for salutosinedelectat

[sauntered_downward]

Follows this.

They couldn't just teleport themselves there. Any miracles, demonic or otherwise, would attract too much attention. No, Crowley was actually going to have to sit there, plugging their information into an online search engine, and do it all manually. Fluctuating airline prices were demonic work, and right now a trip to Japan was over six thousand pounds more expensive than if he had bought it three days earlier, which was totally outrageous. Crowley didn't know a lot about money except what it made men do to each other, he'd never had to. But now, making money appear out of nothing could turn the wrong eye on them if he wasn't careful.

Luckily, he had quite a few credit cards that never needed paying or had a limit on them. They would work in a pinch for a moment like this. He didn't know if that sort of perk-of-being-a-demon could ever be taken away from him, but he hoped not.

The flight itself was a long one, and Crowley settled himself in for it by making sure they were flying at least first class. That way they could see everyone coming at them and have a few glasses of wine on the journey.

"I don't think they know about these passports," Crowley says. "They might, but I doubt it. I had them made back during the last World War, just kept them in good condition."

The second World War was something that Crowley took responsibility for, but he hated every moment of it, and what his side did to make it worse made him sick. He was more than prepared to hide away if he needed to when things went wrong back then. And, at the time, he had also created a passport for Aziraphale, in case he wanted to come along. No other reason for that, he told himself.

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[salutosinedelectat]

He hears Crowley's voice. He could smile--is he smiling? He should be, but oh, he sounds so distant.

The angel turns his head, opens his eyes slightly. All he sees is fire, vague shapes, but he hears him.

That's fine.

His eyes close again. But it's fine.

It's tickety-boo.

[sauntered_downward]

"Aziraphale? Aziraphale!"

No. No. Panic slides through Crowley's body like a thousand razor blades. He didn't move fast enough. He didn't get him away from Hastur fast enough. It doesn't matter, because right now, all he has to do is concentrate. Concentrate, get them away from here.

He shouldn't teleport them to the safe place, he thinks. He should teleport them some distance away, take a cab or something and get there eventually, because that would be the safest. But bugger that, because he doesn't even know if Aziraphale can stand. He closes his eyes and teleports them to the street in front of the AirBnb, a lovely loft inside of a Buddhist temple. He has the key already, having miracled away the need to find it hidden in a locksafe at a local cafe. They can know the street they're on, but if Crowley has judged correctly, they'll look right over this temple.

The street is dark and impossibly quiet after the loud burning sounds of the bar. It's also cold, sharp and wet against Crowley's skin.

"Aziraphale," he says. "Can you stand? I can carry you."

[salutosinedelectat]

Where is he? He sees...white. A whole lot of white. And for a moment, he's intensely terrified that everything went awry. That he missed the shot, and discorporated himself along with the Duke, and shot himself right back into the lion's den.

But...nothing happens. No one shows up. No angels, archangels, quartermasters, heads of accounting, H&R. No, it's nothing, stretching out forever.

Oh.

This is...well, it's something.






Aziraphale lies on the ground, not moving or responding, his clothes, covered in soot and ash. His bow tie partially singed from where Hastur's hand touched it.

Thin dark lines peek out from under his collar, on his skin, like a lightning mark.

[sauntered_downward]

Crowley gingerly touches Aziraphale's neck, right where the dark lines peek out. Oh, that's not good. Can't be good, definitely can't be good. He has to get Aziraphale help now----except there's no help to go to. No one who could bless him, no church that would take either of them. They have each other, and that is it. And Crowley is positively useless here. All he can do is watch the person who means everything to him lie there, possibly dying.

But if he dies, Hell will pay for it. Hastur won't get away with it.

He unlocks the door to the loft and leans down, carefully moving to lift Aziraphale up, wrapping one of his arms over his shoulder. It's for the best that there isn't anyone around, otherwise it might look a little odd, how easily Crowley can pick the angel up and lift him.

"It's all right, angel," he says. "Getting you inside. I'll get you inside, we'll get...I'll get...I'll take a look at what's happened."

Crowley has healed things before. Injured animals, mostly. Things he's accidentally hit with his car. He never means to hurt them, and it feels wrong just leaving them there to suffer. Little injuries, he's fixed them up. But something like this? That takes a divine miracle.

[salutosinedelectat]

He walks, but his feet don't actually touch anything. He can't tell if he's pushing off anything or floating. The only sound is himself, there's no walls, no windows, no sky. No time. Nothing at all.

Just Aziraphale, and endless white. Endless nothing, for eternity.

It's fairly disturbing, really.

"Hello?"

Nothing.

"Oh..."





He angel is still unconscious. None of the jostling and moving around gets a response from him.

At least it seems like his coat will be fine after a wash. He'll be happy to know about that. His bowtie, however, might need to be replaced.

And, of course, the thin lines on his skin that barely poke out of his collar. Part of something else, of course, a black mark that concentrates on the center of his chest. Like a burnt mark, splintering through.

Could have been worse.

[sauntered_downward]

From where Crowley is sitting, nothing could be worse. He lays Aziraphale down on the couch, still unconscious. The flat they've rented is small, but it has modern touches to it. A little television, a little book collection---things he thought they both could enjoy while hiding out here. A place for a wine collection...nothing Crowley would want if he were going to be alone.

And he can't be alone. There is no way he's going to be here alone.

Aziraphale's coat be damned. He pulls the coat off and swiftly unbuttons his shirt, revealing the burn mark on the angel's chest. He has no way of telling how bad the injury is, but it looks awful. It looks like something demonic has blazed its way through the angel's body. Aziraphale doesn't need to breathe, he doesn't need a heartbeat, but right now Crowley wishes that he'd have both, just so that he'd be able to tell if Aziraphale were still with him. Discorporation would send him to Heaven, and who knows what will happen to him there. An injury like this could mean far worse.

"Angel, stay with me, please," he murmurs.

He puts a hand over the wound and focuses. There has to be something he can do. Some part of him that remembers being an angel, some part of him that remembers how to heal properly, that can help to fix this.

He focuses, pouring himself into healing the injury. And, for the first time in a very long time, he prays. That this works. That Aziraphale can come back from this.

[salutosinedelectat]

He's not sure what direction to head off in. His voice slightly echoes after he called out, all around, even with nothing to bounce from. It doesn't feel cold, or hot. He feels both too exposed, and cramped in all that nothingness. There's no color, no life, no sound.

He doesn't like it here.

But the angel suddenly turns. He could swear he heard something, something familiar. He couldn't hear the words, but he's sure it was for him. No idea where it came from, no idea where to look.

Then it starts to dim. And he feels himself slowly...drift down. He thinks that's down, anyway, can't quite tell, but he's gaining speed.

He's falling.

He doesn't scream, really. He's just very, very confused.










Aziraphale suddenly sits up with a deep gasp, and all of reality takes a few lazy seconds to come into focus. There's no...white? No-- there's no fire. Hellfire. There's no fire, and no darkened room. No Hastur--

Oh, but there's certainly burning and he grimaces, a hand instinctively curling towards his chest. He looks down at the awful dark splotch on the center of his chest, that splinters out into thin lines down towards his stomach and up to his colar and neck.

What in the world?

[sauntered_downward]

"Aziraphale," Crowley says, as the angel suddenly sits up. His eyes are open and he's----he's here. He's alive. Crowley reaches his other hand up to take Aziraphale's, where it meets at the center of his chest.

Did it work? Did the healing help? The black mark across his chest looks the same to Crowley, but Aziraphale is awake, now. How much does he remember? How far did the wound go?

"Angel, what happened?" he asks. "What did he do to you?"

[salutosinedelectat]

Did it work? Hard to tell. Certainly, Aziraphale doesn't yet realize the demon tried to cure him, as he's much too busy trying to get his mind to meet him there. The new setting, the quiet, the mark, where is his coat, why is his shirt open, and--

"Crowley..." The name comes out with all matter of relief, even if with a bit of confusion and a vaguely dizzy smile. He's here. He's-- he's okay. He's alive, and they seem to be okay.

"He--" It takes him a moment, and he looks down at the mark again. He doesn't quite understand what it is, but it's certainly etched into his physical vessel, and he didn't put it there. And it still burns, somewhere under the skin. Not incapacitating, but very much not a comfortable feeling.

[sauntered_downward]

"You discorporated him," Crowley supplies. "Made the ceiling fall on him. Good thing, too, if this is what he was doing to you. Did he say anything? Did he---"

Crowley has to catch Aziraphale up. No, no, he's still too weak and there's too much. Maybe just a sum-up.

"You discorporated him, I brought you here. This the temple, the one I told you about." It doesn't look much like a temple, really. More like a very posh flat.

[salutosinedelectat]

The angel stares up at Crowley, gears turning in his head grinding away as he gradually gets back to some semblance of reality. He looks around at the room when Crowley mentions it, and takes a couple of more seconds, before looking up at him again.

"Discorporated him." It...worked? It worked. It-- he got rid of the Duke. He-- oh. Oh god, he discorporated a Duke of Hell. Granted that doesn't destroy him, but, what, what did he just do, what--

"--are we safe?" Is it done? Is it--

And, then, the rest of the night comes to him in flashes - Hastur, the fire, the bar, the restaurant, the suspicious person, the temple, the holy water, the van, the creature, the airport, the plane--

And he's suddenly very, very exhausted. Not in a physical manner, mind you; that one just stings like the dickens.

[sauntered_downward]

Are they safe?

Crowley looks helplessly at Aziraphale. He's still covered in the ash from the burning bar, still without his sunglasses----vulnerable, and more than a little beaten. He couldn't protect him. All his cleverness, and he couldn't protect Aziraphale from Hastur. If this is what one day on the run is going to be like for them, they might as well cash themselves in before they even begin.

"They didn't follow me here," he says. "I know that, I checked that. This has to be off their radar."

It has to be. Because Aziraphale is still hurt. He still has to heal. They can't keep running like this.

[salutosinedelectat]

He sees it, in Crowley's eyes. He'd spent the whole evening wishing he could see them, that he could feel less exposed if just by the fair trade of it, and now he sees them, and he sees him.

Sees him covered in ashes. Sees him helpless, worried. Sees him like he saw him that day, before everything was over.

And the best parts of the night finally come to him in pieces. The drinks while in the plane. The conversations that lasted too long and went quiet too early. The lingering touches of hands, and the things left unsaid. The meal, the favor, the drinks. Another touch. A dance. A look. And the kiss.

He sees him, and he sees him here with him, exhausted and beaten.

And he wants to reach out and bring him into his arms. Take him away from all of this. If just for a minute. Just one. They deserve that. Don't they?

--no. No more questions. They do.


When the angel finally moves again, breaks the gaze, it's to close his eyes and take in a long, deep sigh. Which then makes him grimace, as the stinging flares up for a moment.

He grips Crowley's hand, still against his chest, still sat there, a mess. But, just a moment. He just needs a moment, they need a moment, they're here and they're having that damned moment.

Please, just one.

"Thank Heavens." Pardon his french.

[sauntered_downward]

Aziraphale's hand is warm against his. He thinks about before, about finally kissing Aziraphale in the bar. How he'd sat across from him all these years wanting that, wanting to tell him anything about how he felt, and then they had it. Just for a moment. It was a good moment, he's not letting anything take it away from him.

He can't lose Aziraphale, not like this. That was too close, and their hand is above this horrific looking injury, and there was a moment there where Crowley wasn't even sure if Aziraphale would get the benefit of discorporation.

"Hastur might think he killed you," he offers. "He might think whatever he did to you, he killed you. You could have a chance to be free of this."

He'd have to leave Crowley. That part goes unsaid. Hastur certainly hasn't lost his bloodlust for the demon. But Aziraphale could stand a chance on his own.

[salutosinedelectat]

Aziraphale looks up at him again, pale blue eyes meeting the yellow, and he sees it. He knows it. More words left unsaid, could be interpreted as a whole new language between them, which they make a magnificent display of pretending they don't understand.

He stares, and he lingers, still holding his hand.





"Then we'll use it to our advantage."

He's not leaving him. Not again.

[sauntered_downward]

Our advantage.

Aziraphale is fighting this. He's insisting that he stay with Crowley, and he can see in the angel's eyes that he's not about to back down. He's not going to give Crowley up without a fight. And Crowley has seen Aziraphale fight, now. The angel plays dirty (a rather charming trait, if Crowley is totally honest.)

His eyes break from the angel's, and he looks down at his lips. He'd kissed him once, just for a moment, and it wasn't nearly enough. He almost lost him. He could lean in now, kiss him again, maybe tell him how he feels----

Instead, he finds himself saying: "I'm not worth you risking your life, angel. You could start over without me."

[salutosinedelectat]

And the words hit him like an echo.

The angel stares up at him, feeling like he should say something...encouraging? Something reassuring. Like he should pull Crowley in and hold him and tell him he’s not going anywhere, not this time, but those words again, those words: You could start over without me.

It’s what it takes to tip him over. He’s exhausted. He’s afraid. In a single evening, they’ve faced discorporation and actual, total, unequivocal destruction several different times in the span of hours. They’ve travelled across the world, not before already running and hiding for months, giving up their most loved possessions, all for the sake of their survival. Their survival. Together.

After everything, after— after all the times Aziraphale walked away. After all the times Crowley reached for him, with patience and understanding, with safety, only to have the angel leave him for fear of consequences and come back, after they nearly lost everything, and the angel finally, finally felt ready to reach back, after he finally settled into their side.

After he finally meets him there, where he’s always accused of heady to too fast.

“—No.” he finally says, sounding incredulous. “Y—No!”

He lets go and stands, ignoring the sting and the surprising lightheadedness. “You— after all of this, you really think, really believe I would, that I would just—“

He’s tired. He’s scared. He’s in literal pain, and he’s hurt, and if he hasn’t proven he’s finally ready, if its not clear he’s in this, then how, HOW could he ever make it clear?

Could he ever make it right?

Is it too late?


“We have been running from this— we have been surviving this all this time, we have nearly PERISHED more than once tonight, we—“ And he gestures pointedly, upset, angry and hurt, determined in his words, eyes perhaps a bit too wet. “And you honestly, truly believe I’d simply—

That I would just— abandon you?”

And he stares at the demon, a culmination of too much fear and stress and guilt, of too many things at once. He’s not human, no, but he’s not invincible.

He’s flawed. Very much so. But he's trying.

“—We’re not having this conversation.” An echo from another time.

[sauntered_downward]

Not having this conversation. Crowley remembers the last time Aziraphale said that. Begging to run away, to be just the two of them away from the end of everything. It seemed so simple then. They didn't need things. They didn't need the world. They just needed each other, and he needed to convince Aziraphale of that. He needed to show him, then. And here, now, Aziraphale is here with him. It's them, against everything, and they have each other.

And it's what he wanted, isn't it?

His eyes drop down to the injury on the angel's chest. That should have been his injury, not Aziraphale's. Aziraphale should have been protected, Crowley should have done what he'd done so many times before and figured out a solution. Instead, he flailed and the angel was almost killed. Surely, Aziraphale must realize that means that Crowley was wrong. They can't be together, not when Heaven and Hell want them dead. They'd be better alone. Aziraphale would be better alone. He'd be safe alone, at least.

He swallows and looks back up at the angel. "I don't want to be without you," he says. And it's true, he doesn't. He doesn't want to see the world without Aziraphale. Doesn't want the millennia to pass without him there, being his stupid, impossibly perfect self, eating at restaurants and being excited about sushi and just----

But Crowley is dangerous, he must know that. Hastur will come back, he always comes back. This time he knows what the angel can do. He'll fight harder, he'll do more damage. He'll throw something nastier than what attacked them earlier today. Aziraphale is not safe with Crowley.

He curls his hand tighter around Aziraphale's.

"I don't want to be without you," he repeats, firmer this time. If that means the angel has to abandon him, then that is what has to happen.

[salutosinedelectat]

Maybe they shouldn't be together. Maybe it's too dangerous. But that's never stopped them before, has it?

He struggles to keep his face looking angry, determine. He struggles, because he's looking in Crowley's eyes and seeing how scared he is. How hurt he is. He can see him, this time.

He's walked away so many times.

"You are not going to be." Said quieter, softer.

He's made his decision. He made it back on that day.

[sauntered_downward]

Crowley can't help but let out a short, humorless laugh. Because it's so easy for Aziraphale, isn't it? It's so easy for him to just be righteous and want to commit to this, to what they have between them now, now that his life is on the line. Would he feel the same if Aziraphale were the one they were after and Crowley was the one who had been hurt? Would he fight for them together then?

But how can Crowley possibly leave? Every instinct in him is saying that he should go, that he should disappear this moment and reappear far away from the angel so that he can't possibly hold onto his scent at all. But that would mean leaving. And Aziraphale is holding his hand, and they are here, together and----and how could he leave?

He reaches up with his free hand to touch the angel's face. Another intimate touch, another reach into the space that they've started to make for each other.

"If you die----" he warns. He won't forgive himself, surely. Probably won't forgive Aziraphale himself for having convinced him to stay. He certainly won't be far after him, since he'll have whoever did the killing to destroy.

[salutosinedelectat]

The questions of 'What If's, Aziraphale's an expert on those. But only in asking, rarely in answering, unless it keeps him from action. But it's true, he probably would have made exactly the same suggestion, if not entirely come up with a way of leaving without giving the demon a chance to stop him.

And it would have hurt. And he would have been so, so alone.

Part of him fears that's exactly what Crowley will do. That's what terrifies him, that they might think the same, do the same, forcing themselves into drastic acts of heroism to save the other. Because, he knows.

He knows.

His face, now softened, just looks somewhere between guilty and concerned. He brings his free hand to rest it on top of both of theirs, holding close, like making a promise.

He shakes his head, but keeps his gaze.

"I won't--" And he falters only for a second, afraid, not of making a promise, but of failing it.

"I won't leave you."

[sauntered_downward]

"Good, because----don't you dare."

Aziraphale can't promise he won't die. Just like Crowley can't promise he can save him. And when the angels start showing up, Aziraphale will be weak against them, the way that Crowley was against Hastur. They're stronger together, Crowley knows this, but he also knows that Aziraphale has a greater chance of escape right now. Right now, with the black mark across his chest and a discorporated Duke who probably thinks he won.

And here is Aziraphale, promising not to leave. Surely, Crowley can promise that, too. Promise that the moment they are in different rooms, he won't make himself disappear elsewhere. Promise that he'll stay, because they deserve to be together. Every scenario in his mind where he was fleeing, Aziraphale was always there. He doesn't want to do this alone, but more than that he doesn't want to be without Aziraphale.

There is just so much he wants to say right now.

He leans up, pressing his lips against Aziraphale's.

[salutosinedelectat]

There are many things they should say. It's always the same, words worth saying that will never see the light of day. Looks and feelings and thoughts that they don't acknowledge, or they do, little promises and requests and they can only just trust the other to respond to in some way. And they don't, always. It's not always a yes. But Crowley definitely has Aziraphale beaten in that score, and the angel is well aware of his failings.

Too many words, and eternity is not enough. So he just closes his eyes and returns the kiss, in the quiet, in this room, just for them.

Please, please don't leave me alone. I don't have anything else. Don't want anything else. I love you.

[sauntered_downward]

There are moments that stay with Crowley forever. Oh, there are a lot of moments that he forgets about, temptations that aren't interesting, boring moments that he forgets over the years. And then there are moments---a surprising number with Aziraphale---that remain perfect and crystal clear in his memory forever.

This, he imagines, will be one of those moments. He is acutely aware of the silence in the room, the warm place where Aziraphale's hands are over his, and the way the angel kisses him back. They needed a moment, and it looks like the universe is granting them this.

He deepens the kiss and as he does he focuses inward, opening his soul up for Aziraphale. Offering it to him, to see and to feel. It's an intimate gesture, and perhaps too fast for the angel, but Crowley can't think of a better way to give him the words he can't say.

[salutosinedelectat]

The angel, for what it's worth, forgets to breathe. The level of trust in feeling what Crowley's doing, the way he lets the angel read him and see him in a way only they could, it's almost enough to knock him off his feet then.

But he reaches. He reaches and sees him and lets himself be seen too. Like no one else has, like no one else could.

He lets go of Crowley's hand, just so he can reach up and cup his face, carefully, faintly, as if asking permission to hold it.

Finally, a moment. Some quiet. Finally, this.