziraphale's throat. Not at all the way he had been expecting, hoping, really, those words would sound, once shared between them. "You are locked here with me, you are a prisoner. Is there nothing else you might want?"
Crowley's tone was sharp, scalding. It hurt. Especially when what he was saying was not true. Aziraphale could leave, it would be very easy to. Even after so long, he still remembered those maps that led to salvation. He wasn't a prisoner here.
But Crowley was. It wasn't hard to see, the way he would look at the light streaming down on them sometimes. The way his wings would twitch, as he talked about the outside as if eager to whisk them both away. But he couldn't, Aziraphale knew, the dragon's body too lithe and the cave so very deep.
Crowley was stuck here. Had been, for a very long time.
And that had always been reason enough for Aziraphale to stay.
Crowley was turning away from him, his chest shaking in that same way it had, when Aziraphale had revealed the reason for his imprisonment and... And it wasn't fair. Aziraphale lurched forward, curled his hands around those beautiful horns, just like he had imagined himself doing. Tugged, until Crowley would face him.
"I don't mind being with you," he whispered, the words too heavy with the truth to be said any other way. "I want to be here."
He wished Crowley could understand how much he meant these words. But he couldn't mention the passageway he knew was in one of the chambers of the cave. Crowley would insist he leave. He knew the dragon well enough now to be sure of it.
Besides, he reasoned with himself, the maps were ancient. The cave even more so. Who was to say the way to freedom even existed anymore? And why would he risk it, if he had found something more important, anyway?
"I will stay here with you. Forever."
Crowley remained silent. But he did lean forward, letting they foreheads rest together. Shifted back so he was pressed against the elf again.
It was enough. They would be fine.
They did have an eternity together.