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Aziraphale was in the infirmary pavilion of the tournament kindly tending one of the injured contestants, reassuring him with soft words when two young men hurried behind him carrying a rudimentary gurney made with a piece of cloth and two wooden handles. Laying on that, a knight was dramatically moaning from the pain.
After a quick glance on his back that immediately became an eye roll when he recognised the black garments, Aziraphale made the contestant sleep and ordered in a badly concealed irritated tone to the two men: "Just leave him there with the gurney. On the floor."
The two page boys looked surprised: that was the first time Aziraphale hadn't provided a bed for an injured person. There had always been enough beds for everyone: sometimes had felt a bit spooky. And, those two could see plenty of beds there but the healer's tone left no room for discussion. So they just lowered them on the floor and scuttled away as fast (and far) as they could.
"Ohi," the newcomer lamented, "I'm injured here! Don't I deserve a soft place to rest upon?"
"You made your bed, now lie in it, Crowley," Aziraphale prissily answered.
"This is a really uncomfortable gurney, not a bed. And you made this, angel, when you turned Arthur like a freaking tournament winning machine and I'm sporting on my skin the proof of that," the demon grumbled loudly while showing his right side of his chest from the neckline of his tunic: there was a huge livid in that place.
"You didn't want to listen to me when I said I was here due to an heavenly assignment," the angel blamed the demon, "I have also already told you that Arthur must win this tournament because of that prize: it should be a gift for his beloved Guinevere."
The demon was even grumpier: "Well, I think he could have settled for the second prize. A nice horse would have suited her better than that handkerchief: she loves riding."
"I know that the horse suits her better but that cloth was a unique and precious example of perfect craftsmanship and amazing embroidery," Aziraphale said with dreamy eyes.
"I knew that," the demon squirmed on the uncomfortable gurney.
"Oh, so that's why you were claiming it for yourself?"
"Not for myself," Crowley muttered, "it was for someone who appreciates such things."
Since the angel looked confused, the demon, with a more dramatic eye roll than what Aziraphale had done previously, revealed: "it's you, angel. Well, it was for you. I've seen how you were eyeing that square of cloth before."
A little snap was heard there and the gurney was miracled into the softest and most comfortable bed in the pavilion (and probably of the whole world). The demon made an undignified yelp for the surprise at first but then he wiggled into a more comfortable position on the soft mattresses. In less than a second, Aziraphale was at his bedside with a bowl full of cold water and medicinal herbs: inside that he submerged a couple of pieces of cloth and put one of those on the big bruise.
Crowley hissed from the relief.
"Now just rest," Aziraphale whispered, "and have a dream of what you lo- like best."
Crowley let himself be lulled to sleep by those words and seemed to have lovely dreams for several hours.
A couple of weeks later, Aziraphale received a mysterious packet: when he opened it, a lovely handkerchief slipped out and a smile appeared on his lips.