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Crowley half collapsed through the door, feeling Aziraphale’s arms circle around him.
The smell of vanilla, old paper and candle wax flooded his senses, chased off the scent of hell that clung to him, the wretched vile stench of manure that clung to Hastur and the mouldy damp that clung to Ligur. He could still smell the demons on him, the general reek of hell that clung to his skin everytime he went down there, the misery and mildew, the sulfur and the smoke, it clung to him, settling into his skin like an extra layer.
They had done this often enough now to know the routine.
The first time Aziraphale had found him after, the angel had burst into floods of tears, and had been inconsolable for hours. But after a while Aziraphale had calmed down, asked Crowley what he could actually do. He was a principality, a guardian, a protector, and he might just have been the very best creature in existence Crowley had ever met. There were no false promises or useless tears after the first night, just the angel offering quiet support.
“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale murmured, catching him as he collapsed. He wrapped a gentle arm around Crowley’s shoulders, helping him limp towards the bathroom.
Crowley felt the angel’s warm hands guide him to the edge of the bathtub, and he sank down slowly, perching on the edge. He couldn’t stand miracles near him, not after being exposed to so much demonic power, demonic power that had been used to hold him down and hurt him further. Aziraphale fumbled with the buttons on Crowley’s shirt, and Crowley pulled his jeans down, letting them pool around his ankles. He always wore looser fitting clothes when summoned down to hell, and the trousers slipped off without too much issue.
He stood up slowly, feeling his knees buckling. Aziraphale held him steady, helped peel the underpants off. Crowley was sure they were bloody this time, had felt himself tearing as Hastur pushed into him.
A choked sob heaves it’s way out of his throat and he buries his head into his angel’s shoulder, pressing his nose right down into Aziraphale’s collarbone. He shuts his eyes for a second, a tremble running down his spine.
Aziraphale presses a gentle kiss to his forehead, so unlike the greedy kisses Ligur had demanded, the way his bulbous, wart covered tongue had forced Crowley’s mouth open. It brings him back to the present, and he lets the angel guide him to the bathtub, lift him up gently and lower him into the water.
A long time ago, when Aziraphale had first started helping him, Crowley had been able to move better afterwards. As the centuries flew past, his legs had worsened. They couldn’t figure out what was wrong exactly, and even the other demon’s didn’t offer much knowledge. It was his joints that seemed to be the issue, they’d cease up and he wouldn’t be able to move them properly, not his hips or his knees, send shooting pain crashing over his body. Some days he could walk mostly unaided, but on the bad days he could barely limp to the sofa in his flat even with the support of his cane. The Bentley was a life saver really, the only reason he could still get around as much as he did.
Crowley sunk beneath the bubbles, letting his eyes drift close. The water was warm, filled with a light, softly scented soap. He knew he was filthy all over, could still feel the remnants of blood and semen drying between his thighs and clinging to his hair. He’d wiped the worst of it off from his face before he’d miracled himself home, but there wasn’t much he could do about the rest without clean water and soap.
Aziraphale picked up a soft washcloth, gently running the flannel over his body. The angel washed his torso first, getting rid of the grime that had come from lying on the floor, before he moved down, carefully running it between Crowley’s legs. His touch was so soft, so gentle and yet Crowley still tensed, body preparing for another attack.
Aziraphale worked as quickly as he could, discarding the flannel and picking up a bottle of shampoo. It wasn’t the pomegranate scented one Crowley normally used on himself, this was the coconut one Aziraphale preferred.
Crowley tilted his head back, letting the angel run his hands through his hair. Aziraphale worked slower for this part, taking his time to work the shampoo into each strand, running his fingers through the curls and making sure the bubbles had all washed out before he helped Crowley to his feet, lifting him out the bathtub and wrapping a large, soft bathtowel around him.
Aziraphale turned his back, pulling the plug out and letting the filthy water drain away, carefully summoning a pair of soft pyjamas and Crowley’s sunglasses.
“Tartan, angel? Really?” Crowley murmured, dressing himself slowly. He pulled the glasses on, watching the room rapidly darken, and let out a blessed sigh of relief. The lights were often too bright for him, demon’s eyes were made for the dingy hallways and dark corridors of hell, and he often didn’t realise how much they bothered him til he was somewhere darker.
“All the shop had in, I’m afraid.” The angel said with a sad little smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. It was a blatant lie, Crowley knew, he’d been with Aziraphale when he’d picked them up, and there had been a perfectly serviceable set of fluffy black ones stacked up right next to them.
Crowley huffed a little, letting Aziraphale guide him to the sofa. He slumped down against the cushions, watching the rain drip down the window. The sound was soothing, quiet and soft, and Aziraphale had put the record player on, letting something classical play gently in the background.
“I made tea, and hot chocolate too, whichever you’d prefer.” Aziraphale said, settling down next to Crowley.
“Scotch?” Crowley asked hopefully, already knowing the angel would never actually deny him, yet also aware the alcohol would only make his nausea worse than it was.
“I put cinnamon in the hot chocolate.” Aziraphale smiled a faint little smile, handing Crowley a large, black mug, with the words I like my coffee as dark as my soul printed in bold.
“Thanks.” Crowley grouched, reaching out a hand and taking it from him, downing half the drink with one long sip. He didn’t eat or drink that much normally, but he always needed something after those trips to hell, needed something to chase off the bitter taste that lingered in his mouth.
He put the mug down on the coffee table, burrowing himself under the blanket. He let himself fall sideways, resting his head on Aziraphale’s lap, waiting until the angel had finished his tea. Aziraphale combed through his hair again, keeping up a soft monologue about a new poetry book he’d been reading.
When the angel had finished his drink, he laid down on his back, drawing his legs onto the sofa and shuffling onto his side. There was barely space for them both lying down, even oversized as the sofa was, but Crowley had a tendency to draw into himself, burrow right down and tuck his body up like a snake.
He nuzzled into the angel’s chest, letting Aziraphale continue his gentle petting. He was trembling a little, still shaky from the fear that had clenched him in hell, and his breath was shallow against Aziraphale’s chest, but the closeness soothed him.
He reached his right hand up, sliding it out of the blankets and finding Aziraphale’s, clasping them tightly together. He gripped onto the angel so hard his knuckles turned white, as if Aziraphale alone could keep him safe, keep him on earth and away from the demons.
He let out a contented sigh and snuggled closer, needing the soft warm. Aziraphale brought his other hand down under the blanket, wrapping it around the demon lying on his chest like a deadweight.
“I’ve got you, dearest. It’s okay.” He murmured, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s forehead.