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His eyelids stick together. He feels it. He forces his eyes open anyway, and a deep green greets him. An evil, smelly-looking green.
His body aches.
Something somewhere that isn’t here burns with the fiery anger of a billion supernovas.
He’s completely and utterly alone.
Has he done something to earn this?
It’s quiet.
There are footsteps outside.
The door opens.
Someone walks in and talks to him. It’s muffled, like he’s underwater. White flashes in his vision as something strikes the middle of his face, and his mouth tastes of something more than grime. Like metal.
A hand fists in his hair and wrenches his head off the disgusting floor.
“Up!” the creature ahead of him barks. He forces himself off the ground and is immediately brought to his knees by a sharp kick to the abdomen.
Distantly, he grunts, and lifts himself off the ground again. Something grips his face and twists it side-to-side, and dark green eyes examine his face.
“Little traitor’s fallen off the path, hm?” the being in front of him growls, and their double tongue pokes out when they chuckle lowly, “we’re going to spend a little time together, you’n me.”
As it turns out, the definition of “spending time together”… wherever he is… is actually “torture and maul him until he can’t stand.”
His head cracks off the flat surface they shove him back onto, but he doesn’t register it as they rip him back upwards and slap him across the face, then kick his legs out from under him.
“That’s rather… rude,” he murmurs through an aching, misplaced jaw.
The other creatures in the room laugh and force him to stand. They lay him back on the table, and before he can fight, the creatures drill through his elbows and into the table.
He screams, or maybe he doesn’t, and they rip his shoes off and shove hot branding irons onto the soles.
He wails, and the hot coals they shove into his mouth absorb the noise.
He’s not sure how many times he’s “spent time” with… Furry? Fervor? He’s not sure what the demon’s name is. It feels familiar, on the tip of his burnt tongue, but he’s hit his head so many times he forgets he even has a body for them to torment.
Someone shoves him to the ground and grime gets in his mouth. He spits it out, and the demon screams at him for making a mess, and kicks him in the side.
Whimpering, he tries to stand, and something hard hits him in the side again. There’s a splintering feeling and a cracking noise and the pain is so much it forces whatever is in his body out, and he vomits on the floor. He’s yelled at for making a mess and gets a kick to his other side.
He falls over, and they get tired of him.
The isolation room becomes a reprieve. When they’re not torturing him, they force him to sit in a small room and mull within the confines of his own mind.
There are signs in the room, all with various phrases scrawled into them.
YOU DESERVE IT.
YOU EARNED THIS!
WE HATE YOU
Mess Hall To The Right
He wonders how long he’s been sitting here. There’s grit in his injuries, which seem to be deeper than just his human body. His core aches deeply. What has he done to deserve this?
That must be what the room is for, he guesses.
Femur opens the door. “How are you doing, little angel?”
His voice feels distinctly evil. He can’t respond. His body is much too broken.
“Well, up and at ‘em!” the demon yells. He’s yanked off the floor and pulled through the halls.
This time, the other demons hammer nails into the backs of his hands and crack whips across his face and chest. Absentmindedly, he concerns himself with the state of his poor, tattered clothes.
When they force the nails out of his hands, one of the demons—Eric, he remembers vaguely—tells him it’s time to take a bath. They toss him into a pool of ice water, and the chill is so great his body forgets to freeze.
Down
down
down
down…
Like falling slowly, he muses, and the cold isn’t so intense anymore. He’s numb. Black and red wisp up around him in twisting ribbons. There’s a lack of feeling. It’s almost n—
Someone screams somewhere. Silhouettes scatter. A hand plunges through the water toward him.
Something grips his sleeve and pulls him out. He will never be warm again.
His body chatters violently and falls while he coughs out the water. The demon ahead of him—a shorter one, with trim black hair and neat-ish makeup—blabbers on (sorry, he apologizes inwardly, that was rude) and tugs him toward them. He stands at face level with the demon, who snarls in his face. Probably being told he deserves it again.
“You’d better make this fucking count.”
She undoes the loose little fabric thing (a bowtie, he corrects himself) around his neck and uses it as a leash to tug him through Hell.
He’s shoved into a dingy little room, but there’s a set of moving stairs in front of him. “Go. It’s on a favor,” the demon hisses, and leaves.
He steps onto a shifting stair.
He is brought into a bright room, brighter than anything he’s seen for what he thinks is a very long time, and wobbles toward the nearest exit.
The door opens and there’s a rush of fresh air.
Oh, he sighs, the air. No longer is his admittedly Earth-native body choking on itself, but it’s thriving and stinging and he shivers because he’s still soaked with ice water. Something drips on his head.
It’s raining. The cold bites his exposed skin, and his wet clothes cling to him harder.
He starts walking and his feet ache and blister poorly. Miraculously, eyes avoid his gaze. That’s for the better, he thinks. He deserves this, he reminds himself, though he’s not so sure what’s going on. It all hurts. He’s leaving dark footprints in the ground.
He’s so close. So close. So close. To where? It’s sort of unclear, but there’s a subconscious tug on his essence. He pushes forward and his body is so sore and he shivers and his blood mixes in the rain.
He trips because his aching, broken legs tremble and give out, and his face plunges into the grass. It’s green, like Hell, but it’s soft… he could lay here forever. His body convulses, and forces something out of his mouth, and the earth around him is stained with red and black and grime.
Light escapes him and his vision is spotting. His limbs are starting to go numb.
A voice interrupts his peace. Ah, bugger. One of the demons has him tracked down. The grass is looking a little red. Red is a nice color, he thinks. His mind is awfully distant.
“… him— soft one with— sword—“
Sword? Are they going to use a sword on him? That sounds quick. Painless. He’s tired.
Might as well put him out of his misery. Misery. Strange word, his brain fumbles. Still tired.
He forces his eyes open, and he’s immediately rolled onto his back, and he arches. He wants to scream. His voice fails.
A juvenile face stares down at him.
Her skin is fair and her hair is soft and her eyes are worried. And perfectly, perfectly round. Decidedly, she is not a demon.
“Mister… what was his name?” she asks, glancing somewhere he doesn’t see, and leans down to lift his head into her lap.
“I don’t know…” someone else says, far away. His vision is swimming. The amber in the sky really is lovely.
“I think— name— Aziraphale?”
That’s familiar. He should know that name. Trying to appease these new voices, he opens his eyes wider and glances towards the source of the voice.
It’s a young boy, probably one of the humans Fervent mentioned once.
“You look awful,” the boy says, and he senses something about him. Black fuzzies dance on the edge of his peripherals. Tickety-boo, his mind supplies. The one leaning over him at first looks at the deep black stains being washed from her hands by the rain.
“Don’t worry— you some help— hang on…”
His breath is starting to hitch. He gasps for air, and his vision winks out.
Shoulders ache as they’re shaken with a fiery fervor.
“—ziraphale?” a voice calls. He flinches, and meekly pushes it away. Why can’t they let him be? Preferably forever? Why must they return to hurt him? What is it that he’s done that he deserves this?
There’s another human ahead of him. She has olive skin and dark, round glasses. Behind her is an awkward-looking person who doesn’t even look sure himself that he’s a person.
“H…” he tries, and closes his eyes, gasping for air again. He doesn’t sleep, and lets them talk to him and shout at him. He doesn’t have it in him to be scared. He should be, probably.
His body is dragged and laid across the softest thing he’s felt in…
Well, it’s not saying much, because it’s not that soft, and it bumps and dances beneath him. The humans wrap something thin and dry around him. It soaks with the ice and rain water. Coughs wrack his body, and he can’t breathe. He wants to breathe.
“—no, he—“
“Please—”
Someone glances through the window at him. He likes her hair. Her face drops in horror. He probably looks rather spooky, doesn’t he? Sorry, girl, he thinks. He shivers absently. Then continues to convulse mildly.
The window follows the door as it swings open, and he finds it in himself to flinch away when the person reaches toward him. He chokes on air and his body murmurs an ache uncomfortably.
“It’s just me, Mr. Fell,” she says calmly. Well, she had just been awfully upset, hadn’t she? He eyes her with suspicion, and Glasses Girl emerges beside her and they talk about something.
A new person appears. She’s blonde, and she grips the Distressed Girl’s arm with terror when she sees him.
His arms are pulled, and again, his voice is gone. He catches a glimpse to where he had been laying, and red and black stain the cushions.
Manhandled, he’s yanked out of the blue metal contraption, and all he wants is to sleep forever and somewhere far away from these people.
“D’n’t…” he croaks, and chokes on his words, and someone responds with something. He doesn’t hear it. His ears ring and then something actually does ring and he can’t breathe and he closes his eyes
and wakes up on something soft. Actually soft. And stagnant.
He’s laid under a thick, dry fabric. His body aches and the freezing tip of his nose freezes a little less. He coughs, and he feels a glob of something spatter out.
His eyes are so heavy. His whole body hurts.
Someone shouts at him. Distressed Girl. He tries to hide himself and curls over. He’s scared. He’s going to die here. They’re going to let his wounds bleed out and he’s going to die. He sneezes and his nose bleeds.
Awkward Boy kneels by him. “Can you… talk?”
He shakes his head softly.
“Okay… hang on. I’ll get Anathema to look at you.”
Glasses Girl and Blondie appear and look at him with a strange sort of gaze.
“Aziraphale…?” Book Girl calls. He frowns, and a hand reaches to his face. On instinct, he jolts, and grunts at the pain.
“Oh, careful!” Blondie murmurs, “ugh, I need a first-aid kit.” She looks up. “Muriel, please call for Crowley.”
Crowley, he repeats in his head, and wonders who that is.
Blondie stands and totters around. Glasses Girl mutters to him. “I think the injuries are further than the superficial ‘corporation’ ones. Angel and demon stuff.”
He closes his eyes, and struggles for air again.
Footfalls and chatter and noise and it’s suddenly so quiet.
He feels one presence.
It stings his essence as his gashes sluggishly bleed black and red. Arms (his own, he notices) push the blanket off. He’s so hot.
He sprawls himself out, and whimpers. It hurts. The couch is stained and he has poorly-done wrappings around his injuries. They shift when he moves.
“Please be careful!” a soft voice says. They’re dressed in white, and they reach out to touch him. Their touch is so warm it burns. “Oh, you’re cold!”
He shivers. Then coughs. Blood stains the couch again.
“Don’t worry. Mr. Crowley will be here in a second. Help is on the way!”
His chest aches so, so much. His breathing is so soft, but it feels better now. There’s less of it. He’s shivering, but it’s slowing down. Something dark courses through his veins (well, the celestial equivalent).
Crowley is a nice name, he decides before he fades away again.
Sleepily, he lets unconsciousness lay over him.
“—ngel? Angel?— wake up—“
He’s so tired. Something bright and warm and soft tugs at him, and goodness, he wants it so bad.
“Please!”
Oh, the voice sounds so worried. And pleasant.
For some reason, he wakes up. There’s a new face in front of him. It smells like a demon. Of course he hasn’t left Hell. Of course. Of course.
He trembles violently. He just wants this to be over. He feels his eyelids slip halfway, and the demon in front of him startles.
“Fuck, I— hang on.”
The new person moves away, and he seems to ache differently. Like something deep within him pulls away with the demon. They’re still within his line of sight, and they ignite the fireplace ahead of him.
Heat billows from the flames and the chill settled in his bones pulls back a bit.
“Angel,” the new person says, and he can see himself in their glasses. He looks terrible. And terrified.
His body shakes again, and he involuntarily curls in on himself.
“Careful—!” the demon says, and his hands just barely flutter over him. He doesn’t ever touch him, though.
His vision goes white at the pain of the split bones in his body when he moves and he winks out again.
When he opens his eyes again, he’s met with the back of someone’s head. He flinches, and the head turns around. It’s the demon from earlier.
“Oh, Aziraphale!” he says, “how are you feeling?”
Aziraphale doesn’t respond. (That must be his name, probably. He’s been called it before by the humans.)
The other demon—oh, it’s FurFur, isn’t it?—had asked the same thing in Hell. As a joke.
“Sorry. That—that’s a stupid question. My bad.”
The demon reaches out a hand, and then halts. Aziraphale watches his hand carefully, waiting for it to strike.
“… can I touch you?” the demon asks, “I won’t… if you don’t want me to, just, er, say so.”
Aziraphale frowns. If he says no, he’ll surely be punished.
He nods minutely.
“Okay,” the demon murmurs, “I’m just going to touch your hair. Can I do that?”
Why is this person asking so many questions?
Aziraphale nods anyway.
Fingers stutter against his scalp before settling there, and the hand on his head rubs gentle circles into it.
Ah.
The pain must be waiting around the corner for him. This is a new kind of torture.
“Aziraphale, do you… know who I am?”
Should he? Aziraphale glances away nervously. Something about this demon is making his stomach queasy. He shakes his head.
The demon bites his lower lip, sort of alarmed but expecting the answer, and he looks more than a little put out. Maybe this is where the pain will come.
“I… my name is Crowley,” he—Crowley—says carefully.
This is the Crowley the others had mentioned?
He’s not so surprised that humans are acquainted with the demon, but the angel from earlier? Isn’t that a little strange?
“Can I move the blanket?”
Another question? Is Crowley asking for his permission to look at him? Aziraphale pushes on the blanket a little bit. He supposes he’ll get the next part over with.
Crowley finishes pulling the cover back. His breath hitches.
“Oh, angel,” the red-haired demon whispers with an inflection Aziraphale doesn’t really recognize, “what have they done to you?”
Crowley seems to be separating himself from other demons. What makes him so different? Is this another way of getting to him?
The hand still rests in his hair, and the fingers curl dangerously when Crowley examines his poorly-bandaged injuries. Aziraphale pulls back, and the hand on his head relaxes and continues to card through his hair soothingly.
“I’m going to raze them to the ground,” Crowley hisses.
Aziraphale hums softly, and the rhythmic movement on his scalp is enough to put him to sleep once more. The cycle of fading in and put of consciousness is his new routine, he supposes.
Something wraps tightly but snugly around his injuries, and Aziraphale shifts when he feels them. He gasps at the sharp pain in his chest, and falls back onto the couch. His vision swims a little bit.
“Are you alright?” Crowley asks from somewhere in the room. Of course, he’s still here somewhere. Aziraphale doesn’t fear this information, and that’s strange to him.
Crowley scrambles over and meets him at the couch. He’s all long and pointy, Aziraphale muses.
“Hi,” Crowley says, and smiles kindly. Aziraphale really is delirious. Kindness doesn’t extend to him.
He doesn’t say anything. Crowley doesn’t seem to be affected, though.
“It’s good to see you awake, angel. Can I get you anything? A glass of water?”
His eyes blow open wide, and his body shakes hard. He won’t take anything he has to put in his mouth, especially not water. Not again. Not again.
“Sorry, let me…” Crowley pulls the blanket over him again. “Is that better?” He must think he’s cold.
Aziraphale nods. He must have done that right, because Crowley grins. “Great. Can I touch you?”
“Y…” he coughs, “-es.”
Crowley pulls off the glasses on his face and looks intensely into Aziraphale’s face. He grabs his bruised hand and holds it delicately.
“I’m so sorry they did this to you,” Crowley whines under his breath, “you never— you never deserved this. You never deserved this.”
Aziraphale is just thoroughly confused. He’s only been told he deserves it. Why is this demon so strange?
All of his thoughts are thrown out the window when he sees Crowley’s eyes. They’re that gold the sky was when he was “free”. The color is sewn into his reprieve.
“… eyes,” he slurs.
Crowley glances away, and his face is a little colored.
“Oh, my eyes?”
Aziraphale nods.
“Should—do you want me to put my glasses back on? I didn’t mean to spook you.”
He reaches for the glasses, and Aziraphale gets a strange rush of adrenaline before he grabs Crowley’s wrist.
“… eyes,” he breathes heavily, struggling, and points weakly upwards, “sky.”
A red eyebrow jumps onto Crowley’s forehead with confusion, and Aziraphale finds himself smiling.
“What do you mean?”
Aziraphale tries to talk, and his chest collapses and all that comes out is a nasty cough, and it continues to rumble out of him.
His ears go muffled, and his vision is swimming, and the gasps for air press against the broken rib. Crowley calls for him distantly, and he wonders when he got so far away.
“—don’t know how to help!”
“Nina, please— anything!”
Aziraphale’s consciousness returns to him yet again, a tired old trope, and he feels like he’s been dipped in a hot bath, because there’s something warm slicked all over his skin. Sweat, his mind supplies helpfully.
“He’s awake,” someone exclaims with a surprised inhale.
Three pairs of eyes turn to him. Crowley’s serpent eyes stand out. Serpents are silly little creatures, Aziraphale thinks.
“Why is he on about serpents?”
“I’unno.”
Blondie and Distressed Girl look at him with utter confusion. Crowley stands and says something about water and the humans approach him.
They get rather close, he thinks sluggishly.
“Sorry,” Distressed Girl mutters, and leans back. Blondie, however, reaches towards his arm.
“Can I touch you?” she asks. Aziraphale considers his options. Humans are much different from demons. There will probably be less consequences if he denies her. He shakes his head. “Okay, no worries.”
“‘M back.”
Crowley kneels in front of him, sitting between the two humans, and Aziraphale immediately feels at ease.
“I got you a glass of water. Can you sit up?”
He is not letting anything near his mouth. It’s going to burn him or eat through his throat or lace him.
“I promise it’s safe. Can I help you sit up?”
Aziraphale shakes his head again.
“He won’t let us touch him,” Blondie says, “I don’t think—“
Distressed Girl grabs her arm when Crowley lays a light hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale doesn’t respond.
“Aziraphale, you need to drink water. Your poor throat’s probably torn to bits. And your fever is remarkable.”
Crowley brushes stray hairs from his head. It feels nice.
“‘M glad you think it does, angel. You need to drink.”
He puts something small by Aziraphale’s mouth and holds the water cup close. “C’mon,” he groans, “it’ll be good for you.”
He needs to get as far from the substance as he can. His body aches, he can’t breathe, has the room always been so small? the blanket tangles in his legs, someone tells him to breathe but he is breathing so he’s not quite sure he understands, and his lungs ache with a different sort of pain.
“Calm down,” a soothing voice tells him, “you’re okay.”
He decidedly isn’t okay because everything looks a little green and he tumbles off the couch and bile claws through his body before it tears out of him and someone rubs his back comfortingly. He hunches over and gags over an empty stomach.
His arms have failed a while ago, and he feels himself sway towards the ground. The bile, miraculously, is gone, and gentle hands guide him to a cushioned surface.
“Breathe,” the voice whispers near his ear. Crowley, he realizes.
“Yeh, it’s just me, angel. It’s alright.”
Aziraphale opens his eyes and Hell no longer surrounds him. He struggles for air quietly and glances up. Crowley is leaned towards him, close enough that he can feel the demon’s breath on his face, and it sort of smells sweet.
“Sorry. I was eating chocolate.”
Chocolate sounds nice.
“I’ll get you all the chocolate in the world if you take a sip of water.”
He can’t, it’ll hurt him. That’s all anything ever does anymore.
“H-here, I’ll drink it first so you know it’s safe.”
Above him, Crowley tilts away and his hand comes back with the glass of water. He lifts it to his lips and takes a generous sip before he loudly gulps it down and lets out an exaggerated sigh.
“See? All safe,” he reassures. If Aziraphale is being honest, he still doesn’t trust it, but the demon’s little antics are enough to make him try. “I’m gonna sit you up, okay?” Aziraphale nods.
An arm snakes under him and sits him up so he’s leaned against Crowley’s shoulder, and the demon holds the straw towards him. He eyes it warily yet.
“That’s okay, take your time,” Crowley murmurs.
Aziraphale tests the metaphorical waters and takes the straw into his mouth. The actual water gushing in is such a relief and it soothes his throat and seems to also go up into his eyes because there’s water there now, too. Crowley just holds the glass up for him, and it’s gone before he can register what he’s done.
“Good job,” Crowley tells him, and the pride in his voice is so palpable it brings water to his eyes again. “You’re doing a good job. Can I pick you up? There’s a bed upstairs.”
“Yes,” he grunts. It’s so nice to be able to form a word around his burnt tongue and aching jaw he forgets they hurt. Crowley finagles his other arm under his legs and lifts him off the ground. The humans are gone.
“Where’d… th’ humans go…?” he asks softly against Crowley’s chest. He has no choice but to trust him now, being gathered up in his arms and all.
“Oh, they left when you started panicking. Well. I actually kicked them out. Figured you’d want the space.”
The way Crowley’s chest vibrates when he talks is nice.
They make it up the stairs and Crowley awkwardly uses his foot to nudge back the covers and lays Aziraphale down onto the mattress.
“There you are,” Crowley says, “how’s that feel?”
“Mmm,” Aziraphale hums, “it’s nice.”
The demon grins guilelessly. “Good.”
He reaches towards Aziraphale’s hair, and Aziraphale lets him. He closes his eyes when the hand makes contact with him.
“I… sorry, I forgot to ask—“
“Don’t stop.”
Crowley’s hand pauses, and Aziraphale can feel him staring, and then he continues.
Crowley continues to take care of him. Aziraphale’s not entirely sure why. He’s sure this will all come back to bite him in the arse.
Crowley brings him water every two hours or so (not that he keeps track) and he’s almost never left alone in the meantime. The demon sits in a chair by the bed with his elbows propped up on the mattress.
Crowley talks to him the whole time. He tells him about all the different kinds of plants in his flat, and—how he keeps them alive—and Aziraphale silently counts his blessings that Crowley doesn’t do that to him. The demon is all smiles and affection with him.
It feels familiar, like a habit he can’t break.
Finally, Aziraphale gets a question out. “Do we… know each other?”
Crowley’s pupils dilate, slitting and going wider, then do it again. “We did. Before the Fall. But your core blocks out the memories for a while as part of the ‘process.’” He looks a little disgruntled. “It’s sort of like a bodily response to the trauma.”
“Ah.”
Yellow eyes flit anywhere around the room but his face.
“How… close?” Aziraphale manages.
“How close were we?”
“Yes.”
The silence speaks volumes. Crowley gets a somber look on his face, and a melancholic smile takes root there. His hands lay restlessly on the bed, right by Aziraphale’s own. “We were friends. Best friends.”
Boldly, because Aziraphale is having a strange enough go of it anyway, maneuvers his hand to take Crowley’s. Crowley immediately latches on, and grips his hand in both of his.
“I… you mean so much to me, Aziraphale.”
It slips out before he can stop himself. “Why?”
Crowley holds Aziraphale’s hand towards his face and rests his forehead on the bundle of fingers. “Oh. You’re everything, angel.”
Oh, that’s something new. His stomach flutters anxiously and his hands get sweaty. And for some reason, he’s a little self-conscious about being sweaty.
That’s alright.
“You should take a bath,” Crowley mentions, picking mindlessly at the grime under Aziraphale’s nails. He wrenches his hand away.
He can’t bring himself to speak and feels his eyes go wide and his throat get choked up.
“Everything alright?”
He doesn’t want the ice water again. He doesn’t know if he can handle it. He should have known Crowley would do this to him. Treat him all sweet and turn at the most unexpected moment.
“Angel?”
He should have known. He should have known it isn’t safe. He’s never safe.
“Aziraphale, you need to clean some of these injuries before they get worse. I don’t want to see you get sick.”
How can he trust him? He’s turning on him already. Just when he’d started feeling alright.
“Aziraphale, please. If it goes pear-shaped, I’ll get you out of there. Even if I have to carry you all wrapped in a towel like a damsel in distress.”
“I like pears.”
Crowley seemingly takes that as permission because he lifts Aziraphale out of the bed. He’s too stunned to say anything because the bathroom is right there.
Crowley sets him in the tub and snaps, and suddenly he’s sitting in only a pair of shorts and feeling very exposed.
“Cold…”
Crowley scrambles to the handle of the faucet and turns it on to warm. “Sorry, I guess I…” He glances back at Aziraphale, and his eyes wander, mapping the bruises and sores and open wounds and blisters and imprints.
Aziraphale feels his face go warm at the attention.
“Fuck, angel. That’s some nasty business.”
He curls up in the tub desperately. He doesn’t want to do this. His toes curl away from the warm bathwater pooling on the bottom of the tub.
“Oh, not you,” Crowley says anxiously, and he doesn’t seem to notice Aziraphale’s distress, “I meant the injuries. I think you’re…” he coughs, “erm. Nice. I mean. Normal.”
Crowley’s pupils are big and wide when he looks at Aziraphale.
The water is beginning to rise, and so is Aziraphale’s heart rate.
“Hey, calm down,” Crowley soothes, “what’s going on?”
“Bath…”
Aziraphale shivers hard. Crowley waits on him patiently.
“Ice water… they put me in a bath…”
Crowley’s eyebrows jump miraculously high up on his head. It’s clicking into place for him.
“Oh, angel, I had no idea.”
He rubs his arm gently. “You do need a bath, though. Sorry. Blood doesn’t smell good.”
Crowley flicks out his tongue and his face scrunches up. Aziraphale would be amused if the water slowly climbing his body didn’t feel like torture.
“But I won’t do that to you. Trust me. We can get you cleaned up, and then you can go back to hogging the bed. How’s that sound?”
Aziraphale lays his head on his knees. Crowley’s eyebrows furrow, but he doesn’t say anything, and uses his hand to bring water up to Aziraphale’s back, and begins to wash him clean. “I’m really sorry about this,” the demon whispers in his ear. Aziraphale doesn’t say anything and let him wash him clean of his wrongdoings.
Crowley pats Aziraphale down with a towel before he grabs a roll of wrap. The injuries are covered in new bandages, and Aziraphale finds that the bath hadn’t been as terrible as he would have imagined. Crowley was very careful to never let the water get too close to his face, even when he washed his hair, and that was certainly a feat. Fingers are snapped, and Aziraphale is clad in soft blue pajamas.
“I’m not doing tartan. I don’t care what you say, it is not stylish,” Crowley babbles on while he lifts Aziraphale, who is admittedly not listening at all and staring and Crowley’s eyes while he talks.
Crowley lays him on the mattress and smooths the pajamas.
“Thank you,” Aziraphale breathes, and Crowley’s face twists into something beautiful as he gets flustered at the praise.
“You put a lot of trust in me, and I would never let you down,” the demon states, “‘sides… you’d’ve done the same for me.”
Would he?
Crowley meekly takes Aziraphale’s hand and runs his thumb over the knuckles.
Yes, he thinks, he would.
Aziraphale takes a nice nap. He decides sleeping on purpose is much nicer than just knocking out. He should do this more often. He glances to the side, and sees Crowley next to him.
Despite himself, Aziraphale flinches. He doesn’t know what he expected, but it’s not whatever this is. Crowley has his arms crossed and is resting his head on them, snoozing away.
To put himself in a vulnerable position so easily near him is so trusting, and Aziraphale swallows thickly. The friction in his throat aches.
He hears Crowley’s voice in his head.
Oh, I like sleep.
I slept through most of the nineteenth century.
Aziraphale looks at the yellow ceiling. Crowley is no different from his resurfacing memories, and that’s a comforting thought.
Slits of yellow akin to that of the ceiling’s peeling paint appear when Crowley stirs.
“Hey, angel,” he mutters, rubbing his eyes, “how do you feel?”
“Better… thank you.”
Crowley smiles, and pats his shoulder. “I’m glad.” He glances off awkwardly. “Sorry again, about the bath. I… they ruined so many things for you, angel, and I had to put you through it again.”
Aziraphale grabs Crowley’s hand.
“You said ‘trust me,’” he says plainly.
Crowley looks at him. “And you did.”
Bombs. Books. Bullets. Beverages. Aziraphale is bombarded with memories of a distant night full of fire and flames and trust and… magic acts.
He squeezes the demon’s hand.
“Crowley,” he exhales, “you…”
Yellow eyes watch him expectantly.
“I knew you’d come through for me.”
“Crowley, dear, I promise I am not so helpless,” Aziraphale groans.
In the months since Aziraphale’s return from Hell, Crowley has been doting on him every moment of every day.
Right now, he is suffering the ever-strenuous and bodily taxing ordeal of ordering himself a drink. Aziraphale, knowing his own capabilities, is leaning on his cane and ordering for himself.
Crowley, ever the worrywart, is attempting to interject and order for him.
His intentions are pure, Aziraphale repeats to himself. It’s a sort of mantra, because Crowley’s anxiety has caused him to be worried for Aziraphale’s capacity to do anything on his own. He supposes he can empathize a bit. Crowley had told him that he’d been so close to death at early points in the recovery process that he couldn’t sleep at night.
Crowley and Aziraphale share a bed to alleviate the issue now. No other reason, of course. If there’s some physical contact in the bed, well, that’s between them and the bed, isn’t it?
Nina watches them bicker with a look of amusement behind the counter.
“I’ll have a hot chocolate,” Aziraphale requests easily. Crowley appears over his shoulders.
“Do you want marshmallows? Whipped cream? Chocolate flakes? I’ll make it happen.”
Everyone in line groans behind them.
“Crowley, please. I just want a drink,” Aziraphale pats Crowley’s hand, and turns to Nina, “he’ll have six shots of espresso.”
Nina nods and hands them their drinks quickly. Aziraphale thanks her while Crowley rushes ahead to pull his chair out for him.
“My dear, you must relax-“
“I am perfectly relaxed!”
Crowley drums his fingers on the table anxiously and takes a swig of his drink.
“Mhm,” Aziraphale hums, unconvinced, and brings the drink up to his lips. Crowley watches his every move like a hawk.
Er, well… like a serpent.
“Crowley.”
“Aziraphale.”
They engage in a rather intense staring contest that mucks up the general atmosphere and makes the customers inside uncomfortable and finding themselves otherwise occupied.
“Oi, don’t do this again! You can’t keep scaring off my customers!” Nina shouts from behind the counter.
Aziraphale waves a placating hand and snaps. He and Crowley are now on the couch in the bookshop, which has been deep-cleaned and then miracled clean and then cleaned once again of the blood and gore. As has the rest of the bookshop.
“Crowley, listen—“
“No, you listen,” Crowley exclaims, “you fuck off to Heaven doing God knows what for God why then you’re banished to Hell and kept there for God knows how long and now you’re here and God knows what happens next.”
Aziraphale clears his throat awkwardly.
“You sure do bring Her up often.”
“She’s still as much my creator as She is yours, angel.”
Aziraphale doesn’t have an answer to that. It’s true. He scoots towards Crowley and tugs him close.
“We’re going to be alright, Crowley.”
Crowley doesn’t look so much unconvinced as he does pained.
“Yes, we say that, and then we end up in situations like this where we’re not alright. I want to be optimistic here—really, I do—but I can’t ignore the fact that bad stuff happens and that’s just how it goes.”
Aziraphale tangles his fingers with Crowley’s and leans his head on his shoulder.
“Then… everything won’t be alright. But we know that it won’t.”
“And that makes it better?”
“No. But it makes it predictable.”
Crowley leans his head on Aziraphale’s.
“I guess.”
They sit together. Their hands squeeze.
It’s nice, for now. And probably accurate.