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Dr. Aziraphale Easton groaned as he reached his office door.
It had been another late evening properly cataloguing the newest shipment of Assyrian artifacts—and fixing other people’s mistakes. He’d be damned—well, disappointed—if he let the British Museum down by not doing his expected job.
Aziraphale stopped his rambling thoughts as he entered his darkened office. Only the dimmest flame flickered from the wall sconces. He swore he’d left the lights on brighter when he left. Perhaps his assistant Newton had turned them down, fearing a possible gas leak.
Aziraphale lifted his hand to the closest sconce—
“Don’t,” a raspy voice uttered. “Jus’ close the door, Angel.”
The archaeologist followed the instructions. He knew that voice as well as his own—or at least he thought he did.
“I told you not to call me that epithet anymore. We are no longer schoolmates.”
“Called yeh it long past our ssschool days, Aaangel.” There was a slight lispy-drawl to the tone.
Aziraphale slowly turned to face further into his shadowed office.
Anton Crowley—expelled classmate, infamous treasure-hunter, and impish rogue—slouched in Aziraphale’s desk chair. His deep-scarlet locks were a mess, his clothing in disarray, and face flushed yet pale at the same time.
“Have you been drinking, dear boy?”
“Ssstill willing to call me dear after our fight, Angel? I thought you had ssstandardsss.”
“If you wish to continue that disagreement, then you can see yourself out. I refuse to discuss matters while you are under the influence—”
“I’m not drunk, Aziraphale,” Crowley growled as he lunged out of the chair. But he didn’t get very far as he stumbled and swayed, nearly collapsing as he clutched his side.
Instinctively Aziraphale bolted to him, catching him before he hit the floor. He dragged him to the settee nearby, folding down beside him. Then he noticed the blood on his hands—the blood covering Crowley’s waistcoat.
“I’m dying, Angel.”
Pained amber eyes meet shocked blue ones.
“Got shot,” Crowley groaned as he huddled closer to the archaeologist. “Needed a safe place. Wanted—needed to say goodbye.”
Aziraphale’s heart froze in his chest. No, he couldn’t lose Crowley. They weren’t on the best terms but…he was still his Crowley.
Suddenly the office door opened as Newton entered, calling out for his boss, “Dr. Easton, I was about to take my leave…is that Mr. Crowley?!”
The archaeologist jumped to his feet and raced over to his assistant, covering the man’s mouth before he said anything more.
“Newt, your fiancee’s guardian was a doctor—yes?” Aziraphale lowered his hand, but still held onto the young man’s shoulder.
Newton licked his lips, “Yes, her aunt Agnes is a doctor, but her medical license is only valid in the States due to the registry laws—”
“Damn the medical registry! Would she help us? Could she—”
“Dr. Nutter is a trained surgeon, not just a doctor. Helps those in need, no questions asked. And she lives nearby,” Newton answered with a steely tone.
“Good,” Aziraphale chapped his hands together, but gave a weary look back at Crowley. “Could you fetch us a carriage? Discretely, mind you. Have them meet us by the back entrance?”
Newton nodded, “Of course, sir.” He fled the office without another word or glance.
Aziraphale rushed back to Crowley’s side. The man hadn’t moved. His eyes were closed—his chest barely drew breath. The archaeologist placed a hand on his cheek.
“Crowley, can you hear me? Could you bear to move a bit more to the carriage, my dear? I could carry you if need be—”
“I can walk, Angel.” His amber eyes flickered open halfway. “Not dead yet.”
“Crowley, please don’t—”
“Seems you can’t get rid of me that easily, Dr. Easton.” A faint smile slid across Crowley’s pale face. He gripped Aziraphale’s wrist with a bloodied hand and pulled it to his lips. He pressed a firm kiss against the warm skin. “Looks like there will be no dying today after all.”