Work Text:
Europe, 1357
Crowley parried an enemy blow with his sword, knocking the adversary away, and rushed to Aziraphale who was kneeling on the ground and panting heavily due to his exhaustion: the poor angel had just performed a miracle after the the other to shield several humans, the demon and himself from the ballistic attack.
“Come on, angel,” the demon hurried, lifting up and holding Aziraphale up, “let's go…”
The angel nodded and tried his best to walk away on his own legs but, after a couple of paces, he started leaning more and more on the demon's shoulder.
For Crowley, that wasn't too much of a problem despite the poking sensation at his right side where the angel was touching him.
When they finally reached a sturdy stone wall at the edge of the battlefield, they both dived down for cover.
While they were catching their breath, Crowley noticed a crimson stain on Aziraphale's left side that wasn't there two minutes earlier.
“That's blood,” Crowley hissed. “I knew I shouldn't have let you shield me, angel!”
Before the angel could even think of a protest, the worried demon started disrobing him, trying to look for the wound, but he suddenly stopped when, after removing his pale tabard, was confronted by an almost immaculate tunic underneath.
“That's not my blood,” the confused angel muttered, while having a better look at those stains, the demon and their surroundings.
The confused expression on his angelic face was replaced by an horrified one as soon as Aziraphale understood the situation and saw what had stained his clothes.
With a trembling finger, the angel pointed at Crowley’s right side: “That's your blood. You're the injured one.”
A broken arrow shot by a crossbow was embedded in the demon's corporation and his tunic around the weapon was soaked in blood.
When the demon saw that he stated: “Oh. That would explain the stinging sensation I had while carrying you. Or when I'm breathing.”
At that moment, the adrenaline (or the demonic equivalent) left his body, Crowley almost fell face first into the ground but, luckily for him, an angel was there to catch him.
Aziraphale carefully removed the chainmail shirt with the tabard and cut open the tunic and the padding underneath to expose the wound that was still oozing some blood.
“You pull and I heal?” Crowley proposed.
The angel didn't like that plan at all but he accepted it: “Only if you don't pass out first: in that case, I'll take over.”
“Fine by me. At the count of three… …one, two three!!!”
Aziraphale removed the arrow with a confident pull and Crowley, while writhing in pain, was able to heal himself before letting himself slump into the angel's welcoming arms.
Since the dust of the battlefield had settled down and the noise had moved away from them, Aziraphale was able to spot a little abandoned farm not too far away.
The angel pointed it out to the demon and asked him: “Do you think you can reach that? Some rest there would be rather lovely, even if it's not as comfortable as the royal palace.”
“Oh, I will: I don't want to spend another minute there.”
Leaning on each other, the angel and the demon were able to reach the farm and after a nice “do not disturb” kind of miracle, they laid next to each other on some soft layer of straw and took a nice rest together.