Work Text:
Crowley’s been rather sick of explosions ever since the 40’s, when the humans really fell in love with making big, fiery, noisy shows out of their destructive impulses. London reminded him too much of Hell in those days, so he mostly stayed away. Not that fire bothers him, of course, except in all the ways that it does.
He didn’t expect water to be the thing that killed him.
Holy water isn’t exactly abundant, and by all rights, he never should have come near it. He doesn’t make a habit of strolling into churches, despite what some people may think. He’s fuzzy on how he even ended up here. Smoke is in the air and his ears ring. There’d been some sort of riot going on in the streets, the kind that escalated into throwing rocks, and then explosives. Handheld little bombs, how about that? The toys humans come up with nowadays.
He and Aziraphale got separated. Crowley’s ducked under the nearest awning to get out of the way - which turns out to be the front facade of a church because of course it is - and tries to catch his breath. At least this ground doesn’t burn him, not as long as he stays outside. His head still spins from a pipe bomb that detonated a little too close. Stupid, he should know by now that large crowds of humans tend to become annoyingly dangerous. He manages to keep his feet, doubled over with his hands on his knees, and somewhere to the right of him Aziraphale shouts his name. He sounds frightened and it cuts through the disorientation.
Crowley’s head shoots up and he watches one of those little bombs roll under the stoup full of holy water next to the church doors, not ten meters from him. In the same moment he sees it, the bowl explodes. The spray of holy water comes at him like some great lunging beast and Crowley realizes there is nothing he can do. There’s no time; he'll be dissolved from the mist alone, before his clothes are even damp. He finds himself looking wildly for Aziraphale, not because he thinks he'll be saved but because...well, why not? As last sights go, there’s none much better than an angel. Than this angel.
Aziraphale’s suddenly right on top of him, slamming into him with a force that takes him off his feet. He lands in a cocoon of feathers as Aziraphale’s wings manifest and whip around him. Aziraphale’s knees hit the ground with a painful-sounding thump and he hunches over Crowley to cover him. Crowley’s arms end up squashed against Aziraphale’s front and his legs are scooped up inside one wing’s cradle. The other wraps around his torso. Feathers brush the back of his neck. Crowley stares dumbfounded at the angel’s bow tie, which is millimeters from his nose as Aziraphale presses his head into his chest. His other hand is on Crowley’s back, fingers twisted in his jacket.
Crowley hadn't even seen him move.
He remembers that despite Azirphale’s soft appearance, he is a Principality. He was made to guard the gates of Eden; he was made to protect. The wings around Crowley are not just hollow bones and feathers, they are an iron shield. Soft as they are, he can feel the strength in the lines of bone structure surrounding him. Crowley had always thought they would burn him if he ever dared to touch.
Water splashes over and around them and bits of marble clatter on the ground. Crowley can barely hear any of it over the crowd’s shouting. Thankfully, they sound like they’re scattering to get away from the recent explosion. Aziraphale holds him a moment longer and his heart thunders under Crowley’s ear. They breathe. Then angelic energy flares and Crowley assumes it’s to vanish the rest of the water.
Aziraphale pushes him back and his hands flit over his waist, up his arms, and finally grip both sides of his face as he demands, “Are you all right?” His eyes are big and frantic, as if Crowley could ever be hurt while in that sort of embrace. Not a drop had touched him.
“Uh,” Crowley says. “I’m - I’m fine, of course I’m fine. Perfectly tip top...and all that.” Something about Aziraphale’s face - that look he’s never seen before, most certainly not directed at him - is making his tongue trip all over itself. He can’t even hide behind his sunglasses, they’ve flown off somewhere.
Aziraphale’s face softens and his hands relax on Crowley’s face, though they don’t fall away. His thumbs drag down Crowley’s cheekbones. “Oh, thank God.” His head sags forward a bit and comes to rest against Crowley’s forehead. “I wasn’t sure if I could…” He trails off.
Crowley hasn’t been touched this much in - well, ever. It’s doing weird things to his insides. He should say thank you, but if he opens his mouth again, nothing coherent is going to come out. Neither of them have quite figured out how to thank each other yet.
Aziraphale finally lets go off his face and pats his shoulders. His wings pull back, lowering Crowley gently to the ground, and vanish from sight. Crowley immediately misses them. Aziraphale rises to his feet and offers him a hand up. “You really must be more careful.”
Crowley sputters. “That you have the audacity to say that to me…”
Aziraphale lets go of his hand once he’s on his feet and Crowley misses that, too. This whole business has got him acting ridiculous. He blames it on the near-death experience.
Aziraphale rolls his shoulders, smiles, and says, “I don’t think I want to be here right now.” He shakes dust out of his curls and herds Crowley around the back of the church, away from the street. They walk quickly, nearly shoulder to shoulder - or rather, Aziraphale walks quickly and Crowley gets pulled along by a hand under his elbow. Aziraphale’s wings stay gone, but Crowley can almost feel one of them hovering just behind him, guarding his back.