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Crowley didn’t get summoned often, but it was always a traumatic experience when he did. The telltale prickle and pull of a summons served as his only warning before it grabbed him by the True Form, yanked him away, and dumped him out into the circle that called for him.
Though, to be fair, summonings like that of the old days happened fewer and farther between (helped by Aziraphale squirreling away every text on human black magic after finding Crowley roughed up from a particularly nasty summoning), but there was always a chance for one to happen when they least expected it.
Tonight proved that statement.
Crowley laid in the bed above the bookshop, upper torso wrapped in bandages and sweat on his brow, as Aziraphale laid beside him, guarding over his poor demon’s rest.
It was painful to see Crowley so battered after a less than pleasant summoning. Aziraphale wished he could do something to prevent them from happening entirely, but, realistically, there was nothing he could do besides damage control.
His heart ached as he wiped Crowley’s brow, seeing him recoil at even the gentlest touch. Crowley shifted with a groan, breaths coming quicker, and started to writhe under the confines of the blankets so much so that they became tangled around him in a panic.
Working quickly, Aziraphale gently held Crowley down so he couldn’t hurt himself, but it had the opposite effect than intended, making Crowley scream and thrash blindly against whatever had him pinned.
“Shh, dearest, breathe. You’re alright.” Aziraphale tried to soothe, voice shaking. “You’re safe.”
But Crowley hadn’t heard him, too caught up in his nightmare to do much else besides gasp and cry and plead for whoever it was to stop— please, stop.
Aziraphale held him through it, noting the glassy, unseeing look in Crowley’s fever-bright eyes when they fluttered open. The old dear was so out of it, the summoning clearly taking its toll, and before long Crowley sagged against Aziraphale’s chest, wrung out.
“Are you back with me?”
“Hnnng,” Crowley groaned, rubbing his bleary eyes to clear the fog from them, “‘Ziraphale?”
“I’m here, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured. Tentatively, he gathered Crowley’s hand in his and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
Crowley squeezed back weakly, taking pride in the relieved smile Aziraphale gave him in return.
“What time ‘s it?”
“Half three, you’ve been asleep for a while.”
“Doesn’t feel like it,” Crowley huffed.
“I’m not surprised, you seemed pretty restless.”
“Have you been here this whole time?”
“For the most part, yes,” Aziraphale fussed with the blanket, spreading it over the both of them, “though I did nip downstairs for a cuppa earlier.”
Crowley hid his face against Aziraphale’s neck, mumbling into the soft skin. “You didn’t have to.”
“But tea—”
“Stay, that is.”
Aziraphale paused before replying, indignant. “Of course I did, and I’ll stay as long as you need me.”
“Always need you.” Crowley closed his eyes, sinking further against his angel’s side.
”Then I’ll always be here.”