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[ It had been several years since their latest lunch, though in a friendship that spanned six thousand years, was really rather inconsequential. Aziraphale wasn't sure if Crowley was just going to sleep through the rest of the century, and he found himself thinking it would be quite a shame if he did.
He stared at his phone, the one with an old rotary dial that he'd kept in good condition since he'd bought it in the 1930s, but thought to himself that he'd get around to it tomorrow. After all, people in general did not like to be disturbed from their sleep and he imagined that if it wasn't important, he probably shouldn't, just in case.
A month later, he'd come around to picking up the phone, and even dialed in a single digit, before hanging up once more.
Aziraphale was in the shop when he'd heard a hard knock. ]
Terribly sorry, but we're closed!
[ The knocking persists, so Aziraphale eventually gets up from his desk and musters up a polite but stern expression. Yet, when the door swings open, it falls from his face. ]
Crowley! Heavens, are you quite alright?
He stared at his phone, the one with an old rotary dial that he'd kept in good condition since he'd bought it in the 1930s, but thought to himself that he'd get around to it tomorrow. After all, people in general did not like to be disturbed from their sleep and he imagined that if it wasn't important, he probably shouldn't, just in case.
A month later, he'd come around to picking up the phone, and even dialed in a single digit, before hanging up once more.
Aziraphale was in the shop when he'd heard a hard knock. ]
Terribly sorry, but we're closed!
[ The knocking persists, so Aziraphale eventually gets up from his desk and musters up a polite but stern expression. Yet, when the door swings open, it falls from his face. ]
Crowley! Heavens, are you quite alright?
[ Painful things had happened during the Second World War, things that didn’t really bear thinking about. Seeing Aziraphale towards the beginning of it had been the bright spot in an otherwise terrible, awful slog of years which had put a point to the abhorrent things humans could do to one another, demonic influence barely necessary. Crowley didn’t want to think about them, though since the war was at the forefront of his most recent memories of Earth, it was hard to get away from. It was easy enough to get oneself discorporated in the middle of all that violence, if one wasn’t careful enough, and towards the end he hadn’t been.
He found nearly a decade had passed when he finally managed to get himself back to Earth. Not so long in the grand scheme of things, but a depressingly long time to spend Below with no better company that Hastur and Ligur and, on more unpleasant occasions, Beelzebub. It didn’t surprise him, really, to find himself outside of the bookshop, rather soon after he’d gotten back. He would have wanted to see Aziraphale even under the best of circumstances, which these certainly weren’t. It was always disconcerting, coming back, trying to catch up on everything you’d missed.
His hard knock on the door finally caught attention from within; Crowley wasn’t sure if Aziraphale had opened the shop a day since the 1700s. ]
Hello, Aziraphale.
[ He wanted to think of something quippy to say, but it wasn’t coming to mind. Crowley was aware he was letting the doorjam take most of his weight, as though a step one way or the other would result in collapse. ]
Yeah, yeah, all’s fine. Do you have anything to drink?
He found nearly a decade had passed when he finally managed to get himself back to Earth. Not so long in the grand scheme of things, but a depressingly long time to spend Below with no better company that Hastur and Ligur and, on more unpleasant occasions, Beelzebub. It didn’t surprise him, really, to find himself outside of the bookshop, rather soon after he’d gotten back. He would have wanted to see Aziraphale even under the best of circumstances, which these certainly weren’t. It was always disconcerting, coming back, trying to catch up on everything you’d missed.
His hard knock on the door finally caught attention from within; Crowley wasn’t sure if Aziraphale had opened the shop a day since the 1700s. ]
Hello, Aziraphale.
[ He wanted to think of something quippy to say, but it wasn’t coming to mind. Crowley was aware he was letting the doorjam take most of his weight, as though a step one way or the other would result in collapse. ]
Yeah, yeah, all’s fine. Do you have anything to drink?
Edited (Something happened to a sentence ) 2019-06-26 19:30 (UTC)
[ Aziraphale had the shop open just about every day, except Sunday, thank you very much, though his hours were variable and highly subject to change at any moment's notice. Despite all this, the store still stood, which was a good thing as it was now a receptacle for a demon about to tumble onto the carpets adorning his floor. ]
Of course. Let me get you something to drink, do come in.
[ He reaches out his arms to guide Crowley into the foyer, ready to take the brunt of his weight should the need arise. He has many thoughts in his head, like what happened and who did this and are you in trouble and why didn't you call me sooner? But he frowns and fusses, kicking the door closed behind them and trying to get Crowley a nice cushy chair to fall into so he can be free to go retrieve that requested drink. ]
I hope wine is alright.
[ He pours a glass for Crowley, himself still armed with a tea he'd been nursing for the past hour or so; it's gone cold now but he warms it up in his hands with liberal use of angelic miracles. ]
Pardon my saying so, but I really don't think all is fine.
[ Aziraphale lasted so long not saying anything, too. ]
Of course. Let me get you something to drink, do come in.
[ He reaches out his arms to guide Crowley into the foyer, ready to take the brunt of his weight should the need arise. He has many thoughts in his head, like what happened and who did this and are you in trouble and why didn't you call me sooner? But he frowns and fusses, kicking the door closed behind them and trying to get Crowley a nice cushy chair to fall into so he can be free to go retrieve that requested drink. ]
I hope wine is alright.
[ He pours a glass for Crowley, himself still armed with a tea he'd been nursing for the past hour or so; it's gone cold now but he warms it up in his hands with liberal use of angelic miracles. ]
Pardon my saying so, but I really don't think all is fine.
[ Aziraphale lasted so long not saying anything, too. ]
[ Crowley doesn't usually lean on Aziraphale--not as a literal figure of speech, but now seems to be the exception, his steps stumble slightly as he's led in through the door and Aziraphale's arms are right there. Crowley lets him have a little, just a little bit of his weight as he guides him to a chair, not unselfconscious about it but simply glad to be back, to be here, in the very familiar atmosphere of the bookshop. Aziraphale's chair is soft and comfortable and he sinks back into the cushions until he looks as though his spine has half-melted, tilting his head up towards Aziraphale and nodding at the offer of wine.
Something tight in his chest, something that felt a little like a vice clamped painfully taut beneath his ribs since the moment he found himself back in Hell finally begins to ease a little. He lets out a slow breath, just because it feels good to do so even if he doesn't technically need to breathe, and reaches out for the glass Aziraphale pours for him. ]
Oh, I got discorporated.
[ It doesn't surprise Crowley that Aziraphale didn't manage to hold his silence. If there's one thing that can be counted on, it's his concern: bothersome sometimes, but at the moment Crowley rather feels like basking in it, as though basking in the touch of warm sunshine. ]
Towards the end of the war. Couldn't send you any word, it all happened too fast.
Something tight in his chest, something that felt a little like a vice clamped painfully taut beneath his ribs since the moment he found himself back in Hell finally begins to ease a little. He lets out a slow breath, just because it feels good to do so even if he doesn't technically need to breathe, and reaches out for the glass Aziraphale pours for him. ]
Oh, I got discorporated.
[ It doesn't surprise Crowley that Aziraphale didn't manage to hold his silence. If there's one thing that can be counted on, it's his concern: bothersome sometimes, but at the moment Crowley rather feels like basking in it, as though basking in the touch of warm sunshine. ]
Towards the end of the war. Couldn't send you any word, it all happened too fast.
Edited 2019-06-27 11:09 (UTC)
Oh, Crowley. Is that why you haven't been in touch?
[ He should've been more on top of things. After all, last time they'd met, Crowley had walked onto consecrated ground for him, had saved him from his own discorporation, and had even saved his books. That demon knew Aziraphale so well, was always so willing to lend him a hand. His eyes get a little misty thinking that he could've prevented this, and that he would've called if he could.
But he blinks those away.
He also imagines that along with the copious amounts of paperwork involved, Crowley's bosses aren't the type to enjoying restoring his old one, threaten him with the idea of having to maybe wear around a different skin. And that would've been dreadful. ]
Well don't tell me you've come all this way to do it a second time, what can I do for you?
[ It would be a dreadful shame for this to be the last time they see each other in the twentieth century. And it's coming up, it's more than halfway over, even. ]
[ He should've been more on top of things. After all, last time they'd met, Crowley had walked onto consecrated ground for him, had saved him from his own discorporation, and had even saved his books. That demon knew Aziraphale so well, was always so willing to lend him a hand. His eyes get a little misty thinking that he could've prevented this, and that he would've called if he could.
But he blinks those away.
He also imagines that along with the copious amounts of paperwork involved, Crowley's bosses aren't the type to enjoying restoring his old one, threaten him with the idea of having to maybe wear around a different skin. And that would've been dreadful. ]
Well don't tell me you've come all this way to do it a second time, what can I do for you?
[ It would be a dreadful shame for this to be the last time they see each other in the twentieth century. And it's coming up, it's more than halfway over, even. ]
I'd have sent to you if I could.
[ For some reason it seems important to him that Aziraphale know this. They've relied on one another over the years, though they've had plenty of time apart as well, going a decade or more without seeing one another before the needs of their Arrangement bring them back together again. It's just that something seems to have changed recently, perhaps from the last time they met in the church; perhaps it was Crowley who changed, because some centuries or millennia ago he wouldn't have believed that he would walk willingly onto sacred ground to save anyone, any angel, even one who was his friend. But when the time came, it wasn’t anything that needed wrestling with, or even a moment’s consideration. Aziraphale needed him, and that was all.
As for the books, that was just because Crowley hated seeing him unhappy. ]
No, no, of course not. Not about to discorprate again, if that's what worries you. [ The wine glass in his hand is dangerously close to tipping over the arm of Aziraphale's chair. He must be looking rather pathetic, Crowley imagines. He was already a little ways towards drunk already, before he came here, but he swallows a deep gulp of the wine before speaking. ]
I hate Hell. Hated being back there. [ It's really not a nice place for anyone to have to spend a lot of time in, even a demon. ] But, you know, I thought of you. In this...your bookshop. [ He waves the glass around in his hand. ] Afraid it might be bombed in the war. You stayed safe?
[ For some reason it seems important to him that Aziraphale know this. They've relied on one another over the years, though they've had plenty of time apart as well, going a decade or more without seeing one another before the needs of their Arrangement bring them back together again. It's just that something seems to have changed recently, perhaps from the last time they met in the church; perhaps it was Crowley who changed, because some centuries or millennia ago he wouldn't have believed that he would walk willingly onto sacred ground to save anyone, any angel, even one who was his friend. But when the time came, it wasn’t anything that needed wrestling with, or even a moment’s consideration. Aziraphale needed him, and that was all.
As for the books, that was just because Crowley hated seeing him unhappy. ]
No, no, of course not. Not about to discorprate again, if that's what worries you. [ The wine glass in his hand is dangerously close to tipping over the arm of Aziraphale's chair. He must be looking rather pathetic, Crowley imagines. He was already a little ways towards drunk already, before he came here, but he swallows a deep gulp of the wine before speaking. ]
I hate Hell. Hated being back there. [ It's really not a nice place for anyone to have to spend a lot of time in, even a demon. ] But, you know, I thought of you. In this...your bookshop. [ He waves the glass around in his hand. ] Afraid it might be bombed in the war. You stayed safe?
[ Oh, Crowley. Aziraphale's eyes widen when Crowley asks over him, as if he had any doubts that Crowley thought of him while he was in Hell. But of course he did; Aziraphale would think of Crowley -- his strongest connection to this Earth that he loves. But it's sweet to hear, after all these years, a confirmation. ]
Perfectly safe.
[ Though he's performed several miracles and got into some tight spots, but reports were sent and nothing else of extreme note had happened. Things were, on the whole, at least much better than they had been in the fifteenth century. Crowley would surely agree. ]
Thanks to you. Are you very sure you're not hurt somehow?
[ Healing generally doesn't fall under the category of frivolous, and Aziraphale had also found several anatomy books over the years and feels like he might have a good grasp of medicine, at least up until the 1700s. Now is probably not the time to put theory to practice, but at the very least, things wouldn't go to total shit.
He surveys Crowley, having categorized all his little gestures and gait long ago, finding all the minute differences. ]
Perfectly safe.
[ Though he's performed several miracles and got into some tight spots, but reports were sent and nothing else of extreme note had happened. Things were, on the whole, at least much better than they had been in the fifteenth century. Crowley would surely agree. ]
Thanks to you. Are you very sure you're not hurt somehow?
[ Healing generally doesn't fall under the category of frivolous, and Aziraphale had also found several anatomy books over the years and feels like he might have a good grasp of medicine, at least up until the 1700s. Now is probably not the time to put theory to practice, but at the very least, things wouldn't go to total shit.
He surveys Crowley, having categorized all his little gestures and gait long ago, finding all the minute differences. ]
[ Crowley nods, looking up at Aziraphale through the dark lenses of his glasses, closing his eyes briefly when he takes another long drink of the wine but then opening them again to watch him. It's...comforting, somehow, to watch the angel here in his own domain, whole and well as he promises. It gives Crowley a sense that he, too, is at last in a place where things might be well again, at least for a little while. ]
That's good. That's good to hear.
[ He waves the hand not holding the wine glass, dismissing the credit Aziraphale gives him. ] I'm all right. [ The angel's regard is almost palpable. It makes Crowley think briefly of taking off his shades, which he hardly ever does, even around Aziraphale, unless he's quite drunk--maybe he's well on the way there already, he thinks, taking another drink. ] It's--you won't find what you're looking for, angel. No wounds. See?
[ Spreading his arms out, he offers himself to Aziraphale's gaze. ]
It's just--
[ He stops, searching for words to explain what is going on, why he can't seem to--feel like his old self again. ]
That war, it was so terrible, Aziraphale. The things they did to each other. Did you see much of it?
That's good. That's good to hear.
[ He waves the hand not holding the wine glass, dismissing the credit Aziraphale gives him. ] I'm all right. [ The angel's regard is almost palpable. It makes Crowley think briefly of taking off his shades, which he hardly ever does, even around Aziraphale, unless he's quite drunk--maybe he's well on the way there already, he thinks, taking another drink. ] It's--you won't find what you're looking for, angel. No wounds. See?
[ Spreading his arms out, he offers himself to Aziraphale's gaze. ]
It's just--
[ He stops, searching for words to explain what is going on, why he can't seem to--feel like his old self again. ]
That war, it was so terrible, Aziraphale. The things they did to each other. Did you see much of it?
I didn't see much of the fighting, no.
[ But he had seen the injured soldiers, had seen the aftermath of all the loss, all the rebuilding. He'd always been faithful, but even he had to feel tested. He'd tried to intervene with the Upstairs, but naturally everything was all part of a bigger plan. It wasn't his to question. ]
But it was awful. I had almost forgotten that humans were capable of such cruelty.
[ Or maybe he'd just grown to believe they'd finally learn that they are all the same, that they need to look after each other.
Meanwhile, Aziraphale starts to poke Crowley gently in the arm and then down his side, just to check. When he's satisfied finding nothing, he breathes a sigh of relief and visibly un-tenses. ]
Everything will be alright, Crowley. You must believe that.
[ But he had seen the injured soldiers, had seen the aftermath of all the loss, all the rebuilding. He'd always been faithful, but even he had to feel tested. He'd tried to intervene with the Upstairs, but naturally everything was all part of a bigger plan. It wasn't his to question. ]
But it was awful. I had almost forgotten that humans were capable of such cruelty.
[ Or maybe he'd just grown to believe they'd finally learn that they are all the same, that they need to look after each other.
Meanwhile, Aziraphale starts to poke Crowley gently in the arm and then down his side, just to check. When he's satisfied finding nothing, he breathes a sigh of relief and visibly un-tenses. ]
Everything will be alright, Crowley. You must believe that.
He wasn't sure where it had all gone wrong--
Well, that wasn't true. He knew exactly where it had all gone wrong, did Crowley.
The Italian countryside in the 13th century wasn't his favorite place to be, so far in the last several millennia of Earth's existence, but it wasn't the worst either. It should have been an easy enough job, to get up there and mess with the burgeoning little crusade the French had going on, bunch of young peasants following around some shepherd boy on the notion that they were all going to the Holy Land, misguided by the boy's ridiculous claim that he carried a letter from Jesus Christ. Last time Crowley had seen that poor bugger he'd been on his cross, and hadn't made it back to Earth in person yet from what Crowley'd heard, though his followers were always claiming this or that as a portent for the end times. He knew what his bosses wanted, for the crusaders to reach the Mediterranean and march into the arms of the slave trade business that was thriving in the area. But though Crowley enjoyed a holy crusade dissolving into chaos as much as the next demon, he didn't particularly enjoy the wailing of children, so he diverted the slavers with a few shipwrecks (nasty time of year to be sailing the Mediterranean, he'd tell Hastur, always storms around) and intercepted the crusade near the southern coast of Italy.
It should have been so easy to stop them there--curse this so-called letter, make it so that the next time the shepherd boy tried reading it his flock he'd start gibbering in unholy tongues and they'd likely all run away screaming. All very simple, he thought, until he touched the letter.
It burned like he imagined holy water must feel in those few terrible moments before your body simply combusted and ceased to exist. Except Crowley didn't combust, he just went on and on burning, the blackened scorch-marks and oozing red, raw wounds scoring his palms, crawling slowly up the insides of his wrists, his forearms, beginning to creep past his elbows when he'd taken shelter in some fisherman's hut and collapsed against the brackish-smelling floor. There he closed his eyes and grit his teeth and concentrating on trying to combat it, trying to push the holiness out, curses forcing themselves past his lips as hours crawled by and he managed only to slow the burns' progression.
Well, that wasn't true. He knew exactly where it had all gone wrong, did Crowley.
The Italian countryside in the 13th century wasn't his favorite place to be, so far in the last several millennia of Earth's existence, but it wasn't the worst either. It should have been an easy enough job, to get up there and mess with the burgeoning little crusade the French had going on, bunch of young peasants following around some shepherd boy on the notion that they were all going to the Holy Land, misguided by the boy's ridiculous claim that he carried a letter from Jesus Christ. Last time Crowley had seen that poor bugger he'd been on his cross, and hadn't made it back to Earth in person yet from what Crowley'd heard, though his followers were always claiming this or that as a portent for the end times. He knew what his bosses wanted, for the crusaders to reach the Mediterranean and march into the arms of the slave trade business that was thriving in the area. But though Crowley enjoyed a holy crusade dissolving into chaos as much as the next demon, he didn't particularly enjoy the wailing of children, so he diverted the slavers with a few shipwrecks (nasty time of year to be sailing the Mediterranean, he'd tell Hastur, always storms around) and intercepted the crusade near the southern coast of Italy.
It should have been so easy to stop them there--curse this so-called letter, make it so that the next time the shepherd boy tried reading it his flock he'd start gibbering in unholy tongues and they'd likely all run away screaming. All very simple, he thought, until he touched the letter.
It burned like he imagined holy water must feel in those few terrible moments before your body simply combusted and ceased to exist. Except Crowley didn't combust, he just went on and on burning, the blackened scorch-marks and oozing red, raw wounds scoring his palms, crawling slowly up the insides of his wrists, his forearms, beginning to creep past his elbows when he'd taken shelter in some fisherman's hut and collapsed against the brackish-smelling floor. There he closed his eyes and grit his teeth and concentrating on trying to combat it, trying to push the holiness out, curses forcing themselves past his lips as hours crawled by and he managed only to slow the burns' progression.
Edited 2019-06-30 18:12 (UTC)
As it happens, Aziraphale is also in the Italian countryside, although he has nothing to do with the Crusades. The Great Plan is rather ambivalent about the entire affair. Whether the Crusaders win or lose, somebody's faith in a higher power will be strengthened. A bit like sporting matches, in that sense.
No, Aziraphale is merely here to bless some local fisherman with their daily catch, and maybe sample the seafood if he has some extra time. It's why he's entering this simple hut, although thoughts of his task vanish when he takes sight of the man huddling on the floor, his arms covered in burns.
"Oh, dear. Are you all right... Crowley?!" There is a perfect combination of confusion, alarm, and bone-deep worry in the way he says the demon's name. He rushes over and kneels in front of him. "What in heaven's name happened to you?"
No, Aziraphale is merely here to bless some local fisherman with their daily catch, and maybe sample the seafood if he has some extra time. It's why he's entering this simple hut, although thoughts of his task vanish when he takes sight of the man huddling on the floor, his arms covered in burns.
"Oh, dear. Are you all right... Crowley?!" There is a perfect combination of confusion, alarm, and bone-deep worry in the way he says the demon's name. He rushes over and kneels in front of him. "What in heaven's name happened to you?"
Edited 2019-06-30 23:14 (UTC)
Ah, well, you don't really...really forget, us demons. [ More wine, this line of thinking calls for. He drinks again, and looks bemusedly at Aziraphale as he starts poking along his arm and his side, apparently checking for any sign of injury. There are none, but he obligingly holds still for the angel anyway, and then when Aziraphale is done and looking relieved, he reaches for the wine bottle and pours his glass full again. ]
Mmm. See? I told you.
[ He studies Aziraphale when he tells him that everything will be all right. Will it? He'd like to believe so, but it's Aziraphale who has the faith, not him. ]
Come and sit with me, angel. Drink your wine. Tell me--tell me what you've been up to.
Mmm. See? I told you.
[ He studies Aziraphale when he tells him that everything will be all right. Will it? He'd like to believe so, but it's Aziraphale who has the faith, not him. ]
Come and sit with me, angel. Drink your wine. Tell me--tell me what you've been up to.
The pain of the burns and his efforts to hold them back from spreading across his entire body occupy nearly all of his focus, so that Crowley is barely aware of it when the door to the hut opens. He'd be doomed if it was some fervent young priest chasing after the demon who tried to curse the crusade, determined to bless him out of existence. Hell, if it was some fisherman's wife come in to scream at him and beat him with a bit of basket weaving he wouldn't be much good for defending himself against her, either. It isn't either of those things, though. Crowley lifts his head at the sound of his name, his features tight with pain, brows drawn together as he struggles for concentration. Nothing shields his eyes: his dark spectacles fell away somewhere as he stumbled here, and he's forgotten about them entirely as he looks up at Aziraphale.
"A-Aziraphale?" It is him, unmistakably alarmed as he kneels down in front of him. As well he might be, seeing him like this, and if Crowley had any presence of mind for it he'd be deeply infuriated to have Aziraphale see him in this agonizing state, writhing like a worm on a hook, but as it is--
"What...what are you..." He cuts himself off with a groan and a withering curse. "Ah--fuck--holy fucking relic--"
"A-Aziraphale?" It is him, unmistakably alarmed as he kneels down in front of him. As well he might be, seeing him like this, and if Crowley had any presence of mind for it he'd be deeply infuriated to have Aziraphale see him in this agonizing state, writhing like a worm on a hook, but as it is--
"What...what are you..." He cuts himself off with a groan and a withering curse. "Ah--fuck--holy fucking relic--"
[ It's not that Aziraphale forgets, either, but just that his faith is strong, his optimism thoroughly unshakable. He hadn't wanted to drown an entire civilization of humans, but it was God's will. And so this must have been as well, hadn't it been? They've seen the good, bad and ugly of the human condition, hadn't they? They'd lived through wars and god-emperors and dictators alike, this was just the latest iteration.
Nevertheless, he can see how this one has particularly gotten to Crowley. Maybe it's the last straw, maybe he's just tired for being blamed for such atrocities. In either case, Aziraphale pours himself a glass and slots himself on the cushy couch next to Crowley, half on his arm simply due to the lack of geographic space on said couch. ]
Oh, well. The usual.
[ Closing up shop early, not selling a thing, and looking up every page or two from his tomes, pointedly at the phone as if it might ring or else catch on fire. Normal. ]
But it's been quite dull without you.
Nevertheless, he can see how this one has particularly gotten to Crowley. Maybe it's the last straw, maybe he's just tired for being blamed for such atrocities. In either case, Aziraphale pours himself a glass and slots himself on the cushy couch next to Crowley, half on his arm simply due to the lack of geographic space on said couch. ]
Oh, well. The usual.
[ Closing up shop early, not selling a thing, and looking up every page or two from his tomes, pointedly at the phone as if it might ring or else catch on fire. Normal. ]
But it's been quite dull without you.
In all his previous encounters with Crowley, he's never seen him in such pain. It tugs at his heart instinctively. Or perhaps not instinctively, because any other angel worth their wings wouldn't care. Any other angel would likely hurry the job along so they could get a commendation for their trouble. They certainly wouldn't attempt to heal the demon.
None of this ever crosses Aziraphale's mind. He lifts up his hands, preparing to lay them on Crowley and undo the damage. But then he hears what Crowley says and freezes in something akin to fear. Because if these burns are from a holy relic, then attempting to miracle away the trauma will only make things worse. So much worse.
Oh, no.
"Why were you touching a -- oh, Crowley, honestly! Were you planning to take a bath in holy water next?" His chiding tone only partly hides his anxiety as he lowers his hands and wrings the hem of his tunic. "Listen, you... you keep fighting off the holiness, I'll gather up some salve and gauze to treat the burns themselves. Otherwise they'll heal poorly."
None of this ever crosses Aziraphale's mind. He lifts up his hands, preparing to lay them on Crowley and undo the damage. But then he hears what Crowley says and freezes in something akin to fear. Because if these burns are from a holy relic, then attempting to miracle away the trauma will only make things worse. So much worse.
Oh, no.
"Why were you touching a -- oh, Crowley, honestly! Were you planning to take a bath in holy water next?" His chiding tone only partly hides his anxiety as he lowers his hands and wrings the hem of his tunic. "Listen, you... you keep fighting off the holiness, I'll gather up some salve and gauze to treat the burns themselves. Otherwise they'll heal poorly."
Edited 2019-07-01 00:40 (UTC)
Shivering, Crowley attempts to straighten up and sit back against the wall behind him, closing his eyes briefly so he won't go on looking at Aziraphale as if pleading for relief from this exquisite torment. The angel's sudden appearance made him hope, however briefly, that he would know what to do about this, though Crowley knew as well as Aziraphale that if there was one thing an angel could not do, it was simply miracle away holiness.
"Didn't plan on it," he snaps, or attempts to, the snarl in his voice rather less biting and more anxious himself when it comes out. If even Aziraphale can't heal this, is he going to end up consumed by it after all?
He lets out a little hissing laugh when Aziraphale worries about the burns healing poorly: Crowley's not sure he'll be around long enough where that will be a concern, but all right, he'll do as he's told. Closing his eyes again, conserving himself rather than replying, he goes back to attempting to force the burns to stop spreading and recede.
"Didn't plan on it," he snaps, or attempts to, the snarl in his voice rather less biting and more anxious himself when it comes out. If even Aziraphale can't heal this, is he going to end up consumed by it after all?
He lets out a little hissing laugh when Aziraphale worries about the burns healing poorly: Crowley's not sure he'll be around long enough where that will be a concern, but all right, he'll do as he's told. Closing his eyes again, conserving himself rather than replying, he goes back to attempting to force the burns to stop spreading and recede.
[ Ah, yes, divine will. Crowley's sure that God had Her hand in it, just as Aziraphale is, moving all the little pieces around on the gameboard in accordance with Her plan. But why must it be such a cruel plan? Does She really want Her creation behaving in such ways to one another? He wishes he could ask sometimes.
Aziraphale sitting so close makes him think of simply tipping to the side and letting his head rest against the angel's shoulder. He might just do it, after another drink or so. ]
Yeah? What's the usual then?
[ It would be nice, he thinks, just to hear Aziraphale talk. Even if it's about utterly mundane things, puttering around with his books and his shop or what delicious new dessert he's lately tried. Anything he had to say, Crowley would listen to. ]
Oh, angel. You shouldn't say that, it'll go to my head.
Aziraphale sitting so close makes him think of simply tipping to the side and letting his head rest against the angel's shoulder. He might just do it, after another drink or so. ]
Yeah? What's the usual then?
[ It would be nice, he thinks, just to hear Aziraphale talk. Even if it's about utterly mundane things, puttering around with his books and his shop or what delicious new dessert he's lately tried. Anything he had to say, Crowley would listen to. ]
Oh, angel. You shouldn't say that, it'll go to my head.
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.
"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.
Edited 2019-07-01 11:50 (UTC)
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.
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.
Please, he thinks to himself. Please don't leave.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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."
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."
Oh, it already has.
[ He hasn't minded in a few decades, maybe a century or two. In fact, though their Arrangement has existed for a thousand years, it's quite recent in the scope of their friendship. And though Aziraphale has more or less always felt certain affections towards Crowley, they've certainly magnified lately.
And Aziraphale hasn't gained the powers of mind reading just yet, but he reaches over and draws Crowley's shoulder near, to tip his head on his shoulder since it's just more comfortable to sit that way. Obviously. Clearly no ulterior motive can be had. ]
I've got several new books. A nice lady moved in next door with her two cats. I'm not very fond of the cats, but she's pleasant enough.
[ Crowley, you asked. ]
[ He hasn't minded in a few decades, maybe a century or two. In fact, though their Arrangement has existed for a thousand years, it's quite recent in the scope of their friendship. And though Aziraphale has more or less always felt certain affections towards Crowley, they've certainly magnified lately.
And Aziraphale hasn't gained the powers of mind reading just yet, but he reaches over and draws Crowley's shoulder near, to tip his head on his shoulder since it's just more comfortable to sit that way. Obviously. Clearly no ulterior motive can be had. ]
I've got several new books. A nice lady moved in next door with her two cats. I'm not very fond of the cats, but she's pleasant enough.
[ Crowley, you asked. ]
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