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Supernatural entities didn’t need to breathe. That was one of the perks. Too much smoke or a bad smell? No problem! Just stop breathing.
But then again, habit was a thing, and a really unfortunate thing. Somewhere along the way, early in his time on Earth, Crawley had gotten into the habit of breathing. And ever since then, he’d panicked when he couldn’t do so.
Which was a huge problem now, as he plunged into the floodwaters.
He sank deeper and deeper, fighting against the instinctive habit to breathe. He’d be fine. He had no need for oxygen. Even if he had to wait out the whole Flood here in the depths, he’d be fine.
Days, weeks, maybe even months. Crushed by the pressure, lost in the darkness. Even his demonic eyes wouldn’t be able to pierce the darkness once he sank all the way to the ruined cities far beneath the surface.
His heart pounded faster, a rapid thud that echoed in his ears. He snapped his fingers for the seventh time, bent all his considerable willpower towards miracling himself out.
And once again, nothing happened.
Nothing except a wave of sheer, overwhelming panic, a flash of memory. Hastur’s hand tangled in his hair, shoving his face into a bucket of water. Shrieking laughter echoing all around as the Dukes of Hell taunted him.
Not so clever now, eh? Thought you’d get special treatment?
Crawley gasped for air, frantic, and burning pain seared through his throat, down into his lungs. He struggled and kicked, but he couldn’t get free. They were drowning him, he had to get free!
Hands grabbing at him, pushing his face into the bucket.
Hands lifting him, pulling him upwards.
The flicker of Hell’s lights strobing overhead.
The depths of the sea, dark except for the glow around the figure in white.
Struggling.
Inhaling.
Darkness.
And then he was coughing and gagging, lungs on fire with agony, whole body wracked with convulsions. Had they stopped torturing him and left? Was it over? Could he go back to Earth?
“Crawley! Oh, Crawley, please, you must be okay!” A touch on his face, pushing his sopping wet hair back, and he whimpered. “You idiot, what did you think you were doing? Crawley!”
The panic in the voice resonated with the panic in Crawley’s chest. He thrashed and struggled, lashing out, and his fist slammed into something. Had to escape, to get away, to get out of the water or Hell or wherever the fuck he was trapped—
“Ouch! Crawley, stop, it’s okay. Shh, it’s okay.” Hands caught his arms as he flailed, gently but inexorably lowering them. Crawley coughed and retched, head spinning. He didn’t have the strength to fight back, not anymore. “You’re safe aboard the Ark now. You don’t need to be afraid.”
Lightning split the sky, jagged wounds slicing through the looming clouds. Rain drummed down, relentless. And the whole world rocked, enough to make Crawley’s stomach lurch.
But this wasn’t Hell. And that wasn’t Hastur crouching over him.
“Aziraphale?” Crawley croaked, the sound barely audible even to himself over the roar of the storm.
Aziraphale nodded, lip wobbling. He was drenched, white robes clinging to the soft, ample lines of his body, fluffy curls plastered to his brow. A big blotch of red swelled under one eye. “It’s okay, Crawley. I haven’t the vaguest idea what you thought you were doing, going for a swim in such weather, but I’ve pulled you out.”
Another wave of coughing struck, and Crawley dug his fingers hard into the wooden deck. A warm hand closed around his, and he clutched at it. “Wasn’t swimming. Sank. Couldn’t… get out. Dunno why.”
Aziraphale let out a soft noise of dismay. “Because it’s Heavenly judgement, not a normal flood.”
“Sorry I punched you. Thought I was back in Hell.” Convulsive shivering wrenched through Crawley, and his teeth chattered. “After Eden, got a commendation. Dukes didn’t like that. Tortured me, figured out I panicked if I couldn’t breathe…”
“Shh, you’re not in Hell now.” Aziraphale’s strong arms slipped under him, scooping him up like he weighed nothing. The angel crossed the heaving deck of the Ark as if it was solid ground and carried Crawley inside the ship. “Let’s get you warmed up. You must be freezing, poor old serpent.”
Aziraphale sank to the deck and cradled Crawley across his lap, fussing and tutting. Crawley closed his eyes and let his head loll against Aziraphale’s soft, warm shoulder as the angel tucked furs around him.
A few more coughs struck, and a moment of panic as he struggled to inhale. But Aziraphale held him close, secure, and Crawley began to calm. He was safe here, on the Ark. And as he rested in Aziraphale’s arms, he took slow, even breaths.