Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Crowley is clever. Very clever. While he isn't the strongest demon around, he can certainly talk himself out of any situation with his quick wit. That is– when people are willing to listen.

Unfortunately, the day Crowley disappears from Aziraphale’s bookshop in a burst of flames, he has no say in the matter. He simply reappears in what seems to be a warehouse. A damp and nasty one at that. 

“Crowley.” Someone snarled. 

Fuck.

It must’ve been too optimistic of him to assume hell would leave him alone, what with the failed Armageddon and all, because this particular warehouse is full of demons.

“Hastur, old pal! What are you up to these days, still er– burning nunneries?”

“Now!” 

Suddenly Crowley is surrounded on all sides and forcefully bound to a chair. Cowardly, that. Catching him by surprise, they didn't even give him a proper fight. 

“Oh come on, let’sss just have a conversation” he suggests, in a very suave and cool way, not at all desperate as his ex-coworkers bind his hands and feet with thick, rune-covered chains. The runes, upon further inspection, are meant to bind and block his demonic powers. Bloody brilliant, just what he needed, that. No miracles then. No shapeshifting either. 

He scans his surroundings and finds that Hastur has somehow managed to scrape together about a hundred other demons. Bottom-of-the-barrel or not, a hundred vengeful demons was a bit overkill. Crowley would be flattered if he wasn't so utterly fucked. 

His useless heart pounds in his chest as he struggles against the chains. He’s the damned silver-tongued serpent of Eden! The original temptor! He can come up with something. He just needs to buy time. 

“What’s all this about then?”

“You've betrayed hell,” Hastur replies. 

“Well- yeah maybe. I've served my punishment though, haven't I? Bathed in holy water and such. No luck on that end. ‘Sides, I don't think Beelzebub would be too happy about all this nonsense. They let me go, didn't they?”

The demons shuffle about nervously. Good, maybe they will leave him be after all. 

“That's why you're here, Crowley. Beelzebub may have let you go, but we won't. We're going to torture you,” he smiles, “and then you will tell us exactly how you evaded your punishment”

“Ffffs, evaded!” he’s panicking now, “Were you not there? I was there! Asked Micheal for a duck and everything.” He suddenly wishes Aziraphale had given him a more detailed account of what happened in hell that day. 

“Wait a second” pipes up some dusty-looking demon. He seems familiar. Oh… oh no, he remembers him. The miracle blocking one from 1941! What’s his name again? Flurr? Furry? Something or other. 

Furry has a very dangerous look in his eyes. One of realization. 

Oh, blast it all. This is not good. If anyone finds out about their little trick, Crowley and Aziraphale will be killed– for real this time. 

“That angel bloke!” He continues “Azraphalala– Azipal– Az– UGH.”

“I don't know who you're talking about,” he drawls with a confidence he very much lacks. 

“Yes you do! Agh– the bloody awful magician!”

Yeah, they were fucked.

“Now that's not very nice!” chides a very familiar voice behind him.”

Crowley tastes the air in disbelief, sure enough, the smell of old books, cocoa, and lighting filled his senses.

“And it’s Aziraphale .” 

Crowley sags in relief. 

“Avaunt!” he pronounces dramatically. 

Oh no. 

“–Foul demons, for I am Principality of the Eastern Gate and a soldier of heaven!” 

“Wouldn't happen to be the angel of unchaining me would you?” he mumbles. 

The angel gives him a Look and clears his throat. “Release Crowley immediately!” he says, moving in front of him like a shield, “Or there will be consequences.”

Crowley lets the angel have his little show. It’s a great distraction, enough for him to yank at his chains again. No dice, though. Those runes have him stuck like…something. Aziraphale better untie him soon. Their best option is to run away quickly– well, make a tactical and brilliant escape. Same difference. They can’t possibly take on so many demons, especially not if he’s stuck to a buggering chair.

“The traitor is our prisoner.” Hastur insists, “We are going to torture him. Break his bones, pluck his feathers, make him beg for mercy, and all that. You can't have him!”

The angel's aura darkens, making Crowley shiver. The smell of ozone crackles, and when Aziraphale speaks, it sounds like thunder.

 “You will do no such thing,” ring out the echoes of his True voice, “Lest I destroy your pitiful existence in the most thorough way an angel can. Be careful–” he snarls, “How you speak of my dearest friend.” 

Crowley’s heart continues to act up irrationally. Perhaps his corporation is broken. He’s suddenly very hot. Extremely hot actually, maybe he's in hell after all. 

He isn't the only demon so… Affected. Some of the smarter ones run for the exits, but Aziraphale simply raises his hand and bars the doors, miraculously locking them in with the enemy. 

“What are you doing?” he hisses.

“They Know, Crowley.”

“Well– yeah, but” 

His soft angel can’t possibly be thinking of fighting them all at once. He could get hurt for fucks sake! Blessed idiot. 

“That was your last miracle, Magician!” Shouts Furry. Right, the miracle blocker. Blast it all. 

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow and rolls up his sleeves, revealing his delectable forearms. Ngk. He isn't even wearing a coat! Bloody indecent of him really. What’s he going to do, lust the demons to death?

“You lot have really forced my hands here. How I do hate what I’ll be forced to do.” 

Strangely enough, the angel doesn't sound like he’d mind all too much. Apparently, he’s a better actor than he thought. Hopefully the bluff works. 

It doesn't. 

The braver, or more stupid, demons of the bunch ready their weapons in earnest, inching dangerously closer. Crowley watches in abject horror as someone rushes forward with a knife. 

“Azira–”

The angel simply grabs their arm, breaks it, and throws them to the ground in an instant. The demon's head leaves cracks in the floor. 

Holy shit.

Immediately someone else attacks. Aziraphale delivers a swift jab of his elbow into their stomach. Bones crunch audibly.

Crowley’s jaw hangs open, he can't stop watching as the angel plows through demons in a matter of seconds. He doesn't even have a weapon!  

“For hell!” someone shouts joining the fray, but a righteous fist slams up into their chin, discorporating them instantly. 

But it looks like Hastur finally gets his wits about him. He always was a nasty bugger, powerful too. The demon summons a plume of hellfire in his hands and smirks. 

“Aziraphale, watch out!”

Crowley seethes in his own incompetence, itching to join the fight. If it wasn't for the blasted chains! 

The angel, without missing a beat, swipes a knife from the floor and throws it. It whistles through the air, straight and true, impaling Hastur’s chest on impact and emerging in his back. The hellfire vanishes instantly as the Duke of hell falls to his knees.

What the fuck? 

Crowley is forced to watch as more demons attack. The closest one gets thrown to the wall by her hair. Another one charges with a pitchfork. Aziraphale rips it away and shishkabobs the owner swiftly. “Terrible form, really” he tuts. The next demon gets kicked into the ceiling, spattering blood all over. 

“Oh dear, my waistcoat,” the angel frets mildly before bashing two heads together. “The stains will never come out!” 

Crowley almost laughs at the absurdity of it. If he closed his eyes he could imagine the angel at home pouting over spilled cocoa. 

Suddenly Aziraphale freezes. His head whips towards Crowley with a burning glare. Faster than lightning, he's by his side, waves of heat rolling off him.

There's a deafening squelch and a crack. 

“ Don't ” the angel growls. He forces a scaly demon to the floor by the hilt of a knife, pinning him like a mangled butterfly. Black blood dripping and all, he yanks it out and hands the knife to Crowley. 

“Here you go, free yourself will you, dearest?” 

Crowley gapes, he hadn't even noticed someone was trying to stab him! Damn Aziraphale and his stupid rolled-up sleeves. 

The angel turns to another demon who has snuck up behind them. He bitch-slaps him so hard his ears bleed. The demon is out like a light. 

“Are you free yet, dear?” Aziraphale asks. “Oh silly me! You can't cut through chains with a knife!” He grabs the chains that bind him and pulverises the metal with a grunt. 

“There you are!” he smiles as sweat drips down his jaw. 

Crowley wants to do very sinful things. 

The angel runs off to beat up more poor demons, stealing a sword and somehow another knife in the process. 

Crowley thought Aziraphale was a sight to behold before, nuzzled up nice and cosy with a good book, but as he slashes through dozens of enemies with his weapon of choice– his mouth goes dry. 

Over 6,000 years and he has never seen this side of Aziraphale. Glimpses of it, sure, but never the full-bodied force of a raging angel. He was always so… soft. Crowley was a fool to forget just how much strength that took. 

The angel is a pinnacle of softness and force. A guardian through and through. Although his sword has no flames, he fights with the calculated moves of a soldier, and Crowley understands completely why God chose him to defend the earth. 

There’s footsteps behind him and Crowley twists around to see a demon with ram’s horns creeping up on him while he ogled the angel. Not fair. 

“Don't come at me, bitch,” Crowley shouts, “I have a knife!”

A dagger flies through the air and plunges into the horned demon’s neck. 

He flushes in embarrassment. “I had that, angel!”

“Just had to be sure, dear!”

Enough ogling, Crowley concedes. Unfortunately,  Aziraphale had forgotten to pulverise– pulverise , the chains around his legs. He sets to work untying his feet from the chair, but the buggering chains are too stubborn. Screams continue to ring out as Aziraphale discorporates demon after demon, striking down more than half of the rank.

“You're wasting your existence. Be better!” the angel yells slashing down on some unfortunate soul. 

“Do some journaling!” He kicks someone away and blood spatters on his shoes. 

“Not my balmoral boots!” 

His boots. Crowley almost laughs at the absurdity, probably would’ve if he could get the bloody chains off and join the fight. Aziraphale is starting to tire, and frankly, is making him look bad. 

“Crowley, shut your eyes!” 

A burst of heavenly light washes over the room, disintegrating the nearest wave of demons. It’s surprisingly painless as familiar angelic warmth washes over him. When he opens his eyes again, the group is down to about twenty.  

Crowley finally bursts free from his chains with a snap. 

“Right. Time to rumble,” he says and joins the fray.  

Aziraphale has found another pitchfork, along with the sword. His pale blue shirt is drenched with sweat and acrid demonic blood. Now that they’re back-to-back, the scent of righteous anger flooded his senses. 

“I've got your six, angel!” 

This is just like the spy movies, Crowley thinks gleefully. He picks up a stray crowbar from the ground and swings it wildly about, whacking someone on the head with a loud clang. 

“Oh, excellent job dearest!” 

He rolls his eyes fondly and continues swinging until the fight becomes obsolete. 

“Well,” pants Aziraphale, straightening his bowtie, “That was quite the kerfuffle.”

“Kerfuffle?” the demon mouths incredulously.

The angel huffs and cradles Crowley’s jaw in his hands, “Are you alright, dear boy? That's quite the bruise.”

“Am I alright?” he scoffs “Please, leave a demon his pride.” He is Not blushing “– Are you okay, angel? That’s the better question.”

“Absolutely tickety boo!” he responds, “Nothing but a few scratches…”

“Right, that everyone then?”

“Almost!” 

Their heads turn simultaneously to eye the only demon left– well only other demon. One with horned hair and long eyelashes. He stands in the back corner of the warehouse awkwardly.

“Who are you?” Crowley hisses.

“I'm Eric!”

“What are you still doing here?”

“Well, the doors are locked.”

“Oh, I did do that, didn't I.” the angel mumbles embarrassedly. “Oh well, while you're here, Eric. Would you mind terribly passing along a message?

“Erm– I guess?” 

Aziraphale walks towards him primly 

“Excellent! Now, you tell Hell and anyone dim-witted enough to even think of hurting my dear Crowley here, that I will personally ensure it's their last thought.”

The demon nods frantically. 

“Thank you– Crowley, would you?” 

“F’courssse angel” He snaps his fingers and the doors unlock. “Huh, blocker has worn off then.”

Eric runs like a bat out of Hell.

Finally, Crowley sighs. He can ogle the angel in peace.

Aziraphale is standing rigidly as if prepared to fight again at a moment's notice. He's slick with sweat and inky blood. There’s a golden gash on his eyebrow where he must have been struck. It’s easily the most disheveled Crowley has ever seen him, but he is beautiful all the same. Ugh- he’s going soft . 

He feels bad really, that Aziraphale had to go and get his precious hands dirty. 

“Er– I had that covered angel. Really, no need to have gone through the trouble.” 

“Of course you did, dear boy.” 

Cheeky bastard. 

“I think, I’d rather fancy some cake,” Aziraphale says, licking the salty sweat off his lip. It’s enough to make a demon swoon. 

“Anything you want, angel” he replies softly. 

They walk out to a sunny day where the Bentley is waiting outside. Crowley doesn't even ask how she got there, he just holds the passenger side door open. What can he say, he’s feeling gentlemanly. And maybe, just a smidge, guilty. 

“Oh, goodness!” Azirpahale fusses, “My clothes are ruined, I simply can't get in like this.” 

“Errr– well yeah a bit.” the demon replies, waving a hand. The Bentley probably wouldn't appreciate getting blood on her seats.

Blue eyes look up at him gratefully.

Bloody beautiful. 

“Just get in. Let's get you that cake, yeah?”

He speeds through the London streets, the drive unexpectedly quiet except for Aziraphale’s labored breathing. Angel must’ve tired himself out. The Bentley turns sharply and Crowley hears a soft groan.

“Adrenaline wearing off?” he asks, not at all concerned. Nope. Not at all.

Aziraphale nods, “Just a tic.”

“You alright?” 

“Perfectly fine! Splendid actually– well except for my clothes, of course. The gore never really leaves them, you see I can't believe I ruined them so terribly. Such a shame. I'll have to get new ones. Perhaps we can go shopping!” 

Crowley eyes him suspiciously. He catches a glimpse of gold on Aziraphale’s waistcoat. 

He slams on the brakes. 

“Angel.” He growls. “Is that blood?”

“Erm– well”

“Don't lie to me angel, I can see it!”

“Whaaat what's that doing there?” he says, looking away guiltily. 

“Aziraphale. Is that or is that not your blood.”

“Well– um perhaps.” he stutters. 

“Perhaps.”

“Just a bit.”

“A bit. ”

“Oh Alright! I may have gotten, just a teensy bit, lightly stabbed!”

Chapter Text

“Oh, Alright! I may have gotten, just a teensy bit, lightly stabbed!”

“ YOU WOT” Crowley yells.

“Lightly stabbed, it’s just a scratch really…” 

“ LIGHTLY SSSSSTABBED”

“Oh relax, dear. I broke off the hilt and left the blade in.” 

“NOW WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?”

“Well, I didn't want to make a mess of the car! Besides, it's holding the blood in.” The angel states calmly. 

Oh, this is bad, this is really bloody bad. Crowley slams on the accelerator, driving to the bookshop at a terrifying 170 mph. 

“I'm getting you home,” he says, grinding his teeth. 

“But– cake!” the angel whines petulantly.

“Bloody fuck, Aziraphale. LATER!” 

“Well, there's no need to take that tone with me.” he pouts. 

“Oh, well forgive me if I'm not too jolly about my besst friend getting ssstabbed!”

“I'm the one that actually got stabbed,” Aziraphale sniffs, “Brawling, nonetheless, like some mindless brute. Dreadfully shameful of me, really.”

More quietly he says, “You know that's not how I like to present myself.”

Right. 

Crowley’s dead heart breaks all over again. Stupid, stupid . This is the same angel that gave away his flaming sword, after all. Aziraphale hates fighting, yet he did it anyway. To protect a demon. And now he's hurt.  

“Sorry…I'm ssorry, angel.” 

“It's quite alright.”

“We'll get cake delivered, okay?” Crowley says gently, “Something from that bakery you wanted to try.” 

He doesn't have to look at Aziraphale to know he's got that utterly soppy look on his face. Crowley resolutely keeps his eyes on the road, for once. 

They are almost home anyway, his white-knuckled grip on the wheel tightens as he drives impossibly faster. The velocity throws them back, and Aziraphale clutches his belly and groans. The Bentley, smart old girl that she is, lowers the passenger's seat and rides a tad smoother to accommodate him. She spoils the prissy angel, as she should. 

Finally, the bookshop comes into view. In an instant, before the Bentley has even stopped, Crowley materializes by Aziraphale’s hunched form.  

He looks awful. His usually iridescent skin is chalky, and gold splatters on his waistcoat grow bigger by the second. He masks his grimace with a fragile smile when he realizes Crowley is watching.

“Come on, angel. Lean on me, yeah?” His voice does not shake, “You can you do that.” 

The angel nods and pulls himself out of the car, but stumbles. Crowley lunges to catch him and lets him rest the bulk of his weight on him. 

“Like a ton of bricks, you” he grumbles, but his heart isn't in it. 

He drags the limping angel through the shop and to the sofa where he, non too gently, collapses, letting out a small yelp of pain. Crowley wastes no time and miracles off Aziraphale’s ruined shirt to inspect the damage. 

“Goodness, Crowley,” he chides, “dinner first!”  

The demon makes an odd noise as he gets his first look at the uncovered wound. Scratches new and old marr his angel’s pale skin but the focal point was–  he brings a hand to his mouth.

“What’s wrong, dearest?” Aziraphale asks, eyes tight.

“You're bleeding.”

“Yes,” he states as if it’s rather obvious. 

“A lot!” 

“...That's subjective.”

“There's a fucking knife in you!” 

“Calm down, dear,” he says, sounding awfully tired and frustrated, “Just take it out,” 

Something about that fussy, exhausted voice makes his hands shake. He prods at Aziraphale's soft belly, and tries to ignore the resulting flinch. Jagged protruding edges of black iron sizzle in response. 

Suddenly the demon is hyper-aware of an evil aura radiating from the wound. 

“Angel… Angel– this blade is cursed.”

“Oh, is it?” he remarks nonchalantly and avoids his gaze, which means– 

Aziraphale knows the blade is hellish. The daft angel has known this whole time and decided to hide that from him! He must feel it leaching the strength of even his true form, and it probably hurts like– well like hell, but he hasn't let out a peep of a complaint.

Crowley counts to ten, it doesn't work. 

This could kill Aziraphale. Not just discorporate, this could kill him. 

He counts to twenty. 

“Take your time, dear” Aziraphale huffs.

Suddenly, before Crowley can change his mind, he makes a decision and yanks out the blade. 

The most bloodcurdling wail wrenches itself out of the angel’s essence. Bookshelves tremble and the earth shakes as his anguish reaches past the earthly plane. 

Crowley has never felt so demonic.

“Sorry! Ssssorry! I'm so sssorry, angel!”

“WHAT THE FUCK CROWLEY?” 

“YOU SSSSAID TO PULL IT OUT” he panics.

Aziraphale grunts and takes a deep wheezing breath in, visibly trying to reign in the pieces of himself. He smiles weakly, “Good job, that.”

It really wasn't. The hellish wound looks so much worse now. Necrotic tissue has formed at the edges where the cursed knife ate away at his angelic essence. Crowley summons a towel to staunch the bleeding in his stomach. Then he summons another one, as the first gets soaked completely.

Aziraphale’s eyes are closed, which wouldn't be so concerning if he had ever slept.

“Thought you didn't sleep, angel”  

“I'm just– Just resting my eyes, dear.”

Crowley scoffs and tries to ignore the burning tears in his eyes. 

“Oi, angel” he says, swallowing back the lump in his throat, "What do I do now?” 

But Aziraphale has lost a lot of blood, and takes a while to gather his thoughts, “There’s a first aid kit un’r the sofa. Fetch it for me, won't you?” He mumbles.

The first aid kit probably dates back to World War. Dried bronze stains whisper unsettling stories at the demon when he opens it, but there’s no time to dwell.

“J’st stitch me up like a pillow!” the angel giggles deliriously.

Deliberately ignoring the comparison, Crowley pulls out the needle and thread, but Aziraphale reaches out for them.

“I can show you dear’st” he says.

“Nope, absolutely not.”

“I’m quite good at it” he mumbles as if his mouth is stuffed with cotton, “After my reprimands I just ampli- ant- antiseptic at it an’ stitch… Though hellish iron is… bit diff’rnt”

Crowley, ever cool under pressure, skips over the decidedly concerning…everything and pours on antiseptic. But it makes no difference, the evil influences continue to eat away at angelic skin. 

“Angel.” he asks with a grimace, “Do you have any holy water?”

Aziraphale sits up and grabs the demon's wrists in a fevered state of panic. “You will do no such thing! Please don't. Crowley. Don't–”

“Not for that, angel,” he interrupts softly. “Human disinfectant isn't working. The damage is cursed. It stands to reason that holy water would cleanse the wound.”

“No, it's too dangerous, I won't risk your life!” 

He forgot that stubborn angels don't listen to reason. 

“Aziraphale I promise I'll be careful”

He shakes his head resolutely, “No” 

“Get your head out of your arse Aziraphale! I'll be careful, just– stop dying!” he pleads. “Angel.” he says brokenly, “Please?” 

He's as white as a sheet, and probably just as flimsy, but he looks into Crowley's golden eyes and says, “Fine. But I'll do it.”

“I don't think–”

Azirphale pulls himself off the sofa, “A little help to the kitsch’n please sweet h’rt” he slurs before promptly collapsing, unconscious. 

Crowley lays the stubborn angel on the couch, surprisingly calm for what he is about to do. With a snap he’s decked out in industrial gloves up to his elbows. He prowls the kitchen, slamming cupboard doors open when he sees it. A tartan thermos much like the one he had been gifted with all those years ago. It has a note attached that specifically says “Crowley, do not touch. It's holy water.”

Naturally, Crowley grabs it and gingerly makes his way back to the angel knocked out cold on the sofa. 

It was very odd to see him unconscious. Aziraphale never slept, something to do with his many eyes, he mentioned once. Yet he remains unsettlingly still as the demon rinses the wound carefully.

The water hisses, effectively dissolving the bubbling evil tissue. It must burn something awful because the angel spasms violently.

“Please stop it, dearest” cries out a half-conscious Aziraphale. 

“Ngk– I’m trying, angel” 

It’s gruesome work, and if tears well up in his eyes, well, nobody was awake to see. He curses the thick gloves as he struggles with the needle and thread. Crowley eventually gets the hang of it, stitching carefully. When that's done, he dresses the wound, wrapping the bandage around his torso. The bloody towels and holy water get carefully disposed of, and he waits. 

He wakes with a start.

“Angel” Crowley breathes in relief, “How do you feel?” 

“No.” The angel's blue eyed gaze is wide and frantic, “No no no no no.” 

“Aziraphale–”

“Tell me you didn't.”

This time it's Crowley who looks away.

“Crowley, look me in the eye and tell me you didn't! ”

The demon feels a vague sense of deja vu. He turns his gaze to Aziraphale, unflinching. “You know I had no choice.”

“It could've destroyed you,” he whispers with a pained look, his breaths coming in quick bursts. “I could've– You can't– Crowley please” 

“Hey, hey I'm alright. I'm here, angel. I'm alright” he says.

“But you could've–”

“Nah. I'm alright, see? Very careful, me.”

The angel still looked unconvinced, and more than a bit teary eyed.  

“I promise I was careful.” Crowley says, resting a gloved hand on Aziraphale's arm, which seems to calm him down a bit. 

“ ‘Sides,” he says with an impish grin, “The gloves look nice don't they?”

The angel's face goes all soft, “Oh, those are horrid,”  he chuckles wetly. 

He takes a breath and gently brings a hand to Crowley's cheek, cradling his face with reverence. “Thank you, my dearest” 

The demon leans into the touch greedily, but it feels wrong as he covers Aziraphale’s hand with his own. Many times he's imagined his soft caress, but this isn't the manicured softness he’s observed over the centuries. 

He plucks that hand from his face to observe it, and the angel shrinks away. But not before Crowley sees his palms are red with burns and boils. 

“What's thisss?” He asks sharply. 

“Oh, you know.” Aziraphale looks away, “Those pesky demonic weapons!” he chuckles.

“Seriously angel?” Crowley sighs. Of course, not only was the angel impaled by hellish weapons, but he had been fighting with them as well. 

“You tell me right now where you're hurt, no more games.”

Aziraphale l looks extremely uncomfortable, guilty even. Serves him right for hiding the injuries in the first place, he thinks halfheartedly

“It really is just a few scratches.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. 

“Try again.”

The angel fidgets. “My hands I suppose, and er– my knee does smart a bit,” he admits with a wince.

Crowley sighs in relief. He finally got Aziraphale to admit he was in pain, something he's been trying to do for centuries with few results. 

“Knee or hands first?”

“Knee please, dear.” 

He treats the admittance with the respect it deserves and gently rolls up Aziraphale's pant leg revealing a badly bruised, and likely shattered knee. 

“That's nasty,” he hisses in sympathy.

“Well, that’s a bit rude don't you think,” the angel huffs.   

“You have the most beautiful knee I've ever seen, how will I cope?” Crowley deadpans.

“Don't tease!” he says, trying not to smile.

He’s definitely going to tease. 

“Just like old Shakespear said,” he says with mock seriousness, “ ‘Bow, stubborn knees, and heart with strings of steel-’ but OH, these wondrous knees!”

“Crowley,” he giggles, jostling his tender belly.

“Alright, calm down,” he says fondly,  “Don't rip your stitches.”

Aziraphale sobers quickly and the moment is gone. “You shouldn't have done that,” he says as Crowley tends to the injury.

“Done what?” 

“You know what.” 

He does. He would do it again too, he would risk any amount of holy water if it meant the angel stayed safe. How could he explain that an existence without Aziraphale is… unimaginable?

Aziraphale stares as the demon wraps soft gauze around his knee before tending to his blistered hands. 

“I had to try.” Crowley says finally.

“I’m hardly worth–”

“–Don't” he snarls. “Don't finish that sentence.”

He finds the strength to look up at his soppy old angel. Azirphale’s eyes bore into his with a deep emotion he can't quite place and a quiet exhale. 

“Thank you.”

Crowley presses a quivering kiss to each bandaged knuckle. 

There are many things to discuss still, words left unsaid, as there always are between the two of them. But Crowley hopes this is enough. He reaches for one more miracle and a pink takeaway box appears between them.

“Still up for that cake, angel?” 

Aziraphale looks at him, and tears tremble in his blue eyes, but don't fall. 

“My hero.”