Chapter Text
Thunder rumbled gently but rather ominously over the book shop. Crowley would have liked to have found it comforting— especially while he read a book by the fire with a glass of scotch to the side—but this particular evening he couldn’t stop thinking about—
“I forgive you.”
“Don’t bother.”
Don’t bother? Don’t bother?! Why the hell did he say that? To his best friend. To the love of his life! The angel he’d been pining over for millennia. Crowley broke his stare with the dancing fire, snapped the book shut, and shot down his scotch.
It had been almost a year since Aziraphale had left. Even with how much despair Aziraphale’s betrayal had caused Crowley, he still couldn’t bear to give up the shop. Over the last few months, he’d been showing Muriel how to care for the shop with him. How to sort the books, run the till, act like a more convincing human, the works. (It was a good distraction, better use of time and himself than wallowing in his car.) Heaven hadn’t called Muriel back to their post, being from the 37th degree scrivener, Crowley doubted they’d even noticed Muriel was gone. Or just didn’t care. He wasn’t sure which was more depressing. Either way, no one had come to collect poor Muriel, they didn’t have any further orders to return to heaven, and the naive angel was a little too clueless to go unnoticed around Earth, so Crowley took them under his wing.
The thunder rumbled again outside and Crowley looked reflexively at the dark windows. “Sounds like the thunder from when I fell,” he grumbled.
“Hm? Did you say something, Mister Crowley?” Muriel called from around a bookshelf. Crowley winced, he didn’t think he said that particular thought out loud.
“What? No, nope. Nothing,” he called back, then murmured, “I just hope there isn’t an angel in trouble.” Crowley stood up and sauntered for show to the window, but held a considerable amount of concern in his chest. He peaked open the curtains and glowered at the dark, flashing sky for a moment then moseyed conspicuously back to the fireplace. He swiped up his glass and poured another glass of whiskey in a rush, then stopped and sipped it while he stared into the fire.
“Muriel, have you ever seen an angel fall?”
“Erm, well, not really. Usually it’s only for higher level angels to witness.”
Lighting crashed in the street and shook the whole shop. Books fell from their shelves and a picture frame upstairs shattered as it hit the ground. Muriel squeaked in fear at the loud crash. The front door rattled at someone trying the handle.
“We’re closed! Can’t you read the bloody sign?” Crowley shouted at what he assumed to be a soggy drunk in the rain. The thumps continued heavily and slowly against the shop doors.
“Oh sod off ye wee shite!” Crowley shouted again. When the knocking refused to desist, coming in unsteady waves, Crowley snarled at the air and stalked to the door. He twisted the lock and threw it open.
“Right, listen here—” A heavy body slumped onto Crowley and he caught it with a strained groan. “Oh, Satan.”
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” The body mumbled with a high, tenor voice, and struggled to grab the front of Crowley’s coat.
“Yeh, NOOOPE!” Crowley strained and attempted to heft the large figure back onto their feet. “Git off me ye cretin—” Crowley stopped as he noticed the curly white hair and looked down at the bloodied face of Aziraphale in his arms. “Fuck,” he cursed, then shouted “MURIEL!”
Crowley finally took a closer look at the angel in the dim light. He couldn’t see well with his snake eyes but a flash of lightning lit up the street for him as if the lightning commanded, WITNESS. Crowley saw smoke rising from Aziraphale and a large amount of golden, divine blood covering his face.
Muriel came running, “Mister Crowley, what is it?!”
“Help me!” Crowley started dragging Aziraphale inside and Muriel rushed over to help, taking Aziraphale under the shoulder. Together, they both dragged the heavy, bleeding angel to the closest couch. They placed Aziraphale as gently as they could on the nearest couch, but being that neither of them were very strong, Aziraphale flopped onto it and hissed in pain as his smoking wings were crushed beneath him.
Crowley knelt beside Aziraphale. “Muriel, get the med kit. Top of the stairs, to the left.”
Muriel hesitated, unable to pull their eyes away. “But, what hap—”
Crowley spun at her. “Medkit. NOW!” He snapped with a hiss, baring his fangs. “And some water!”
Muriel squeaked and darted away. Crowley turned back and flipped on a lamp resting on the side table. He was going to have to apologize to Muriel later, they didn’t do anything wrong. He didn’t really need the medkit either, he just wanted something to wipe away the golden blood coming from Aziraphale’s head.
“What happened to you, angel?”
Aziraphale, barely holding on to consciousness, replied, “Not really much of an angel anymore, am I?” His wings shuddered in pain and more smoke billowed from his burned feathers.
“Oh, Angel. What did you do?” Crowley wiped some blood and tears from Aziraphale’s cheek.
Muriel ran back into the room, “Here, Mister Crowley!”
Crowley took the medkit, pulled out gauze, and wiped away the golden blood now mixing with dark red, watching the divinity leaving his body. More blood poured from under Aziraphale’s still blonde hair. Crowley quickly combed his slender fingers through his hair with shaking hands. His fingers hit a small bump and Aziraphale flinched under his touch.
“Sorry, Angel.” Crowley drew back his fingers, slick with red and gold blood.
“Mister Crowley?” Crowley turned to look at Muriel, and saw her holding up a smoking white feather, tarnished with soot and ash. “What’s happened to Mister Fell?” They asked as the feather disintegrated into ash and blew from her hand.
Crowley soaked some gauze in the water and wiped away more blood. “He fell from heaven’s grace, Muriel.” Crowley gently parted some of Aziraphale’s hair and spotted a small horn that was growing in. “A de—” Crowley’s words got caught in his throat. “He’s a fallen angel.” Crowley couldn’t bear to say it. Not when it was about his angel.
“Doesn’t that make him a demon?” Muriel asked skittishly.
Crowley took a deep, sad breath. “Yeah. Yeah it would. Just like me.” Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand and almost kissed it, but held on tightly instead. “Muriel, can you get us some warm water and towels? It’ll help with the pain he’s in.”
Muriel skittered off and quickly came back with a large bowl of water and towels draped over their arm. Crowley wiped away what blood he could, then pressed a warm towel over Aziraphale’s head where his new set of horns would grow in. Aziraphale breathed shakily and Crowley noticed he’d passed out, barely conscious and responding to any extra pain he was in. The demon gently grabbed the fallen angel by the shoulders and slowly shifted him, checking his wings. Aziraphale’s coat and feathers were filled with wet and dry blood. Crowley carefully pulled the fabric out of the way but Aziraphale shuddered from pain. Crowley tried again and saw where the skin at the wing’s base was raw and burned.
“Muriel, we need to get him upstairs. Come on, help me pick him up.” Crowley moved to grab Aziraphale under the shoulders.
“I’m not sure we’d be able to carry him upstairs, Mister Crowley. We barely got him to the couch.”
Crowley stopped and quickly stood up. “Right. Yeah. Okay, new plan.” Crowley then seemed to grab the air and pull his hands together with resistance but as soon as his hands slammed together, all three of the vaguely human-like entities suddenly appeared in the upstairs bedroom with the water and towels nearby.
“Muriel, hold up his head for me would you?” Crowley was already raising it for them, and after they took it, he carefully placed padded bandages over the small horns. He started wrapping gauze around Aziraphale’s head to hold it in place, but stopped when he noticed the fallen angel’s ears were long, rounded, and covered with fine white fur that was just starting to curl. He gingerly moved the wrappings behind the ears and finished the dressings. Once he was done, Crowley softly pushed the ear to where he thought it would be the most comfortable and Muriel slowly lowered Aziraphale’s head.
Crowley knelt by Aziraphale. “S’alright Muriel, I’ve got it from here,” he said quietly. Muriel hesitated then obediently left the room. Once they did, Crowley carefully pulled the clothes off Aziraphale’s torso. The overcoat came off easily enough, the cloth of the vest stuck a little but the button up shirt and the undershirt were almost fused with Aziraphale’s burnt skin around the wing shoulders on his back. Crowley found a pair of scissors, cut the loose fabric off of the wings, and made a mental note to properly care for the burns once Aziraphale was able to make it to the shower or bath. He got another wet towel, wiped what was left of the red and gold blood off Aziraphale’s face.
“You’re alright. I’ll take care of you,” he said. He wasn’t sure if Aziraphale could hear him while unconscious (a silly human musing really) but in case it was even the slightest bit true, it felt too important for Crowley to not say it aloud.
Crowley attempted to pull the covers out from under Aziraphale, but quickly gave up when it was clear it would disturb Aziraphale and irritate the burns on his wings more than Crowley would like. So instead, he took off the fallen angel’s shoes and thought about mistranslated and misinterpreted bible quotes about disciples washing Jesus’ feet. He pulled off the first boot and the sock left behind was flat and deflated, without a foot to fill it. Crowley filled with apprehension and hesitated at the sight of the empty white sock that flopped over the side of the bed. Crowley scrounged up the courage and suddenly snatched the sock and ripped it off. What was left behind was a pale cloven hoof with curly blonde fur above it. Crowley almost sighed in relief. Thank Satan. No missing limbs. Just a hoof. Then he pulled off the other shoe and sock.
“Little hoofy-woofies,” Crowley recalling the nun from the chattering order of St. Beryl.
As relieved as he was that limbs weren’t missing, part of Crowley ached for Aziraphale. He knew that it would be very difficult for Aziraphale to adjust to these dramatic physical changes that affected his physical manifestation. And yet he was still mad, still so frustrated at his angel, at himself, at heaven, hell, and the world. But even with all that pent up anger, Crowley’s love for Aziraphale still won him over. Again, another small part of him hated himself for it, but there was nothing he could do.
He softly pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s temple and went to leave the room but stopped in the doorway when he heard Aziraphale whimper in his sleep. Crowley sighed heavily and instead pulled a chair from one of the far walls next to the bedside, promptly slumping into it with an aching heart.
“Angel, you didn’t have to fall,” he grumbled quietly. “You’d better not have fallen from heaven for my sake.” He scoffed at himself, hearing his cliched words then used a small miracle to bring his whiskey upstairs. He brought the glass to his lips but it ended up on the ground next to his chair, otherwise untouched.
Light footsteps approached from the hall then knocked gently on the doorframe.
“Mm?” Said Crowley.
“Um, Mister Crowley, if you don’t mind me asking, … Why haven’t you used a miracle to ease his pain?”
“Can’t. It’d be more likely to make it worse. Even at my station, it’s too fragile to mess with. I mean, sure I could change a human into a newt, but changing other demons’ or angels’ corporeality, it’s more likely to do more harm than good. Especially to one that’s … changing as dramatically as his.” He swallowed hard. “Unfortunately, all we can do is wait.”