The Jaeger pilots have their own facilities, of course, but it does not mean there aren't ones for the hundreds of other people required to support the machines and general operation of a Shatterdome. It is to one of these Crowley finds himself wandering.
He’s restless tonight, jumpy energy thrumming under his skin he needs to bleed off. If it were daytime he might have gone for a run along the shoreline path, contemplated the inscrutable ocean. But tonight he'll probably have to settle for a punching bag and hope he can work himself into if not exhaustion then tiredness.
Somebody has beaten him to the boxing equipment. It takes him a moment to recognize Aziraphale, the LOCCENT head. The Shatterdome is not small, but when you spend enough time in it you start to recognize people by sight and perhaps name. Not that Aziraphale is easy to miss, with fluffy blond hair so pale it's almost white. (Crowley looked up once from the Jaeger staging area to see Aziraphale gazing out from Mission Control, the lights behind him turning it into a halo.)
Whenever there's a kaiju breach he announces it, gives approximate dimensions and coordinates. His voice is calm, dispassionate but somehow steadying, reassuring. He is the eyes and ears of the Jaeger pilots, but also for the rest of the Dome. And with someone like that at their head, the kaiju seem like they might be a manageable threat after all.
"Hello there. Crowley, is it?” He’s rather surprised Aziraphale knows who he is. Certainly he might be recognizable (there aren’t that many redheads here), but to call Crowley by name is quite unexpected.
“The one and only.” He starts to edge out the door. "Sorry, didn't realize you were here already."
“No no, stay if you like. There's certainly room." Without the aid of a sound system, Aziraphale is a little more approachable. He gestures to the line of punching bags, where he has taken one at the end.
Crowley has not given a lot of thought to the shape of Aziraphale's body. Normally it's swathed in at least three layers that he can see, with a ridiculous bow tie (tartan, of all things) to pull it all together. But here with all the boxing equipment, he wears only a t-shirt that's tight enough to show a hint of muscled arms, a chest with more than softness underneath. It hugs his midsection, rounding over the gentle curve of his belly. The shirt bears the remnants of the Atlantic Defense Corps Jaeger Academy logo, wan and faded. While it’s certainly not unheard of for former pilots to migrate into other roles in the Corps, it’s not exactly common. Most transfers out of Jaegers are usually due to injury or age, and Aziraphale certainly looks hale and strong.
A polite cough brings his attention back. Was he staring?
“Must’ve faded out for a second. What was that again?”
Aziraphale’s mouth quirks up, just a bit. “I wanted to know if you’d be amenable to sparring. It seems like it would be more… vigorous than just working the bag.”
“If you like,” Crowley replies, hoping it comes off as casual, nonchalant. It’s not that sparring is necessarily erotic, but you don’t work in a Shatterdome or watch pilots in the Kwoon without being, ah, unaware of how this sort of thing could turn that direction. But Crowley’s getting ahead of himself. He might never see the man in here again. It would be a pity, given those arms, but Crowley would survive.
Aziraphale tosses him some wraps and watches as Crowley begins the process of winding them around his thumb and wrist. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asks.
Crowley shakes his head. “Just feel… restless. Keyed up for no reason.”
“Welcome to the club. I can’t say I like it much myself.” Now that Aziraphale is a little closer, Crowley can see the dark smudges under his eyes.
“Does this happen a lot? I’d hate to think our LOCCENT chief is running on a half-empty tank.”
“I haven’t gotten this far without figuring out how to adequately compensate for my own issues, my dear. I would never let them compromise the safety of anybody in this Shatterdome or those it protects.” There’s a touch of steel in the reply, and Crowley should not find that hot in general or specific, and yet here he is, taping up his hands to have a go.
“Ready?” Crowley asks. Aziraphale nods, and they circle each other for a few moments on the mat. They both try some experimental jabs, but the other’s moves are easy to block. Crowley doesn’t think he’s telegraphing his moves at all; Aziraphale certainly isn’t, the way they just appear in Crowley’s vision, but he’s able to swat them all away.
It becomes like a dance: kick, swing, parry; forward, back, around. Every so often one of them attempts a feint only to have the other brush it aside. Aziraphale’s grinning now, the flush of his exertion turning his face a lovely color. He’s fucking radiant with joy, bright as the heart of an old-school Jaeger, and Crowley just gapes.
Aziraphale takes advantage of his hesitation to sweep a leg out, and Crowley drops to the mat. He lays there for a few moments, looking up at Aziraphale, who’s still breathing a little hard. He gives a pleased little wiggle and extends his hand to help Crowley up. His grip is firm but not overpowering, and Crowley absolutely does not think about those hands taking hold of other parts of his body.
“Well. That was certainly invigorating.”
I guess that's one way to put it, Crowley thinks. He loosens the end of his wrap with his teeth. Aziraphale makes a noise of dismay and pulls Crowley's other hand towards him before he can repeat the action.
"You have no idea where that's been! It would be a shame to lose a fine engineer to something as stupid as an infection caught from sticking things that don't belong in his mouth. Honestly, Crowley."
Aziraphale huffs as he picks apart the end of the wrap, still holding Crowley's hand in both of his own. There's a small frown of concentration as he teases the cloth out from its tuck, and a satisfied smile as it comes loose. "There we go," he says, letting go of Crowley's hand.
"Thanks," Crowley mutters, and concentrates on undoing the tape from his hands. Aziraphale is more practiced at this, and has stowed his wraps away somewhere while Crowley is still winding his back up.
"I can take those," he says, holding out his hand. His palms are broad and square, with thick, short fingers. The lines across the inside of his hand are etched deep, and Crowley wonders what it would be like to trace one, if he could divine a past or future from it like the fortune tellers claim.
He hands over his wraps, pointedly not shivering when their fingers brush against each other.
As Aziraphale stows the wraps, Crowley pulls two bottles of water from the little refrigerator in the corner, gives one to Aziraphale. He drinks it down with relish, and Crowley tries to not make it obvious he’s watching the line of Aziraphale’s throat as he swallows.
“Did that help?” Crowley asks.
“I dare say it did,” Aziraphale replies, rolling his shoulders and tilting his head. It exposes the column of his neck, and Crowley wonders how that skin would taste under his tongue, if he could feel the flutter of Aziraphale’s pulse under his lips. “All tuckered out, as the Americans would say.”
“Well, good,” Crowley says, because what is the appropriate response to a phrase like that?
“Thank you for the match. I hope you sleep well.” Aziraphale tosses the bottle into the recycle bin before looking back, almost shy. “And maybe if I see you up, we could do it again?”
“Sure, any time.”
Crowley takes a shower and heads to bed. He’s worn out from all the physical activity, but sleep is the furthest thing from his mind. Despite himself, he does drift off eventually, the ghostly sensation of somebody else’s hands on his skin.
—
“Have they ever tried to link more than two people in a Drift? If two people can square control of a Jaeger, the exponential boost would be incredible.” Anathema’s got that Look about her, the gathering data for synthesis one. Crowley likes her, because she’s smart but can also explain xenobiology to non-research types without condescending. She’s new-ish to this Dome, and top brass considers it quite a feather in their cap she wanted to be stationed here.
(Crowley had asked her about it, late one night.
“You could have had your pick of any Dome in the Pacific or Atlantic regions. Why this one?”
She’d taken a sip of bourbon then, looking at him with what he now knows is her I’m trying to figure out how forthcoming to be face. “Because this is the only Shatterdome in the entire fucking world either of my parents haven’t worked at. It’s a good thing they hate the gloom.”
The Devices are the closest thing either of the Corps have to rockstar scientists. Crowley can’t imagine growing up in their shadow, or with such high expectations, was easy.
“You could have coasted on your name, gotten a plum position where you didn’t have to do a thing except sit on your arse and publish a paper every so often. It’s brave to forge your own path. I respect that.”
“Oh. Thank you.” She blinked, like it wasn’t what she expected to hear.
Some time later, a bottle of fine, well-aged bourbon showed up at his door, accompanied by a note: For giving me a sign when I needed it, whether you knew it or not.)
“You can’t quantify it cleanly like that, my dear. The Drift is not just a mechanical thing, it’s a mesh, where you and your partner share not just control of the Jaeger, but your thoughts, feelings, and experiences. I’m unaware of any circumstances where the connection is sustainable between more than three people, and the triplets are a rather special case.” Aziraphale has joined them tonight, although he hasn’t had more than a beer, because he’s always on call.
“Still?” Anathema raises her eyebrows. “I thought they tinkered with all the—” She makes a vague gesture.
“Brains are delicate and complex. There is only so much you can bend their function. Project Neveah was meant to expand Drift compatibility, not replace it.”
“What’s Project Neveah?” Crowley asks.
Aziraphale takes a drink from his glass. “I don’t know how much it was discussed outside of Ranger circles and ADC command, but it was rather divisive.” He looks a bit uncomfortable, but also like he’s trying to push past it.
“Why’s that?” Anathema asks.
“There are two schools of thought on the matter, as I’m sure you’re aware. There are those who insist a Drift is a sacred bond that should be treated with respect. It is the basis of the world’s defense, after all, and an organic Drift is always best. This, of course, limits flexibility, but theoretically makes up for it with better performance when it matters most.”
“Makes sense,” she nods, waiting for him to continue.
“And the other school’s opinion is the more people you can get into Jaegers, the better. Certainly the kaiju can’t be defeated with sheer numbers, but the more manpower you have to address the issue, the better your chances.”
“You said the aim was to expand Drift compatibility. I wasn’t aware it was something you could force.”
Aziraphale’s lips thin. “‘Force’ is not quite the word I would use. But there were ways to help encourage it between two willing people who couldn’t achieve it organically.”
“That’s fucked up.” Crowley didn’t realize he said it out loud until both Anathema and Aziraphale look at him.
“I didn’t know you had such strong opinions about Drift compatibility.” Anathema looks surprised, but also concerned.
“Forget it. Let’s move on.” The alcohol must be getting to him, if he’s just blurting out random thoughts for everyone to hear.
Aziraphale looks at Crowley, a bit stricken. “Forgive me, my dear. I didn’t know this is a topic that would upset you.”
Crowley shrugs. “That makes both of us.” It’s not a lie. Drift compatibility isn’t something that really comes up in his day-to-day life. He maintains the machines, not the people who drive them.
“Well, I’m not going to apologize for bringing it up, since I didn’t know; but I am sorry that I caused you pain, however inadvertently.” Aziraphale’s voice is quiet, a strange thing to hear from somebody who is normally so clear, assured, and confident.
“You needn’t feel that strongly about it,” Crowley tries to appear nonchalant, but there is a good chance he’s failing miserably. (If Anathema catches on, she doesn’t show it, and he’s grateful.)
The kaiju sighting alarm sounds, and they all scramble to their stations. Crowley, of course, would never wish for a bad thing to happen, but he’s not sorry it saved him from what would probably have been a rather awkward conversation.
—
It’s not unnoticed how the friendship between them grows. Most of it is general surprise, while some feels more… disapproving. There are no rules against fraternizing with other ranks, but Crowley gets the impression people don’t do it very much.
Not that Crowley cares. He has a regular sparring partner now, and someone to visit on lunch breaks. Sometimes when he’s working late into the night, Aziraphale will stop by with a cup of coffee (fresh brewed, from just-ground beans, even though Crowley knows he prefers tea). He learns Aziraphale has a wicked sense of humor (extremely well-hidden), and is a bit of a bastard in a way that makes his better qualities stand out. They spend hours off-shift talking about things both profound and stupid, and somehow it never feels like enough. It’s been a long time since he’s felt so at ease with someone, and fuck anybody who thinks it’s inappropriate.
“Do people give you shit about us being friends?” he asks Aziraphale when they’re both drunk off their asses. (Aziraphale gets about one night a year when he can get absolutely pissed, so he takes advantage of it to the fullest.)
It takes him a few seconds to process the question. “Certainly not to my face, but there have been many veiled and supposedly theoretical remarks.”
Crowley blinks. “That is so horribly passive-aggressive.”
“It is,” Aziraphale agrees. “But I couldn’t give a fig because they don’t know you. I know you, and you are absolutely lovely.” He presses his cheek against Crowley’s shoulder.
Fucking hell. This is the first time Aziraphale has indicated he might consider Crowley more than a friend. Crowley’s been gone on him from pretty much the start, and he’s resigned to his stupid, hopeless crush. It was quiescent, but this new knowledge has roused it from its slumber.
Crowley sighs. This is something they can discuss in the morning. If either of them remember. (Who’s he kidding? If Aziraphale remembers.)
“C’mon, you.” He makes Aziraphale drink two glasses of water and places a bottle of painkiller near his bed. “I’ll see you in the morning, if you manage to make it out of your room.”
Crowley makes to leave but Aziraphale catches him by the wrist, brushes his thumb over the jut of bone. They don’t touch much outside of sparring, and Crowley reminds himself to breathe.
“Stay, if you like.” Aziraphale’s voice is tentative, like he thinks he might be rebuffed, and Crowley absolutely cannot allow this.
“I do. Budge over.” He squishes into Aziraphale’s bed, sufficiently luxurious for one person but a little cramped for two. They rearrange themselves until Aziraphale is on his side, Crowley curled against his chest. It’s been a long time since Crowley has shared a bed with anyone for any purpose, and he’d forgotten what it’s like, to feel the heat of another person, smell their scents (a whiff of chemically detergent; sweet, resinous amber; and a faint hint of musk); listen to their heart beat. It feels nice. Good. Safe.
He feels a kiss pressed to his forehead, a brief but fond brush of Aziraphale’s lips.
“I mean it though. You are lovely. Not just physically,”—here Aziraphale blushes, and it is a fetching look on him—”but as a person. I feel comfortable around you, in a way I didn’t know was possible.”
“You’ve Drifted before. You know what it’s like.” Crowley doesn’t understand.
“Remember when I told you there were ways to… encourage Drift compatibility?” Crowley nods. “I was one of the pilots who signed up for Project Neveah.”
Crowley feels surprise and a bit queasy at this revelation, but he’s sure Aziraphale had his reasons. “Why?”
“I wanted to be a pilot. I wanted to protect people from monsters. Surely that’s worth pursuing in any way possible.”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
“And so I submitted to the tests, and brain scans, and the drugs. It wasn’t… horrible, and it was my choice.” Aziraphale makes a face and Crowley wants to touch him, soothe away the frown, kiss him until his mouth is no longer downturned.
“So how many people have you Drifted with?”
“A few. My primary partner was a man named Gabriel, big stupid tosser with a terrible fondness for Balenciaga. We didn’t like each other very much, but we put up with it, for the sake of Glory Eden and the people it protected.”
“That sounds real shit. I’m sorry.”
Aziraphale shrugs. "It is what it is. I'm glad I was able to do what I could, but I'm also glad to not have to open my mind to people who I'd prefer not be in there."
"Is that why you quit? Being a pilot I mean."
Aziraphale shakes his head. "That wasn't my decision to make. Eventually it was decided Project Neveah wasn't viable, at least on the scale they wanted. We were given the chance to remain, try and work on forming organic Drifts. But I knew it wasn't going to work, not with the pilots there."
"Do you miss it?"
Aziraphale laughs, something Crowley was absolutely not expecting. He's beautiful like this, eyes crinkled in mirth, lips parted in a way Crowley wants very badly to explore.
"Oh heavens, no. I always felt terribly out of place there. In many ways, it was a relief to be able to do something else. I can still protect people, without having to do—that.”
Something twists in Crowley’s chest then, fury and sadness and heartbreak that Aziraphale has never known what a true Drift can feel like. He can't imagine being in a situation like that with someone he didn't trust completely, confident he'd be able to handle any thought or feeling that came up.
Crowley curls a hand around Aziraphale’s cheek, brushes his thumb against the edge. Aziraphale’s eyes are dark with emotion, and his expression is so goddamn tender, it feels like a knife into Crowley’s heart.
“If I’d known you back then, I would have dragged you into a Jaeger myself, because there’s no way we wouldn’t be Drift compatible. You deserve to know what it’s like, how it feels when a Drift just… clicks.”
“Tell me, Crowley. I want to know.” Aziraphale’s voice is barely a whisper.
Here’s the thing. Crowley wants so badly to tell him about it, the Handshake that feels more like an embrace, the deepest of trust falls where you not only expect to be caught but held, secure, assured; a merge greater than the sum of its parts, powerful enough to control monster-killing machines.
But all he can think of is the last panicked moments in the Jaeger, flung out and down, down as the kaiju rammed into its center mass.
"I have to go." Crowley pushes away from Aziraphale, ignoring his pleas to wait, let him help.
He flees the room, not stopping until he's in his own quarters and tiny bed just big enough for himself. He's trembling and sweating, shirt soaked through and starting to get clammy. Peeling it off, he throws it on the floor and gets under the covers. They're cold, and he fiercely misses Aziraphale's warmth, the close press of his body.
But he misses somebody else too, someone he doesn't usually think about because even after all these years it's still painful, a cavernous wound that's never really healed.
Crowley lays in bed, tears sliding down his face until they threaten to drip into his ears. He wipes them away and rolls onto his side, the most miserable and lonely he's felt in a long time. He thinks it will be difficult to sleep, but mercifully his brain and body appear to have been taxed as badly as his emotions, and he falls into a dreamless black.
—
There's a tentative knock on his door the next morning. Crowley gets up from where he's been staring out the window to open it.
Aziraphale is standing there, holding a giant carafe. He's dressed simply, just shirt and slacks. Crowley steps aside to let him in. It's the first time he's ever been in Crowley's place, but he goes straight for the cabinet where the drinkware is and pulls out a mug. It's a ridiculous thing, a cutesy, extremely rotund devil someone gave Crowley at a white elephant exchange years ago.
He pours from the carafe into the mug. It's coffee, rich and freshly brewed. Aziraphale carries it to the little kitchen table where Crowley is now sat, pushes it over.
Crowley wraps his hands around it, soaking in the warmth. Aziraphale sits in the chair across from him.
“I’m sorry. I made a real git of myself last night, didn’t I?” This is how it ends, with Crowley’s guts spilled out like kaiju remnants washing up on the shore, poisoning everything they touch.
“You have nothing to apologize for, but if it makes you feel better, I forgive you.”
Despite himself, something in Crowley’s chest eases. He takes a sip of coffee to cover his reaction. (It is extremely good. He wonders if Aziraphale learned to make it just for him.)
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Obviously you’ve Drifted before. Were you a pilot?” Aziraphale’s voice is gentle, soothing, like he expects Crowley might startle. Which, Crowley thinks, is an understandable impulse.
“A long time ago, yeah. My co-pilot was my brother, Raphael. We were twins. Fraternal, not identical.” He doesn’t know why it’s important to clarify, as if somehow it makes the whole situation less painful.
“I’m so sorry.” Aziraphale lays a hand on Crowley’s. It’s warm, grounding in a way he doesn’t expect, and it settles something in him he wasn’t aware was agitated.
“Don’t know if you have siblings, but Raph took being older very seriously. Even if it was only by three minutes. Thought it was his born purpose to protect me and every gods-blessed person he came across. We were nineteen when he dragged us down to ADC testing. We shared a womb, how could we not be Drift-compatible? So we got ourselves a Jaeger, Arcadia Echo, and we killed monsters.”
“What happened?”
“Fucking kaiju played dead, ‘s what happened. Didn’t know they could do that. Pyrashi ripped apart our Jaeger; next thing I know I’m flying through the air into the ocean. Don’t remember anything after that. Woke up in a hospital bed feeling like half of myself had been carved out. They didn’t need to tell me Raph was dead. But he stopped that kaiju, at the cost of his own life. They also tell me I’m the only pilot who’s ever survived a fall from a Jaeger like that. Lucky me.”
The dust of memory is thick, but grief is not linear. And talking about Raph, after not doing so for such a long time, reminds him of how much it fucking hurts.
“Well I never would have met you if you hadn’t, so yes, I am grateful.”
It is not the balm Aziraphale thinks it might be. But apparently any emotion is too much at the moment, and Crowley pushes away from the table, pacing.
“Fuck, Aziraphale! You can’t just say things like that.”
“What, that I’m glad you’re alive? Because you’re my friend? Quite possibly my best friend? We understand each other, Crowley, in a way that I have never experienced. If I was still a pilot I would beg you to do a Drift compatibility test.”
Aziraphale gets up, walks towards Crowley. He raises his arms slowly, giving ample opportunity for Crowley to step away, avoid his touch if he doesn't want it. (Crowley would never refuse, but it's sweet that Aziraphale never assumes.)
His hands rest on Crowley's shoulders. When Crowley doesn't pull away, Aziraphale draws him into a hug. It's the most they've ever touched, and he clings like a man drowning.
"I am sorry our paths crossed because of an incredible tragedy. Please understand that." Aziraphale says this into the side of his neck, like it's too much to address head-on. "But meeting you has been one of the greatest things that has ever happened to me, and I will not apologize for it."
It's too much now, and Crowley can't stop crying, years of grief pushing their way out in a torrential purge. He is racked, torn, and throughout it Aziraphale holds him fast, murmuring comforting nonsense.
Eventually he quiets, and there is a calm lightness in his chest, one that feels like he's been scoured clean after too many years living with caked-on grime.
“Sorry about your shirt,” Crowley says.
Aziraphale makes a noise, irritated but fond. “You are ridiculous.”
“Might have something that fits, if you’re willing to deal with a bit of a squeeze.” He heads towards his closet.
“I suppose I don’t have much of a choice,” Aziraphale says, pulling his shirt away from his skin. Crowley truly did a number on it, all those tears and an embarrassing amount of snot.
“Here.” Crowley hands him a light gray henley, one tucked away in the back because it was too loose.
Aziraphale turns away to change, pulling off his wet shirt and giving Crowley a lovely eyeful of broad shoulders, tapering down to gorgeous hips he itches to grab. He looks away.
“Snug, but not terribly so.” Aziraphale has turned around. The henley hugs his chest, curves around those beautiful fucking arms.
“Good,” Crowley says, super casually. “You look good, I mean. Well, both.”
Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. A smile crosses his mouth, but he doesn’t say anything.
Crowley very pointedly clears his throat. “Well. Cobalt Romeo is laid up for repairs from the last attack. Might be able to pull some strings, see if we can get some time for a test.” Okay, he’s just putting it out there, then.
“Are you sure?” Aziraphale’s eyes are shining. Crowley doesn’t know if it’s in surprise, want, or gratitude. Maybe all of the above.
“You’re not wrong. You deserve a chance to find out.”
“Well, let me know the details and I shall make time.” Crowley nods.
“I must be going, then.” Aziraphale heads towards the door, then pauses. Crowley has followed him to close it. Very gently, he places a kiss to Crowley’s cheek. Crowley closes his eyes, breathes against the feeling his heart is going to spill over. “Thank you for this.”
“Yeah, of course.”
Crowley closes the door after Aziraphale steps away. He has favors to call in, things to arrange. For the first time in a long while, he gets to work with a light heart.
—
“I need you both to listen to me very carefully,” Newton’s eyes are large and serious, even without his unfashionable oversized glasses.
“Newt, I’m pretty sure they understand how important this is,” Anathema huffs, but fondly. She doesn’t need to be here, since Newton is the neuroscientist studying Drift behavior, but she insists they both need the moral support, which Crowley is oddly touched by.
(“Why do you get to call him ‘Newt’ when the rest of us don’t?” Crowley asked her once. He was very specific about how he wanted to be addressed, to differentiate himself from “the PPDC jackass with the kaiju fetish.”
Anathema smiled like a cat that got the canary.
"Oh god, is it a sex thing?"
"I mean, it's not necessarily a sex thing?"
"You know what? Forget I asked.")
“Regardless. You’re aware this is an… unorthodox situation. Since Crowley has Drifted before, he will be the dominant pilot. I need you both to remain vigilant, as I do not know what will happen if either of you ends up chasing the rabbit.” He rubs his forehead. “Honestly, I shouldn’t even be doing this, certainly not without the usual psychological evals. But we’re short-handed on pilots, and anybody we can get into the pipeline is another chance at beating the kaiju back.”
“Admit it, you’re also curious as fuck to see the data from their Drift.” She smiles, a little teasing but mostly affectionate.
Newton flushes. “These objectives aren’t incompatible!”
“Whatever you need to tell yourself!” She replies airily.
Anathema steps towards Crowley, all done up in the suit, and touches his arm. She’s not smiling anymore. “You’ve got this, all right?” He nods with a certainty he doesn’t feel.
She goes over to Aziraphale and says something to him too, getting a wobbly smile in return.
The door to the Conn-Pod closes. No more putting it off.
“Are you two ready?” Newton asks over the PA.
They verbally confirm. The computer counts down.
“Initiating neural Handshake.” All right, this is really happening.
It’s been decades since Crowley has been in the Drift, but it’s so easy to slip back into, open his mind. He expects it to be jarring, not brushing Raph’s consciousness, but the connection with Aziraphale is a different kind of hold. It’s not something he’s experienced, but it’s certainly not bad. It’s easy, familiar. Sustaining.
A torrent of memories bombards him, too fast to process in any mechanical fashion, but the emotions are clear: bright excitement and eagerness to do good, uneasiness and trepidation about an unknown experimental procedure, the struggle to maintain a coherent Drift.
Both parties are trying. Nobody would dispute that. But it’s like putting together flat-pack furniture with heavy work gloves on: no matter how much you want it to be stable, it’s always going to have a weak base ready to collapse under the slightest amount of stress.
It works well enough, until it doesn’t. It’s not Aziraphale’s fault—certainly other pilots have the same difficulty regardless of whatever combinations they try, but it still feels personal, and it’s a bloody relief when he’s offered the chance to muster out, do something else.
In turn, Crowley shares his memories with Aziraphale: the certainty of having somebody on your side and at your back always, Raph’s fierce protectiveness, the care with which he patched up broken things. He’d talked about becoming a medic if the pilot thing didn’t work out, and always had anatomy books and emergency manuals piled in their room.
He’s back in Arcadia with Raph, both of them looking at Pyrashi’s supposedly dead form. Distantly he wants to urge Raph to put another bolt from the lance into it, double-tap just to be sure. He thought he had it under control, he really did. But in a space where time is irrelevant, it’s easy to get sucked into a memory with strong emotions attached to it.
Pyrashi roars, swiping at Arcadia’s knee with a viciously hooked set of claws. She lurches but stays standing.
Fuck, fuck, he can hear Raph think. Gotta distract it long enough to let the lance charge. Before either of them can think of a strategy, light pours through a rend in Arcadia’s viewport. Crowley’s knocked off his feet, but the Drift is still intact. He tries to move Arcadia’s left arm, but nothing happens. All that remains is a mass of wires, still sparking.
Very distantly, he hears Anathema’s voice, panicky and concerned, begging him not to chase the rabbit. Bit late for that, he thinks.
There are arms around him, a chest pressed against his back, strong and reassuring. “Come back to us, Crowley. Come back to me. It’s all right.” Aziraphale’s voice is soft but firm, reassuring like his announcements. This is not a memory, this is real and now.
Crowley clutches at Aziraphale, hard enough it would probably hurt if they were physically touching.
I’ve got you. Crowley thinks he might feel a hand ghost across his cheek. I’ll always catch you. Another burst of memories: their first meeting, curiosity but also attraction, as well as noting Crowley’s interest (He’s mortified, but Aziraphale thought—still thinks it’s charming, so he figures he can live with it). The time they spent/spend together, the sheer contentment and rightness of it all.
And that night in Aziraphale’s quarters, the realization he wanted to try and Drift with Crowley, but also something else that makes even the Drift insignificant.
“You do?” Crowley is absolutely incapable of being cool about this, which is just fine with Aziraphale.
“I do, my darling. So very much.”
Crowley feels incandescent with joy, supernova bright. “In that case, I think there’s some data we shouldn’t share with Newton. It would probably traumatize him.”
Aziraphale considers. “Worse, it would awaken something, and I don’t know that I’m prepared to deal with that.”
“You’re such a bastard.”
“Only a little bit. And you like it.”
“Gods help me, I fucking do.”
—
Crowley is familiar with Ghost-Drifting. It’s an echo of the initial link, still present after disconnecting from the hardware. It’s not something he gave much thought to, since he was so used to having Raph in his head.
With Aziraphale, he’s acutely aware of it, the way pleasure and emotions spiral and refract upon each other. It’s raw, intimate, absolutely exposing in its sheer vulnerability. At the same time, it’s exhilarating, being known by somebody else so completely and having them embrace everything. It makes Crowley want to weep, and maybe he does a little bit.
“Oh, my dearest.” Aziraphale kisses him gently, wipes the tears off his face.
“It’s just—it’s a lot, you know?” He doesn’t have to say it aloud, but it makes it more concrete, giving it form outside of his head.
“I understand.” Aziraphale stares at him for a moment. “It is an incredible gift, and I am grateful you trusted me enough with it.”
Crowley pulls him down for a kiss. “You know that was never in question.”
“I know,” he replies. “But I still needed to hear you say it.”
—
Crowley’s not sure where Anathema found all that bourbon, but everybody is at least a little bit tipsy at their farewell party. It’s quite a significant departure for both him and Aziraphale, shipping off to the Jaeger Academy. It’s rather unusual to have two pilots join so late, even stranger for a pilot to leave and come back. But they are well-qualified, and their Drift is strong.
“I’m going to miss you two,” Anathema says, sniffling.
“It’s not like we won’t be back,” Crowley replies. “We told them we’d enroll only if we were based out of this Dome.”
“It won’t be the same though! It’ll be weird not having Aziraphale in Mission Control.”
“I’m sure the new girl will be fine.” Crowley says. “Aziraphale has every confidence in—” he snaps his fingers. Something spicy, with a P. Paprika? Pimento?
“Her name is Pepper, darling.”
“Yeah, her.” Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but affectionately.
“And we’ll be back every now and then to check on the progress of the new Jaeger.” Aziraphale wiggles in excitement, and Crowley slings an arm around him.
“You have a name for her yet?” Anathema asks, smiling.
“She’s going to be the Sanguine Horizon,” Crowley says. “Took us a bit to figure it out, but it feels right.”
“I like it.”
Crowley leans against Aziraphale, kisses him on the temple. “Yeah, we do too.”