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Stab wounds were generally a simple matter to fix. One small miracle, and they were gone. Good as new, with only a suggestion of soreness to the area they had once occupied.
The dagger currently lodged in Crowley’s stomach should have been no exception.
Torn muscles were knitted back together, skin melted back into an unblemished state, and blood levels replenished with barely any effort. Even the hole in his tunic had been repaired, and the bloodstains vanished.
But while the physical damage was taken care of, the poison wasn’t quite as easy to deal with.
Again and again, Aziraphale tried to draw it out, or at least convince Crowley’s corporation to metabolize it quicker, but no luck. If anything, it only seemed to worsen things.
No matter how many times he’d seen Crowley in pain over the centuries, it never got any easier. Even now, after summoning a bucket of water and cloths, he felt utterly helpless. Almost human, one might say.
Was the water cool enough? Was the cloth gentle enough on Crowley’s fevered skin? Was he even helping by doing any of this?
Worrying his lip, Aziraphale settled Crowley back onto the straw mattress and wiped the sick from his mouth after yet another violent round of vomiting.
“Oh dear, you’ve nearly soaked through your shirt.” The poor dear was sweating an awful lot, and that couldn’t be comfortable at all. “Let’s get you out of these clothes, hmm?”
“Nggh,” Crowley groaned as his shirt was unbuttoned. Then, despite how wretched he looked (and likely felt), he smirked. “Take me to dinner first.”
“What?” Aziraphale paused at the cheeky remark, only to blush as he came to a sudden realization. “Oh! Oh, goodness. I meant nothing untoward by that, you must know. Anyhow, I highly doubt you feel up to dine at the moment.”
“I know. And yeah, probably not,” Crowley conceded, softening. “But give me a week—maybe two—and I’ll take you up on dinner.”
“I’d like that very much.” Pleased, Aziraphale went back to fumbling with the buttons, though his cheeks still felt quite warm. Once the tunic was open, he dunked a fresh cloth into the bucket, wrung it out, and ran it over Crowley’s collarbones, delighting in the contented sigh it earned him. “Good?”
A tired grunt was his only response, but that was enough encouragement for Aziraphale to work his way down the demon’s chest next.
Crowley relaxed under the touch, tension bleeding from him as he fell into a doze. Sleep would be good for him, and he could use all the rest he could get.
Gently, Aziraphale wiped away the sweat that had broken out across Crowley’s face, and smiled as the groans of discomfort shifted into proper snores. Although the fever hadn’t yet broken, he deemed it safe to cover his charge with a light blanket.
Crowley would get better, he was sure of it. But until then, Aziraphale kissed his temple and settled in to keep watch.