lunchbreaks | rp with me!

"Damn the plan, Crowley," he says in a panic, voice breaking. Even though they've won, or at least, they've drawn, he can't help but feel the loss. It's bedlam around them, and he's stood by all this time as people have died around him in the most horrific, terrible of ways. The young have died before ever really living, and some people just lead miserable lives all the way through, and he abided by all of it for the Plan.

He hardly thinks it was worth it, at the moment.

Aziraphale puts his arm around Crowley, turns his face into his shoulder, and lets his cries be muffled by the armor. He has never felt his faith slip quite like this before, and he doesn't know presently which direction to place his anger.

He has to pull himself together, partially because the two of them are technically sort of supposed to be the leaders of the human army, but as people disperse to take shelter from the rain, he lets himself take a little longer than a moment.

Oh, God.

But there are many things Crowley can do. He can stop time, he can unwrite mistakes, he can fix broken bones, he can create hell on a motorway. But right now, as he puts his arm around Aziraphale's shoulder and he cries into his shoulder, he can't help his friend. Can't fix whatever has broken within him over this situation. There's too much that has been lost.

"Let's get away from here," he says, moving to press his lips against Aziraphale's hair. "Just during the rain. Go somewhere else. We'll be right back."

Aziraphale nods against him and pulls away, wiping his tears. How could this have happened? How could this have been the plan?

He follows Crowley, somewhere indoors, hopefully where he can get a tea and calm his nerves for a moment before they have to return outside. And he appreciates how soft Crowley is with him in this moment; were he less distraught, he would reciprocate in kind, maybe offer some of those kisses he'd promised.

But not right now.

There are wounded in the airbase, mainly soldiers though people of all creeds and backgrounds had showed. Aziraphale straightens himself up and goes around to heal people, though his heart aches to not be able to stay with them just a little longer before having to move on to the next makeshift stretcher. "We can fix this," he says to Crowley, but looking at nothing in particular.

Crowley wants to counter with his usual bravado. And how would we do that, angel? he might say. What universe could we fix something this terrible? But he looks at Aziraphale, his Aziraphale, and he can't bring himself to pull him down like that. He can't hurt him, and he won't.

He can't stop time long enough to give Aziraphale a reprieve. He can't pull them away for more than a moment, and that isn't fair. But there is somewhere they can go, somewhere that he knows won't be touched by all of this.

"We'll come back to heal them," he says. "Show them where to rebuild. I can...set up a few good words with some celebrities. But you, you need to get away."

He offers the angel his hand. Transport miracles aren't Crowley's favorite. He's not very good at them, and they tend to take a bit out of him, but if he works at it, he can be anywhere he needs to in just a thought. It's how he's appeared in the nick of time to save Aziraphale a few times in the past. And right now, it's going to teleport them both a few miles away, to Crowley's flat. The one place that wouldn't be touched by this. The demons wouldn't go there, Crowley wasn't in. The angels wouldn't go there, too many demonic curses on it. It was a hole in the middle of the world, sitting vacant. A place to hide, just for a minute. A place for the angel to rest.

"No, Crowley, we can't, we have to go--" but the words die in his throat and his hands are all bloody again. He smears a little of it on his face as he wipes his tears, and he looks about to give up. But he goes to wash his hands in the kitchen sink, even though Heaven isn't counting his miracles anymore.

When he's done, he doesn't know what to do with his hands, so he marches over and starts to undo the armor he'd laced Crowley into not a few hours ago, before all this mess. He can't believe it hadn't even lasted that long, just a few short hours and everything had gotten upturned.

"We did the right thing," he says, lifting pieces of the armor over his head.

That isn't a question, because it would've been worse if they hadn't intervened. He holds on to that to comfort him, and once Crowley is no longer covered in metal, Aziraphale loops arms around him and holds onto him, too.

Crowley allows Aziraphale to take off the armor because, well, he never really wanted to be in it to begin with. He's not a soldier, he barely knows how to fight anything. He fell into the demon gig, he didn't want to fight. And now here he is, a fighter for the human race. Suppose it was always going to be this way.

He wraps his arms around Aziraphale. How do you restore faith to an angel that has lost it? How does a demon restore an angel's faith? Crowley held onto his own sort of faith in an awkward kind of way, but he never kept very good care of it. Now he needs it more than ever.

"You saved the world," he says. "You do realize that, don't you?"

"We did, didn't we?" he says. face still in Crowley's shoulder. And then he shifts so they're face to face, and hugs him properly. "It's still here," he realizes.

Then, very quietly, he says: "You're still here." His lip trembles a little as he thinks about it, Crowley having stayed here with him instead of having run away. And it was all his idea, to stay and fight, even though they both know he's not a fighter, not like Aziraphale was. He won't say so, but Crowley was just too good for Hell.

"Thank you," he finally says, feeling just a little bit more pulled together, a little more color coming back into his cheeks.

"Nowhere else in the universe I'd rather be, angel," Crowley replies. It's true, now that he thinks about it. He wouldn't go anywhere if Aziraphale couldn't go with him. It would be like losing part of himself. A big part, the better part. The part that cares and cries and wants things to go right. Crowley likes that part of himself, the Aziraphale part.

And Crowley doesn't correct the angel. Doesn't correct him when he says 'we', even though from Crowley's perspective, it's really Aziraphale who saved the world. Aziraphale who made it better. Truces can be broken, but Aziraphale's goodness won't be.

"And the world's not going anywhere either, as long as we have say in it," he adds.

Aziraphale feels love coming back to him as if having just woken up and regaining his sensations. It warms him and soothes him, and abate his nervous tears. He puffs a laugh into Crowley's collar, feeling ever so slightly ridiculous, and with hands on his chest, pushes up just the slightest to look at him.

"Yes," he says, face softly settling into a small smile that could melt icecaps. "This world is ours now, for protecting." There's something about saying that the world is theirs that somehow hearkens to but is totally unlike when they decided to godparent for Warlock. Something about this seems more whole in a way, like it had been written since they were each assigned to Earth outside the Garden when only two humans even existed.

"There," he says, by way of trying to make the angel feel better. "That's good, right. We've got it. Well, you. I just sort of...supervise."

He looks down at Aziraphale, and the way he smiles. It's genuine, less pained. Protectors of Earth. He seems to like that, and it's a title that Crowley wouldn't lie if he said he didn't mind it so much. He'd be rubbish at it, of course. Drunk half the time and not at all competent at any other part of it, but he'd certainly try.

"The question becomes----what about us?" he says. "My side will want a trial. A traitor, they'd see me as. Double traitor. Can there be a double traitor?"

"Right," he says, completely having put that lovely conversation with Uriel totally out of his mind. "I don't know. They got their war, and no one won it. The only thing I know for sure is that they won't be too happy about us like this," he says. "Together." The best they can hope for is reassignment. At worst, well-- at worst they'll be destroyed, utterly and completely. There won't be anything left.

"Wait, your side get trials?" he asks, lifting his head up. "I can't believe we don't have trials," he says, as if he wasn't already aware that Crowley's fall had been without actual merit and he hadn't been allowed to defend himself.

It was a lot of rules, being an angel.

Anyway, upstairs won't exactly take his call, so that plan's out. They could always run again, but then what's to stop them from rallying the troops and trying to destroy Earth one more time?

"--The prophecy," he interjects.

"Sort of trials, they're not exactly what you'd call fair," Crowley says, taking a step back from Aziraphale to finish removing his armor. He feels more like himself out of it. His leg aches, and he puts weight on it experimentally. No good. He's going to have to talk to Aziraphale about it. He's going to have to handle it before maggots crawl out of his muscle or he starts to turn into sand or whatever Hastur had planned up for him. Later.

"Oh, no, don't tell me there's another prophecy," Crowley says, tossing one of the gauntlets aside. "What is it this time? More War? Great big phantasmic opera in the sky? Rehash of American Idol?"

"American what? No, nothing of the sort. It said, "When all is fated and all is done... ye must choose your faces wisely." And then he racks his brain for the rest. "For ye will soon be playing with fire," or something.

Then he gets distracted once Crowley's taken off all his armor. "Lord, is there something wrong with your leg? It's looking a bit swollen, I could've sworn I just set that, can I take a look at it?" His healing powers are usually pretty good, he can't imagine why they wouldn't work.

Crowley considers lying for one whole second. He's pretty good at lying, and they're in such a state right now that he's pretty sure that Aziraphale would believe him if he lied. Aziraphale has caught him on a number of lies over the many centuries, but right now, he's pretty sure he'd get away with it.

But how could he lie to Aziraphale now? All they really have is each other.

"When Hastur hit me," he says, wincing as he touches his thigh. "He didn't just hit me, he---threw something at me. I don't know. A curse, probably. Something demonic. Something that can't just be restored with a miracle. It's never that easy, not with someone like Hastur. He likes his curses old and boring and awful."

"Oh, damn Hastur! I mean bless Hastur -- something, may Hastur have died a particularly painful death!" Aziraphale says, frustrated as he says it and honestly, he didn't even really mean it. He doesn't wish anyone a painful death.

"Well, let us have a look at it anyway," he suggests. "You're going to have to remove your trousers for this," he says, and he really was hoping that he'd never have to tell Crowley to remove his trousers in an apologetic voice. He can't believe that Crowley was trying to hide this from him, but at the same time, his heart hurts a little thinking about it, knowing full well it's because he needed a moment.

Had Crowley imagined a moment in which Aziraphale was asking him to remove his trousers----and he has, of course, but he'd never admit it aloud no matter how much wine he'd drank---he would never have wanted it to be in such a medicinal and clinical situation. Injured by a bloody demon and he has to have his leg looked at. Great, that.

"All right, all right," he says, fumbling a bit with his belt. "It's probably something basic, he's not one for imagination. Think---flesh-eating, limb-rotting. The sort of turn-you-into-stone nonsense that demons are known for. He doesn't step out of the box, Hastur. And if he did, it wouldn't be tough to break it. Probably just a simple ritual to counteract it."

He hopes. It's all a hope. Hastur is boring, but dangerous. He was a Duke of Hell, after all.

He pulls his trousers off, to reveal a black spot growing beneath the skin on his thigh. Something unpleasant brewing there.

"Oof," Aziraphale says, and pulls a handkerchief to breathe into because the smell is just, classic Hastur. "Usually I'd get rid of this kind of thing with a couple blessings, but I don't think you'd stand up to an exorcism," he says. "Not to worry, I think I remember what to do," he says, voice muffled.

He goes to get a little salt, but then he remembers that Crowley doesn't keep books and so Aziraphale has no idea where he keeps the salt. Obviously, he's supposed to keep it next to all the occult books.

"Is your salt in one of the kitchen cabinets?" he asks, taking a wild guess because neither of them cook and Crowley hardly even eats when they go out. He also manages to find a bottle of wine will rummaging around, and pours them both a glass; they'll need it to get over the part where Aziraphale is going to try and get the last remaining bit of a Duke of Hell out of Crowley.

"What are you going to do?" Crowley says, finally dropping into one of the stools nearby. Salt, wine? Is this an exorcism? Crowley doesn't know. All he knows is that he hurts, and he's supposed to be the one taking care of Aziraphale right now, which only makes the whole situation that much worse.

He clicks his fingers, and a cabinet full of spices opens up, all of them purchased sometime in the 1970s, none of them bad. Crowley purchased most of the food in this house around that time, but none of it has spoiled. He doesn't bother cooking or taking care of anything here. This place is more like a pit stop and somewhere to house his beloved plants.

"It can't be as bad as it looks," he says. "Really, Hastur's not that...I mean, he can be, but he's not all that good at cursing."

"Well it looks pretty terrible," Aziraphale says. "And it smells worse, Goodness." No, he hands Crowley a glass and then drinks a large gulp of wine for courage, then sets to work, having also gotten a knife which he is holding under his sleeve because obviously Crowley won't notice it and panic.

"Come out," he tries, bestowing a little angelic grace on Crowley in a ring around the wound, hoping it's enough to draw out the poison towards the middle. "I'm going to have to cut a hole in your leg, I'll patch it up later, do be a love," he murmurs all at once, handing Crowley one of his pillows in which to bite down on while he does so.

Crowley pulls a face, and then reaches behind himself, grabbing the pair of thick rubber gloves, the ones he wore when he handled holy water.

"It's demonic," he says, offering them to Aziraphale. "And you don't know what my blood could even do to you, neither of us do. Don't risk yourself over me."

It can't hurt that bad, he thinks, looking at the pillow. Bite down on a pillow? He can't be so embarrassing that he's going to need to bite down on a pillow. Then, Aziraphale puts the ring of angelic grace around the wound, and it burns with the holiness of it. It burns like nothing Crowley has experienced before. He cries out, and tries to stifle it.

He takes a breath. If there's one person in the whole of Creation----"I trust you," he says.

Aziraphale puts the gloves on, because he doesn't really need it, but honestly he's expecting it to kind of bust out Alien-style (or he would, if he had seen Aliens), so he doesn't know how to tell Crowley that was sweet but ultimately not necessary.

He, at arms length, cuts the wound open and the disgusting maggoty sludge starts to pour out since it has nowhere else to go but through the hole. It's a lot more live and a lot less spouty than Aziraphale would have guessed, but that's good for one of them, at least.

With the gloves on, though, he scrapes the excretions off of Crowley's legs and onto the floor. Once he's fairly certain he's gotten most of it, he undoes the top of the salt and pours a whole lot of it to cover the maggots. He'd read it in a Good Housekeeping article once in the 1800s.

Crowley can handle pain----to a point. Hastur's curse is revolting, disgusting, and but mostly painful. Had he been imaginative, he'd have hit Crowley with something festering, something that changed him, something unique. But no, he stuck him with something that ate at his flesh, something normal for a demon. Something easily fixable. What a waste of power.

"He had one solid hit in, and he hit me with this," Crowley hisses. "You know, I don't even think he was really trying."

The salt covers the disgusting creatures, and they shrivel under the dehydrating effects. That's good----prevents Hastur from suddenly reapppearing on their doorstep. That would be something to be seen.

"Couldn't have gotten out of every battle unscathed," he says, and he makes a bandage pack appear in his hand. "It'll need to heal."

"Yes," Aziraphale remarks. "And I don't think I can help you with those burns I made." He hopes that Crowley doesn't start having blisters from them, but they're probably better than having live maggots underneath your skin. "But you should probably wash that out with soap and water first."

Wouldn't do to have lingering effects of Hastur in the apartment, either. Aziraphale goes to get something to clean this up off of the floor, since a miracle won't do. He doesn't even think that Crowley has the proper materials for it, so he tries to scoop it up with the gloves and carry it over to the garbage disposal. Well, okay, he thinks it's a sink. Crowley will have to notify him that there's a bunch of blades down there.

"Disposal is above the lightswitch," Crowley says, absently, gesturing to the switch. Who wouldn't know what a disposal is?

He moves to stand, and promptly goes back down onto the stool. Nope, he's going to have to try that a little slower. He tries again, and sits. He can wait. He'll wash the wound out in a few moments. No need to rush it.

"I pushed Hastur into a blessed rain cloud," he says. "Didn't see him burn, but I really think his odds for survival are fairly slim."

He wouldn't put it past the demon, though. Hastur was sneaky, and survival was all he knew. He could go from discorporated to reanimated faster than anyone Crowley had ever seen, short of Beezelbub themself.

He doesn't even know what a disposal is, but he flicks the switch and jumps back as the blades turn on, careful not to drop anything on the floor. Oh, a little warning for your angel friend who still calls bicycles velocipedes, please.

Aziraphale drops the contents down the sink and then washes the gloves, going to scoop some more off the floor when he sees that Crowley hasn't moved from his spot. "Oh, dear." He'll help Crowley in a second, after he's finished what he's started. He found a roll of paper towels, also probably from the seventies. "You know, he got what he deserved. I probably blessed that cloud." Him or the Pope. It was pretty difficult watching the Pope be fighting heaven at the time, but he's glad for it now.

He's gotten most of it out, and he very carefully takes the gloves and tosses them directly into the trash, making his way over to Crowley. "Easy does it," he warns, before trying to pick him up.

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