Chapter Text
Crowley hadn't told Aziraphale, which in retrospect, seemed quite the terrible idea. But, he had unfortunately not reached the stage of retrospect, so here he was, not telling Aziraphale. Dropping off Sara had gone smoothly enough, the young girl had gotten her train, and her books. The drive as well had been pleasurable, listening to Queen, and making jokes that somehow only queer sort of people got. (Not that Crowley was a people, or was confined to any sort of label they had, but he definitely was queer, in an older sense of the word, so he supposes that's enough).
It had all been going fine, until Sara said, “...she told me to tell you, to tell you that your, uh, your mother sends her love.”
Fine was relative.
In the split seconds that it takes to form one thought, Crowley had formed many. First of all, mother? Who the heaven does she think she is? And then secondly, Heaven- oh. Mother. And, of course, shit.
What he hadn't realized was that he hadn't moved at all during such thoughts, and that his lovely passenger beside him was growing rather concerned. His hands gripped the steering wheel and the Bentley thrummed as it weaved among the hills. Crowley had stopped breathing. Such a thing became unnecessary when one was having a minor panic attack in front of someone.
A voice lurched him from his thoughts, “I'm… sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you." Crowley, of course, knew that. He always knew when someone wanted to upset somebody.
Instead he said, “It’sss fine. It’s ineffable” Was that ridge on the steering wheel always shorter than the rest?
*
Anyways, Crowley hadn’t told Aziraphale, which was probably a mistake. Arriving back at Eden Cottage, the Bentley sputtered up the gravel driveway, and Crowley mechanically left the vehicle. On entering the cottage, he hung the keys on a hook and continued further in. And no, he didn’t leave his shoes on, thank you very much. What do you take him for, an American? No, rather, he never had any to take off. Snake skin can be helpful for some things you know, such as perfectly stylish shoes, that are just in fact, feet.
“Crowley, dear, how was dropping off Sara? Did she get on the train safely?” Called Aziraphale from the kitchen. He was always in that blessed kitchen.
“Yep. Fine. Tickety boo” tickety boo??
“Oh. Glad to hear it. Are you going to bed?”
“Yessss” A tendency to hiss when he forgot himself indeed.
“Crowley, are you quite sure you’re feeling okay?”
“Yess, blesss it, I just want to go to bed early. Can I do that?”
“Of course dear. I’ll be up shortly”
On nights like these, Crowley rather feared sleeping, but having gotten so used to the luxury, not sleeping was no longer an option for him. Crowley had not had a truly bad night for ages, years even. Certainly not in Little Aven, although there were for sure some bad nights during the Little-Apocalypse-That-Couldn't. Aziraphale seemed rather good at keeping Crowley’s nightmares at bay, even if he didn’t realize it.
So. Time for sleep it was. Crowley got into bed, and very well near prayed for a restful night. Of course, he knew that wasn’t likely.