lunchbreaks | rp with me!

"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.

"No, don't," Crowley says, shaking his head. "You know I can't say no when you look like that." That's the face that got Hamlet its audience, that got several whores new lives in Rome, and got a lot of other nonsense tasks completed by Crowley over the centuries. Crowley has always thought that it's for the best that Aziraphale isn't a demon, because with a power like that face, he could have made a lot of temptations really, really easy.

Crowley tilts his head, leaning it a bit into where Aziraphale is touching his cheek. "Oh, all right----but you're not going in there. We'll just...swap places for a bit, whenever we're out in public. If they come for us, we'll be each other. I'll ward up the flat, we can be ourselves here."

"Okay," he says, and then in his best attempt at trying to be Crowley, all cool and nonchalant: "Think I'd make a good you walking down the street, no one'd even notice the difference."

Then he wrinkles his nose, a thing that Crowley never does, why the hell does Aziraphale think he does this?

It's about as good as his magic act, but damn the boy tries.

Crowley watches this and lets out a sigh. "They're going to eat you alive in Hell. Possibly literally. You have to---you know, act like you actually don't care. Except about your clothes, because if you're wearing my clothes I do care what happens to those."

He doesn't even care one iota about his clothing, but entirely about the angel inside of them. If something terrible were to happen to Aziraphale, especially if they thought they were doing it to Crowley, that would be worse than just dying.

"If they attack you, they'd be breaking the truce, they have to know that," he says. He lets out another breath. "Which they might want, because they didn't get a definitive victory."

"I really think everything will be fine, Crowley." He'll just have to keep practicing. He really didn't think it was all that bad, though he does agree it needed a little work.

"Besides, it isn't breaking the truce if they fight me, I hardly think we count anymore. It's just you and me, and they don't want anything to do with us." It's what he chose, and it's what he'd choose all over again given the chance. Crowley's still standing, and if nothing else, they have at least the time in his flat together.

He reaches for a towel to dry off Crowley's leg, and then fusses with the bandages; it's probably best he do this part.

"We're on the humans side," Crowley says. "They can't keep thinking this is only about them forever."

Aziraphale fusses, and Crowley lounges back in the tub, letting him have at it. It's a fairly large tub, actually, though he can't remember the last time he used it as an actual tub. Showers, mostly. Just to clean himself off, make sure he was prepared and perfect for the day. But he had it. There was a lot on this flat he had that he never used. That kitchen, his bed, his nice couch. Never really thought about it until now.

"We could confront them," he suggests. "Together. Swap faces, like you said. And go in, demand the humans have rights for the truce."

"We could, but if we're together, they'll what, try to haul us off separately?" He asks as he dresses the wound. He has a soft touch, a nice bedside manner, and hopefully doesn't hurt Crowley any more than he is already hurt.

"I just don't know if we have enough to barter with them. You know how arrogant Gabriel and Beezlebub are, and ever since they've become the mouthpieces for God and Satan..." he starts.

He worries his hands together. "You know, this means you're going to have to do the bulk of the healing when we leave here."

"Maybe," Crowley says. "But we will be stronger together. It's better than being alone."

Maybe they won't know what to do with them. Maybe Aziraphale and Crowley can work together to keep them down. He doesn't know. All he knows is that he can't stand the idea of sending the angel into Hell alone. Not after watching him fight, not after holding him here in this flat. If they had avoided the War entirely, he might have been able to handle some secret mission off to Heaven alone, but not now.

He sits up, reaching out to take the angel's hands.

"We've beaten them once. We had nothing then, and we beat them, remember? This time, we've got tricks they don't know about."

"Alright," he says. "Alright, we'll ask them to write Earth into the truce." He doesn't sound so convinced, but if he knows one thing, it's that Crowley can talk himself into anything and he can string together enough to pieces go together.

"Will you give me five more minutes?" he asks. "And then I think I'll be ready to go out again. If you are." He does need the practice. He's rehearsing all of Crowley's mannerisms in his head, not sure if he just has no hip bones or if he's going to look like an awkward duckling when he attempts it.

"We'll go tomorrow," Crowley says. "We just survived a War, today, angel, I think we deserve a few minutes rest."

By 'we', he means Aziraphale. He can't just throw him back into the clutches of the angels that fast. They only just got out of there. He's also not so keen to see Beezelbub having just destroyed one of their Dukes. And there is always the possibility---however unlikely---that Hastur survived the raincloud. Crowley would avoid that for a lifetime if he could. He can't, but he would if he could.

He shifts himself, trying to stand out of the tub. "Come on, time I actually see what that bed is like."

"Yes, a few minutes'. I thought five should be sufficient," he says. "The wounded are dying," he tries, but instead of trying to usher Crowley out anywhere, he instead goes to take him gently and guide him towards his bedroom.

Fine.

"We'll stay until you heal up a little bit, it won't work if I have to pretend to be injured in the leg." The one thing he will acquiesce to.

He opens the door and lets go of Crowley to go move the blankets and the sheets, which look like they haven't been touched since they were bought.

Of course Aziraphale cares about the wounded and the dying. Crowley cares----really, he does---but right now he really, truly cares about the angel in front of him. His number one, top most important priority.

He concentrates. Miracles aren't something that demons are good at, but Crowley has been able to perform more than a few since meeting the angel. He thinks about the people in the battlefield around them, the ones that Aziraphale was going to help, he thinks about all of the injured. And he focuses.

"They'll make it through the night," he says, and there's a level of certainty to his voice. He can't have Aziraphale sacrificing any of himself today. Not one shred more.

Crowley shuffles the blankets out of the way and drops, gingerly, onto the bed.

"Oh, did you--" He beams at Crowley, who must be totally exhausted from the effort. And, really, he should absolutely let him rest, but he has just done one too many sweet things today and that was really the straw that broke the camel's back.

Aziraphale leans over the bed, takes Crowley's face in his hand, and plants a kiss to his forehead. "Thank you," he says, softly like prayer. "Thank you, Crowley."

He kneels down by the side of the bed, and takes one of his hands in both of his own. After a moment, he asks: "Would you like me to stay with you?"

"Only if you rest, too," Crowley says. He slips off his sunglasses and tosses them carelessly on the side table.

He looks over at Aziraphale, and he gives his hand a squeeze with his own. He's tired. More than tired. War, then a curse, then a miracle? Crowley doesn't sleep, not really, but right now he could. He could really sleep, properly sleep.

"And I don't mean the kind of rest where you're just worrying about everything rest," he says. "I mean rest."

"I'll find something to read," he says, smiling over at him. And also, he'll have to get up and find a chair to sit in instead because this concrete is really hell on his knees. Aziraphale tried the sleeping thing once, but didn't really like it, and he's never tried again. He could, if Crowley suggested it now, urged him to do it.

For the moment, he instead takes the opportunity to look Crowley directly in his eyes. It's so rare he gets to do so, usually only ever seeing the glasses. He never thought he'd miss seeing them, back in the year 30.

"Will you need anything?" he asks.

"Yeah, come on though, the bed's big enough for two, you can sit here," Crowley says, gesturing to the spot next to him. The bed is actually ridiculously large, because Crowley bought the most expensive one at the time, simply due to price. "Can't speak on the comfort, though, it's my first time on this mattress. Sales said it was comfortable. Seems all right."

He, personally, thinks Aziraphale should try sleeping. But, perhaps the angel simply doesn't sleep. Many occult---or whatever it was Aziraphale said angels were---being simply don't. But Crowley would, if he were Aziraphale. And Crowley will, being Crowley in this exact moment.

Aziraphale thinks about it and tries to get into the bed, and though obviously he understands the concept of laying down and closing his eyes, somehow he lies there as if he is in a coffin, and his eyes do not close.

This is dreadfully boring, and he has so many other things that he could be doing, except that he can't leave Crowley's flat and he's already read the newspaper. Hardly anything could be more interesting today anyway than "The Armageddon happened."

So he tries, sliding his eyes closed, relaxing a bit. And maybe, just maybe, he falls asleep, and has a sweet dream, and shifts and gravitates towards Crowley once he's out warm.

Aziraphale is positively adorable. Crowley lounges back as he lays there, watching the angel sit, all but cross-armed in the bed next to him. The very picture of someone who never rests, never relaxes. Crowley wouldn't want him to change, not for the whole universe.

He wants to watch him forever, but he can't. He can't even really keep his eyes open for very long. He leans into his pillow and his eyes slowly close. He lets himself sleep, eventually throwing an arm around the angel as he dreams.

It's not snuggling, because Crowley Does. Not. Snuggle. It's more like...leaning on aggressively while sleeping.

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