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Great, Crowley thinks, hearing the approaching flutter of wings. It was only ever a matter of time, but he really had hoped--
No matter. He bares his fangs in preparation. If he’s going to be discorporated by a bird, of all things, he’s not going down without a fight.
A white rook flutters down beside him with a raucous cawing, very nearly glowing in the moonlight.
“You’re the wrong color,” he says stupidly.
“Well that’s a fine way to talk to someone who came to help you,” the rook says. Somehow the croak carries Aziraphale’s plummy tones.
Crowley stares.
The bird spreads its wings, settles them with a shake and begins to preen.
“What.” says Crowley.
“If you don’t want help I can be off.”
“Why are you possessing a bird?”
“Possessing!?” he shrieks, with an indignant flutter. “I would never!”
“You don’t turn into a bird!”
“Not usually, no. It’s not quite the done thing. But you appear to be having some difficulty, and since you decided to have some difficulty halfway up a cliff face with only an inch to stand on, using my regular body seemed foolish.”
“Just what else can you turn into?”
“I shall turn into a very cross angel if you keep on with this.” Aziraphale--and it is Aziraphale, nobody else could be this prim even as a corvid--dances foot to foot. “You seem to be stuck, you know.”
Oh, he knows. He’s very stuck indeed--he’d only meant to explore the rock face, and then he’d got wedged into the crack and all his panicked thrashing had only got him wedged farther. And he could miracle himself out, but he can’t make the fingers to snap and the pressure on his body is distracting him and--
“So you came to gloat.”
“Is that what you want?” Aziraphale tilts his head quizzically. “Or just what you’d do?”
“I want out of here,” Crowley says. He doesn't answer the gloating question.
“Very well. Hold quite still, dear boy.”
The angel hops backward, then forward, peers at the rock and at Crowley, taps the stone with his beak. Listens to the echoes.
“What’re you doing? You look like a prat.”
“Hold still.” Aziraphale raises his head and opens his beak. The resulting cry echoes long past when it should.
The rocks pinning Crowley shift and relax. He sighs, able to properly breathe for the first time in hours.
“Try now--can you pull yourself out onto the ledge?”
He finds he can--the crack now feels rubbery against his scales, and he easily gains purchase to slither out. He slumps on the rock, cautiously watching the angel.
“Marvelous!” Aziraphale does the little hopping dance again. “I’m so glad. I could quite sense your distress.”
He hisses. “Someday you’ll be in distress, and--”
“And?”
“Demons don’t save people. We especially don’t save angels.”
“Oh, that’s fine. I could hardly keep my moral superiority if a demon did just the same as I did, could I?”
“Yeah? Well, just for that, I’ll rescue you, too.”
“Really? Splendid. Now, I know traveling in my claws won’t be the most comfortable thing, but as I rather think your alternative may be staying on this ledge forever, would you like a ride down?”
“Nggghh,” groans Crowley, and hisses again. “Yeah, okay.”