lunchbreaks | rp with me!

"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.

"Good thing it was you," Crowley says, moving to the angel's arms. He can't put any weight on the injured leg, but he can put some on the other. "Wouldn't have been any fun if it was anyone else."

And, while Crowley couldn't have fought Hastur on his own, he could certainly have fought him with his friend. Defeated him with Aziraphale by his side. Or, well, up in the air. There, part of the battle. Metaphorically by his side.

"Thank you," he says, finally, as they move their way towards the washroom to clean him up. "For this."

It's a bit embarrassing. Crowley is always the one to save Aziraphale, and now here Aziraphale is, saving him twice in one day.

"Well I can't just stand here and do nothing," he says, arm around Crowley, trying to get him to the bathroom which is honestly way too large and very prisonlike. His whole flat is just so concrete and empty. But he supposes that the only thing that really needs to be in it to make it feel lived-in is Crowley.

He turns the tap on and then rolls up his sleeves, because he doesn't want Crowley to object to his help and then wind up hurting himself even more. Really, he hadn't imagined ever bathing Crowley to make sure that he wasn't infected with other demonic entities, but there was always a first time for everything.

At the very least, he'll hand the body wash to Crowley. Can't be touching any of the demonic goo.

"No, of course not," Crowley says. "You're too good."

In a way, Crowley is almost grateful to be hurt. With Aziraphale focused on him, focused on helping him, he's not focused on their plight, on what's happened to the world. It's just this, for a few moments. It's just the wound and Crowley and taking care of him. And while it's embarrassing to be the one to be taken care of, it's worth it to give Aziraphale that reprieve.

"I had thought to be a bit more dramatic after all of this," he says. "Post a few victory photos to Instagram. Not---" He takes the soap and winces as he touches the wound. "---clean something like this out."

"You can still post photos on your forum," he replies. "Sorry, that's a bit old-fashioned. Your bulletin board." The smile he gives Crowley is just so innocent. "But after this," he says, and stays by his side while he cleans up.

If it helps, Aziraphale doesn't think this is embarrassing in the least, one because it's Crowley, who just helped him save the world, and two because he owes Crowley a few saves. And it isn't just about goodness, he wants to say, because he cares for Crowley. So much, and he's spent all these years denying it. And at the end of the Earth, when Heaven and Hell knew already, he hardly thinks it matters anymore to hide it.

And yet, something about him is still hiding in the shadows, refusing to make itself known.

For all that they've done, he feels a bit cowardly.

Crowley scrubs out the wound, which has lost its rancid smell for the smell of his body wash and some water. It's hardly the best, but it's much better than before. He remembers the days where the best sort of cleanliness they got was mud and a bit of water to rinse it off with, so this is really a vast improvement. Many of the demons in hell still prescribe to that sort of cleaning schedule.

He gestures to the cabinet by Aziraphale. "There are bandages in there," he says. "We can wrap it, it'll heal up. Probably take a bit longer than a normal wound might because of----"

Because of the angelic blessing, really, but he doesn't know how far the curse would have spread without it. It blisters in the circle around where Aziraphale cut into him.

"But it'll heal."

"Oh," he says, and then rifles through for some burn cream. Why a demon would keep burn cream in his apartment is beyond him though, and he miracles some of it up. "That should help with the pain and the scarring," he says, looking on sympathetically. He doesn't know how else he should help, but at least he knows that he'll heal now, and not slowly turn into a pile of maggots.

He pulls a stool up to sit by the tub, and with his elbows laid on the rim, looks up at Crowley. "When Heaven and Hell come looking for us," he says. "We should switch. You go to Heaven, and I to Hell, wearing each other's faces. I think that's what the prophecy is trying to tell us."

"Which prophecy?" Crowley says. "Oh---Oh, right, the one you said. Mind your faces."

He applies the burn cream to his leg and it stings, but then it feels cooling. He begins to wrap the wound slowly. It's not perfect, Crowley is no healer by any stretch of the imagination, but he can tend himself all right.

"I'm not sending you into Hell," he says, firmly. "It's----not like what you're expecting, and I wouldn't want to put you through it."

He doesn't want to imagine what they'd do to him, but he thinks that boiling lava and beating with crowbars wouldn't be out of the question.

"Agnes Nutter is never wrong," he says. "And I thought it might have been about the war but it can't have been," he adds. "Because you were wearing my face and nothing happened. I can take a few days in Hell, Crowley. But if I go back to Heaven, I don't think I'll return."

He reaches for Crowley's cheek, and places a hand there. "And if you go to Hell, I don't think you'll return either. And I can't allow that." He feels so vulnerable in this moment, casting desperate glances at Crowley, trying to get him to see.

"Then I won't let them take you," Crowley says. He sees Aziraphale's vulnerability and wants to make him not fear it. He wants to show him that he can protect him, that he can stop this. Of course, he couldn't exactly stop the apocalypse itself, could he? Aziraphale led the armies that stopped all of this from continuing.

Aziraphale's idea could be a smart one. An angel in Hell could do a lot of damage, especially if they weren't expecting it. But an angel in Hell could also be hurt very badly very, very fast. Crowley keeps thinking if he can just keep Aziraphale safe, keep him from getting caught at all----well, then it won't matter, will it?

"We can stop them," he says. "We have the whole human race on our side. They can't defeat all of them."

"We can do that while switched," he offers."Maybe we're meant to. But I don't think she'd be wrong about just this," he says. After all, Crowley might not know them but Aziraphale has read through all her predictions. He's searched it out for so long.

Crowley, meanwhile, is the sweetest demon he's ever met. How protective he is of Aziraphale, it makes him warm and plucks at a tightly wound heart string.

He sits upright and leans into the tub, reaching out and cupping Crowley by the cheek. "I can't lose you either." He turns on the puppy eyes. He only really even half means to do it, since he meant what he said.

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