Aziraphale doing a temptation for Crowley, per the Arrangement

It was not good. Of course it was not ‘good’. The very nature of demonic work was to be quite, quite the opposite. 

Aziraphale still could not believe he had agreed to this. He had, in fact, considered saying he would do the Temptation (which had earned itself a capitalisation in his mind), but then not do it, making Crowley responsible for net good in the world.

Except then the wriggling, niggling doubt told him that it would a) be a lie (bad), b) be a temptation of a demon (bad, but to a bad person, but did the ethical algebra make that doubly bad, or cancel itself out?), and c) Crowley would then no longer speak to him.

Crowley not speaking to him was even more ethically complicated. On the one hand, he should not be talking to him. On the other, if he didn’t, then he wouldn’t have any kind of clue what was going on from Hell’s perspective. And he couldn’t then encourage Crowley to do good deeds, or less bad ones. 

The whole ‘also he’s rather entertaining when you forget about the day job’ wasn’t allowed in the equation. Nor was he allowed to include ‘Crowley is tempting me to bad things as I try to encourage him to good things, but good is superior so it will win, even if I, as an angel, am sort of damning myself and what will She think and am I in fact saving some of Crowley’s whatever-isn’t-a-soul by keeping the sin from off him and–’

Basically, he was stuffed. And Crowley (damn and blast him) knew.

He’d known since he found out that Aziraphale had given away that flaming sword. 

He’d agreed to this. And no amount of philosophising would ever come to any satisfying conclusion. Sometimes he wished he’d eaten the damn fruit, then he really would know right from wrong. But humans were supposed to, and yet they hadn’t truly come to any satisfying conclusion, either. And how - as Crowley had said - were they supposed to avoid doing bad things if they hadn’t known what bad was, and God in all Her frustrating awesomeness was just not very forthcoming on this topic and it was all that word he was not allowed to say as much as he did because it was surrendering and how could you be a good moral agent if you just let others decide and–

This was ridiculous.

Ridiculous.

He’d been sitting in this ale house for so long that his buttocks had gone vaguely numb, and the other patrons were distinctly avoiding looking at him.

Crowley had said that, even on specific assignments, there was leeway. Or there was, if you could justify it. You could do an equivalent amount of effort or impact, if you could sell it to the top (bottom?) brass. 

The goal here was to turn the travelling minister. He roamed the rural communities and held communion and ministry to the ones who couldn’t (or didn’t) attend a parish. Crowley hadn’t given him any further instructions, just that he was meant to turn him away from the cloth (and, by extension, the Church, and Heaven). 

But that comment. That one about ‘justifying’ it. Crowley had made a point of saying it, as if it was important. 

Heaven didn’t always understand the intricacies of life on Earth, so perhaps Hell was the same. Perhaps he could ‘fulfil’ Crowley’s obligation, but do so in a way that, maybe, wasn’t quite as bad as Hell thought it would be.

The priest was tired. He’d finished his broth, and he was about to turn in for the night. Aziraphale didn’t want to waste another night in this dive.

A gesture of fingers, of wrist, of cuff tumbling around his hand. 

The young barmaid stepped back from a tumbling patron, and jarred an elbow. sending the last few droplets of broth over a lap. 

It was a temptation. It was not forcing him. He was - after all - supposed to make his own mind up. But he also knew this young woman was very inquisitive and good-hearted. And the priest was feeling worn down from the ride and the weather and the pinch of his boots around his toes (tugged that tiny bit tighter, for good measure).

There was no guarantee he would fall in love with her. No guarantee he would find the love of his life, and leave his flock. 

But if he did, perhaps this fall from ‘grace’ might not be as sinful as Hell thought it was. Aziraphale smiled, as he heard the two of them start to laugh.

This would suffice for Hell. And it wouldn’t hurt his conscience too much, either.

It might take some creative book-keeping, but it was not zero-sum, by his reckoning. And now he could go back home.

@singasongrightnow

I've been meaning to ask for this, but I can't remember if I have or not, so here it is or here it is again if I have- The ABO verse - First date/Kiss

Crowley was nervous. Nervous in a way he didn’t fully understand.

He’d been anxious around Alphas in the past, but anxious in the way that a voice somewhere in his head said keep your legs crossed and watch your back and don’t let them take you to another location and don’t let them buy you anything to eat or drink.

Not every Alpha was like that, of course. But one was enough. One who thought he could do what he wanted with an omega, and it be justified, or at least excused. And knowing he’d never have the ‘protection’ that others thought a mate brought, meant he had spent his life concerned that he needed to keep his guard up forever.

Until he met Aziraphale.

Aziraphale, who exuded Alpha hormones, and behaved like the calmest, most fluffy omega in existence. It was a complete paradox. His body was clearly built for one thing, and his spirit for another entirely.

Aziraphale, who brought out in Crowley an urge to protect. He was clearly capable of brushing people off, but had no drive to. He was gentle, softly-spoken, smart, and amenable. He was an ‘omega’ in all but body, and he could likely walk through the world that way without worrying about anyone thinking him anything but ‘odd’. They would maybe tell him he was wasting his potential, missing out, but would they try to force him?

(Would they actually try to force Crowley, or was that just what they said, to cow the less obstructive into submission?)

Whatever the world wanted, Crowley did not care. Aziraphale was kind. And sweet. And nice. He made Crowley laugh. He had this earnest interest in things, and he would focus and fixate and then explain in dizzying levels of detail about his newest favourite thing. He would blush when Crowley said things to him. He would listen to Crowley, when he had one of his passionate political soapbox moments. He would debate, without arguing. He would listen. And he would smile.

Crowley liked the smile. It was true and warm, and it made him smile back at him. He would enjoy that smile, and he would do more things to bring it out. 

Occasionally, he would worry the smile might - 

But - 

No.

The worrying was internal. There was no evidence whatsoever that this angel was anything but perfect. He was never pushed. Never coerced. Never made to feel lesser.

They’d go for a meal, and they’d talk like old friends. Or, like Crowley assumed old friends would talk, because he’d felt so isolated for so long that he didn’t even know if he had any.

They would go back to one another’s places, after work, and just spend time together. Taking it in turns to cook, or order in, and pick movies. Crowley would drive him home, or drive himself, and it was… it was nice.

It was almost like dating, but with the gross (to him) bit taken out. Maybe it was what they were doing, because it felt more than what he thought friendship would be. Or, maybe it was that everyone else picked to add that extra bit on, the bit they didn’t really want. 

Crowley was content with this, he was. Even if occasionally he wondered if they should do - or be - more. Not in a ‘I want you to touch me’ way, but in a ‘it wouldn’t be so bad if we just did this forever and even if everyone else thinks our genitals do the thing, they don’t need to, and then they leave us alone, but also I get to spend more time with this one who is actually pleasant and not annoying…’ sort of way.

He was content, up until the first time he was a little off cycle, and no matter that he religiously took his hormone control tablets, the edge of his physical heat hit him, and the suppressant part only took some of the edge off.

He’d texted Aziraphale. Told him he was feeling bad. Told him it was a rain check. And curled up around a hot water bottle, hating his body, and wishing for the end times.

…but there’d been a knock at the door, and when he hobbled over, ready to growl, he looked into concerned, blue eyes.

Shit.

He was reeking of the imminent and soon-to-be-crushed bodily preparation to mate. His ass was a clenching, pre-slick-sensitive mess, and he wanted nothing more than to eat, curl up, and make it go away.

And here was his - uh - sort-of-his Alpha, holding a tub of icecream.

“…the bus ride was not very fast, I’m afraid this might need your freezer very soon,” Aziraphale explained, pushing the icecream at him. “I also brought some painkillers, and what the pharmacist said was the best emergency blocker brand, and some tissues, and I thought I could give them to you and then pop back on the bus.”

“…what?”

“I had no other plans, and - oh dear - I hope you don’t think I’m being forward. It… it was just the way you described this part sounded unpleasant. And I wanted to cheer you up, and to show you that it’s nothing to be ashamed of, but if you don’t feel like company I just wanted to do something nice for you, so you don’t - well. So you don’t just feel miserable.”

It was the hormones that made him want to cry. And also punch the wall. And also cry into the icecream and then punch it into the wall. His body was a wreck, but it didn’t seem to link up to the thing he was supposed to also feel, and–

“Does - does it make you… doesn’t it affect you, being around me, like this?” he asked, awkwardly.

“Perhaps. I wanted to help, even before I was near you, and now I just want to even more. But I think that’s mostly because I want to see you happy,” Aziraphale replied, very softly.

“No… sudden urge to make a real omega out of me?”

“My dear, no one could. Not even if they tried.”

That was so… fucking touching. Crowley grabbed the other’s shirt, and pulled him in for a fierce kiss. It was filled with affection, emotion, longing… but the longing was for something different. Something… them.

“You’re a literal angel,” Crowley sniffed, when he rocked back onto his heels. “But you bought too much, and if I eat all that, I will be sick.”

“…you could always… save some?”

“I could always share,” he corrected him.

He could honestly say, never in his life had he thought he’d be both prepared to - and eager to - allow anyone near him when he felt so vulnerable and uncomfortable. It was unseemly, and unlike him, and totally not how he wanted to be seen. 

But this one… this one could stay. He could stay forever, Crowley thought, as he invited him in. 

He was safe with Aziraphale, and more than that… he liked him.

Something sort of hurt inside as he watched him fuss about the couch, pulling things in for them both. Cushions and coffee tables, then bowls and spoons. But he wasn’t making a nest for an omega, he was making… making something homely for them both. 

This one, Crowley thought. He would claim this one. Who cared if it was the wrong ‘way’ around, he’d found someone he could be happy with. Was happy with. 

It wasn’t his churning insides that wanted him, it was something entirely different. And it was going to be just fine.

@ulspi and @singasongrightnow

Great, now the electricity is out.

“Great. Now the electricity is out.”

“And?”

“What the bloody hell am I supposed to do for entertainment now, angel?”

The minute - nay - the millisecond it passed his lips, Crowley realised he had made A Terrible Mistake. Awful. Worse than the time he thought visiting Ireland would be a laugh. Just…

The angel’s eyes glittered in that way he associated most with ‘Is this your card?’ or ‘Isn’t this wholesome fun?’ or ‘Now, the pen is mightier than the - why are you stabbing me, Crowley?’

“No,” he said, horrified.

“Yes!”

“I’ll turn it back on,” Crowley said, already trying to get to his feet, but waylaid by an angel who didn’t run but sure as hell moved faster than the theory of relativity would normally allow.

“Crowley! It’s the perfect time!”

“You hate it. You do. You say, every time, that it was a bad idea.”

“That’s only because you spoil it.”

“Me? I spoil it? If I win, you say I’m cheating. If you win, I’m a poor sport.”

“You do cheat!”

“I’m a demon!”

“There are rules, Crowley.”

“And one of the house rules should be cheat harder than someone if you want to win.”

Next: the pout.

It was, Crowley had to admit, a very good one, this time. Just the right wobble-to-creased brow ratio. The sparkle of unshed tears was on peak form.

“It’s fun.”

It was not fun. But Crowley threw himself onto the couch to spread in seven directions at once, all of them cardinally sinful.

“Not Monopoly again.”

The cloud of sorrow dissipated into the giddy pre-game of glee, and happy little hands clapped together. “Backgammon? Ludo?”

“Twister?” Crowley offered.

“The hippo game?”

“Not the hippo game.”

“Chess?”

“You cheated last time and declared a revolution.”

More wobble.

“Scrabble. Current edition of the OED only,” he compromised. “And no complaining about the proper name rule.”

“…Thank you, darling,” the angel beamed.

He would win this one. Crowley would play until it was close enough to be a challenge, but there were certain things he would not allow Aziraphale to lose at. Everything else was fair game (or unfair game, as the case may be), but you had to let him win the word ones. 

Or, ninety-seven percent of them.

If you wanted to sleep in the same room, anyway. 

He also suspected the power would miraculously return shortly after the game. The angel had never been as subtle as he liked to think. It was one of his better bad qualities. 

@singasongrightnow

Prompt: how does Crowley choose new plants?

Crowley does not want Aziraphale to come to the gardening centre with him. Does not. It is very much a personal, private thing, and…

“But I let you come with me to the antique books roadshow.”

“You made me.”

“You said you didn’t want to be left alone all week!”

“So instead of staying back with me, or letting me stay in the hotel with room service, you dragged me around all those musty old tomes!”

But what Aziraphale wanted, Aziraphale usually got.

Which is why he’s got his glasses pushed as close to his face as he can, to prevent any stray glance behind them to his eyes. He’s left the angel admiring the fruit trees and rose bushes, skulking like the alpha predator he is through bamboos and tall grasses to find his preferred prey.

(In the distance, cooed and aahed appreciations that make his ears prick, but he must ignore them.)

The varieties you found in these places were commercial. Bastard hybrids. The scrappy mongrels of the plant world, or the over-pruned family tree branches that lead to over-specialised and genetically non-diverse sharp ends of wedges.

Crowley knew enough to know when things had been splinched, grafted, crossed. He knew from leaf-patterns, variegation, genus and species on tiny plastic spikes, written in capital letters by hand. 

(Once in a while, a heirloom might sneak in, misidentified, snapped up greedily, taken back to be cultivated by someone who could truly appreciate the find…)

But mostly, it was the former, not the latter. 

He runs his eyes over the plants, which have yet to understand the importance of presentation. Battered around in uniform planters and squabbling for light. 

It doesn’t matter which they are. If they’re a cultivar with a planned growth, or a happy accident of bee or broom. What matters more… it’s the innate drive. The one ready to push above the next one. To reach beyond. The leaves don’t need to be perfect at the start, just the drive to thrive and excel. Right now, it’s resources. Later - if he picks them - he will channel that energy where he wants it. 

One catches his eye. It’s deeper in colour, like a flush of chlorophyll. It wants. He can feel it. It wants.

“Oh, have you decided?” his angel asks, his little shopping basket full of nonsense and ephemera. 

“Yes.”

It has to want to live. Whatever it is, it has to want to excel. And then he can help it find its true potential. 

@singasongrightnow

Prompt #4 - I don’t think that’s how that works.

“Angel, love of my life, fire of my loins, pain of my ass… I don’t think that’s quite how it works.”

Crowley was pleased, of course, to receive gifts. Gifts with a hell of a lot of thought behind them. Gifts that showed the angel had spent the entire year focusing on things he was interested in, or else he’d spent his entire life doing it, and not mentioning it.

But.

“It is,” the angel huffed.

“And you gleaned this…”

“From those moving pictures you like. They were often based on books, as you know.”

“I was aware. I did exist before Hollywood.” It was just more convenient to have the voices out loud and let his eyes and ears consume the story. Didn’t mean he was a total heathen.

“Your Commander fellow had a branch dedicated to them.”

“Y-yes…”

“And so I went on the line and I found them.”

“You… found ‘Q Branch’?”

“And they sold me these items.”

Crowley looked at them. One was a button marked ‘ejector seat’ which would match the panelling in his Bentley almost perfectly. Another was a pen which purported to have a microphone and recording capability. (That one was probably legitimate, but he was a demon and had superior hearing if he wanted to, so…) And the third was a laminated ID card with a terrible picture of him,  Double-O designation, and ‘Licence to Thrill’ printed underneath.

“You are now officially an ‘agent’ and if you put the button in your car, it will work to eject anyone you need. They had machine guns and underwater ones, but I didn’t think I wanted you to have those,” Aziraphale explained. “And I would appreciate if you did not eject me, unless necessary.”

Knowing the angel, if he did stick it on and press it in his presence, he’d automatically go flying from the car. Just from sheer stubbornness. 

It was still a lovely gift.

“It’s not so secret if you apply online, though, is it?”

Aziraphale lifted his hand, to obscure his lips from anyone trying to listen in. “I used your alternative credentials. So it will take any nefarious entities longer to track you down.”

He… oh that was even more precious. Crowley grinned, and leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Well. I can’t let this go to waste. Fancy a ride, Z?”

“Z?”

“I’m not calling you ‘A’,” he huffed. 

“Hmm. Very well, Agent Crowley. But do mind we do not drive too close to any precarious cliffs. You are quite reckless on the M25.”

“I promise nothing.” He did, however, plan to go to Vauxhall and see if they pulled him over for being suspicious, so he could flash his new ‘licence’ and then speed off. Yup. Best anniversary gifts ever.

Snow Angels and Snow Demons, please!

The thing about snow, you see, is - well. It’s cold. Damn cold. Brass monkeys and brass gorillas cold. And whilst it’s great for causing travel delays (trains, planes, cars, even foot-traffic), it’s… you know. Cold.

Crowley may not be an actual snake, but he’s as much that as he is human, in all fairness. And it is hard to look cool (no pun int– oh, who is he kidding) when you’re wrapped up warm. Even the super-rich at the apres-ski have to look like they’re the offspring of a biped and a sleeping bag. 

But the kicker - as there is always a kicker - is that the angel loves it. Course he bloody does. He miracles up fake snow in his shop windows, bought into the Dickensian miracle-winters, even though he was there for the fog and the stink. His romantic rosy glasses make him giddy. Hot cocoa and mittens and scarves and his biggest complaint is that he doesn’t see children sledging down banks. (No, Crowley thinks. They do it when it isn’t snowing, and they do it on wheels, because Humans have progressed, unlike the angel.)

It’s hard to ignore the boundless enthusiasm, over the mulled wine and apple-red cheeks. To be properly grumpy when - in a moment of impish and innocent delight combined - a small bundle of balled-up snow hits his arm. He retaliates, of course, by putting significantly more down the back of the angel’s collar, to scolding and giggles. 

Leather gloves and the sound of crunching underfoot. The patterns of footsteps, human, avian, feline, canine… the day’s history laid out before them. The need to make a perfect print, with every line showing crisp and clean. 

Fine. It’s okay. 

He sees the angel paused, hands wringing as he quarrels with himself. The bobbing left and right as he assigns pros and cons to the blank canvas he’s found. Crowley watches, and listens, catching enough of the mumbled words to identify the quandary.

It’s going to sting. And he’s going to be damp. And he’s going to complain. (And the angel will make him warm drinks and rub his hands and turn up the heating and smile that smile that’s only for Crowley.)

Blast it all.

He walks up to him, turns so he’s facing him, and holds his eyes as he trust-falls (or, let’s face it, plain old falls) backwards into the drift. Arms and legs akimbo, making the pattern he knows Aziraphale wanted.

“You know,” Crowley grumbles, “…we actually have real wings.”

“It wouldn’t be a snow angel, then. Er. Snow… demon.”

“Ridiculous,” he grumbles, but his face hurts for all different reasons when he has a companion in the snow. 

“They haven’t forgotten us,” the angel whispers. “Not really.”

“No.”

“They don’t know quite what we did… but they haven’t forgotten we exist.”

No. Crowley thinks that’s nice. It’s probably better the humans have idealised (and demonised) ideas about them. The truth is much, much more complicated than any snow-painting could convey.

“Can I get up now?” he asks.

A kiss to his nose and a hand offered out says yes, he can. Crowley is also a bastard, so he pulls the angel down and makes the patterns into a mess of fluff and flailing arms. But he gets another (begrudging) kiss, so it’s worth it. 

At least Aziraphale has always hated ice-skating. Crowley might have drawn the line at that.

@singasongrightnow

“i made you some soup, and i’m going to sit here until you eat it. i can wait.”

Warlock Dowling was at that stage that most children reached before long. He had learned the word ‘no’, and that it was possible for him to use it, as much as everyone around him. They might say no when he tried to touch the sparkly burny thing, or put the pretty flower in his mouth, but he could also say it back.

Bedtime.

No.

Bathtime.

No.

Time to learn about the ranks of Hell.

No.

He only understood some of the things he was told to do, but he delighted in refusing. Nanny especially was fun. Even if she was ordering him about, when he refused, she looked so happy and annoyed at once and the two emotions were big and he liked that.

Bruffa Fancis was different to Nanny. He would do the long talking thing when Warlock said no. And then he would talk some more, his red face going increasingly ruddy with his anger until Warlock either giggled or gave in. Depending on how he felt.

Today, though, Nanny was adamant.

“I made you some soup, and I’m going to sit here until you eat it.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I can wait.”

Warlock wanted to say no. He did. He wanted that pleased-irked mess of emotion to play out, the ones that made him confused but excited. But he could tell Nanny was not in that sort of mood, and - if he was honest - neither was he.

His nose felt bad. His head felt bad. His eyes felt bad. And he was sad and wanted to cry, but he didn’t want to sleep. He didn’t want to wake, but he did not want to nap. The soup was warm and his belly was heavy and he hadn’t wanted his fish fingers before. 

Warlock looked up at Nanny. Nanny looked worried. He wiped his snotty nose on his sleeve, and thought maybe Bruffa Fancis would tell him the right thing today.

“…’kay, dandy,” he replied, voice thick with his cold. 

“Good boy.” 

Nanny didn’t often give out compliments. Warlock smiled and picked up the spoon. 

@singasongrightnow

“you promised me a cookie!”

“You promised me a cookie.”

“I said you could have one if you finished your taxes.”

“I wasn’t born. So I don’t have a national security number. And I don’t need healthcare. And–”

Aziraphale clutched the small box of cookies closer to his chest, refusing to let prising hands wriggle into the inner wrapper. “You create litter which must be disposed of. And you use the roads. Which - may I also remind you - there is vehicle duty?”

“I don’t produce emissions. I’m carbon neutral.”

“Street lighting is–”

“I can see in the dark.”

The principle of the thing was the important part. “You watch the BBC. And - and - you–” Oh.

“What?”

“Noth–”

“What?”

Aziraphale didn’t feel like cookies any more. He folded over the foil inner and clicked the cardboard tongue into the slot. “I was simply thinking of other uses of taxation. Such as emergency services.”

“I told you, I don’t get sick, I don’t get caught doing crimes, and I–”

The penny proverbially dropped. Fire. Fire engines. Firepersons. Fire. 

“Fat bloody good they did,” the demon said, shoving the forms away from him. “I’m not doing it. If you want to file them for me, whatever, but I’m not doing it.”

The angel looked down at the paperwork. “Perhaps if they had had more money… though, Adam did rectify the issue, and it isn’t as if I was… very well. I’ll do yours for you.”

Crowley tilted his head. “Isn’t there customs and excise on… alcohol?”

“Yes?”

“So, if I bought a large cellar…?”

“You would have a lot of wine,” he agreed, but smiled, too, because yes. There would be duty. Especially if imported from, say, the new world.

“Right. You do the boring paperwork. I’ll find us a hermetically sealed cellar. And cookies don’t go with wine. Don’t even try to tell me they don’t.”

“Cheese and crackers?” Aziraphale offered, by way of compromise.

“Fine.”

“I’ll make sure I get your favourites,” he added, even more cheerily.

Crowley’s answer was a grunt, but he meant it. 

@singasongrightnow

I love the H/C prompts... Which are a bit interesting with an angel and a demon, but I will send them anyways - Blankets/Shirt Collar Shifting Just Enough To Have Bandages Peeking Out

Crowley was putting a brave face on it, but Aziraphale could feel the waves of pain. And if he couldn’t, his empathetic imagination felt them, clear enough.

It had been, what was it Crowley liked to say? A complete-and-utter-cock-up. Not so much pear shaped, as pear-crumble rubbed into eyes. And the worst part of all was that it was well and truly the angel’s fault.

He’d gone in all faith, no pun intended. He’d thought nothing of the meeting, not when it was to discuss religious texts. The cathedral had a little gift and coffee shop, and that was very nice indeed. It was a lovely old building, beloved of the local bat population, and had wonderful bells. 

Aziraphale hadn’t told Crowley where he was going, simply that he was. And when it turned out to be less than savoury individuals… hired, doubtless, by his ‘old’ side… he’d realised what an utter fool he had been. 

He’d called out, desperately, and was unsurprised when a flutter of black wings was followed by low and urgent cursing. Holy ground and all. But he knew - oh he knew - that Crowley would come for him. Aziraphale had clutched his book satchel to his chest, using it as a shield to deter the assailants, unwilling to resort to violence, even now.

It was - it just - 

It was easier to defend others than himself. Had it been Crowley, he knew he’d not hesitate.

But Crowley came in swinging, grabbing offering plates, dining plates, plastic chairs - anything - and hurtling them at the attackers. Aziraphale had hesitated a little longer, until one of them grabbed a crucifix and assaulted his demon.

The mixed blasphemy of using the icon, combined with the sibilant call of pain, and he’d lost whatever restraint held him back. The Humans in the building were treated to white wings and bright light, and several very rude people were left tied up like offerings at the foot of the altar.

And he and Crowley went quickly home.

His feet were burned badly, and no amount of salve or prayer would heal them faster. Anything he might try could potentially cause more harm, so he’d kept his miracles to himself and bound them in what passed for Human burn treatment. 

Crowley had resisted, but Aziraphale couldn’t leave him hurting, not on his behalf.

The other wounds were less widespread. Deep gouges, but a single, clean line. Anaesthetic creams and padding, and white, white bandages. They looked stark on his frame, and did nothing for the aesthetic choice of black.

Crowley reclined on the sofa, legs draped over the arm, pretending it wasn’t to keep his feet off the floor. He gestured with the glass of whiskey, and each arch of his throat to drink, swan-like, pulled the loose shirt up higher. A flash of shroud-white, reminding the angel that they were not, in fact, invulnerable.

It wasn’t fair.

Crowley had risked everything to save him - and the world - over and over.

Surely now, She should have forgiven him?

Ah said a voice, somewhere deep inside. Somewhere he wasn’t sure if it was his own, or not.

You can only be forgiven when you accept the offer.

Crowley had not. Would not.

Crowley’s Heaven was this, he realised, as those eyes ached when they looked up at his worried expression.

“M’sorry you didn’t get the books, angel.”

“I have everything I need right here,” he murmured, instead.

“Leave it off.”

“No,” he said, and smiled a smile that hurt as badly as Sacred Ground. “Would you like a top up, my dear?”

“…wouldn’t say no.”

Crowley didn’t think he deserved forgiveness, but he’d asked the world for something else, instead. And Aziraphale couldn’t help but be glad it was him. 

@singasongrightnow

Feverish Delirium And Mumbling (please! I forgot to say please on the last one)

Something has been done, which most certainly should not have been.

Or, if Aziraphale were a good angel, he would think it should. He would be pleased to see Evil ™ thwarted. And not be concerned for a demon’s wellbeing.

He isn’t sure what it was. He knows Holy Water will utterly extinguish a demon (he’s… unfortunately heard the tales from some rather more bellicose angels). Hallowed ground is also Bad (Good?) for hellspawn. But those, he assumes, are rather more dangerous than whatever has occurred here.

Crowley had missed their rendezvous. Crowley rarely missed an engagement, especially not one he had arranged. Aziraphale had, at first, been put out and hurt. He’d considered storming off and ignoring any future correspondence. He’d thought about arranging a follow-up and then him being the one to ‘stand up’ the demon. And he’d thought all sorts of uncharitable words and chastised himself for being in this situation at all.

But… it was unlike Crowley. Entirely unlike Crowley. He was mischievous, yes. A prankster. Occasionally worse. But - for all that was said - he had never… been… utterly bad. And he had rarely been more than a slight annoyance to Aziraphale himself.

And he was usually the most stimulating and engaging and forthcoming party in any… party.

So Aziraphale had sought out the inn he expected Crowley to be taking lodgings in. Whilst ale houses were an acceptable source of intoxicating beverages for the angel, the demon also enjoyed other activities. The types that included beds.

Which Aziraphale had never once enquired about, lest he receive more details than he was prepared for.

But he’d felt something wrong the moment he entered the lodging, snapped brusquely at the innkeep, and taken the steps three at a time.

Whereupon he’d found the room that Crowley had taken, opened the door, and found him… collapsed around a porcelain item which there was no way he ever would normally have needed. Insensate and struck with rigors, which hadn’t passed when he’d hefted the flimsy thing onto the horrid bed.

Where he still lies. His eyes working as if to read great treatise beneath his clammy, closed eyelids. His vibrant hair stuck down and near-black with sweat. His skin wan and wet, as he stirs in what would likely be a fierce fit, if he only had the wherewithal.

Poison, perhaps. Or a curse. Can demons be cursed? Blessed? His body shouldn’t suffer beyond what it allows, unless it is injured beyond repair. And if it is, what then? Would Hell furnish another? Would his dem– would the demon even be allowed to return? What if it was Hell whom he’d displeased? Was this a punishment, or even a trap?

He has no idea, and only Human medicine to rely upon.

Lain flat. Head supported. Damp cloth, the better to dab at his brow. He cannot administer any medicine, he cannot miracle away what he neither understands, nor understands why. All he can do is fret, dabbing at that brow, and whispering quiet reassurance.

I’m here, dear boy. I’m here. I won’t leave you. You are safe.

Things he shouldn’t say. Things he can’t say. Things that will damn him utterly, should anyone truly be watching.

He says them, anyway, and clasps one hand in worried vigil.

“…a-angsssshel…”

“Yes?” He perks, eyes wide, reading the demon’s face. “Crowley? My dear? Can you hear me?”

“Fffffthough you’d… ftttttthough they’d ssssseen you…”

“Who? Is it who did this to you?”

“Caaaant…. hurt m’angsssshel. S’ssssafe. Gotta…. Sssssafe.”

He’s not coherent enough to be questioned, and Aziraphale smiles at the half-conscious confession. “Did someone do this?”

“M’angsssshel?”

“Yes?”

“You ‘kay?”

“I’m quite well, other than worried about you.”

“S’sssssokay, then. Ssssstopped them. Can’t… can’t lossssse….”

Whatever he’d done. However he’d done it. He’d rescued Aziraphale, and the angel had spent the best part of the afternoon cursing his name for not showing up. That stings. Stings so badly. He bends to kiss his forehead, to better hide the swell of pain.

“You stopped them. And you… you were so brave. So kind. So now you must let me take care of you.”

“M’kaaaay. BurrIloveyou… gotta… keep… ssssafe.”

Delirium loosening his tongue, putting voice to what Aziraphale has long known, feared, hoped… one or all of those things.

He wants to cry. Their love - their love is so dangerous. Even to feel it is to court death. He’s put his demon in such a terrible bind, and he… he can’t. He can’t be responsible for losing him.

So he’ll lie. He’ll push him further away. This nonsense of his, indulging his demon, it has to stop.

They’ll just have to… have to find a way to be less… them. And it will kill him, but he’ll make Crowley believe it’s only one way. He must. To protect him.

But not today. Not tonight. Not when he doubts Crowley will remember he was even here at all, if he left now.

“I love you, too,” he whispers, and it feels so good and terrible in one to say it. He won’t, again. He won’t, to keep him safe. “I love you, too. But you must rest. Rest and heal. I will watch over you.”

A little snicker, and a momentary flash of amber eyes. “M’own guardian…”

“Quite.” Oh, it’s like a knife to the gut. “But rest. You need to recover. And I will make you rest if I have to.”

A reluctant chirr, and then Crowley’s limited energy seems to peter out all at once. “…kay.”

Aziraphale feels the back of his head with his hand, and nods. Blankets. He needs blankets.

Whatever he needs, he’ll get.

Except this one thing.

Losing Crowley isn’t worth… unlosing him. Finding him. For both their sakes, they can’t.

Crowley is smiling in his sleep. A shy, spacey little expression, but there, all the same.

Maybe one day. Maybe.

Maybe then Crowley won’t need his protection.

It can’t come quickly enough.