It's awful to watch, and Crowley hates himself a little for it, crouched here and just watching, feeling faintly ill at the sickening crack of Aziraphale's wings, the meaty thwack of blows delivered with inhuman force. But he can't interfere, he can't. The idiot angel's got himself into this, and Crowley'll do no good barging in and trying to break things up. He's under no illusion that the Devil would expend such an effort on him; He'd probably just discorporate Crowley with a thought and then resume with his beating of Aziraphale.
So he watches, holds himself back as Lucifer gets Aziraphale up against the tree, as Aziraphale screams, an awful, ragged sound. Crowley's heard screaming like that more than he'd like over the centuries, and it makes him itch horribly to hear it from Aziraphale.
His breath catches when Lucifer drops him, Aziraphale collapsing in a sad, mangled heap in the grass, and Crowley holds it, hoping-- hell, praying, even though he daren't direct his pray at any specific entity-- that that'll be it, that Lucifer will be content leaving Aziraphale like that. He looks a wreck, he can't even haul himself up, surely, surely that's enough.
And then the Devil steps on him.
All Crowley can see for an instant is the press of a shoe, the twist that's all it would take to break Aziraphale's neck, the terrifying thought that discorporation here might mean actual death, and he's scrambled to his feet before he can think, his own wings out, huge and bristling. Fuck it. Fuck it, he might be cowardly and self-serving, but he can't just sit there and watch his, whatever, his friend, his enemy, his stupid bloody angel, get himself killed by the Devil.
It is perhaps fortunate that it's at precisely that moment that Aziraphale remembers he has a flaming sword. The laugh of relief that bursts out of Crowley sounds more than half like a sob. And then the fight is all a flurry of flames and then Aziraphale's got Lucifer skewered like a kebab, eye-searing light leaking out along with the blood, and then-- amazingly, impossibly, Lucifer's gone.
Crowley chokes on his own disbelief for a moment, and then stumbles over to Aziraphale, his wings still out, flaring up to shade them as he skids to his knees.
'Aziraphale! Angel, fuck, you stupid--'
He hisses, distress and annoyance, and leans down in a rush to splay his hands over Aziraphale's chest. Healing, strictly speaking, shouldn't be part of a demon's purview, but matter is matter and flesh is flesh, and Crowley exerts all his energy now into knitting up the sinew and bone of Aziraphale's twisted and torn wings, his mashed nose, all the places where Crowley can feel him bleeding internally. He doesn't know what the fuck Lucifer did to him when he grabbed him by the neck, but the skin there's gone rough and dark as if from frostbite. Fuck.
Crowley holds it for as long as he can, his jaw clenched, breathing hard through his nose, before the drain of the effort is too much, and he slumps forward, hands sliding to bracket Aziraphale's torso. The angel is passed very thoroughly out, and Crowley's face contorts for a moment. Just as well; better to heal like that.
He doesn't bother looking around to see if anyone's around to see when he scoops Aziraphale up into his arms and vanishes the pair of them back to his flat.
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So he watches, holds himself back as Lucifer gets Aziraphale up against the tree, as Aziraphale screams, an awful, ragged sound. Crowley's heard screaming like that more than he'd like over the centuries, and it makes him itch horribly to hear it from Aziraphale.
His breath catches when Lucifer drops him, Aziraphale collapsing in a sad, mangled heap in the grass, and Crowley holds it, hoping-- hell, praying, even though he daren't direct his pray at any specific entity-- that that'll be it, that Lucifer will be content leaving Aziraphale like that. He looks a wreck, he can't even haul himself up, surely, surely that's enough.
And then the Devil steps on him.
All Crowley can see for an instant is the press of a shoe, the twist that's all it would take to break Aziraphale's neck, the terrifying thought that discorporation here might mean actual death, and he's scrambled to his feet before he can think, his own wings out, huge and bristling. Fuck it. Fuck it, he might be cowardly and self-serving, but he can't just sit there and watch his, whatever, his friend, his enemy, his stupid bloody angel, get himself killed by the Devil.
It is perhaps fortunate that it's at precisely that moment that Aziraphale remembers he has a flaming sword. The laugh of relief that bursts out of Crowley sounds more than half like a sob. And then the fight is all a flurry of flames and then Aziraphale's got Lucifer skewered like a kebab, eye-searing light leaking out along with the blood, and then-- amazingly, impossibly, Lucifer's gone.
Crowley chokes on his own disbelief for a moment, and then stumbles over to Aziraphale, his wings still out, flaring up to shade them as he skids to his knees.
'Aziraphale! Angel, fuck, you stupid--'
He hisses, distress and annoyance, and leans down in a rush to splay his hands over Aziraphale's chest. Healing, strictly speaking, shouldn't be part of a demon's purview, but matter is matter and flesh is flesh, and Crowley exerts all his energy now into knitting up the sinew and bone of Aziraphale's twisted and torn wings, his mashed nose, all the places where Crowley can feel him bleeding internally. He doesn't know what the fuck Lucifer did to him when he grabbed him by the neck, but the skin there's gone rough and dark as if from frostbite. Fuck.
Crowley holds it for as long as he can, his jaw clenched, breathing hard through his nose, before the drain of the effort is too much, and he slumps forward, hands sliding to bracket Aziraphale's torso. The angel is passed very thoroughly out, and Crowley's face contorts for a moment. Just as well; better to heal like that.
He doesn't bother looking around to see if anyone's around to see when he scoops Aziraphale up into his arms and vanishes the pair of them back to his flat.