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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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."