logsville | from god that is our father, blessed angels came

[The blizzard seems to have let up overnight, a little warmth creeping back into the day, enough that Crowley, bored and restless, decides to brave the icy roads to pop down to the shops, pick up a few extra supplies. The snowmen that have been gathering outside the houses are unsettling, and after Halloween, he'd like to be prepared.

After the exhausting experience on Ray's lawn, he's well aware of what's inside the snowmen, so when he sees a young woman approaching one with a shovel in hand, he feels compelled to pull over.

He's too late, though. There's a sickening crunch as he climbs out of the car, parked haphazardly across the sidewalk and not caring, as he pulls his coat tighter and jogs over to the woman.]

Don't look at it!

[It's the best warning he can give, now. Too late to stop her, but maybe he can spare her from looking too closely.]

[Somehow, eventually, he makes it home after his unceremonious swim in the pond. He is, mostly, dry, except for his boots which he'd reluctantly put back on, and his coat, which never quite dried out fully next to the fire. Not to mention his hair, still damp near his scalp and drawing new shivers. Aziraphale is going to be worried and furious, but he doesn't really know where else to go; he's desperate to sleep and the angel is the only person he trusts enough to do that around.

He has no idea where his house key is, so he just knocks on the door, leaning heavily against the doorframe once that monumental task is completed. He's not quite on death's doorstep anymore, but there's a pale and slightly blue tinge to this skin that would likely be worrying, could he see himself.]

Edited 2020-12-17 16:31 (UTC)

[Aziraphale has been standing in the hallway for nearly an hour now, staring at a photo of Crowley — rather, this place's approximation of Crowley — as a child. He's on what looks like a backyard swing set, defying gravity, his hair wild and shining like copper in the sun and a scared but thrilled smile frozen in time on his face. His eyes are closed, but Aziraphale pictures them the right way in his mind: golden and serpentine and beautiful.

Presumably, it's a parent he never had on the other side of the camera, finger to the shutter release. A parent who, in this false narrative, loved him enough to keep him — and to buy him a swing set, and to want to capture this memory forever.

It looks like summer, and one can barely make out a scab on the child's knee.

Aziraphale swallows, anxious, and thinks for the thousandth time this month about the realization he's come to. How he's spoken it aloud without saying it, exactly; how he can't bring himself to say it, exactly, for so many reasons.

I'm sorry.

Dance with me?

Promise me you'll be careful.

— and how he's shown it, time and again, but never while Crowley's been conscious. Never while Crowley could possibly notice. How he's shown it only in the midst of nightmares, only in fleeting touches to rouse Crowley and offer tea or warm milk or a listening ear.

(Each offer turned down, of course. Brushed aside. It's better that way, probably.)

He loses track of time like this. He loses track of time and doesn't realize how worryingly long Crowley's been gone until there's a knock at the door, and the little knot of anxiety in his throat turns to what feels like a noose. It's strange, how he seems to just Know in that instant that something is wrong. It's not his angelic senses returning, it's nothing supernatural. It's — ]

Crowley...?

[Aziraphale stares, briefly dumbstruck at the sight of him once he's opened the door. And again, again, it's nothing angelic or supernatural that has him reaching out to catch Crowley — there's no sixth or seventh sense at play. It's a reflex. It's fear.

Eventually, Aziraphale will admit that what it also is is love.]

[In this place, away from the watchful eyes of God, Aziraphale is allowed to reach out to him. Away from the watchful eyes of Hell, Crowley lets him, stumbling forward with bloody hands on his arms, gripping tight around his biceps to try to hold himself up.]

Hullo, angel.

[It's a terrible facsimile of his usual greeting, the words come out strained, his chest tight from the cold that seems to have sunk into his bones. Crowley knows burning, knows the pain of heat, but he didn't know how much it's absence could ache.

He wonders if it's some buried serpentine instinct, that makes him want to press against Aziraphale to absorb his warmth, or if humans are like that, too.

His mouth opens as if to offer more of an explanation, but his teeth start chattering instead, so he clenches his jaw and shakes his head. Everything he needs to say is written across his face, in his stupid, human eyes. One of many words that he's not allowed to say out loud, not to Aziraphale.

Help.]

[It's a bit like welcoming an icicle into his arms, isn't it? It doesn't feel like Crowley at all. It doesn't feel like a body at all, really.

He curses in a whisper, drops slightly under Crowley's cold weight, and then allows himself to go on autopilot — to be the healer again, to welcome someone hurt into his home and fix them. It's Halloween all over again, but worse. So much worse.]

's okay, you're okay — I've got you, just — easy...

[He's not as strong as he once was, but thank God for adrenaline: Scooping Crowley up is easy enough, moving his feet to get them both to the bedroom is easy enough, placing Crowley down on the bed without causing further hurt (he hopes) — ditto, ditto.]

[A little stupid from the cold, Crowley laughs as he's picked up, a humorless, slightly hysterical thing with how insane all this is. It's not supposed to be like this, he's the one that's supposed to swoop in and rescue Aziraphale, that's the game they've been playing for centuries.

But he's cold, and he hurts. He should have done something about the bite on his leg, but in the grand scheme of things, it hadn't seemed important.

When he's set down on the bed, he winces, shivers, then starts mindlessly pulling at his coat, trying to get it off his body.]

S'wet. G-gotta get dry.

[Drier than he could get in the middle of an abandoned Christmas Village.]

I'll help, be careful —

[He eases Crowley upright, tugs at the coat to pull it down and off his arms, shoves it away until it falls in a damp heap on the floor. He goes for the boots next, visions of frostbitten toes already flashing through his head.

It'd be easy enough for him to laugh, too, given what he was just thinking about.

And now here they are, Aziraphale undressing Crowley in a frenzy.

It's funny, right? In an absurd, cosmic sort of way?]

[Crowley lacks the energy to have any opinions or concerns about Aziraphale undressing him. It's practical, his own hands are stiff and tender, so he does the best he can to help move himself and get the coat and boots off.

The wool socks he'd been wearing were an unexpected blessing, meant to help ward against the general weather, rather than specifically getting dunked in a frozen over pond, but he'll take his wins where he can get them.]

Wish I could just — change.

[Be a snake, he means. Then he wouldn't have all these awful limbs to worry about, he could curl up somewhere warm and sleep this off.]

[Ah. Crowley thinks, the moment he hits cold water again having been attempting to step through a door at the office. This again.

He orients himself as quickly as possible, this time using an elbow to break through the ice rather than his already battered hands, eager to get out before the thing in the water has a chance to grab him.

It's a good idea, in theory. He manages to get his arms and head out of the water, gasping for breath as his fingers scramble for purchase on the ice. And then pain shoots through his thigh as something digs in. He kicks frantically, shouting wordlessly in anger and fear, holding onto the ice for a moment longer before he's dragged under again.

He could use a little help.]

I know.

[So does Aziraphale.

It's not the easiest thing, getting Crowley out of his clothes; he's still keen on the tight-fitting garments, and trying to maneuver someone out of tight clothes that are both cold and wet...

And bloody —

Aziraphale spots torn skin as he works Crowley's pants off, the sight registering like a brick to his head.]

What — ?

[It looks like a bite mark, a neat row of teeth angrily circling his calf. Aziraphale sounds a little lost, and hoarse, and helpless when he continues with:] I thought you were going to get milk.

[At least some of his clothes had a chance to dry out, though that hardly helps with the tightness or the blood. There's a flitting thought about Aziraphale taking his pants off, but it doesn't linger, and he lets himself drop backwards on the mattress as his trousers are tugged off.

It saves having to look at Aziraphale's worried expression.

The question registers, but it's more the tone of voice that makes something twist in Crowley's gut.]

I — the village. The doors. They p-put me in the pond, there's something in there.

[It's a slightly broken explanation, but he's doing his best.]

[Aziraphale mouths something. Whether it's oh, for God's sake or oh, for fuck's sake is undetermined.]

Right. Of course.

[Magical doors leading to the inside of a frozen lake, home to some undoubtedly wretched thing. Aziraphale knew there had to be something wrong with that village.

Crowley's pants go, his socks go. Aziraphale hesitates — ]

Sorry, um. It's not the first time, hm? So —

[They've seen each other naked before. History's just Like That, and it didn't mean anything. The human body is... whatever.

Aziraphale is very quick and clinical about the rest of his work, stripping Crowley down completely before bundling the top blanket around him.]

I'm going to get bandages. Back in a jiffy.

[Crowley makes a noise that could likely be interpreted as it's fine, do what you need to because it really doesn't matter. It isn't as if this is — anything. It's clinical, practical, something that needs doing and so it'll be done, and it's fine so long as he doesn't think too hard about it.

It isn't immediate relief, being bundled up in a blanket, but having the slightly damp clothes gone is a relief.]

'Kay.

[As soon as Aziraphale's out of the room, he stops holding back the shivers, his body desperately trying to warm itself. He wishes he'd spent more time paying attention to how the human body works, so he'd know the best way to heat back up. He wants a bath, wants to sink into warm water and pretend none of this happened, but he has no idea if that's sensible or not, and anyway, he's not sure he could make it to the bathroom himself.]

[It's not sensible, and Aziraphale will advise him of as much shortly.

For now, he simply returns with the kit he's grown far too used to needing, positions himself at the foot of the bed, and eases Crowley's leg toward himself — foot on a thigh, hand 'round an ankle.]

I know this is a lot to ask, but if you could please try to stop shivering for a moment? I promise you'll feel better soon. I promise you that, but I need you to be steady right now.

[He needs to see how deep the wound goes.]

[Almost on instinct, he flinches slightly, feeling all sorts of unbalanced by the idea of Aziraphale touching his bare ankle. It's stupidly Victorian of him, so he puts it back after the barest second. His thigh his warm under the arch of his foot, and that's nice, at least.]

Y-yup. Got it. Steady.

[He grits his teeth and tenses, trying to stop the shivers.

The wound isn't too bad, but it's clear that something grabbed him and was forced to let go, from the slight tears around a few of the deeper indents. The one good thing about the cold is that the bleeding has been slow, though that will likely change as he warms up.]

[Aziraphale makes a sympathetic, pained sound as he checks the wound. It's not as bad as it could have been; it won't require a hospital, hopefully, if he does a thorough enough job of cleaning it and it clots quickly.]

Thank you.

[There it is again. That thing he'll say-but-won't-say.

It's there, too, in the way he handles Crowley, in the way he cleans him up and bandages him. It's there in his efficiency, in his gentle touch, in the almost absent way he rubs Crowley's foot once done — trying to warm it up, starting with his toes.]

I'll get you more blankets in a moment. And some tea, that'll do you good. We need to warm you from the inside out — no baths. Can you feel that?

[The rubbing, he means.]

[Some seventy or so years ago, there had been burns on his feet, the after effects of walking across consecrated ground to save an angel from a handful of Nazis who were planning to kill him. He'd saved a bag of books, too, out of nothing but his love for Aziraphale.

He wouldn't have blamed him, if he hadn't saved them, would've seen them as a casualty of the night, but Crowley did it anyway, because he could.

This isn't quite the same, though it feels close. Aziraphale has done the necessary parts, could leave him tucked up, bring him tea, be done with it. Instead, he's rubbing warmth back into his cold toes, and Crowley's throat feels tight, his eyes stinging.]

Mm. [He manages a nod, swallowing around the lump in his throat.] Could I have the hot water bottle?

[They have one, he picked it up on a whim while shopping, thinking Aziraphale might like to take it to bed with him.]

Edited 2020-12-18 00:23 (UTC)

Sure.

[In a minute, though. He's hesitating again, worry still writ large on his brow — now that the panic has passed, he just wants to stay here. Right here, with Crowley, to keep an eye on him. To make sure no other darkness tries to swallow him up.

He gives Crowley's foot a fond sort of squeeze.]

Let's get you tucked in first.

'Kay.

[Again, just a little more than a nod, before he gently eases his foot away from Aziraphale's hold, so he can stand up on shaky legs. Rather than give up on the blanket, once the sheets are pulled back he climbs right in with it still wrapped around him, uncaring for the fact it bunches up in places.

Vaguely remembering the mention of tea, he keeps himself propped up slightly against the headboard, rather than curling up on his side the way he'd like to.]

Thanks, sweetheart.

[It's meant to be slightly playful, as much as he can muster, a joke about the fact they're married and he's here, looking after him. Like a good husband should.]

[That earns an odd smile from Aziraphale, crooked and soft and a little tired around the edges.]

Of course.

[He makes a quick exit, then, feeling off-kilter. Sideways. Like the whole of the planet has shifted, something to do with gravity maybe, and he was given no warning, no time to prepare.

Luckily, making tea is routine enough that he can do it without issue — even with everything else being so somehow wrong. He fills the hot water bottle, fills the kettle, brews a whole pot of rooibos and arranges everything on a tray so that it looks nice and that's when he realizes his cheeks are wet and his eyes are hot and he's crying.

Crowley could have died.

Aziraphale knows he shouldn't focus on that, that he should instead be thankful, but it's not a thought he can ignore: Crowley could have died, and Crowley probably knows that, and it's probably the most scared Crowley's been in millennia, and Aziraphale couldn't have done a single thing about it. Even if he were there, it's not like —

He snaps his useless fingers and laughs a bitter, exhausted laugh. Nothing happens. Why would it?

Anyway.

He doesn't want to take too long, doesn't want Crowley to think something happened, so Aziraphale composes himself and dabs his eyes dry with the corner of a napkin, and heads back upstairs with the teapot and two mugs and the hot water bottle, as requested.]

[At some point, he draws his knees up to his chest, making himself smaller, protecting the soft parts of himself and trying to keep all the heat in the center, where it should be. It helps, too, to rest his forehead on bony knees and let some of what he's feeling seep out into shaking shoulders and hidden tears.

It's funny, in an odd sort of way, how often he's observed humans in fear, in situations where they had to fight to survive. Adrenaline is a strange thing, will keep them going longer than they ought to, but if they make it, if they're safe, it all comes crashing down like a poorly built house of cards.

He's never quite experienced it himself. His body doesn't work like a humans, the chemical reactions are there in theory, simply controllable. He'd been scared, before, but mostly he'd been angry, mostly he'd been focused on keeping himself and Ellie alive.

It's a good thing he can hear Aziraphale on the stairs, it gives him a chance to quickly scrub his face with the blanket, wiping away any evidence of tears, aside from the redness to his eyes. Hopefully they can attribute that to the cold.]

Hey.

[His voice is soft, uncertain. Now that he's warming up, he can think more clearly, which leaves room for doubt and uncertainty to creep in. If there was a line in their relationship, this has catapulted them far, far past it.]

Hi.

[Aziraphale won't say anything about the redness in Crowley's eyes if Crowley doesn't say anything about the redness in his.

He sets the tray down on the nightstand, nudging the lamp back slightly, and offers Crowley the hot water bottle first.]

Here. Keep it near your chest.

You're an angel.

[Another weak attempt at a joke, as Crowley eager reaches for the water bottle with bandaged hands, groaning in relief as he presses it against his chest. It would be an obscene sound, under other circumstances.

He had plans to say more, but he needs a moment to deal with how good it feels to have something warm close to his chilled skin. It's not dissimilar to a computer short-circuiting.]

I am indeed.

[A weak smile this time as Aziraphale pours the tea, careful to give Crowley only half a cup in case he starts shivering again. Or — in case he wants to knock it all back at once.

But the cup can wait, while Crowley curls around that warmth and lets some of it settle in. Aziraphale leaves it and props himself on the edge of Crowley's bed instead.]

Do you want to tell me any more about what happened?

[For all that he's already curled up fairly tightly, he draws his legs up more, an implicit offering of space for Aziraphale, a silent request that he stay here rather than retreating to his own bed.

They could still have a conversation, were they in separate beds, but it isn't just conversation that Crowley's aching for, right now. He can't ask Aziraphale to touch him again. Having him close has to be enough.

He breathes in, breathes out, allows the warmth to sink in, some of his muscles loosening.]

I walked through the door of the grocery store, ended up under the ice skating pond instead. Managed to break through the ice. Something... grabbed me, latched on. Reminded me of a Hellhound. Or bloody Dagon when they're in a mood. [He hopes Aziraphale doesn't delve too deeply into that.] Ellie was there, thank fuck, 'cause she knows what she's doing. We got inside, got a fire going. Not a very interesting story, really.

from god that is our father, blessed angels came

lorna;

aziraphale;

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