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.”