What he can do, at least, is miracle up a roll of clean cloth and small ceramic container of balm. He sets them aside to assist Crowley into a sitting position, careful to only touch him where the burns haven't already spread.
"Didn't plan on it," he repeats dryly. What was the plan, then? What's he doing here in the first place? He doesn't bother asking aloud; he knows it's not the time. He unrolls a length of cloth and dips his clean (always clean) fingers into the balm to spread it onto the pristine white linen. All the while watching Crowley's pained face. With every grimace, every flicker of agony, the angel winces. The last thing he wants to see is Crowley burn up right in front of him.
"You can do it," he says to Crowley encouragingly. "I'm going to start bandaging you now." And then he does, very gently, starting with the demon's left hand. The balm won't make much difference until Crowley can get the holiness out of him, but hopefully it will soothe the pain just enough to help him concentrate.
He slits his eyes open when Aziraphale speaks. His eyes are more reptilian than usual, vividly yellow and the sclera stained black around the irises, glaring at the angel briefly before they close again, but doesn’t bother to respond. They can bicker when he’s not in agony, when all of his concentration isn’t going into saving his life. Crowley doesn’t want to find out what’ll happen if the holiness spreads across his body and overcomes him. Would it be a discorporation like the others he’s suffered occasionally over the millennia, painful, unpleasant, but at least not permanent? Or would it truly be the end of him, just as if he leapt into a well of holy water?
He hisses aloud when Aziraphale touches him, gentle though he is as he begins to bandage one of his hands. It’s exceedingly painful to be touched at all like this, for the first few moments, but then the qualities of the balm begin to take hold like something blissfully cool sliding over his skin, lessening, just a little bit, the searing agony of the burns. Crowley gasps, shuddering at the sensation, and then with a renewed determination he redoubles his efforts to banish the holiness from his body.
It isn’t at all easy, and the pain is barely lessening as Aziraphale bandages more of him; Crowley has never had any desire to try and test himself against the wrathful power of Divinity. He’s always just tried to mind his own business, cause chaos and temptation where he could, nothing especially major. This is major, this is too much for him to handle on his own—but he isn’t on his own now, he thinks, Aziraphale is with him, his presence an unaccountable comfort, and by slow excruciating degrees Crowley begins to push the holiness back, push it out.
Aziraphale's hands are steady as he carefully winds the anointed bandage up along Crowley's left arm, up to his elbow where the burns have stopped their progression. He's had practice with this sort of thing, aiding humans the mundane way when Upstairs has warned him about using too many miracles. He's glad for it now, all the practice.
He murmurs soothingly at the sounds Crowley makes -- no words of import now, merely the feeling behind them -- then switches to the other arm, wrapping it in the same manner. He rests his hand on Crowley's shoulder, watching his face, waiting to see if the demon can push out the holiness. It hurts to see how much pain he's in. Hurts even more to think about what could happen if he isn't successful. He'd gotten used to Crowley popping into his life every so often that the thought of him burning up into nothing fills him with a quiet panic.
Gradually, far too gradually for his taste, demonic influence and sheer force of will begins to win out. With the pain lessened just that crucial degree, Crowey can focus better now, and eventually he feels the holiness like a tide ebbing from his body, leaving its painful mark in the raw, throbbing burns beneath the bandages. All the while he's aware of Aziraphale, his presence, his hand on his shoulder and the soothing nonsense he murmurs, aware of an intimacy in being touched by him that has never been present between them before, and it gives him the will to continue: he's not about to let his angel witness him succumb to blessedness. What would that do for his reputation?
At some point he lets out a long hissing breath, and his body relaxes, slumping back against the wall. It might almost appear as though he's passed out, though it's certain by now that he isn't going anywhere. His eyes are closed and his still-trembling hands are laid in his lap. They hurt a great deal, pain returning now that all his concentration isn't thrown saving himself, and it would be rather nice to pass out for a while.
Aziraphale is a steady presence beside him, waiting patiently, albeit anxiously, for the last of the holiness to leave his body. When he relaxes, the angel does, too, letting out a shaky breath that he hadn't realized he'd been holding for a good little while now.
Crowley survived. He's going to be okay.
He continues to watch the demon's face, his eyebrows drawn together in soft concern. Funny how, with his eyes closed, he doesn't look much like a demon. The ones he's heard about, even when they're topside, usually have an unpleasant visual reminder of their true nature. Boils, flies, peculiar growths... but Crowley doesn't have any of that. Just his snake-like eyes, which Aziraphale admits to himself aren't all that terrible, either.
The hand on Crowley's shoulder rubs him there, ever so gently, before Aziraphale notices what he's doing and yanks it away, as if he's the one who's been burned. He doesn't go, though. He simply gathers up the rest of his healing supplies and moves to sit against the wall, next to Crowley, with a sliver of space between them. He'll stay there until Crowley is awake and ready to tell him why he was handling a holy relic in the first place.
Aziraphale's hand going away is what rouses him a little. It's...it's a lovely touch, warm and comfortingly present, reassuring, as though to remind Crowley that he isn't about to be burned all up or otherwise blessed out of existence. He's not quite awake when Aziraphale strokes over his shoulder, but it makes sleep, perhaps, a little bit easier, without so much of the pain plaguing him, sapping what energy is left after he's healed himself, which is indeed very little.
Crowley's eyes open briefly and search around for Aziraphale before seeing that he hasn't left him, but has settled down beside him against the wall, with just the slightest bit of space between them. Without thinking about it, without really even being aware of what he's doing, he lets himself slump a little to the side and his head settles against Aziraphale's shoulder, locks of curling red hair brushing the angel's collar.
"Hurts," he mumbles aloud, the awful throbbing pain of his hands and arms making itself known vividly again.
While Crowley rests, Aziraphale simply sits there, spacing out a little as he stares at the opposite wall of the small hut. He doesn't notice Crowley opening his eyes or looking at him, but he most certainly does notice the gentle slump of Crowley's head against his shoulder.
Oh. Oh, goodness.
He tries to turn his own head when Crowley speaks and nearly gets a mouthful of hair for his own trouble. Those red curls brush across his skin and goodness, how does that demon manage to keep his hair so soft? He faces forward again, careful not to jostle Crowley off of him. Poor thing is exhausted, obviously. Just needs to rest, has no idea what he's doing.
It's fine.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I... I'd try healing you, now that you've cleared out the holiness, but I don't think you'd be able to take it in your state." He thinks about checking the bandages, but it's too soon. Crowley needs to heal in his own time. "Can I ask what happened? Why were you touching a holy relic? You know how dangerous that is."
If he'd been fully himself he almost certainly wouldn't have done it, laid his head on that lovely shoulder as if they'd been doing such things since the day they met in the Garden. But back then Aziraphale sheltered him with his wing--he's never forgotten it, the extraordinary feeling of angelic comfort and protection offered to the likes of him. It comes back to him now, from the way Aziraphale helped him--he quite possibly would have been done for if not for the angel's intervention--and how he stays close, offering companionship while Crowley is in pain. He can't help but be drawn to him, to yearn for his reassurance.
"Dangerous, yeah? Touching holy relics, you don't say?" Pain makes him snappish, though he regrets it almost immediately, because what Aziraphale pulls away? He shifts a little against him, settling himself more firmly, and adds grudgingly, "I didn't know it was one. Little...snot-nosed brat, going around saying he's got a letter from Jesus. Ridiculous, when have you ever heard of Him writing anyone?"
Aziraphale pulls a face at the snark, but he doesn't pull away, not even when Crowley makes himself more comfortable against him. "Of course Jesus wrote letters. How else was he supposed to keep in touch with anyone? Homing pigeon? You can only fit so much on those tiny little scrolls..."
It's all too easy to fall into their usual back-and-forth, although part of him is glad for the attitude. It means that the demon is on the mend. And it lets him concentrate on something other than how it feels to have Crowley using his shoulder as a pillow. Because it feels nice, and it shouldn't be nice. They're hereditary enemies, it should be the opposite of nice.
"If you thought it was false, why were you messing with it in the first place?" He peers at Crowley out of the corner of his eye so he doesn't have to turn his head. "Doesn't your side prefer there to be a lot of those? False idols, and all that?"
"That was over a millennium ago," Crowley growled. "What business does he have writing letters now? Don't your people keep you looped in on this kind of thing?"
Surely Aziraphale might have warned him if he'd known. Actually, Crowley can't believe that he'd have deliberately withheld it; the angel's not much of a liar, and he seems to--well, be fond of him. Like he'd miss him if he wasn't around every now and again. Much like Crowley would miss him.
And he hasn't moved or said anything about Crowley's head against his shoulder, either, which...he's not sure if they've ever touched before, if he thinks about it, but here Aziraphale is allowing him this comfort like it's nothing.
He sighs and shifts his hands painfully before subsiding. "I was told to put an end to their stupid little crusade, so I meant to curse it, make the boy start speaking unholy gibberish, that kind of thing."
Crowley can likely hear the pout in Aziraphale's voice when he replies. "It's all on a need-to-know basis up there. It's not like Gabriel calls me up to his office for idle chit-chat. 'Oh, hello, Aziraphale, how's it going, did you know that Jesus is keeping up with his correspondence?'"
Honest to the point of self-deprecation. No, that's not something he would have withheld from Crowley, especially if he knew that the demon was intending to touch a legitimate relic. He does feel a bit guilty, though. If he hadn't turned down Crowley's suggestion last century that they share their workload, maybe he would have known, and he could have kept Crowley from being injured in the first place.
Well. At least he was here now. He thinks maybe he ought to (gently) push Crowley off, now that he's awake and talking, but he doesn't. There's no rush. Crowley will sit up when he's ready.
"You were planning to end the crusade by having them lose their faith in the boy and turn back around to go home?" That's not how crusades normally ended. "Was that what your side wanted, or were you taking some liberties?"
"Probably doesn't know himself, that preening idiot." Crowley has opinions on Gabriel, based on the things Aziraphale has told him over the millennia.
There's still an edge of pain in his voice: the burns are very bad, though beneath the bandages, with Aziraphale's salve taking effect, the pain is at least a little bit diminished. Enough so that Crowley is beginning to wake up to what he's doing, leaning against Aziraphale like it's the most natural thing, stealing whatever solace the angel will offer him. He ought to stop, he feels certain that there must be something wrong with it, the two of them being what they are--surely this is a road to temptation if nothing else. But Crowley is selfish, and besides, he's a demon, he's not about doing the right thing.
It would be so good, he thinks, to lie down in the angel's lap and sleep away his wounds.
He scowls a little when Aziraphale questions his plan. "They were supposed to encounter slavers at the coast. Is it my fault that lot got shipwrecked on the way?" Yes. "I had to come up with some alternative."
"He does spend an awful lot of time on his wings," Aziraphale notes with a quiet little chuckle, before a look of pure mortification passes over his face. He can't very well poke fun at the Archangel Gabriel, that's his boss. What if he overhears?
Taking stock of the position he's in currently in, he decides that would be the least of his worries. "I think it's better all-around that I don't see much of him," he says softly. He shifts his weight slightly so that it's more comfortable for both of them, wishing he could erase that undercurrent of pain in the demon's voice. He'd have no good excuse for this Upstairs. How is this thwarting anybody's wiles?
He listens to Crowley's response with growing incredulity. Crowley's schemes and temptations always seem to fall short of anything truly evil. Aziraphale used to think it was because Crowley was indolent, preferring to lounge about instead of doing any real work, but now he wasn't so sure. Keeping the children out of the hands of slavers -- or worse -- was... well. It was something Aziraphale would do.
"Crowley." He picks at the roll of clean bandages in his lap. "Do you remember what you suggested to me once? That we coordinate our miracles and temptations? Well, I still don't like that idea, but... if you were planning to do something like this again, I... I wouldn't be opposed to helping you..."
"Yeah. Could go without seeing the bosses down Below for a few centuries." There's an edge of bitterness in Crowley's voice. It's thanks to them that he ended up this way--well, them and his own stupid habit of taking credit for evil acts he didn't actually commit. Though really, why should he have to justify his every moment on Earth to the likes of Beelzebub or Hastur? Isn't it enough just to demonically influence the humans around him?
"It's their fault, you know." He almost doesn't realize at first that he's complaining aloud, but once he's on a roll it's hard to stop. "Stupid pustulent bunch of bloody-minded--I'm only one demon spreading everyday evil, you'd think they'd know better than to put whole crusades on my shoulders. But no, it has to be big, it has to be flashy. Has to almost burn me to a crisp, not that they'd care..."
Trailing off, he becomes aware that Aziraphale has shifted around in a way that makes it even more comfortable to lean against him, to let him take more of his weight, so Crowley does, with a sigh...except then Aziraphale goes and says that, and he has to pick up his head to look at him incredulously.
"You what? You mean--help me send those brats running for home? You'd actually do that?"
It's not often that Crowley talks about his superiors, let alone complain so vigorously about them. Aziraphale listens silently, unsure what to say in response. Demons are supposed to be terrible to one another, he thinks. There's no loyalty in Hell, or so he's been told. But he can't help but feel sympathy for Crowley. No camaraderie among his peers, only pressure to keep doing more and more.
Just as he's trying to find words, Crowley settles against him even more and that sigh... but then suddenly, it's over. Crowley is looking at him like he's grown a third wing, and for a moment all he can do is stare back at him.
"Um..." Please put your head back on my shoulder, he thinks, and blushes at the intrusive thought. "I mean, yes. Yes, I would." He clears his throat and smiles a little despite himself. "Upstairs doesn't have an opinion on the matter, so it wouldn't go against the Great Plan. And I'd rather not see anyone else get hurt over this." Especially not Crowley.
"Well." If Crowley were feeling better, he'd probably be much more in a mood to tease Aziraphale over this unexpected decision, but it's difficult to muster up the energy at the moment. Regardless, he says, "I'm surprised to hear you come around to my side, angel. At least with this."
He misses Aziraphale's shoulder too: it's a lovely place to rest one's head. Come to think of it, it's surprising that the angel let him do that as well. It feels as though something is changing between them, their customary habit of being on opposite sides somehow less important than it was before. Looking down at his bandaged hands, he says, "You didn't have to help me, you know. Probably doesn't look very good if anyone was watching." The truth is he's probably alive now because of Aziraphale. How puzzling.
"I'm not on your side," Aziraphale responds automatically, although it's said with far less protest than he usually puts into it. "It just so happens that our goals are in alignment in this particular instance." He pauses and adds, almost shyly, "And future similar instances."
With Crowley's gaze on his hands, Aziraphale can take the time to look at his face again. They're awfully close, sitting like this, shoulder nearly to shoulder. He can see the whorls of shading in his yellow eyes. He almost says that of course he had to help, he wasn't about to let Crowley suffer, but the words get stuck in his throat. It's too much to admit.
"I won't tell if you won't." His smile quirks into a grin, very briefly. "How are you feeling now? Does it still hurt?"
"Ah. Well, you've convinced me: we are not the slightest bit on one another's sides, except in particular instances." Oh, Aziraphale. He is awfully sweet in how he tries to avoid admitting that they ought to help one another, especially considering that he may have just effectively saved a demon's life. Bugger it all, he feels awfully close to pushing his luck where the angel is concerned. Crowley doesn't really want him to get mixed up in a great deal of trouble with him; he likes Aziraphale being around when he needs him, or is simply bored and in want of his company. It would be terrible if he were to catch the angel up in something that's no business of his and get him in trouble with his bosses. He'll have to remember that, the next time he feels the urge to tempt him.
"'Course I wouldn't. I owe you one." The idea ought to alarm him, but, Crowley thinks, it would be rather a pleasure to provide a timely rescue at some point. He sighs, wishing he were feeling at his best and could relish the thought some more. "Of course it bloody hurts."
Steadfastedly refusing to think, he lays his head back on Aziraphale's shoulder, even settling the slumped sprawl of his body against him somewhat.
He knows that Crowley is mocking him, but he doesn't care, too relieved that they've come to... well, not an Arrangement, because that implies things he's not ready to accept, but at least Crowley knows that if he's planning to do something that is evil only in the technical, 'my higher ups in Hell told me to make trouble' sense, he can ask Aziraphale for help. And he won't have to worry about Crowley risking his infernal life over a holy relic again.
The fact that Crowley owes him one is an unexpected and weird but also kind of nice bonus. "Well, if I ever find myself at risk of being discorporated, I'll know who to expect to swoop in and save me." As if. The amount of paperwork he'd have to fill out if he wasn't careful!
He's about to offer another round of balm and bandage when Crowley's head is on his shoulder again. Yay! he thinks before he can stuff that tiny voice into silence. He stares straight ahead, trying to ignore how warm Crowley is, concentrating on what he can say to make the situation less weird.
"Well, you're obviously worn out, so... you go ahead and rest and I'll... stay. Here. I'll stay right here."
"Oh, I'm sure things won't come to that point." How much trouble can an angel get into? Then again, we are talking about the angel who gave away his flaming sword. Perhaps Crowley had better start keeping a closer eye on him, now that they've got something of a deal in place.
He thinks about how Aziraphale would probably huff or roll his eyes and remind him that he's the one who was handling holy relics, and perhaps someone ought to keep a closer eye on him...and Crowley wouldn't mind if it was Aziraphale who did. He nestles closer, eyes closing, then opening again when the angel speaks, stammering out his intention to stay with him. To let him rest. Crowley almost doesn't know what to make of it, almost looks up at him again, but--if you're offered something, why not push for a little more? He is a demon, after all.
So he shifts himself around a little, and it's almost a natural motion to lay himself down in Aziraphale's lap.
"I'll sleep it off, then." He did offer, Crowley tells himself firmly.
"Of course not," Aziraphale replies with the confidence of someone who is doomed to screw up spectacularly. Just give him a few centuries to get there.
That very lecture does cross his mind briefly, that Crowley ought to be more careful, but the demon is too busy cozying up against him for Aziraphale to work up even the smallest of huffs. He can feel Crowley's attention on him after he speaks, but he doesn't turn his head, worried that Crowley will declare that he's not worn out, thank you very much, and find somewhere else to recuperate.
And then he has a demon in his lap and what.
It won't be several hundred years until Master Jobbes invents an Apple no man can eat, which is too bad, because "a system error has occurred" would be the perfect metaphor for Aziraphale's reaction. He simply freezes, not even blinking while Crowley situates himself, head resting against his thigh as if it's the most natural thing in the world.
Slowly, he dares a look down, sees all that soft red hair against the cream of his tunic. Hopefully Crowley's eyes are shut, or else he might simply discorporate right where he's sitting, and then Crowley will have to sleep on the ground. "...um. Okay."
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"Didn't plan on it," he repeats dryly. What was the plan, then? What's he doing here in the first place? He doesn't bother asking aloud; he knows it's not the time. He unrolls a length of cloth and dips his clean (always clean) fingers into the balm to spread it onto the pristine white linen. All the while watching Crowley's pained face. With every grimace, every flicker of agony, the angel winces. The last thing he wants to see is Crowley burn up right in front of him.
"You can do it," he says to Crowley encouragingly. "I'm going to start bandaging you now." And then he does, very gently, starting with the demon's left hand. The balm won't make much difference until Crowley can get the holiness out of him, but hopefully it will soothe the pain just enough to help him concentrate.
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He hisses aloud when Aziraphale touches him, gentle though he is as he begins to bandage one of his hands. It’s exceedingly painful to be touched at all like this, for the first few moments, but then the qualities of the balm begin to take hold like something blissfully cool sliding over his skin, lessening, just a little bit, the searing agony of the burns. Crowley gasps, shuddering at the sensation, and then with a renewed determination he redoubles his efforts to banish the holiness from his body.
It isn’t at all easy, and the pain is barely lessening as Aziraphale bandages more of him; Crowley has never had any desire to try and test himself against the wrathful power of Divinity. He’s always just tried to mind his own business, cause chaos and temptation where he could, nothing especially major. This is major, this is too much for him to handle on his own—but he isn’t on his own now, he thinks, Aziraphale is with him, his presence an unaccountable comfort, and by slow excruciating degrees Crowley begins to push the holiness back, push it out.
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He murmurs soothingly at the sounds Crowley makes -- no words of import now, merely the feeling behind them -- then switches to the other arm, wrapping it in the same manner. He rests his hand on Crowley's shoulder, watching his face, waiting to see if the demon can push out the holiness. It hurts to see how much pain he's in. Hurts even more to think about what could happen if he isn't successful. He'd gotten used to Crowley popping into his life every so often that the thought of him burning up into nothing fills him with a quiet panic.
Please, he thinks to himself. Please don't leave.
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At some point he lets out a long hissing breath, and his body relaxes, slumping back against the wall. It might almost appear as though he's passed out, though it's certain by now that he isn't going anywhere. His eyes are closed and his still-trembling hands are laid in his lap. They hurt a great deal, pain returning now that all his concentration isn't thrown saving himself, and it would be rather nice to pass out for a while.
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Crowley survived. He's going to be okay.
He continues to watch the demon's face, his eyebrows drawn together in soft concern. Funny how, with his eyes closed, he doesn't look much like a demon. The ones he's heard about, even when they're topside, usually have an unpleasant visual reminder of their true nature. Boils, flies, peculiar growths... but Crowley doesn't have any of that. Just his snake-like eyes, which Aziraphale admits to himself aren't all that terrible, either.
The hand on Crowley's shoulder rubs him there, ever so gently, before Aziraphale notices what he's doing and yanks it away, as if he's the one who's been burned. He doesn't go, though. He simply gathers up the rest of his healing supplies and moves to sit against the wall, next to Crowley, with a sliver of space between them. He'll stay there until Crowley is awake and ready to tell him why he was handling a holy relic in the first place.
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Crowley's eyes open briefly and search around for Aziraphale before seeing that he hasn't left him, but has settled down beside him against the wall, with just the slightest bit of space between them. Without thinking about it, without really even being aware of what he's doing, he lets himself slump a little to the side and his head settles against Aziraphale's shoulder, locks of curling red hair brushing the angel's collar.
"Hurts," he mumbles aloud, the awful throbbing pain of his hands and arms making itself known vividly again.
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Oh. Oh, goodness.
He tries to turn his own head when Crowley speaks and nearly gets a mouthful of hair for his own trouble. Those red curls brush across his skin and goodness, how does that demon manage to keep his hair so soft? He faces forward again, careful not to jostle Crowley off of him. Poor thing is exhausted, obviously. Just needs to rest, has no idea what he's doing.
It's fine.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I... I'd try healing you, now that you've cleared out the holiness, but I don't think you'd be able to take it in your state." He thinks about checking the bandages, but it's too soon. Crowley needs to heal in his own time. "Can I ask what happened? Why were you touching a holy relic? You know how dangerous that is."
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"Dangerous, yeah? Touching holy relics, you don't say?" Pain makes him snappish, though he regrets it almost immediately, because what Aziraphale pulls away? He shifts a little against him, settling himself more firmly, and adds grudgingly, "I didn't know it was one. Little...snot-nosed brat, going around saying he's got a letter from Jesus. Ridiculous, when have you ever heard of Him writing anyone?"
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It's all too easy to fall into their usual back-and-forth, although part of him is glad for the attitude. It means that the demon is on the mend. And it lets him concentrate on something other than how it feels to have Crowley using his shoulder as a pillow. Because it feels nice, and it shouldn't be nice. They're hereditary enemies, it should be the opposite of nice.
"If you thought it was false, why were you messing with it in the first place?" He peers at Crowley out of the corner of his eye so he doesn't have to turn his head. "Doesn't your side prefer there to be a lot of those? False idols, and all that?"
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Surely Aziraphale might have warned him if he'd known. Actually, Crowley can't believe that he'd have deliberately withheld it; the angel's not much of a liar, and he seems to--well, be fond of him. Like he'd miss him if he wasn't around every now and again. Much like Crowley would miss him.
And he hasn't moved or said anything about Crowley's head against his shoulder, either, which...he's not sure if they've ever touched before, if he thinks about it, but here Aziraphale is allowing him this comfort like it's nothing.
He sighs and shifts his hands painfully before subsiding. "I was told to put an end to their stupid little crusade, so I meant to curse it, make the boy start speaking unholy gibberish, that kind of thing."
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Honest to the point of self-deprecation. No, that's not something he would have withheld from Crowley, especially if he knew that the demon was intending to touch a legitimate relic. He does feel a bit guilty, though. If he hadn't turned down Crowley's suggestion last century that they share their workload, maybe he would have known, and he could have kept Crowley from being injured in the first place.
Well. At least he was here now. He thinks maybe he ought to (gently) push Crowley off, now that he's awake and talking, but he doesn't. There's no rush. Crowley will sit up when he's ready.
"You were planning to end the crusade by having them lose their faith in the boy and turn back around to go home?" That's not how crusades normally ended. "Was that what your side wanted, or were you taking some liberties?"
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There's still an edge of pain in his voice: the burns are very bad, though beneath the bandages, with Aziraphale's salve taking effect, the pain is at least a little bit diminished. Enough so that Crowley is beginning to wake up to what he's doing, leaning against Aziraphale like it's the most natural thing, stealing whatever solace the angel will offer him. He ought to stop, he feels certain that there must be something wrong with it, the two of them being what they are--surely this is a road to temptation if nothing else. But Crowley is selfish, and besides, he's a demon, he's not about doing the right thing.
It would be so good, he thinks, to lie down in the angel's lap and sleep away his wounds.
He scowls a little when Aziraphale questions his plan. "They were supposed to encounter slavers at the coast. Is it my fault that lot got shipwrecked on the way?" Yes. "I had to come up with some alternative."
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Taking stock of the position he's in currently in, he decides that would be the least of his worries. "I think it's better all-around that I don't see much of him," he says softly. He shifts his weight slightly so that it's more comfortable for both of them, wishing he could erase that undercurrent of pain in the demon's voice. He'd have no good excuse for this Upstairs. How is this thwarting anybody's wiles?
He listens to Crowley's response with growing incredulity. Crowley's schemes and temptations always seem to fall short of anything truly evil. Aziraphale used to think it was because Crowley was indolent, preferring to lounge about instead of doing any real work, but now he wasn't so sure. Keeping the children out of the hands of slavers -- or worse -- was... well. It was something Aziraphale would do.
"Crowley." He picks at the roll of clean bandages in his lap. "Do you remember what you suggested to me once? That we coordinate our miracles and temptations? Well, I still don't like that idea, but... if you were planning to do something like this again, I... I wouldn't be opposed to helping you..."
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"It's their fault, you know." He almost doesn't realize at first that he's complaining aloud, but once he's on a roll it's hard to stop. "Stupid pustulent bunch of bloody-minded--I'm only one demon spreading everyday evil, you'd think they'd know better than to put whole crusades on my shoulders. But no, it has to be big, it has to be flashy. Has to almost burn me to a crisp, not that they'd care..."
Trailing off, he becomes aware that Aziraphale has shifted around in a way that makes it even more comfortable to lean against him, to let him take more of his weight, so Crowley does, with a sigh...except then Aziraphale goes and says that, and he has to pick up his head to look at him incredulously.
"You what? You mean--help me send those brats running for home? You'd actually do that?"
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Just as he's trying to find words, Crowley settles against him even more and that sigh... but then suddenly, it's over. Crowley is looking at him like he's grown a third wing, and for a moment all he can do is stare back at him.
"Um..." Please put your head back on my shoulder, he thinks, and blushes at the intrusive thought. "I mean, yes. Yes, I would." He clears his throat and smiles a little despite himself. "Upstairs doesn't have an opinion on the matter, so it wouldn't go against the Great Plan. And I'd rather not see anyone else get hurt over this." Especially not Crowley.
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He misses Aziraphale's shoulder too: it's a lovely place to rest one's head. Come to think of it, it's surprising that the angel let him do that as well. It feels as though something is changing between them, their customary habit of being on opposite sides somehow less important than it was before. Looking down at his bandaged hands, he says, "You didn't have to help me, you know. Probably doesn't look very good if anyone was watching." The truth is he's probably alive now because of Aziraphale. How puzzling.
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With Crowley's gaze on his hands, Aziraphale can take the time to look at his face again. They're awfully close, sitting like this, shoulder nearly to shoulder. He can see the whorls of shading in his yellow eyes. He almost says that of course he had to help, he wasn't about to let Crowley suffer, but the words get stuck in his throat. It's too much to admit.
"I won't tell if you won't." His smile quirks into a grin, very briefly. "How are you feeling now? Does it still hurt?"
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"'Course I wouldn't. I owe you one." The idea ought to alarm him, but, Crowley thinks, it would be rather a pleasure to provide a timely rescue at some point. He sighs, wishing he were feeling at his best and could relish the thought some more. "Of course it bloody hurts."
Steadfastedly refusing to think, he lays his head back on Aziraphale's shoulder, even settling the slumped sprawl of his body against him somewhat.
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The fact that Crowley owes him one is an unexpected and weird but also kind of nice bonus. "Well, if I ever find myself at risk of being discorporated, I'll know who to expect to swoop in and save me." As if. The amount of paperwork he'd have to fill out if he wasn't careful!
He's about to offer another round of balm and bandage when Crowley's head is on his shoulder again. Yay! he thinks before he can stuff that tiny voice into silence. He stares straight ahead, trying to ignore how warm Crowley is, concentrating on what he can say to make the situation less weird.
"Well, you're obviously worn out, so... you go ahead and rest and I'll... stay. Here. I'll stay right here."
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He thinks about how Aziraphale would probably huff or roll his eyes and remind him that he's the one who was handling holy relics, and perhaps someone ought to keep a closer eye on him...and Crowley wouldn't mind if it was Aziraphale who did. He nestles closer, eyes closing, then opening again when the angel speaks, stammering out his intention to stay with him. To let him rest. Crowley almost doesn't know what to make of it, almost looks up at him again, but--if you're offered something, why not push for a little more? He is a demon, after all.
So he shifts himself around a little, and it's almost a natural motion to lay himself down in Aziraphale's lap.
"I'll sleep it off, then." He did offer, Crowley tells himself firmly.
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That very lecture does cross his mind briefly, that Crowley ought to be more careful, but the demon is too busy cozying up against him for Aziraphale to work up even the smallest of huffs. He can feel Crowley's attention on him after he speaks, but he doesn't turn his head, worried that Crowley will declare that he's not worn out, thank you very much, and find somewhere else to recuperate.
And then he has a demon in his lap and what.
It won't be several hundred years until Master Jobbes invents an Apple no man can eat, which is too bad, because "a system error has occurred" would be the perfect metaphor for Aziraphale's reaction. He simply freezes, not even blinking while Crowley situates himself, head resting against his thigh as if it's the most natural thing in the world.
Slowly, he dares a look down, sees all that soft red hair against the cream of his tunic. Hopefully Crowley's eyes are shut, or else he might simply discorporate right where he's sitting, and then Crowley will have to sleep on the ground. "...um. Okay."