Happy Holidays, mayhawk!

[goe_mod]

Title: Smite, Smote, Smitten
Rating: T
Tags: 1940s, hurt/comfort, The Arrangement, Gabriel is Being an Asshole (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley, injury, blood, wing grooming, smitten Crowley, Crowley Loves Aziraphale, Aziraphale Loves Crowley, Protective Crowley, Protective Aziraphale, Aziraphale Takes Care of Crowley
Summary: Crowley receives a nasty surprise after doing a blessing for Aziraphale as part of The Arrangement. 
Notes: A big thank you to HerTenSkylarks for the last minute beta, as well as Dragonfire42, Starshadow, and klikandtuna for additional help, guidance, and suggestions.

 

From Good Omens Season 2, Episode 5:

CROWLEY: [shakes finger] When Gabriel smites you, you've been... Smited? Smote? 

AZIRAPHALE: Smitten, I believe.

 

January 1942

It was a frigid day, not long into the new year, when Crowley drove to Oxford to do the angel’s blessing for him. Ostensibly, Crowley was doing the angel a favour, as part of the Arrangement that had been in place for centuries now. It meant that Aziraphale would owe him one— some unpleasant task from Downstairs that he could pawn off on the angel at a later date. 

In reality, Crowley wanted to do the blessing. If anything, it was Aziraphale who was doing him a favour, whether he knew it or not. Crowley was curious to see the child, the little genius in the making, born 300 years to the day after the passing of Galileo. 

The blessing itself went off without a hitch. The family accepted his cover story without question and allowed him to see the baby— supervised, of course, but that didn’t matter. The blessing was subtle; there was nothing in his demeanour to give it away— no sounds or visible indications that anything out of the ordinary was taking place. The baby was undeniably cute, as little humans tended to be, and even smiled up at Crowley, cooing, completely unafraid of the Serpent of Eden standing before him.

Unfortunately, Crowley was powerless to stop the disease process that had already been set in motion; Pestilence had claimed her stake on this soul long before the baby had even been born. Nevertheless, the blessing allowed the boy to grow up happy and healthy, and to have a long and productive life despite the ravages of disease. He would still be able to do great things; to fulfil his destiny and uncover the mysteries of the universe for all the world to see. 

Crowley had already taken his leave of the family, had crossed the frozen expanse of lawn, was nearly to the door of the Bentley when it happened. 

With a pop and a flash of Heavenly light, the Archangel Gabriel appeared before him. He was dressed as he always was when he came to Earth, in the finest bespoke clothing. His fedora matched his beige wool coat almost perfectly, and a fashionable plaid scarf was wound around his neck. 

Gabriel gave him an icy smile, and Crowley felt his blood run cold at the sight of him, though he refused to give the Archangel the satisfaction of seeing his fear. He froze, glaring defiantly at Gabriel.

“Well if it isn’t the demon Crowley,” the Archangel drawled sarcastically. “And here I thought Aziraphale was meant to be here.”

Crowley was silent. There was nothing he could say, no excuse he could come up with to explain what was going on. Hell had no interest in this baby. 

“Gabriel,” the demon finally said flatly. “What a surprise to see you here.” It was a surprise. An extremely unpleasant surprise. Crowley and Aziraphale had known from the start that the Arrangement was dangerous, that there was always a risk of discovery. But their bosses usually stayed far away from the actual work these days. This was unusual indeed.

Gabriel sneered at him, his piercing gaze full of derision. “I wish I could say the same, fiend. But you always did have a soft spot for the humans who study your precious stars, didn’t you?”

“What do you want?” 

“You’ve been corrupting an angel,” Gabriel accused him with a smirk.

Crowley swallowed thickly. “I haven’t… he— he’s not corrupt. He’s the best angel I’ve ever… encountered.” It was true. Aziraphale was better than the whole lot of them. 

Gabriel chuckled at him, mocking. “Don’t lie to me, demon. I know what’s been going on here. I’ve suspected for a while now, but I had to come and see it for myself.”  He paused and looked the demon up and down, raising an eyebrow. “Angels aren’t meant to… fraternise with the enemy, you know. 

Crowley could feel the bile rising in his throat as he began to panic. How did Gabriel know? Why now? Crowley had barely even seen Aziraphale in the last decades, not since the argument over the holy water. Except…

The church. Last year, when Crowley had saved Aziraphale from the Nazis. Somehow Heaven must have clocked their miracles in close proximity— the bombs and the saving and the books, and pieced together what was really going on in that church. 

If that was the case, they were both done for.

“Aziraphale’s a good little soldier,” Gabriel continued on coldly. “Gets the job done, in between all those crepes and bottles of wine. But we don’t want him to succumb to evil influences, now do we?” He cocked his head sideways. “I’d really hate to see Aziraphale fall.”

“What do you want?” Crowley asked again, his voice edging towards desperate. Anything. He’d do anything to keep Aziraphale from falling.

“Stay away from that angel,” Gabriel spat at him. 

Then the Archangel’s violet eyes flashed with a deadly intensity, and before Crowley could even raise a hand to shield himself, he was struck down by a blinding flash of light and surge of power. In an instant, he was on the ground writhing, wisps of smoke rising from his body.

“That’s just a little taste of what you can expect the next time I catch you, Crawly,” Gabriel sneered. “Oh, and next time, I won’t hold back. I’ll deliver what’s left of you to Beelzebub, and then it’ll be Aziraphale’s turn.”

With another pop of energy, Gabriel was gone, and Crowley was left completely alone. He lay face down on the hard, frozen ground, sizzling softly, aware of nothing but the pain that coursed through his entire body. He had no idea how long he was there for. Not a single soul came by to check on him. No doubt Gabriel had done something to make sure the humans wouldn’t see. 

Eventually, Crowley gathered the will to move. He took a deep breath, then rolled over onto his back, gasping at the sharp pain that tore through him where his wings would be. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the bright sun. Even the light hurt, despite the dark glasses that were somehow still on his face. 

Crowley looked around without turning his head. The Bentley was still there, thankfully unscathed. As he watched, the driver’s side door swung slowly open. 

With a great effort, Crowley heaved himself up off the ground and crawled towards it, clawing his way inside. As soon as his entire body was in, the door swung shut behind him. Then the engine started, and soon the Bentley was racing back towards London. 

Miraculously, no one seemed to notice that the being who was supposed to be driving the car was instead slumped across the front seat, unconscious. 

~ ~ ~

Aziraphale hung up the phone after a dozen rings, yet again. Still no answer. Crowley either wasn’t home, or wasn’t answering the phone. Two days ago, he’d missed their rendezvous at the usual spot, and that was entirely unlike him. Now, the angel was starting to get worried. What if something had gone wrong in Oxford?

He paced up and down the bookshop floor, wringing his hands and fretting. Was it possible the demon was simply asleep? After all, he’d slept for nearly eighty years after their disagreement over the holy water, and he’d only just woken up, really. 

Still, everything seemed to be going so well between them since the… the incident at the church. Surely, if Crowley had another nap planned, he would have at least kept their meeting first, to let him know how the blessing had gone. Wouldn’t he? 

The angel took a deep breath. One day. He was going to give it one more day, and then he was going to go over there and see for himself.

~ ~ ~

Aziraphale knocked on the solid oak door, somewhat hesitantly at first. It was his first time coming to Crowley’s flat, part of a modern brick structure in wealthy Mayfair. They usually only met in public places, or occasionally at the bookshop. The angel had never once been invited to see where Crowley actually lived. He was well aware that the demon valued his privacy, and normally he would respect that. However, this was an unusual situation, and it called for unusual measures.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called out, pounding on the door. He glanced around, wondering if the noise would bring one of the neighbours out. But all was quiet in the hall, and there was still no answer at the door. “Crowley, if you’re in there, please come to the door.” 

Still nothing. 

He pressed his ear to the door and listened, reaching out at the same time with his ethereal senses. There was definitely a presence in the flat, and it was a demonic one. But something was… wrong. The angel listened harder. He could just barely make out a faint noise coming from inside. Groaning, perhaps? Aziraphale began to panic in earnest.

“Crowley!” he shouted. “If you don’t open the door by the count of three, I’m coming in. Do you hear me?” 

There was no sign that the demon had heard or understood, but Aziraphale began counting anyway. 

“One…” he called out, stopping to listen again. Was it his imagination, or had the groaning become louder?

“Two…” The angel’s voice was higher now, bordering on hysterical.

“Three!!” Aziraphale paused for half a second, waiting for some sort of reaction, and when still nothing came, he snapped his fingers. The lock released with a loud click. Aziraphale turned the brass knob, then slowly pushed the door open. Cautiously, he took a step inside. It was completely dark in the flat, and as frigid as if he were outside.

Aziraphale took a deep breath as he shut the door behind him, not knowing what to expect. 

“Let there be light,” he said nervously, and a soft glow filled the room, bringing the large, empty living room into focus before him. The walls were a deep sapphire blue, reminding Aziraphale of the night sky without stars. They were nearly bare, save for a few pieces of artwork, including one that Aziraphale was sure must be an original da Vinci. Despite the situation, he smiled to himself. It was so very Crowley. 

The angel’s breath hung in the air, and he shivered involuntarily, his long woollen overcoat doing little to keep out the chill. He glanced at the grey marble fireplace across the room, and with a another snap of his fingers, it roared miraculously to life. 

The groaning (and it was clearly a groaning now) had increased sharply when Aziraphale called forth the light, and now he turned to his left, towards the source of the sound. He let out a horrified gasp when he realised what he was looking at— there was Crowley, sprawled facedown on the white velvet sofa. As if it weren’t already strange enough to find him this way, in a cold, dark flat, he saw that Crowley was fully dressed as if he were going out. He wore a long black overcoat and black trousers, complete with black fedora and Oxfords. It sent a chill down Aziraphale’s spine. Clearly something had gone very wrong. 

The angel rushed to Crowley’s side, taking in the dark, wet stain spreading across the back of his coat. For the first time, he became aware of the smell of blood and ichor in the room, and underneath that, the trace of something burnt.

A smiting. Crowley had been smitten. Had he somehow brought Her wrath down upon himself again?

“Oh, Crowley, what happened?” Aziraphale whispered. 

There was an indistinct mumbling into the couch cushion. 

Aziraphale swallowed and took a step forward, leaning in closer. “I’m sorry, I can’t—”

“Out!” the demon bit out angrily. “Get out!”

The angel straightened up quickly, shocked, but refused to budge. “I can’t do that,” he murmured, gentle but determined. “You need help, Crowley.”

“You. Shouldn’t. Be. Here,” Crowley said through gritted teeth, the words clearly coming with a great effort.

“I know,” Aziraphale whispered. “I’m sorry.” He knew that Crowley would rather be alone in his pain. That he wouldn’t want an angel to see him weak and vulnerable. But he couldn’t leave him alone. Not like this.

Aziraphale bent down and gently put his hands on Crowley, carefully turning him onto his back. Even his sunglasses were still on his face, though they were now cracked and broken. The demon let out another low moan, his face contorted in pain. It cut straight to Azirphale’s heart, but there was nothing he could do, not yet. He needed to find out how bad it was. 

As gently as he could, the angel slid his arms under the demon's back and legs, and picked him up. Red smears of blood, tinged with golden ichor, were left behind on the sofa where the demon had lain. 

Aziraphale carried Crowley in his arms, trying not to touch the demon more than was absolutely necessary, not wanting to hurt him any more than he already was. As the angel moved through the flat, Crowley shivered in his arms, though sweat dampened his brow. Aziraphale felt a burning heat emanating from him, even through the layers of clothing. 

Azirphale found his way to the bedroom, where he gently laid the demon down on top of the double bed. With a snap of his fingers, Crowley was between the grey silk bed sheets instead of on top of them. Another snap of his fingers, and Crowley’s clothes, though still stained with blood and ichor, were folded perfectly on the chair next to the bed. His coat and hat lay on top; his shoes lined up neatly underneath. Gently, Aziraphale reached over to take off the broken sunglasses, though the demon’s eyes remained squeezed tightly shut against the light.

With trembling hands, Aziraphale pulled the sheet partway down, exposing the demon’s pale chest. He gave a sharp intake of breath at the sight of the wound— there was a gaping hole in the center— the entry site. All around it, the skin was burned completely off, raw and red and oozing, charred and black around the edges. The holy smiting had ripped through both Crowley’s Earthly and his ethereal form, burning him inside and out with divine retribution.

Aziraphale took off his own coat and hat now and hung them by the front door, moving quickly so as not to leave Crowley alone for very long. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and went to boil water and search for flannels, towels, and soap, as well as any other supplies that might be of use. It would take both human care and an angel’s miracles to fix this, if it were even possible.

Meanwhile, Crowley was getting worse by the minute, slipping in and out of consciousness, mumbling incoherently. He was feverish, his body burning up to the touch while at the same time he shivered uncontrollably. In between groans, he would sometimes speak, or try to, growing more and more agitated. Much of the time, the words were completely unintelligible. Still, sometimes the angel could catch a shouted word or phrase. 

“No!… Stop!… Not here!” 

Aziraphale wasn’t sure if Crowley was speaking directly to him, or reliving the trauma he had endured.

The angel spoke soothing words as he worked, letting Crowley know what he was doing every step of the way, in case he could hear and understand. He started by gently washing the blood and ichor from his chest with a wet flannel, biting his lip as the demon jerked away from his touch. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, one hand on the demon’s shoulder to hold him steady while he used the other to clean the wound. Crowley moaned, still half unconscious, and a clammy hand shot out to push him away. 

The angel grabbed it and gave it a little squeeze before pushing it gently down to the demon’s side and tucking it under the sheet. “I know, my dear, but I have to.”

Then the angel laid his hands on the demon’s chest, just above the wound, and closed his eyes. He called forth healing energy, letting it flow through him and into Crowley’s corporation. The demon immediately let out a soft whimper and gave a little shudder. Aziraphale took a deep breath, but didn’t stop. Still, doubts began to creep in. 

Was he doing the right thing? Would it even work?

The smiting had come from a divine being far more powerful than Aziraphale, and to counteract it was difficult. Not to mention, he might be thwarting God’s will to even try.

Aziraphale shuddered to think what would happen to him if Heaven knew he was trying to heal a demon. If he had come upon any other demon in this state, the expectation would be to finish him off immediately, discorporate him and send him back to Hell. It might even be the kind thing to do, the more merciful. 

But no, he couldn’t leave Crowley suffering like this, no matter the consequences. 

After he finished ministering to Crowley’s chest, the angel delicately turned the demon over onto his stomach, exposing his entire back. Aziraphale’s heart sank as he saw that the wound on this side was even more gruesome, the smiting having torn him apart on the way out as well. He looked down at the pale, slender form on the bed, only half covered by the sheet, which had been tucked around his waist. Even lying there, battered and broken, the demon was breathtakingly beautiful. Aziraphale had always admired Crowley’s corporation— long and lean and lithe, hips swaying as he walked. A vision of temptation incarnate. Now he lay limp and nearly lifeless, his red locks damp with sweat. Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to make him whole again.

With a heavy sigh, the angel got back to work, the muscles in Crowley’s back and shoulders clenching tightly when Airaphale put a tentative hand above the ugly, gaping wound. There was nothing he could do to ease his pain, not in the moment, and so Aziraphale did the only thing he could— carefully clean and dress the wound, and send healing energy into the demon’s corporation. 

Once he had finished tending to this side as well, there was one thing left to do, though Aziraphale was dreading it. 

“Crowley,” he said, softly, “I need to see your wings.”

There was no answer. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if his words had even registered.

He put a hand on the demon’s shoulder, shaking him gently and eliciting a loud whimper in response. “Crowley, please,” he tried again, a little more forcefully. “Your wings. Please let me see them.”

There was a frozen moment of silence, and then slowly, painfully, Crowley brought out his wings. Aziraphale gasped again at the mangled sight of them, and a pathetic whine escaped from somewhere deep in the demon’s throat.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed. “Oh, no, it’s all right. I–I can fix this.”

Oh, but his wings. His beautiful, soft, jet-black wings. Now they hung charred and broken across the bed, a pale shadow of their former glory. The smell of burnt flesh and feathers hit Aziraphale like a violent wave, making him dizzy and sick to his stomach. 

He didn’t know what Crowley could have possibly done to deserve this. Perhaps it was some vile act on behalf of Hell that Aziraphale was better off not being privy to. And yet the thought of that seemed so unlikely, so far removed from the Crowley he knew. The Crowley who always worked so hard to avoid doing any real evil in the world. 

Clearly, though, something had caught Her attention. And yet, at the same time, Aziraphale knew that the demon had been lucky. He hadn’t faced Her full wrath, not by far. If that had been the case, Crowley wouldn’t even be here anymore, and Aziraphale may never have known what happened. No, this smiting had not been intended to destroy him, but rather to teach a lesson, a hard one that he would not soon forget.

Blinking back tears, the angel turned his full attention to the demon’s wings. This, at least, he could fix. Crowley’s core had taken the full brunt of the smiting, but his wings, tucked away in another plane, had suffered only a residual wave of divine fury. 

The angel’s hands moved quickly, starting near his shoulder blades, working his way outward. He closed his eyes again, once more calling forth the grace and light within him, transferring it with love and care through him and into the demon spread out before him. He mended the broken bones first, a warm heat emanating from his hands as he worked, and already the wings began to look straighter, more majestic. Next, he pushed his fingertips underneath the tattered feathers, running them along the soft, delicate skin that covered his wings, healing the places where it was broken open and burned.

Crowley twitched and writhed under his hands.

“I know it hurts,” Aziraphale soothed, “but you’re doing so well. Just a little longer.”

Last came the feathers themselves, again starting from the coverts at the base, then spreading out to the secondaries, and then finally the long primaries at the tips. He straightened and healed and restored, feather after feather after feather, and slowly the demon’s muffled gasps of pain turned to sighs of relief. 

Aziraphale went on for longer than was strictly necessary, straightening and soothing and fluffing. He closed his eyes as he ran his fingers through the now soft feathers, restored to their full beauty. It was a forbidden pleasure— something he’d always longed to do, but never dared to think could be possible.

He froze then, a little guilty, not wanting to take advantage of the situation. Hastily, he pulled his hands away, opening his eyes.

Was it his imagination, or did Crowley let out a little whine at the loss? 

“You can put your wings away now, my dear,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “You did so well. It’s over now.”

He swallowed hard, looking down at the demon lying face-down on the bed, wishing he could reach out and card his fingers through that brilliant red hair, or press a tender kiss to the back of his neck. 

But the angel shook his head, willing the unbidden thoughts away. It was time for him to go, to leave Crowley to rest and heal. 

“I can’t stay,” he told the demon softly. “But I’ll be back to check on you.”

He’d done all that he could for now. Crowley’s wounds had been cleaned and dressed, the sweat wiped from his brow, the bedsheets snapped clean and dry. It would take some time for the angel’s healing miracle to take hold and work properly, to mend the wounds on his chest and back from the inside out. In the meantime, Crowley would be safe, protected from infection. Day by day he would get better, and the pain would soon begin to ease.

Aziraphale would have to lay low for a bit, and do things the human way. He’d expended a great deal of miracles just now, nearly his entire quota for the month, and he couldn’t risk Heaven tracing them back to Crowley. He wouldn’t let anything else happen to the demon, not if he could help it.

Before he gathered his things to leave, Aziraphale left a cool glass of water by the bedside, and ensured that the fire would keep going strong. He tucked a hot water bottle in at Crowley’s feet, and took care to pull the bedsheets up around his neck. Still, Crowley shivered slightly, the wool blanket and dark blue bedspread not quite enough to keep the cold-blooded snake demon warm. 

Aziraphale snapped his fingers, allowing himself one final miracle to summon his own thick, tartan blanket from the flat above the bookshop. He warmed it in front of the fire before draping it over the mound of demon on the bed, leaning over to tuck it in around his shoulders. Unable to resist then, he pressed a quick kiss to the top of the demon’s head, his lips brushing the soft red locks of hair.

“Goodbye, Crowley,” the angel whispered, and then he was gone.

~ ~ ~

Crowley had no recollection of the trip back to London. How he made it up the stairs to his flat was a complete mystery. Stumbling through the front door, collapsing onto the sofa— he couldn’t remember any of it.

All he could remember was the pain. 

A blinding, searing pain, like the sulphur pit at the end of his Fall, but worse, because this wouldn’t end. It was as if he had been skinned alive, as if every bone in his body had been broken and put back together. Every joint, every muscle, every nerve ending was screaming out in agony. He couldn’t move, couldn’t see, couldn’t even cry out. All he could do was exist, while wishing that he didn’t. There was a hole in his chest that seemed to go straight through him— he could feel it, oozing blood and ichor, and still there was nothing he could do, no miracle he could snap to make it better.

He lay motionless on the sofa, suspended in a tortuous, base existence, wondering how he could have been so stupid as to get caught. All the while he prayed— bitterly, to a God he hated— that Gabriel wouldn’t change his mind and go after the angel too.

And then… hours? days? weeks? later, there was the sound of the angel’s voice, coming from somewhere nearby, and a pounding. A pounding that could be in his head, or outside of it, or possibly both. 

There was a sense of relief, then horror. Relief, because Aziraphale was okay. Still on Earth. Alive. Not fallen. Horror, because Aziraphale was here, in his flat. He shouldn’t be here. Couldn’t be here. Crowley would not allow it. He would not be the reason for the angel’s Fall. 

He tried to tell him that as the fear and panic bubbled up in his broken chest, tried to order him to leave, right now, before Gabriel came back. But it wasn’t working. The words weren’t coming out right, or the angel wasn’t heeding them. Stubborn angel.

What followed was a blur, chunks of time lost as he faded in and out of consciousness. Suddenly, he was in his bedroom, down to nothing but his pants, in between the cool silk sheets of the bed. 

The pain was still there— aching, throbbing, unrelenting. But Aziraphale was there, too, the angel’s familiar voice soothing, reassuring, telling him that it was all going to be okay, that he was doing so well.

No.

Impossible. It couldn’t be real. Angels didn’t save demons. They didn’t come and take care of them and heal their wounds. And if they did, that was bad. Very bad. They could get in a lot of trouble for that. Best not to think about it.

No, it had to be a hallucination, or a fever dream; some sort of hyper-real fantasy concocted by his pathetic, lovesick brain. 

And yet it felt so real. 

Warm, soft hands on his shoulders, his chest, his back. He’d dreamt of them before. Not like this of course, not when he was sick and in pain. But he’d take what he could get. 

Like that firm but gentle touch, the divine heat radiating from the angel’s hands into Crowley’s body, slowly assuaging the pain. Bringing him the relief he so desperately needed.

And then there were his wings. Oh, fuck, his wings. He didn’t want to bring them out, didn’t want to face the horror of what had happened, or endure the torture that was sure to follow. He tried to refuse, but when had he ever been able to refuse a single thing the angel asked of him?

For a brief, terrifying moment, he thought they might not even be there. That they might have been burned completely away by the holy and righteous punishment meted out by the Archangel Gabriel.  

But no, they were still there, mangled though they were. There was more pain at first, more than he thought he could endure, black spots forming at the edge of his consciousness. But then the angel’s hands were on him again, like a salve, making everything better. 

No one had ever touched his wings before. And it felt glorious, after the healing was done, when the angel’s clever fingers were running through his feathers, straightening and fluffing them. If he hadn’t been half delirious with pain, it might have been a problem. A very embarrassing problem. As it was, the angel’s murmured words of praise in his ear, his warm breath ghosting across the back of Crowley’s neck, sent uncontrolled shivers down his spine.

The best part, though, was the healing warmth emanating from the angel, and with it, the feelings. Crowley felt peace and comfort and… love. Like the Before, when they all basked in God’s divine and eternal love (No, not eternal, not for him. Her love was not the unconditional love they had been promised). 

But this love was even better, because it was coming from Aziraphale, and it was all for him. Only him. 

Nonono, that was ridiculous. Impossible. It couldn’t be real. Demons didn’t feel love, did they? And the angel couldn’t possibly love him. Could he? No, not like that. 

If it was a dream, it was one he didn’t want to end. But it had to; of course it couldn’t last forever, and soon the angel was tucking him in and whispering goodbye. And that was okay, because he was warm, and happy, and in this dream the angel loved him, and he was sure everything was going to be all right, somehow.

~ ~ ~

When Crowley finally awoke one night late in January, he sat straight up in bed like a shot, feeling well-rested and clear-headed. His first coherent thought was that it must have all been a dream. Well, not the part with Gabriel. The sharp pain that shot through his chest and back when he moved was an all too visceral reminder of what had happened in Oxford. But the rest of it, the surreal visions that flashed through his head— of the angel picking him up in his arms like he didn’t weigh a thing, tenderly washing his wounds, telling him in that soft, sweet voice he was doing so well, kissing him on the head. That… that couldn’t be real. 

His mind scrabbled for more rational explanations as he greedily downed the cold glass of water he’d discovered on the nightstand. Perhaps he’d been in hospital. That would explain the dressings that covered his chest, at least. His fever-addled brain could have transformed his bedside nurse into the person he most wanted to see. And then, once he was home again, his kindly upstairs neighbor must have come in to check on him, poured him a glass of water and stoked the fire.

He had almost begun to believe the story he was spinning in his head. Might even have convinced himself of it entirely in that moment, if he hadn’t turned on the lamp next to his bed. That’s when he saw it.

The blanket spread out across the bed, currently covering the bottom half of his body. A blanket that absolutely was not his; that he had never seen before in his life. 

But he recognized the tartan pattern immediately.

Fuck. 

It was real; it was all real. Oh shit, oh shit. Aziraphale had actually been here, had undressed him and tended to his wounds and healed him. The blanket was proof that he hadn’t imagined it.

After nearly six thousand years of longing, there was finally a sign, a real sign, that his feelings might be reciprocated. Despite all the many reasons not to, the angel had come here and taken care of him in his time of need. No, not the angel. His angel. His beautiful, brave, reckless angel. 

Oh Crowley had been smitten all right, that much was clear, just not in the way Aziraphale thought. How the fuck was he supposed to stay away from him now? (He wasn’t; he couldn’t. The angel was stuck with him now.) 

They’d just have to be a whole bloody lot more careful from here on out, wouldn’t they? Crowley thought to himself as he sank back against the pillow, a stupid, lovestruck smile spreading across his face.

THE END

End Notes:

Stephen Hawking (1942-2018) on Life:

❝One, remember to look up at the stars and not down at your feet. Two, never give up work. Work gives you meaning and purpose and life is empty without it. Three, if you are lucky enough to find love, remember it is there and don't throw it away❞ - Interview with ABC's Diane Sawyer, June 2010