Happy Holidays, cassie-oh!
Dec. 8th, 2022 05:34 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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go_exchangeTitle: Steal You Away From The Pain
Rating: T
Warnings: Implied torture, Aftermath of torture
Summary: Aziraphale is called to Victorian Toronto by a young child who wants him to save Crowley from a very bad situation.
A gentleman in a cream and beige suit appeared suddenly in the centre of Yonge St., causing two carriage horses to rear up.
“Oi!” A police officer yelled, running into the street, grabbing the man by the arm and escorting him to the sidewalk.
“Here now, sir, you can't be standing stock still in the middle of the street like that.”
“Oh, I am sorry, er, officer.”
“Constable, Constable Crabtree, and you are?”
“Mr A. Z. Fell, newly arrived from London, and I'm afraid I'm somewhat lost. Perhaps you can help me. I am looking for 152 Centre St.”
“Sure, but, um, that's in The Ward, not exactly the best area for a gentleman like yourself,” the constable said looking at Aziraphale's fine clothes.
“I assure you I'll be fine, Constable.”
Constable Crabtree gave him the directions he needed, gesturing to a nearby street as the place to start his journey. When he finished the constable asked “Sir, if I may ask you one more thing, are you a magician of some kind?”
“No, why do you ask?”
“It's just, you seemed to appear from out of nowhere.”
“Oh, I'm afraid you're very much mistaken,” said Aziraphale as he walked away.
As Constable Crabtree watched the posh gentlemen make his way towards The Ward he thought that people appearing and disappearing at will might be an interesting idea for his book.
Aziraphale arrived at 152 Centre St. It was, well… it was quite dilapidated. He made his way up the stairs and to the door at the end of the second floor hallway, following the instructions given to him in the letter. Earlier that morning Aziraphale had received a letter at his bookshop, written in a childish script, begging him to come to Toronto immediately.
Aziraphale knocked. A moment later a young boy, perhaps aged eight or nine, opened the door.
“Oliver?”
“Mr Aziraphale?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, wow, hold on.” Oliver closed the door, he reappeared a few moments later wearing a well worn jacket and a grimy cap.
“Sorry I can't invite you in, my Nan's sleeping, she's sick.”
“Quite alright. Now about your letter-”
“I can't believe you got it so fast. I told him I didn't have the money for postage, but he said not to worry, just to put it in the mailbox and it would get to you, and he was right!”
“Yes, well, could you please take me to him?”
“Oh, right, sure. Let's go.”
Aziraphale followed Oliver through a warren of streets.
“How did you meet him?” he asked to pass the time.
“Sometimes we play down here after school, and that's where I met him. He was awful grumpy, lashing out, you know, but I felt sorry for him, and kept talking to him. Then one day I says to him 'Is there no one that could help you?' and then he says your name. I told him I would go fetch you, but then he tells me that you're in London. That's when we came up with the idea of sending you a letter. And, we're here.”
They had arrived at what looked like an abandoned backlot of a railway station, full of overgrown tracks and rusting railcars.
“Over here,” said Oliver, leading him over to a railcar in the back corner. He went over to a small crack in the side.
“Hey Mister, I'm here. I brought Mr Aziraphale with me!” They waited, but there was no response.
“He might be sleeping,” said Oliver. “Sometimes he gets awfully tired.”
Aziraphale walked around to the front of the railcar; its doors were locked shut with a large padlock with occult symbols engraved on it.
“No point in trying to break that,” said Oliver. “I've tried.”
Aziraphale grabbed the lock, and snapped it in half, tossing it aside.
“Golly, you're strong,” Oliver said in awe.
Aziraphale grabbed the door and slid it open. What he saw inside made him gasp. Every last inch of the space was painted with wards, and on the floor was an intricate devil's trap. At the centre was a lone, crumpled figure.
“Dear Lord, Crowley!” It looked like there were cuts, abrasions, and bruises all over the visible areas of Crowley's body. Aziraphale felt sick.
“Oh boy, it looks like the toughs worked him over good this time.”
“Toughs?” Aziraphale asked distractedly, not taking his eyes off Crowley.
“The guys that trapped him here. I tried to tell the coppers about this, but they said I had an 'overactive imagination'. Say, Mr Aziraphale, do you want me to go get them? They'd have to believe me now.”
“No, that's quite alright, I'll handle this.” Aziraphale placed his hand on the floor of the railcar and a large thin crack appeared, breaking the devil's trap. Aziraphale climbed into the railcar. He could feel the power of the wards, even though they had no effect on him. He knelt beside Crowley's prone figure. He brushed Crowley's limp, bloodied hair away from his face.
“Crowley? It's me, Aziraphale. I'm here to help you, my dear.” There was no response, Crowley was clearly unconscious.
“Do you want me to fetch a doctor, Mr Aziraphale? There's a lady doctor at the morgue who's nice, she'd probably help,” asked Oliver.
“No, I'll take care of him. Oliver, is there a respectable inn nearby?”
“Well, there's the Windsor House Hotel, but that place is right fancy.”
“Thank you, Oliver, you don't need to worry about Mr Crowley any longer, I'm going to make him better.”
“Ya sure you don't need my help?”
“I'm sure. Why don't you head home now, I think you'll find your Nan is feeling much better.”
“Alright, but tell Mr Crowley I was here.”
“I will.”
After the boy had scurried off, Aziraphale stood, concentrating. A moment later, a forceful wave flowed through the railcar, dispersing the power of the wards. Then he cast a spell so that anyone who came back to look at them would forget what the wards and the devil's trap were for. Aziraphale carefully lifted Crowley from the floor, then carried him away from his prison.
If the clerk at the front desk of the Windsor House Hotel had looked at the right time, they would have seen a name magically appear in the register. As it was, when they looked up a few moments later they saw a well-dressed man effortlessly carrying another person wrapped in blankets.
“Sir, may I be of some assistance?” asked the clerk.
“Um, well, yes I'm afraid my friend has had a bit of a minor accident. Could you send up fresh water and bandages to my room?”
“Of course, Mr...?”
“Mr A. Z. Fell.” The clerk looked down at the register. “Ah, yes, Mr. Fell, 309. I'll send them up right away.”
Aziraphale made his way to the third floor. When he arrived at 309, the door opened because Aziraphale expected it to. Aziraphale gently laid Crowley down on the bed. As he was unwrapping the blankets he had miracled to cover Crowley, a knock sounded at the door. Aziraphale answered, taking a pitcher of water and a small pile of cloth bandages from a young maid.
Aziraphale put the water and bandages aside as he returned to Crowley. With the sunlight from the window he was better able to assess Crowley's injuries and they were extensive.
There were cuts all over Crowley's body, most likely caused by some sort of knife. There was also a great deal of bruising mottling his skin; perhaps Crowley had fought his captors?
“Don't worry, my dear, I'm going to heal you.” There was still no response from Crowley, which was worrying.
Aziraphale decided to start with his left arm, he ran his hand over a large cut, but nothing happened. Aziraphale sent more power into the miracle, to no effect. There was some sort of residual power pushing back, preventing the healing miracle from taking place. Aziraphale knew of very few things that could counteract the miracle of an angel. They must have used some sort of supernatural object; perhaps a cursed blade, or even worse, a blessed one.
Aziraphale was panicking a little now. Crowley's true form may have been corrupted, which could be catastrophic. Aziraphale tried to calm himself as best he could. Closing his eyes, he let himself pull away from his corporeal form and slip into his true form. Once there, he opened all his eyes, and let his senses spread out, seeking Crowley. He found him quickly. Crowley's true form was hard to explain: it was part smoke, part energy, and part snake. It was usually so vibrant, but right now it was completely still. Crowley had curled in upon himself, perhaps in a bid to heal himself, or as an escape from his torture. The damage to his true form seemed minimal, much to Aziraphale's relief.
A moment later Aziraphale settled back into his corporation. He now had an idea of what he had to do. He would have to heal Crowley in the human fashion, at least until Crowley was strong enough to come out of dormancy.
Aziraphale miracled some fresh, clean rags, and used the water provided by the maid to painstakingly clean and bandage all of Crowley's wounds. Several hours later, exhausted, Aziraphale collapsed into a chair at Crowley's bedside.
Crowley did not stir until the next day. At first it was just minuscule movements, and some soft intelligible noises, but Aziraphale was heartened to see it. Later Crowley began muttering in his sleep.
“No, stay away, stay...” Crowley's neck strained to the side, as if he was trying to get away from someone.
“Crowley, it's Aziraphale, you're safe here, I've gotten you away from those awful people.”
Crowley's eyes never opened. “You'll regret this, I have a friend... my best friend.”
“Of course you do, my dear boy, he's right here.” Aziraphale grabbed Crowley's hand, pressing it to his face. “And he misses you.”
Over the next few days Crowley drifted from restlessness to deadly stillness and back again, but never seemed to fully regain consciousness. Aziraphale had miracled a few books to the room that he read to Crowley. They were mostly light, amusing tales. Aziraphale could picture Crowley's laughter at the ridiculous scenarios described.
Five days later Aziraphale was quietly reading when Crowley spoke.
“Aziraphale?”
Aziraphale looked up to find Crowley gazing at him with clear eyes.
“Crowley, oh thank goodness you know me.”
“Of course I know you, angel.” Crowley tried to lift his arm and hissed in pain “Gah, feel like I've been trampled, was I run over by a carriage?”
“No, much worse, I'm afraid.”
“Worse?” Crowley looked around him. “Angel, where exactly are we?”
“We are in a very nice hotel in the Canadian city of Toronto.”
“Toronto? Haven't been here since it was a boggy port town. Why'd you bring us here, angel?”
“I didn't, you did. I received a letter from a child named Oliver-”
“Oliver? The boy... oh Satan, the boxcar.” Crowley's eyes widened, and his breathing accelerated to an alarming degree. Aziraphale grabbed his hand and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Crowley, can you breathe with me? Big breath in, then out.” They breathed together for several minutes until some of the tension eased.
“Sorry, angel, not sure what came over me.”
“It's quite alright, my dear. I'm sure it was a bit of a shock. You should rest some more. I'm afraid I had to care for you in the human fashion, and you still have some healing to do,” said Aziraphale, as he pulled the blankets up over Crowley's arms and tucked them in around him.
“Alright, angel, I'll try,” Crowley said as his eyes drifted shut, he was soon overtaken by an uneasy slumber.
Crowley slept a great deal over the next couple of days, but when he did wake he was lucid. On the third day he was well enough to sit up. Aziraphale had ordered some soup, in the hopes of providing sustenance for his corporation, and it's what humans ate when they were unwell. When Aziraphale spooned up some and tried to feed it to Crowley, the demon grumbled.
“Can feed myself, m'not an infant.”
“Of course you can, dear,” but Aziraphale had to help steady his hands, helping him hold the bowl and spoon. Afterwards Aziraphale checked Crowley's wounds.
“These are healing nicely.” And they were, all the cuts were on the mend, although not as quickly as he would have liked.
“Perhaps I can...” Aziraphale waved his hand over Crowley's right arm, the yellow, faded bruises disappeared, but the cuts remained stubbornly in place. He let out a little disappointed sound.
“Don't be too hard on yourself, angel. The blade they used was cursed with a type of magic meant to counteract your own.”
“Oh?” asked Aziraphale, as he rebandaged the arm, but Crowley didn't elaborate and Aziraphale didn't push him. Because of Crowley's initial reaction, Aziraphale had avoided talking directly about Crowley's captivity, but he had so many questions.
“Crowley, why didn't you tell me you were traveling to Canada? You know I would have found an excuse to follow you, if need be.”
Crowley tilted his head back against the pillow, looking up at the ceiling.
“Didn't know I was coming,” said Crowley.
“What do you mean?”
“I was summoned.”
“You mean magically? But, I thought you could fight that type of thing.”
“Usually can, most humans couldn't summon snow during a blizzard, easy enough to resist, but not this lot, they knew what they were doing.”
“I'm sorry.”
“No need, the summoning wasn't the worst part.”
“No, I suppose it wasn't,” said Aziraphale, looking at all the bandages covering Crowley's skin. “Do you know why? Did they just hate demons, or...”
“Demon blood. It can be used in a lot of nasty spells and incantations. They wanted to keep me on tap.”
“Oh, good lord, Crowley-”
“Angel, I don't want to talk about this anymore. I can't...”
“Of course, you don't ever have to speak of this again, if you don't want to.”
Crowley closed his eyes and pretended to sleep.
Over the next week Crowley's wounds healed completely and he grew stronger. He soon became restless and wished to leave the confines of their room. They decided the best thing would be to leave Toronto in case they ran into Crowley's captors, although part of Aziraphale wished to find those humans and show them the true power of an angelic principality.
Crowley had gone down to the front desk, while Aziraphale tidied and packed away his books. Aziraphale found a couple bloody bandages among the sheets that he had forgotten to dispose of, and suddenly he felt overwhelmed. Of course, that was the moment Crowley returned.
“Angel, I asked around downstairs and they said the best way is to take a train to Montreal and then book passage to London. I don't fancy that, so I figured I'm probably strong enough that we could miracle ourselves to the Montreal harbour. Hey, angel you alright?”
Aziraphale turned his face away.
“Oh, um quite.”
“Angel, are you crying?”
Aziraphale tried to answer, but all he could do was swallow back his tears.
“Aziraphale, what's wrong?”
“You almost died, Crowley!” Aziraphale cried out. “You were in trouble, and I had no idea, probably wouldn't have gotten seriously worried for months. If some random boy hadn't decided to befriend you...”
“But a random boy did befriend me, and you saved me.”
“Not soon enough! And what if I'd been too late, what if...” The tears did flow then, he couldn't stop them, all he could do was sob.
“Angel, come here.” Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, pulling him into his chest, and Aziraphale sobbed even more.
Aziraphale cried for a long time, Crowley held him through it, whispering in his ear “I'm here, I'm here. Won't be able to get rid of me.”
When his tears were spent he looked at Crowley, and rose up and kissed him on the mouth. The kiss was sweet and gentle, and brief.
“I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me,” said Aziraphale.
“Don't be, I liked it.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, we should do it more often.”
Aziraphale kissed Crowley again.
Three weeks later young Oliver received a thank you note in the mail. Inside was a blessing and five silver dollars.
Rating: T
Warnings: Implied torture, Aftermath of torture
Summary: Aziraphale is called to Victorian Toronto by a young child who wants him to save Crowley from a very bad situation.
A gentleman in a cream and beige suit appeared suddenly in the centre of Yonge St., causing two carriage horses to rear up.
“Oi!” A police officer yelled, running into the street, grabbing the man by the arm and escorting him to the sidewalk.
“Here now, sir, you can't be standing stock still in the middle of the street like that.”
“Oh, I am sorry, er, officer.”
“Constable, Constable Crabtree, and you are?”
“Mr A. Z. Fell, newly arrived from London, and I'm afraid I'm somewhat lost. Perhaps you can help me. I am looking for 152 Centre St.”
“Sure, but, um, that's in The Ward, not exactly the best area for a gentleman like yourself,” the constable said looking at Aziraphale's fine clothes.
“I assure you I'll be fine, Constable.”
Constable Crabtree gave him the directions he needed, gesturing to a nearby street as the place to start his journey. When he finished the constable asked “Sir, if I may ask you one more thing, are you a magician of some kind?”
“No, why do you ask?”
“It's just, you seemed to appear from out of nowhere.”
“Oh, I'm afraid you're very much mistaken,” said Aziraphale as he walked away.
As Constable Crabtree watched the posh gentlemen make his way towards The Ward he thought that people appearing and disappearing at will might be an interesting idea for his book.
Aziraphale arrived at 152 Centre St. It was, well… it was quite dilapidated. He made his way up the stairs and to the door at the end of the second floor hallway, following the instructions given to him in the letter. Earlier that morning Aziraphale had received a letter at his bookshop, written in a childish script, begging him to come to Toronto immediately.
Aziraphale knocked. A moment later a young boy, perhaps aged eight or nine, opened the door.
“Oliver?”
“Mr Aziraphale?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, wow, hold on.” Oliver closed the door, he reappeared a few moments later wearing a well worn jacket and a grimy cap.
“Sorry I can't invite you in, my Nan's sleeping, she's sick.”
“Quite alright. Now about your letter-”
“I can't believe you got it so fast. I told him I didn't have the money for postage, but he said not to worry, just to put it in the mailbox and it would get to you, and he was right!”
“Yes, well, could you please take me to him?”
“Oh, right, sure. Let's go.”
Aziraphale followed Oliver through a warren of streets.
“How did you meet him?” he asked to pass the time.
“Sometimes we play down here after school, and that's where I met him. He was awful grumpy, lashing out, you know, but I felt sorry for him, and kept talking to him. Then one day I says to him 'Is there no one that could help you?' and then he says your name. I told him I would go fetch you, but then he tells me that you're in London. That's when we came up with the idea of sending you a letter. And, we're here.”
They had arrived at what looked like an abandoned backlot of a railway station, full of overgrown tracks and rusting railcars.
“Over here,” said Oliver, leading him over to a railcar in the back corner. He went over to a small crack in the side.
“Hey Mister, I'm here. I brought Mr Aziraphale with me!” They waited, but there was no response.
“He might be sleeping,” said Oliver. “Sometimes he gets awfully tired.”
Aziraphale walked around to the front of the railcar; its doors were locked shut with a large padlock with occult symbols engraved on it.
“No point in trying to break that,” said Oliver. “I've tried.”
Aziraphale grabbed the lock, and snapped it in half, tossing it aside.
“Golly, you're strong,” Oliver said in awe.
Aziraphale grabbed the door and slid it open. What he saw inside made him gasp. Every last inch of the space was painted with wards, and on the floor was an intricate devil's trap. At the centre was a lone, crumpled figure.
“Dear Lord, Crowley!” It looked like there were cuts, abrasions, and bruises all over the visible areas of Crowley's body. Aziraphale felt sick.
“Oh boy, it looks like the toughs worked him over good this time.”
“Toughs?” Aziraphale asked distractedly, not taking his eyes off Crowley.
“The guys that trapped him here. I tried to tell the coppers about this, but they said I had an 'overactive imagination'. Say, Mr Aziraphale, do you want me to go get them? They'd have to believe me now.”
“No, that's quite alright, I'll handle this.” Aziraphale placed his hand on the floor of the railcar and a large thin crack appeared, breaking the devil's trap. Aziraphale climbed into the railcar. He could feel the power of the wards, even though they had no effect on him. He knelt beside Crowley's prone figure. He brushed Crowley's limp, bloodied hair away from his face.
“Crowley? It's me, Aziraphale. I'm here to help you, my dear.” There was no response, Crowley was clearly unconscious.
“Do you want me to fetch a doctor, Mr Aziraphale? There's a lady doctor at the morgue who's nice, she'd probably help,” asked Oliver.
“No, I'll take care of him. Oliver, is there a respectable inn nearby?”
“Well, there's the Windsor House Hotel, but that place is right fancy.”
“Thank you, Oliver, you don't need to worry about Mr Crowley any longer, I'm going to make him better.”
“Ya sure you don't need my help?”
“I'm sure. Why don't you head home now, I think you'll find your Nan is feeling much better.”
“Alright, but tell Mr Crowley I was here.”
“I will.”
After the boy had scurried off, Aziraphale stood, concentrating. A moment later, a forceful wave flowed through the railcar, dispersing the power of the wards. Then he cast a spell so that anyone who came back to look at them would forget what the wards and the devil's trap were for. Aziraphale carefully lifted Crowley from the floor, then carried him away from his prison.
If the clerk at the front desk of the Windsor House Hotel had looked at the right time, they would have seen a name magically appear in the register. As it was, when they looked up a few moments later they saw a well-dressed man effortlessly carrying another person wrapped in blankets.
“Sir, may I be of some assistance?” asked the clerk.
“Um, well, yes I'm afraid my friend has had a bit of a minor accident. Could you send up fresh water and bandages to my room?”
“Of course, Mr...?”
“Mr A. Z. Fell.” The clerk looked down at the register. “Ah, yes, Mr. Fell, 309. I'll send them up right away.”
Aziraphale made his way to the third floor. When he arrived at 309, the door opened because Aziraphale expected it to. Aziraphale gently laid Crowley down on the bed. As he was unwrapping the blankets he had miracled to cover Crowley, a knock sounded at the door. Aziraphale answered, taking a pitcher of water and a small pile of cloth bandages from a young maid.
Aziraphale put the water and bandages aside as he returned to Crowley. With the sunlight from the window he was better able to assess Crowley's injuries and they were extensive.
There were cuts all over Crowley's body, most likely caused by some sort of knife. There was also a great deal of bruising mottling his skin; perhaps Crowley had fought his captors?
“Don't worry, my dear, I'm going to heal you.” There was still no response from Crowley, which was worrying.
Aziraphale decided to start with his left arm, he ran his hand over a large cut, but nothing happened. Aziraphale sent more power into the miracle, to no effect. There was some sort of residual power pushing back, preventing the healing miracle from taking place. Aziraphale knew of very few things that could counteract the miracle of an angel. They must have used some sort of supernatural object; perhaps a cursed blade, or even worse, a blessed one.
Aziraphale was panicking a little now. Crowley's true form may have been corrupted, which could be catastrophic. Aziraphale tried to calm himself as best he could. Closing his eyes, he let himself pull away from his corporeal form and slip into his true form. Once there, he opened all his eyes, and let his senses spread out, seeking Crowley. He found him quickly. Crowley's true form was hard to explain: it was part smoke, part energy, and part snake. It was usually so vibrant, but right now it was completely still. Crowley had curled in upon himself, perhaps in a bid to heal himself, or as an escape from his torture. The damage to his true form seemed minimal, much to Aziraphale's relief.
A moment later Aziraphale settled back into his corporation. He now had an idea of what he had to do. He would have to heal Crowley in the human fashion, at least until Crowley was strong enough to come out of dormancy.
Aziraphale miracled some fresh, clean rags, and used the water provided by the maid to painstakingly clean and bandage all of Crowley's wounds. Several hours later, exhausted, Aziraphale collapsed into a chair at Crowley's bedside.
Crowley did not stir until the next day. At first it was just minuscule movements, and some soft intelligible noises, but Aziraphale was heartened to see it. Later Crowley began muttering in his sleep.
“No, stay away, stay...” Crowley's neck strained to the side, as if he was trying to get away from someone.
“Crowley, it's Aziraphale, you're safe here, I've gotten you away from those awful people.”
Crowley's eyes never opened. “You'll regret this, I have a friend... my best friend.”
“Of course you do, my dear boy, he's right here.” Aziraphale grabbed Crowley's hand, pressing it to his face. “And he misses you.”
Over the next few days Crowley drifted from restlessness to deadly stillness and back again, but never seemed to fully regain consciousness. Aziraphale had miracled a few books to the room that he read to Crowley. They were mostly light, amusing tales. Aziraphale could picture Crowley's laughter at the ridiculous scenarios described.
Five days later Aziraphale was quietly reading when Crowley spoke.
“Aziraphale?”
Aziraphale looked up to find Crowley gazing at him with clear eyes.
“Crowley, oh thank goodness you know me.”
“Of course I know you, angel.” Crowley tried to lift his arm and hissed in pain “Gah, feel like I've been trampled, was I run over by a carriage?”
“No, much worse, I'm afraid.”
“Worse?” Crowley looked around him. “Angel, where exactly are we?”
“We are in a very nice hotel in the Canadian city of Toronto.”
“Toronto? Haven't been here since it was a boggy port town. Why'd you bring us here, angel?”
“I didn't, you did. I received a letter from a child named Oliver-”
“Oliver? The boy... oh Satan, the boxcar.” Crowley's eyes widened, and his breathing accelerated to an alarming degree. Aziraphale grabbed his hand and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Crowley, can you breathe with me? Big breath in, then out.” They breathed together for several minutes until some of the tension eased.
“Sorry, angel, not sure what came over me.”
“It's quite alright, my dear. I'm sure it was a bit of a shock. You should rest some more. I'm afraid I had to care for you in the human fashion, and you still have some healing to do,” said Aziraphale, as he pulled the blankets up over Crowley's arms and tucked them in around him.
“Alright, angel, I'll try,” Crowley said as his eyes drifted shut, he was soon overtaken by an uneasy slumber.
Crowley slept a great deal over the next couple of days, but when he did wake he was lucid. On the third day he was well enough to sit up. Aziraphale had ordered some soup, in the hopes of providing sustenance for his corporation, and it's what humans ate when they were unwell. When Aziraphale spooned up some and tried to feed it to Crowley, the demon grumbled.
“Can feed myself, m'not an infant.”
“Of course you can, dear,” but Aziraphale had to help steady his hands, helping him hold the bowl and spoon. Afterwards Aziraphale checked Crowley's wounds.
“These are healing nicely.” And they were, all the cuts were on the mend, although not as quickly as he would have liked.
“Perhaps I can...” Aziraphale waved his hand over Crowley's right arm, the yellow, faded bruises disappeared, but the cuts remained stubbornly in place. He let out a little disappointed sound.
“Don't be too hard on yourself, angel. The blade they used was cursed with a type of magic meant to counteract your own.”
“Oh?” asked Aziraphale, as he rebandaged the arm, but Crowley didn't elaborate and Aziraphale didn't push him. Because of Crowley's initial reaction, Aziraphale had avoided talking directly about Crowley's captivity, but he had so many questions.
“Crowley, why didn't you tell me you were traveling to Canada? You know I would have found an excuse to follow you, if need be.”
Crowley tilted his head back against the pillow, looking up at the ceiling.
“Didn't know I was coming,” said Crowley.
“What do you mean?”
“I was summoned.”
“You mean magically? But, I thought you could fight that type of thing.”
“Usually can, most humans couldn't summon snow during a blizzard, easy enough to resist, but not this lot, they knew what they were doing.”
“I'm sorry.”
“No need, the summoning wasn't the worst part.”
“No, I suppose it wasn't,” said Aziraphale, looking at all the bandages covering Crowley's skin. “Do you know why? Did they just hate demons, or...”
“Demon blood. It can be used in a lot of nasty spells and incantations. They wanted to keep me on tap.”
“Oh, good lord, Crowley-”
“Angel, I don't want to talk about this anymore. I can't...”
“Of course, you don't ever have to speak of this again, if you don't want to.”
Crowley closed his eyes and pretended to sleep.
Over the next week Crowley's wounds healed completely and he grew stronger. He soon became restless and wished to leave the confines of their room. They decided the best thing would be to leave Toronto in case they ran into Crowley's captors, although part of Aziraphale wished to find those humans and show them the true power of an angelic principality.
Crowley had gone down to the front desk, while Aziraphale tidied and packed away his books. Aziraphale found a couple bloody bandages among the sheets that he had forgotten to dispose of, and suddenly he felt overwhelmed. Of course, that was the moment Crowley returned.
“Angel, I asked around downstairs and they said the best way is to take a train to Montreal and then book passage to London. I don't fancy that, so I figured I'm probably strong enough that we could miracle ourselves to the Montreal harbour. Hey, angel you alright?”
Aziraphale turned his face away.
“Oh, um quite.”
“Angel, are you crying?”
Aziraphale tried to answer, but all he could do was swallow back his tears.
“Aziraphale, what's wrong?”
“You almost died, Crowley!” Aziraphale cried out. “You were in trouble, and I had no idea, probably wouldn't have gotten seriously worried for months. If some random boy hadn't decided to befriend you...”
“But a random boy did befriend me, and you saved me.”
“Not soon enough! And what if I'd been too late, what if...” The tears did flow then, he couldn't stop them, all he could do was sob.
“Angel, come here.” Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, pulling him into his chest, and Aziraphale sobbed even more.
Aziraphale cried for a long time, Crowley held him through it, whispering in his ear “I'm here, I'm here. Won't be able to get rid of me.”
When his tears were spent he looked at Crowley, and rose up and kissed him on the mouth. The kiss was sweet and gentle, and brief.
“I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me,” said Aziraphale.
“Don't be, I liked it.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, we should do it more often.”
Aziraphale kissed Crowley again.
Three weeks later young Oliver received a thank you note in the mail. Inside was a blessing and five silver dollars.
Lovely!
Date: 2022-12-08 12:34 pm (UTC)Re: Lovely!
Date: 2022-12-08 03:19 pm (UTC)Poor Crowley indeed, and thank goodness for curious boys. Thanks for reading!
i'm not crying
Date: 2022-12-08 07:48 pm (UTC)good job!
Re: i'm not crying
Date: 2022-12-08 11:04 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2022-12-10 04:30 am (UTC)Aw, I love the idea of letters magically making their way to Aziraphale if they’re asking for help, as if he’s some kind of angelic Santa :)
“Aziraphale grabbed the lock, and snapped it in half, tossing it aside.” YES STRONG ANGEL
Crowley warning them about his best friend :’( Ouch
Aw, the last sentence! This was very sweet, thank you :)
(no subject)
Date: 2022-12-11 02:04 am (UTC)I'm really glad you like it! Thanks for reading!
(no subject)
Date: 2023-01-07 04:54 pm (UTC)(this is cassieoh, my dw name hasn't been changed yet rip)
(no subject)
Date: 2023-01-07 11:31 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2023-12-19 10:48 pm (UTC)- Setting this in Toronto is so neat! I can't think of very many stories set in Canada for them, especially historical ones!
- I love that the officer (at first) wasn't like "oh god this many just appeared out of nowhere!" he was just annoyed Aziraphale was breaking the law and standing in the middle of the road. A practical sort of man haha (and him taking inspiration from it for his writing is very good)
- the whole implied backstory of Crowley meeting the boy and all the times they spoke before the boy asked if he could help Crowley breaks my heart
- “Sometimes he gets awfully tired.” ahhhhhh my whole heart
- “Oh boy, it looks like the toughs worked him over good this time.” You're doing such a great job of implying a huge story with these sorts of lines
- The mental image of Aziraphale carrying Crowley all wrapped in the blanket is so good
- "Crowley had curled in upon himself" ;_; ;_; ;_;
- "Crowley's eyes never opened. “You'll regret this, I have a friend... my best friend.”" Yesssss, I love stories where Crowley is secure in his place in Aziraphale's life
- “Angel, I don't want to talk about this anymore. I can't...” oh gosh, poor dear
this was such a lovely story, thank you so much for writing it! I love it!!
(no subject)
Date: 2023-12-19 10:49 pm (UTC)