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The world is… a lot.
Most of the time, Crowley loves it. Loves the world, loves the planet, loves the Earth… has loved it, ever since the first day he set scale in Eden. The planet is vibrant, interesting, all but overflowing with color and nuance and life in a way that neither Heaven nor Hell has ever even begun to approach in their own spheres.
On Earth, there is always something more to see, to do, to discover. Always something new, something changing, something happening.
And it’s terrific, it really is. It’s half the reason he’s come to be so fond of the whole bloody planet, complete with its thick tangle of layered dark and light and detail. It’s a lot, yes, but that’s not a problem. Crowley likes a lot.
Most of the time.
Some days, though, it all gets a bit much.
On those days, the same aspects of Earth that Crowley usually finds fun and invigorating become nothing but overwhelming. The world is vast, crowded, bright, loud, dizzying, oversaturated, simultaneously cavernous and congested, everything simply too much to process and take in at the same time.
Those days, Crowley wants nothing more than to curl up on a sofa with his hands over his face, halt the passage of time, and just make it all go away for a while. Sometimes, he does this, though the miracle isn’t always worth the effort. More often, he takes refuge in sleep for an hour, a day, a decade, a century; sheets pulled up over his head, body and mind cocooned in blankets and blissful, if inevitably temporary, unconsciousness.
Most often, since simply hiding from everything is not always a very practical option, he just thickens the lenses of his sunglasses — making the world at least marginally more manageable by lessening the influx of light, if nothing more — clenches his fists, glowers at his plants, and endures until the world subsides into some semblance of manageability again.
That’s what he does when he is alone, anyway.
But sometimes, when Crowley is lucky, the waves of overwhelm strike when his adversary is in the vicinity.
Aziraphale has learned, over time, to read the signs. This is good, because simply accepting help or receiving comfort is already some distance beyond what Crowley is accustomed to under ordinary circumstances; the vulnerability of actually explaining himself and asking for it would be one step too far. And besides, in those moments, the added sensory input and output of having to talk and listen is the last thing Crowley wants.
So when those days come, and Aziraphale is there, the angel doesn’t say anything. He just looks at Crowley, hazel eyes soft with sympathy and recognition, and spreads his arms in silent, implicit, pressure-free invitation.
And sometimes — sometimes, though not always, because there are times when another strategy is working, or physical contact does not appeal, or he simply can’t bring himself to take consolation — Crowley nods, and goes to Aziraphale, and melts willingly, wordlessly, gratefully, into the offered embrace.
Aziraphale’s hands come up behind him, pulling him in and shutting out the world; the muted shadow of wings on another plane of existence mantling about them; fingers a gentle, feather-light touch on Crowley’s shoulders, his back, his hair. Present, but not demanding. Tangible, but not overwhelming. Enough, but not too much.
Those times, hidden in Aziraphale’s arms, face buried in the angel’s neck, breathing in the comfortingly familiar scent of books, ozone, cocoa, cologne, and something that Crowley thinks might smell like caring, the world shrinks back down to exactly the right size.
