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The drive was, quite simply, terrifying.
It would have been unsettling regardless, London still unnaturally empty, shouts and orders loud in their fear and determination yet ghostly in their distance, and the only illumination from either white spotlights aimed upward or glowing red flames flickering shadows, reflections from deeper in another part of the city. Even with the blaring alarms and bombers gone, destruction haunted the dark above them, a great growling terror as unstopped as unpredictable.
Broken from his own realizations, the remains of the church around him and the satchel of books safe, he followed after Crowley to the dark, shiny car, able to make out little else of it. They began slowly. No headlights, not a surprise in the dark, even if he'd not removed his sunglasses either. He still maneuvered through the depressing clutter, steering the sleek car around broken masonry and cracks in the road from earlier attacks. The books in safely Aziraphale's lap, weighing him to the seat with everything they represented, he remained as still as Crowley was silent. Not fidgeting with the handle, he didn't know if he wanted Crowley to start up with a sudden observation or if he preferred the protection of the quiet.
However, everything else disappeared from his mind - the near discorporation, potential paperwork and embarrassment avoid, Crowley's diverted bomb, his miracle to save the two of them, Crowley saving the books - when they reached clear, undamaged streets and the car roared. Still without headlights, still wearing sunglasses, Crowley's grin split his face and he whooped as Aziraphale yelled. If he had time to think, clutching the satchel of books close to his chest and bracing his other arm against the vehicle, he would've believed Crowley saved him before only to discorporate him now. In fact, he may have accused him of it, among other rushed and ignored orders. Crowley just laughed.
Faster than the redirected bomb plummeted, they flew down the streets. As soon as the car glided to a perfect stop just outside the bookshop, when Aziraphale no longer needed to brace himself, he dropped his hand and wretched at the handle. It didn't open, he was trapped in the demon's car.
"Careful, angel, you'll break the door off if-"
It clicked, the door swung open and Aziraphale tumbled out, satchel still clutched tightly, but he managed to keep his feet under him and straightened. Gasping for air, regardless how little he depended on breathing, he avoided looking at the horrid vehicle. Across the street, his shop was lightless, the windows protectively boarded. No lights anywhere. Everywhere in the city, humans either pretended at sleep or dared light only in the deepest, windowless room. London was dark.
The aftermath of the bombing too far to hear from Soho and the car now rested. No sound but his own ragged breathing.
"I appreciate the ride," he managed. In the dark, still city, his panic felt misdirected. "If not the speed."
"The speed's the best part." Crowley still sat in the car, leaning between seats with his huge grin as he looked up at him.
"Well," he began. He should say goodnight, escape into his own silent, dark home and escape the embarrassing and emotional night. After it all, he should take time to think, to reconcile his... his epiphany from the book's salvation with thousands of years of, well, friendship. Compare what he knew now to what he'd known all along without realizing it. Except he'd not seen Crowley since that day in St. James Park. Regardless the Arrangement and any help they could've given each other, regardless the fads that came and went, and regardless, even if Aziraphale only observed those fads, he so easily imagined the demon enjoying them. The speed was the best part.
"Would you like to come in? The rations haven't affected my cellars."
"Sounds divine, angel," he replied. A new shiver ran down Aziraphale's spine at the familiar tone, at words so common he couldn't recall when they'd become comfortable.
When he leaned into the car as he stood, Aziraphale believed he just wanted to touch the new machine more. Crowley had a thing for machines, after all, and this one when far too fast to be denied. Undoubtedly, it would be as black in the sunlight as it was in the dark.
And he crossed the street with the same swagger, his hips ever unconcerned they connect to legs instead of a tail, yet his balance seemed infinitesimally off as he mounted the few steps. After their long separation, and Aziraphale's new heightened awareness of all Crowley’s movements, it could be anything, but while holding the door open for him, he watched more careful as Crowley meandered through the front of the shop, already chatting about how few changes happened since his last visit.
Those were definitely shoes, complete with shoelaces. Even for himself, his saunter was imbalanced.
"Worse than barefoot on a beach, I believe." The door locked behind him and he snapped his fingers, illuminating the back of the shop without allowing a hint of light to pass any of the covered windows, his home as dark as so many others in Soho. "Go sit down. I'll get some water and bandages. And wine," he added before Crowley objected. While the demon grumbled, the angel stashed the satchel under the front desk. No harm would come to them, not within his bookshop, and his demon needed aid. "The couch hasn't move."
"Nothing you own has moved," Crowley shot back. But, thankfully, the promise of wine provided enough enough of an excuse and he headed in the correct direction rather than argue. It must hurt; called on it, he already put all his weight on the outside of his feet. "You don't need to fuss. Just bring bottles and glasses."
Humming in reply, Aziraphale retired to the kitchen to discard his jacket and hat while gathering the supplies, including the wine.
"I cannot agree with you, my dear," he said, all but apologizing as he returned. Setting it all on his desk, he first poured the two glasses of wine and handed Crowley's his and saluted him. He deserved far more, but Aziraphale wasn't sure about a proper toast, not just yet, and he wouldn't be distracted from tending Crowley's pained feet either. "After everything you did tonight, you can't deny a bit of fussing over your well being."
"You don't need-"
"Indulge me." He leaned into the words as he spoke, knowing he could convince the demon with nothing more, or at least with only a little more insistence. On top of it though, even as he spoke he knelt before Crowley. Sprawled on the couch in a mess of limbs, as if he'd not been absent for decades, and now openly staring down at Aziraphale, Crowley made a noise that wasn't refusal. Hiding his smirk, for disarming the demon and getting his way, he leaned back and set aside the wine glass to retrieve the tub and tools he brought.
A hundred years ago, he'd not have guarded his reaction at all. Yet they’d not spoken in so long and Crowley returned to him in the midst of the disaster with the Nazis, in a church. Then the bomb whistling, and his miracle followed immediately by Crowley's miracle. The books and brush of fingers... and then the car, and now...
"I assume you can't heal them," he said, eyes down as he pulled the tubs apart, one for each foot, and set aside the soft, clean cloth, soup and ointment. To ensure they stayed dry, he set the bandages and towels back on the table, then pulled over the bucket of cool water and poured it into the tubs. None of it miracled into existence or blessed, all simple physical objects he took to keeping around the shop, really just to disguise his healing from the humans' notice.
"No," Crowley grumbled, shifting slightly straighter as he tried to find a way to sit with Aziraphale between his knees while careful how he rested his feet. "Not holy injuries. You know, you really don't-"
"I'll do as I please," he replied curtly, and glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, at all of the demon stretched out on his couch, from quite the unique angle. "Just as you did. Nice hat, by the way. I like it."
With a scoff, Crowley gave up his pretense at dignity; his back hit the sofa and he tossed the hat aside. It landed perfectly on the chair's corner, and its absence revealed the short trimmed side and slightly longer wave of hair on top. The wave a hint of his long curls.
"Oh, very nice," he said, openly admiring him as he turned redder and ran a hand through it. Rather than slicked back, it fell helter-skelter, probably matching his wits, and was even more perfect for it. Sprawled again on Aziraphale's couch as if he'd be comfortably nowhere else. "You look quite devilish."
"Could change up yours," he grumbled, hiding behind his wine glass, not even making a pretense of sipping. He still wore his sunglasses, a habit he'd broken before they stopped talking, but given Aziraphale's intentions, he probably intended to hid for other reasons. "Talk to your barber and get something new."
"I'll think on it," he promised, not a lie even if he already finished thinking on it as he spoke. He wanted only to reassure Crowley, and himself, with a moment of familiarity. With a last smile, he glanced up and pretended Crowley didn't already press his body into the sofa. Though Aziraphale couldn't tell through the sunglasses, their eyes must've met because Crowley gave the smallest of shrugs, not in reply to the last comments, and drained his entire glass.
Turning his attention downward, Azirphale rolled up Crowley's cuff, careful not to accidentally jar his foot. Not pink human skin, he’d black scales above his black socks. Aziraphale didn't push the cuff up farther, searching for human skin and a mark of how badly Crowley lost control. Instead, sneaking a glance upward, he checked on Crowley himself, but he'd dropped his head on the back of the sofa, starting at the ceiling. Even more than he'd hate losing control of his appearance, he would hate to have anyone witness it.
Regretting he’d not chosen whiskey instead of wine, he held Crowley's shoe by the back of the heel, closer to the ankle, to untie the laces. In all his imagining, he never expected to undress any part of Crowley like this, and he removed the shoe with far more care than-
"Oh." As soon as released, he could smell the burnt skin and smoke. "Oh, my dear."
"Not as bad as it looks," Crowley said immediately, sitting up and almost pulling his leg back. He'd likely have yanked it away if it wouldn't risk hurting his foot. "Stop worry. There's-"
"I can't see it," Aziraphale snapped, glaring up at the glasses. He could see the smudges of red, even against the black, and the way the sock plastered to his foot more than hinted at the truth. "I'm going to soak it with the sock on first, so it won't... peal more skin off when removed."
Though he opened his mouth to object, or complain, Aziraphale kept frowning at him and Crowley finally shrugged and flopped back again. "Fine. Whatever you like. Not exactly what I expected but probably can't get crepes in London right now anyway."
With a judgmental hum for the jab, undeserved but understandable at the moment, Aziraphale ignored his pout to attend his task. He poured cool water into both tubs and gently set the stocking foot in the first one. Though Crowley hissed, he also sighed in relief and made no further comments while Aziraphale rolled up the other cuff, removed this shoe with even greater care, and lay it into its own tub. With a quick excuse to get more water, and a second pail to rid them of this water, Aziraphale escaped to the kitchen again.
Until this moment, he assumed consecrated ground burned a demon much as coals burned humans. Of course, the ground had not affect on the shoes or socks, they weren't demonic, especially if Crowley only bought them recently, for tonight. And the rest, well, to his angelic senses, it made the obvious all the more obvious. Of course, he knew Crowley was a demon, he'd never forgotten regardless some of his more awkward comments, yet the smell of demonic injury from divine defense hissed at him about the required amenity between them.
Fortunately, it only made the obvious more obvious, a reminder that required no action. With a moment to step away and center himself, almost avoiding the other touch of divine and demonic, which burned neither of them when Crowley handed him the books, Aziraphale could dismiss the annoying obvious. Of course he knew Crowley was a demon, but he needed his help now.
After he filled the bucket with more water, he miracle a second bucket into existence to pour the already used water into. It wouldn't come near the demon's tender feet. Back in the bookstore, Crowley hadn't otherwise moved but his glass was full again and the opened bottle next to him.
"Feel better?" he inquired, purposefully chipper. "Has the water helped?"
"If I say yes, will you stop?"
"So you can drink wine with your stocking feet in in tubs of water? Wouldn't that be worse?" He set the buckets down and allowed a sip of his wine. "Has it been helpful or have I made them hurt more?"
"Better," he grumbled, drawing inward. "Getting the shoes off helped. The water cooled them down, the socks don't pull so much."
Grateful he'd did something right tonight, Azirphale sighed in relief. "Thank you."
When he knelt this time, Crowley didn't blush, just frowned at him, clearly displeased Aziraphale realized his weakness at all rather than aware how much more he appreciated what Crowley risked for his own sake.
"You could have spoken to me before I entered the church," he pointed out. "You needn't have done all of his for me, not hurt yourself nor redirected the bomb. We could have spent the entire evening in, drinking together instead." Sulking behind his sunglasses, Crowley kept his mouth a line and so Aziraphale raised his brows then shrugged himself.
Before reaching into the water, he rolled up his sleeves and thought he heard Crowley sigh, but, though Aziraphale paused, he remained silent so he lifted the sodden foot by the back of the ankle and calf. Equipped with a small pair of scissors, he cut down the center of the sock, forcing himself to ignore Crowley’s quick breath, and, as kindly as he could, peeled the waterlogged sock off. The top of his foot the familiar black snack skin, beneath was all bruised and blisters, those popped and rubbed raw, and the few hints of snack skin red, like his underbelly. Regardless the toes, he foot barely looked human, but it did look painful. Even as Aziraphale opened his mouth, to apologize and sympathize, Crowley finally spoke.
"Didn't know if you'd let me in," he muttered. Blinking at the inflamed foot, Aziraphale belatedly recalled the last comment.
"Oh," he murmured, looking up to Crowley. Other than Crowley looking down at him, he couldn't guess his thoughts. "I would have. I always will."
"Right." But he bit off the word, not questioning or angry, neither believing. Not that Aziraphale ever sought him out after their fight, as doubtful of his own reception and fearful the request would be repeated, and then he greeted Crowley with accusations when he arrived in the church. And, really, for all he was a demon and the Nazis seemed to fall in with that lot, to hear them talk, they cited Heaven more than not. At least Gabriel relaxed all restraints on miracles, regardless how minor, since the bombing started. For once, Aziraphale could heal him without worrying anyone might notice, and yet could still do nothing.
"Always," he promised. "You're always welcome, Crowley."
"Right," he breathed, softer this time and nearly believing him, as much as he would believe anyone would always welcome him. "Right, right." Well, Aziraphale could do a better job of it and, he supposed, he should start now.
"I'll need to pick out the fibers," he apologized, reaching for the tweezers.
"I don't get infections. Nothing in the socks can hurt me. They're not the problem." No, the problem was the damned too close to the sacred, and Crowley's disregard of them afterward. He'd walked calmly after the church fell and didn't spare his feet while driving.
"I'd disappear them out if I could." A stupid thing to say, when they both knew what they'd do, had done, for each other. Except, perhaps, they didn't know anymore. "I'd heal you myself, if it would work. I'd try if I didn't fear it'd make it worse."
"I know, angel." This quiet promise more sure of itself than the earlier agreement, Aziraphale only nodded and set to washing his feet anyway, just in case a remnant of his own skin, charred by consecrated ground, could hurt him. Since Crowley never objected, though he grimaced and grunted, it was probably necessary to clean it. Neither shoes nor socks, mere physical items, could protect him, not from a spiritual injury. He had Crowley hold his leg in the air while he dumped the initial water and refilled it with the new. While that foot soaked, he tended the other and then returned, inspecting the wounds, dabbing the whole foot dry, adding a human suave, which might help, and then wrapped his foot. Once both were wrapped, the pink of human skin reached down to his ankles again.
As he finished, Aziraphale leaned back and sighed heavily. Regardless all he'd done, Crowley would likely still heal at his own pace. An angel couldn't lessen the pain of the holy for a demon. His care was pointless, really, and they'd probably have spent a more enjoyable evening drinking and chatting if he hadn’t insisted. He could've spared Crowley the embarrassment of a useless angel insisting on "helping." Just like with the Nazis, he probably made it worse rather than better.
Though he should clean up, at least get rid of the mess he made, he'd have to face his ineffectiveness when Crowley pretended his feet hurt less. Unable to bear it, unable to apologize for the pain Crowley endured for his sake, unable to apologize for the silence between them, or acknowledge the request that started it, or so many other things, he leaned against Crowley's thigh, eyes closed, and willed himself to breath despite his failures.
"I keep thinking of Gomorrah." Though quiet, Crowley would hear his words, and he'd no energy for anything more. "I keep thinking about Abraham bargaining to save 'good' citizens, or however he phrased it, as he argued the number lower and lower, and of Lot offering his daughters to save the cities - of his daughters offering themselves. And yet nothing... All the rations the humans have imposed lately, and I'm thinking of salt pillars." His voice drifted away as he pictured the pillar again, and he didn't dare open his eyes to see Crowley's reaction, if it was pity or irritation, or anything else. Earlier, when it felt as if Crowley would never speak to him again, he requested to leave London, to be positioned somewhere he could help people escape atrocities rather than just waiting, but Heaven wanted him here, beneath the bombs, and he couldn't save anyone.
"Then I think of about London, and the atrocities of their empire across the globe, and the atrocities within this city. I hear the speeches, read the papers and recall so much other propaganda, all the other rationing, sacrificing and... I think about the children of Gomorrah, and about the adults who didn't know how to intervene, and the uncertainty, the regret, the fear, the loss. And then I'm thinking about salt pillars and death from the sky."
"The Nazis can't smite London," Crowley said, his voice low and confident.
"By lack of ability only. They can't be as thorough as us."
"Angel."
But his soft voice was too close, too intimate, and Aziraphale sat up with a start. His sleeves rolled up, wearing only his shirt, not even his vest or bow tie, he knelt between Crowley's legs still, using his thigh as a pillow only inches from his - Well, it was all very vulgar, especially when he meant to be tending his wounds. Horrible wounds endured because Crowley saved Aziraphale's pride again.
"I'm sorry, I'm just going on. It's been a long day." A snap of his fingers sent all his tools away, back to the kitchen table where he could sort them later, while the buckets and tubs, landed on their sides outside the backdoor, the water and any evidence spilling down the street. "You should elevate your feet. I should fetch more wine."
"We have enough wine, angel," Crowley assured him, relaxed into the sofa once more, neither put out nor surprised by the sudden fussing. Aziraphale choose not to notice that, picking up whatever he could find and setting it on the desk, out of the way. Crowley was right, of course, another two two wine bottles waited for their attention; he'd already polished off the first and started another. "Sit down. Tell me about the salt pillar."
"No one is turning to salt," he said, looking for something else to straighten. "As you said, the Nazis can't smite London. The bombings just start the wrong kind of thinking. It's nothing." He found his wine glass on the desk and, regardless Crowley had somehow filled it again, downed the entirety. "You should elevate your feet."
"It doesn't matter. Sure, angel, sure, let's elevate my feet. Do you have a-"
Only a few minutes ago, he rested his feet, gently, on either side of Aziraphale. If he thought about it instead of reacting, Aziraphale would've pulled up a footstool, but Crowley already sat on the sofa, already stretched across it, already halfway to another solution. Lifting his legs under his calves, Aziraphale pulled them around, turning Crowley in his seat until his lay sideways. A snap of his fingers and nearby pillows gathered, providing the perfect cushion for legs and feet. Especially feet.
"Really, Aziraphale?" Long body laying across the sofa, feeter higher than his head, and holding the wine glass aloft, he propped himself up on his other elbow, eyeing Aziraphale with outright amusement.
"Oh." He wasn't doing any better helping Crowley than he had stopping the Nazis. "I'll get more pillows, just-"
"Oh, no," he interrupted, his grin easier but as devilish as when he'd been driving. "My turn and I know exactly the cushion."
"A specific pillow?" he prompted, carefully not reading into Crowley's expression, hoping he'd not ask outright.
"Or I could stroll home. My feet do feel much better, honest angel, and the roads are clear. It'll take-"
"You're not going anywhere! Not in that infernal vehicle of yours and definitely not on your own feet! You are staying here the rest of the night, give them some time to properly recover!"
"You know what most humans do while on their back?"
"Sleep."
With a snort at the suggestion, Crowley sipped his wine. Though Aziraphale tried pouting, Crowley's patience would last longer and he didn't really need to argue for indulgence either, not after the way the night had gone. With a huff, he gathered up unopened wine bottles from the desk. It didn't really matter at this point. If Heaven or Hell cared about them, or about the dead Nazis, or the destroyed church, or any of their miracles for each other, they'd have heard from them already and both knew they'd not. Neither Above nor Below cared about the bookshop or their operative tonight.
Unopened wine bottles joining the opened ones, he waved Crowley to sit up straighter so he could sat down. The demon immediately laid back again, resting his head on the angel's lap and sighing. And the angel smiled at the demon's contentment.
"May I remove your glasses now?" Understanding why Crowley would want them on while he cared for his feet, but if he'd lay on his lap, it was only fair he could see his beautiful yellow eyes. He'd not seen them in so long.
At Crowley's hum of agreement, Aziraphale set his wine aside and lifted them from his face, unsurprised to his eyes closed. Rather than disappointed, he enjoyed a view he'd missed, the dark red hair always styled anew, the long lashes and nose, ears and lips, even the small quirk of his smile, satisfied to have his way, all the shapes of him, all familiar and unchanging. Tonight, he radiated peace, truly relaxing. The demon might be the only being in all of London able to relax tonight and Aziraphale hoped he slept well.
However, his vigil paused when Crowley opened fully yellow eyes. "I haven't thought about Gomorrah in ages."
"I," he paused, studying his wine, "find it hard to forget."
"I don't think about the Flood every time it rains, and rainbows are just pretty optical illusions," he countered. Unable to drink his wine laying down, or while asleep, he'd set it on the floor and didn't reach for it now. Instead his fingers tapped his chest occasionally, all the energy he had for gestures right now. "Humans have tried to 'smite' each other since they figured out the catapult. The bombs are more destructive but still can't destroy cities in a single go. Look at the blitz and London. It'll survive, they'll rebuild. Tell me about salt pillars."
"There's nothing to tell," he said, not a lie only because he already told Crowley about them. It turned out Crowley had never been assigned to any of the valley's five cities and he'd not traveled near them in the entire century before hand, though apparently other demons had visited. Gabriel had pulled Aziraphale to accompany him while speaking to Abraham, acknowledging at least that once that Aziraphale knew more of human's costumes than he, and he'd had to apologize for Gabriel refusing to eat the food Abraham offered. For all Gabriel understood the language itself, he failed to grasp implications, and Aziraphale had rather enjoyed Abraham's knowing looks and fierce insistence. But it hadn't been for anything, and thankfully Aziraphale hadn't joined Gabriel in visiting the cities.
"It was a long time ago," he continued, using his wine glass to avoid Crowley's eyes. "One woman looking back at the destruction of the world she'd known. She had been warned; humans can't look directly on the works of Heaven. They warned her. She shouldn't have looked."
Shoulders hunching and fingers straining on the wine glass, Aziraphale realized his entire body had gone tense. A single day and everything gone, even a homesick woman. With a mental effort to calm down, dismissing ancient concerns, he set aside his wine before he shattered his glass. Giving him time, Crowley remained quiet, idly contemplating the ceiling.
After the pause lengthened, neither of them offering a different thought, Aziraphale replaced a stray bit of hair back into the slick style Crowley wore. When his eyelids and mouth relaxed, Aziraphale gently traced the shorter hair around his ears, and now the snake eyes half close and Crowley sighed. No gel, not anywhere Aziraphale's fingers passed, or whatever humans might need to use, the demon's hair sat however he liked because he wanted it that way. Oh, but it was still unruly, just like Crowley himself.
"To much time to think," he continued, his own thoughts circling through the night during the quiet. "I'm fretting again, nothing important." When Crowley's eyes opened to contradict him, he hurried on. "That's why I believed her tales about the British Intelligence and baiting them with the books. Foolish, gullible. Stupid."
"No." Half pushing himself up, Crowley twisted toward him, started to reach but hesitated and dropped his hand. "No, angel, don't say that."
"Why not?" With no hair to play with, and no right to touch it, neither as an angel or friend, he lifted and dropped his own hands at his pointless intentions. "She said as much, whatever her name really is. It's why she choose me, and she's not wrong."
"She is- she was- Look where her logic got her," he waved aside, far more animated than he'd been since arriving at the bookshop. "Don't trust her kind of logic. I know that kind of logic, it's all greed. You're not stupid angel, not foolish or gullible or whatever else she said. You believed in her. You looked at that human, and all the scars on her soul, and choose to believe in her."
"That is the definition of gullible, my dear."
"Than it isn't an insult," he said sternly, but his eyes softened. "If you won't believe a human with a scars on her soul is still worthwhile, you'd never believe in a demon."
Ready to insist on his failures, Aziraphale closed his mouth, brow wrinkling as he forgot about himself.
"You are worth- a great deal, Crowley," he informed him, his voice as insistent as Crowley's had just been. "I may not- I may not always agree with you, but I value your perspective as well as your company. And I have... missed both since... these past decades. I do not need to 'believe' in your worth, my dear, because I know you are worth so very much. You are a wily serpent and a worthy opponent." Confident at least in the last descriptions, unlike everything he couldn't quite find the words for, he nodded decisively. Some things couldn't be put into words, regardless how many words Aziraphale collected in the books around him.
Every unblinking, Crowley watched him, until he finally sighed and settled again, once more claiming Aziraphale as a pillow. Instead of reaching for his wine glass, as he should, he ran his fingers through Crowley's hair and those yellow eyes closed. They wouldn't mention it tomorrow, not anymore than they would his feet. They'd talk around it, about other things that happened tonight, but the more enduring would remain unacknowledged.
"Don't change, angel. I'll deal with the humans if they're a problem."
"I can deal with them as well as you," he said, voice tart but fingers not withdrawing. "Regardless when they come after my shop or my books. In fact, if she'd not sworn they'd not harm them while we baited them, and that they would be returned to me, I would've thrown her out immediately! Of course, I didn't risk my best or oldest copies, even if I said I was." He paused, then softened. "I am very glad they weren't damaged and returned safely. I can't saw how much I appreciate it." As close as he dared for a thank you for al of it.
By Crowley's smug smile, he needn't say anything more, and the demon wasn't the only relaxed being in London tonight anymore.