"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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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."