"S'not pride," Aziraphale protests, vaguely affronted. "It's - it's my responsibility to - when I'm the only one who can - oh."
This, with a startled blink, as Crowley winds up pressed against his leg, and comes close, a second time, to articulating what neither of them will articulate.
"Neither could I," Aziraphale points out with an arched eyebrow. "When he hit you, I thought-" Well. Anything could have happened, really. "I didn't have time to wait and see what he might do to you. I had to act."
He hesitates, feeling supremely awkward, then leans forward, a minimal action requiring a great amount of effort. He extends a hand and sifts it carefully through Crowley's hair.1
"I'm all right," he says, gently, after a long and faintly uncomfortable moment. "Er. I will be, at any rate."
He supposes Crowley must have got him here, and into these rather nice pajamas, and patched him up enough that he can manage as much movement and conversation as he is currently managing. It might be too much to thank him for it though, so he just... slooowly retracts his hand, feeling very awkward indeed.
1 Were they not terrifically bad at this sort of thing, and also operating on centuries of habitual looking the other way, this would be the absolutely ideal time for Aziraphale to say something along the lines of "I love you, stupid." But to assume that might actually happen in a remotely audible, conscious manner, could not be anything other than the most wishful of thinking.
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This, with a startled blink, as Crowley winds up pressed against his leg, and comes close, a second time, to articulating what neither of them will articulate.
"Neither could I," Aziraphale points out with an arched eyebrow. "When he hit you, I thought-" Well. Anything could have happened, really. "I didn't have time to wait and see what he might do to you. I had to act."
He hesitates, feeling supremely awkward, then leans forward, a minimal action requiring a great amount of effort. He extends a hand and sifts it carefully through Crowley's hair.1
"I'm all right," he says, gently, after a long and faintly uncomfortable moment. "Er. I will be, at any rate."
He supposes Crowley must have got him here, and into these rather nice pajamas, and patched him up enough that he can manage as much movement and conversation as he is currently managing. It might be too much to thank him for it though, so he just... slooowly retracts his hand, feeling very awkward indeed.
1 Were they not terrifically bad at this sort of thing, and also operating on centuries of habitual looking the other way, this would be the absolutely ideal time for Aziraphale to say something along the lines of "I love you, stupid." But to assume that might actually happen in a remotely audible, conscious manner, could not be anything other than the most wishful of thinking.