Chapter Text
London, 1380
“And it’s been decent for business, when you get right down to it.”
Aziraphale abruptly realized he’d missed something, too absorbed in the little volume of poetry he’d purchased earlier. He set it down on the wooden table and gave Crowley an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, what was that?”
“This.” Crowley waved around at the tavern, as if that explained anything. He indicated the wine, the nearby dice games, the argument heating up on the other side of the room. “All the stuff going on this century has been decent for my line of business. My Side’s thrilled with all the fighting and dying and general misery.”
“Lovely,” Aziraphale said dryly.
“Come on. You can’t pretend your Side’s not interested.” With a lopsided, mischievous smile, Crowley placed his elbow on the table and propped up his chin with one hand. “You’ve got… how many popes is it up to now? Three? Or is it still just two, and speculation about a third?”
“I lost track a bit.” Unable to suppress his own smile, Aziraphale picked up the jug of wine and topped off their drinks. “But yes, I suppose my Side is happy enough with the way things are going. Although there’s been a bit of discontent lately, complaints that humans are doing all their work for them what with the increased belief in messages from Above.”
“Humans doing all my work for me is my favorite thing.” Crowley winked, a quick flutter of an eyelid behind his dark glasses. “And they’re damn good at it, too, keep thinking up the most horrible things they can do to each other. Gives me plenty of free time.”
Despite the brightness of his tone, Aziraphale knew him well enough to see through it. Crowley was just as troubled by all the events this century as Aziraphale was, even if neither of them could truly admit to it unless extremely drunk. After one very long night of drinking, Crowley had spent a full hour complaining about how awful things were.
Still, there were good days, and today had certainly been a good day. Aziraphale completed a few assignments in the morning, met up with Crowley for lunch, and was heading into the evening with high expectations.
“I don’t suppose you’d be interested in going to see a play shortly?” Aziraphale asked, hopeful. “There’s a troupe in town right now, and I hear they’re setting up to do some sort of delightful mystery play. Something involving demons, even. It’s supposed to be very good. I still owe you from the last one you took me to.”
“Nnnh, wish I could, but I’ve got an assignment.” Crowley let out a heavy sigh, then gulped down his wine. He leaned back, stretching, expression apologetic. “Gotta head up north, encourage a cult. Or alternately, shut down a cult if it turns out they’re leaning more towards the Heavenly side of things. Damn cold today though, not thrilled about the trip.”
“Oh.” Spirits sinking, Aziraphale took a drink of his own wine. It wasn’t as though he had a shortage of other activities to occupy his time, but he did so enjoy being with Crowley. “Well. I trust you’ll be back soon? There is an awful lot of chaos to cause in London, you know. Traffic problems with the carts, little sects to encourage, bread to adulterate with subpar ingredients…”
Crowley laughed, a clear sound that made Aziraphale smile even though he was still a bit dejected. “Gosh, yeah. I’ll use that as an excuse on my report or something. Great idea.”
“Oh, it’s hardly my idea.” Aziraphale folded his hands and beamed, innocent. “I’m simply stating facts. Listing things I oppose, understand. All those dreadful things you get up to, you wily old serpent.”
“Uh-huh.” Crowley still looked immensely amused. “Well, when I get back, you can thwart me by taking me to a play.”
That would give them both something to look forward to, at least. “Awfully generous of you, providing me with a plan to defeat your evil plans.”
Crowley flashed a bright grin. “Hey, what are friends for?”
A jolt went through Aziraphale, and he waved his hands in disagreement. Hopefully no one had overheard that comment. “No, no. Crowley, we are not friends. Any invitations to plays or-or-or having drinks or such are merely, um…”
“Part of thwarting me, I know.” Crowley was still smiling despite Aziraphale’s comment. He stood and tossed coins down to pay for both their drinks, then winked at Aziraphale again. “See you around, angel. Stay out of trouble.”
“You too!” Aziraphale called as the demon sauntered away.
And then he sighed, staring at the abandoned cup. Well, drat. He’d been rather relying on Crowley’s company for the evening. A play, dinner, late night drinks while they bickered about the latest developments in the papal schism or the constantly evolving human worldviews about morality…
Ah well. Aziraphale spent plenty of time alone. He and Crowley met up whenever they could, but being assigned to Earth was rather a solitary occupation most days. Weeks. Months, really, especially during busy years.
Trying to keep his spirits up, Aziraphale occupied himself with work. He performed a couple blessings, coaxed a wealthy man to be more charitable, and performed a minor miracle to heal a sick child. The child hadn’t been too ill, likely would have recovered on her own, but speeding it up could only be a good thing.
It was still rather early in the day, though, quite a while before dark. Perhaps a trip to the market was in order. He could pick up some snacks. A wonderful cheese would be nice, and some fruit, and maybe a little cake or two…
He was browsing a selection of little cakes when he felt the tingle of a miracle nearby. He looked to his left, smiling already. Oh, Crowley must have come back early.
“I’m over here, Aziraphale,” said a cool, collected voice that was decidedly not Crowley’s.
Aziraphale twisted to the right. Beside him stood Michael in finely made Earth-style clothing, a sharp smile on her face and an equally sharp, glittering lance in her hand. “Oh! Most Holy Archangel Michael. I-I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
“It was past time for Heaven to take a bit more hands on action.” Somehow, her smile sharpened even more as she looked around the market. “As you’re Gabriel’s agent in this part of the world, it only seems right to inform you that I’ve done part of your job for you.”
“Oh. Um…” Aziraphale clutched his hands together, trying to look appropriately grateful and submissive. Michael could be rather intimidating, and had strict ideas of how subordinate angels ought to address their superiors. He was a bit rusty on protocol, after all this time on Earth. “That’s very kind, thank you. May I ask…?”
Michael had clearly been waiting for her chance. She drew herself up, raising her chin, and held up her lance. “Today, in the service of the Almighty, I smote a demon. That wicked creature will no longer prey on the innocents.”
The words pierced through Aziraphale, as if Michael had just impaled him with that lance. His head spun, everything going distant and grey. “A-a demon?”
“Yes, Aziraphale. A demon. Smiting demons is my duty, you’ll recall,” she said with a heavy dose of condescension. “Particularly when certain angels seem a bit less bloodthirsty than they ought to be.”
Aziraphale clutched his hands tighter to hide their trembling. Had Crowley simply miracled himself straight to his assignment, or had he taken a horse? If he’d taken a horse, or even walked… “Ah, y-yes. I see. Well, um… good job!”
Michael gave him a withering look that made him tremble even more. “If only we could all do our jobs so well,” she said sweetly.
And then she was gone, a cold gust of air rushing across Aziraphale as the miracle disrupted the environment.
Legs wobbling, Aziraphale caught the edge of the market stall to keep himself upright. He hung his head and took deep, gulping breaths, trying to steady himself as frantic thoughts bounced around all over his mind.
What was he going to do? Was it Crowley? Was Crowley dying? Or discorporated? Or lying wounded in the woods? Or dead, gone, destroyed?
“No, no,” Aziraphale whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. “He cannot be dead. I will not believe that.”
But if Crowley wasn’t dead, what could Aziraphale do? He was an angel, and Crowley was a demon. They were enemies, not friends.
He twisted around and set off through London at a jog. Dodging carts, slipping between throngs of people, leaping over damaged sections of the road. A snap of the fingers brought his traveling kit, which contained such things as a spare cloak, extra pins, a cup.
At the stable, he grabbed the first horse he saw and clambered onto it. Then, although careful not to run over any people, he charged out of London and up the road heading north.
His heart pounded as he cantered along, attention combing the woods and fields. He and Crowley could normally sense each other’s presence, but only within a certain proximity. And, if Crowley was gone…
“I will not think like that,” he said again, urging his horse faster. “I cannot. Crowley will be okay. I’m going to find him, and take care of him, and everything will be okay.”
But what might he find? Michael had seemed awfully impressed with that lance. Or had she simply attacked Crowley—if it was Crowley—with holiness directly?
Aziraphale urged his horse up to a gallop, cold wind whipping across his face fast enough to hurt. Clouds gathered, and his tummy ached as a mental image presented itself. Crowley crumpled in the forest, covered in blood, rain pouring down on him…
A faint prickle of something washed across his awareness, like a barely noticeable whiff of smoke. Aziraphale hauled back on the reins, and his horse skidded and stumbled to a halt. It stomped and snorted, and Aziraphale patted its neck in apology.
Then he closed his eyes, letting his awareness expand out. That was Crowley, certainly. But what condition might he be in, and where was he?
Further north. Aziraphale urged his horse back into motion, hurtling down the road, taking rapid turns without slowing down. He bent all his attention towards that faint flicker of Crowley, heart pounding with fear. If that flicker went out…
At least the speed of the air rushing past instantly swept away any tears that fell. Aziraphale wrenched his horse off the main road and onto a narrow path that led into the forest, still following what little he could sense of Crowley. That, and the scorch marks on the ground.
But the presence seemed to be getting weaker as he rode, not stronger. Had he taken a wrong turn? Was he heading in the wrong direction?
And then he heard the scream. Cracked, wavering, but definitely a scream.
“Crowley!” Aziraphale shouted, urging his horse faster. Branches slapped into his hands and face as the path narrowed, and stinging lines of pain opened up. “Crowley, I’m coming!”
But now the faint trace of Crowley was to his left, off the path. Aziraphale grabbed his bag, vaulted off the horse, and scrambled into the woods.
He was no longer getting caught on branches. They had already been broken off, bushes and trees charred in some areas, scraps of black cloth strewn along the path. And then, up ahead, a clearing that looked as if it had been the center of an explosion.
Heart pounding, Aziraphale paused on the edge of the clearing. More charred trees here, some reduced to mere stumps. Grass scorched away.
And in the center of the clearing, a serpent.
Aziraphale’s breath caught. Red underbelly scales were torn away in a long strip, exposing raw flesh. Dark spots that might have been punctures dotted the weakly twitching coils. Blood stained the scorched earth.
“Oh Lord,” Aziraphale gasped, rushing forward. He paused by the heaving coils, hardly able to breathe. “Crowley…”
The coils shifted, twitched. And no, Crowley wasn’t in serpent form, at least not fully. His upper half, human in appearance, protruded from the long scaled body. Slender hands scrabbled at the dirt. Red hair veiled his eyes, tangled and wet with sweat, bits of leaves stuck in the curls. He hissed and whimpered, writhing.
“Crowley!” Recovering somewhat from the shock, Aziraphale scrambled around to his front. He dropped to his knees in the dirt, slowly reaching out. “Crowley, it’s Aziraphale. I’m here now, my dear, just hold still. I’m going to help you, I promise.”
Trembling, he brushed the red hair out of Crowley’s eyes and tried to cup his cheek. But Crowley hissed and snarled, jerking back. “Sssstay away from me!”
Aziraphale froze, then tried to calm himself. His agitation certainly wouldn’t help Crowley in the slightest. “Hush now, it’s only me. I’m—”
“Don’t fucking touch me!” Fully golden eyes stared up at Aziraphale, and scales flickered in and out of existence across Crowley’s ashen skin. “Ssstay away, whoever you are. Sssstop…”
“Crowley?” Head spinning, Aziraphale clutched his hands together. What was going on? Was Crowley delirious? “Crowley, it’s Aziraphale. I’m here to help you.”
Thin chest heaving, Crowley fell back against the dirt. His long serpentine tail lashed weakly, blood gushing from the deep puncture wounds. “Hurtssss…”
“I know, dearest. I’m going to help.” Aziraphale tried to touch Crowley’s shoulder, to soothe him, but Crowley jerked away again with a frantic cry. “Oh dear. Just lie still, shh. Let me examine you.”
The puncture wounds were indeed deep, grievous wounds that tore through Crowley’s flesh. Holiness emanated from them, fiery lines of the contamination radiating from each. Three that Aziraphale could see in the serpentine part of Crowley’s body, two in the human part. His shoulder, and his belly.
“All right, Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly, sliding a little closer. Crowley tried to wriggle away, hissing furiously. Then he slumped back again, breaths ragged and shallow, eyes going distant. “Oh, oh. It’s okay, dear fellow. I know you’ve been awfully hurt, but I’m going to help you. I promise.”
Crowley’s eyes struggled to focus on him, and he shuddered away from Aziraphale’s extended hand. “Why the fuck would you help me?”
“What?” Baffled, Aziraphale frowned. Oh, he didn’t have time for this! He needed to tend to the wounds before the spreading holiness destroyed Crowley, or before the blood loss discorporated him, or… “Why wouldn’t I help you? We’re frien— We have the Arrangement. Lend a hand, remember?”
Crowley tried to curl up, hugging his skinny arms across his stomach. He looked up at Aziraphale, eyes wide and scared. “I don’t remember anything.”
---
The past was a pit, a big black gaping nothing. The serpent tried to think, to remember what he’d been doing before this, where he’d been, who had hurt him. And, most important, whether the man with the wide hazel eyes and fluffy blond hair wanted to hurt him more.
“You… don’t remember what happened?” the stranger said, tone suddenly cautious. “Do you remember having lunch earlier?”
No. There was nothing. There was only pain, so much pain.
“Oh dear.” Holding up his hands in a gesture that seemed intended to placate, the man sank back to sit in the mud beside him. The serpent hissed anyway for good measure, heart pounding wildly. What did this man want? “Crowley, I know you must be in immense pain right now, but can you try to tell me what you do remember?”
Crowley. Was that a name? His name? The stranger kept saying it, seeming to call him by it. But what if that was an act? What if all of this, from supposed concern to supposed name, was an act?
The man’s chest heaved, and he twisted his hands together. His eyes darted down, towards the serpent’s belly, towards one of the wounds. Was he the one who had put it there? “Crowley, please. You’re bleeding terribly. I-I suppose what you can remember right now is less important than tending to—”
“What d’ya want with me?” the serpent asked, coiling up, trying to shield himself as much as he could. It wasn’t much. He could barely move even his arms, and his coils only twitched at the attempt. “Did you hurt me?”
“What? No!” The man reached out again, and the serpent hissed. But the man just touched the side of his head, gentle. “I promise I did not harm you. I just want to help.”
The serpent—Crowley, if that really was his name—needed help. The pain was getting worse now, fire burning through him. And his vision was going increasingly dim, world charred away at the corners.
He drew a shattered breath, trying to focus on the stranger, to focus on anything except how much he hurt and how much weaker he felt every second. The stranger’s lip trembled, and a tear ran down his cheek.
Liquid landed on the serpent—Crowley—but it wasn’t a tear. It fell from the sky, and he flinched and whimpered, trying again to coil up. What was that? Did attacks come from the sky? Was that how he’d gotten hurt in the first place?
“Oh, oh dear.” The man gave a little shiver, and suddenly there were white feathers behind him, stretching out. Wings?
He swept one up, holding it up to block the rain. Crowley looked up at the unexpected shelter, breaths rattling. His vision went even darker, nearly vanishing. Still didn’t know if he should really trust this man, but…
“Help me.” The words slipped out, breathless barely audible whispers. “Please help me. It hurts.”
Immediate relief rushed across the stranger, and he nodded. “Of course I’ll help you. I know it hurts, and I’m afraid I may have to make it worse in order to help. But I promise, I will do everything that I can to care for you.”
That was really, really suspicious, but Crowley couldn’t bring himself to protest. He was getting weaker every second, couldn’t keep his arms wrapped around himself anymore. They slid, thudded against the ground. He gasped for air, but he no longer had the strength to inhale.
“Oh, Crowley.” The stranger’s voice shook, lip wobbling even more now. “Okay. Let’s see. I can’t heal your wounds outright, the shock would kill you. I’m going to try… oh, but the holiness. Your system is flooded with holiness, and I fear that too many miracles will only worsen your condition.”
Crowley had no idea what holiness was. Poison? Why the fuck did he know what poison was, but not holiness? “M’ I dying?”
Hesitation flickered across the soft face. And then the man shook his head, inhaling deeply. “No,” he said as if he’d just come to a decision. “No, you are not dying. I will not let you die.”
That was good. Crowley was reasonably certain that he didn’t want to die, although he did desperately want the pain to stop. “Hurts.”
“I know.” Wing still extended above Crowley, the man rifled through a bag and pulled out a bunch of beige fabric. “Here, I’m going to cover you with my spare cloak to try to keep you warm. You’ve lost a great deal of blood, and your body is weakening. And then… I may have to risk a miracle. Just one for now, just enough to stabilize you temporarily while I figure out what to do about the holiness.”
This was way too much chatter, not enough making the pain stop. But as soon as the man stopped talking, Crowley missed the sound of his voice. Without it, there was nothing to hold onto, nothing to pull him back from the abyss. He teetered on the edge, could fall in any second.
“What’s… your name?” he asked weakly, head pounding. Couldn’t move anymore. Everything was a total blur now, even the face above him.
Despite the blur, Crowley saw the face wrench with distress. The man quickly wiped at his eyes, shook out the fabric, and laid it across Crowley. “My name is Aziraphale.”
“Zir…fel?” Crowley’s tongue felt heavy in his mouth, and it was a struggle to move it at all. “S’ weird name. Lotsa… hhhn.”
“I suppose it might be a bit difficult to say at the moment.” The man—Aziraphale touched his head again, gently stroking hair out of his face. “You… also call me angel sometimes. If that’s easier.”
Crowley wasn’t sure anything was easy anymore. He also still wasn’t sure that Aziraphale was telling the truth. Maybe this was all a trick, a trick to lure him into letting down his guard.
But his guard was already down. He couldn’t fight back, couldn’t move. He could only lie here, helpless, barely breathing as Aziraphale moved around him. The rain had stopped, apparently, and Aziraphale’s wings vanished.
Aziraphale pulled off the cloak he was still wearing and folded it. And then he slid a hand under Crowley head, lifted up enough to slide the cloak under, and then laid his head back. “Okay, that ought to be a bit comfier and cushion your head in case the miracle is painful. I’m sorry.”
Without further hesitation, he laid his hand on Crowley’s belly near the wound. Crowley hissed at him, heart racing faster and faster. Was it a trap? It had to be a trap.
“It’s going to be okay.” Intense heat radiated from the hand on his belly, and fire swept out. From head to tail tip, an inferno of agony.
Crawley screamed, writhing weakly. His head smacked back against the padded softness, but the rest of him had no cushioning. His coils shuddered, smacking again hard ground, and twigs scraped at his bare back. The pain mounted, like a war was being fought inside him.
And then, thankfully, everything went black.
---
“Oh, oh, Crowley…” Aziraphale sent one more careful nudge of power into Crowley’s system, just enough to rejuvenate his blood levels somewhat. And then he stopped, struggling not to cry.
Crowley had gone limp, twisted on his side. Bedraggled red locks hung across his eyes again, and Aziraphale stroked them back. The poor old dear was utterly ashen, a horrible grey color, and sweat glistened on his cold skin. He didn’t react at all to Aziraphale’s touch now, not even to shrink away.
Carefully, Aziraphale spread the cloak to cover him again; it had slid off as he writhed. His skin was cold to the touch despite the burning trails of holiness that seared through him, trying to devour him.
Moving quickly, Aziraphale pulled a spare tunic from his bag and tore it into strips. There wasn’t really enough fabric here to bandage Crowley’s wounds well, but using too many miracles near him when he was so weakened could be fatal.
Aziraphale glanced across all the bleeding wounds, then folded a strip of cloth and held it to the deep puncture in Crowley’s belly. That was bleeding the worst, was the most likely to discorporate him on that basis.
The burning poison of holiness was a different matter, though, and not one that could be easily dealt with. Especially not when he was losing so much blood. Important to stabilize him as much as possible, then attempt to draw the holiness out slowly.
“You’re going to be okay, dear fellow,” Aziraphale murmured, worrying apart more cloth with his other hand. He’d seen many scraps of black fabric along the path, likely shed when Crowley changed form in a hurry. Perhaps he could use those for bandages. “Just let me tend to you.”
There was another immediate problem, though, one that Aziraphale had even less idea of how to manage. Crowley’s memory loss. How was it possible that after so many years of knowing each other—of being friends, in some sense, no matter how often he denied it—that Crowley didn’t know him?
But it wasn’t simply that Crowley had forgotten Aziraphale. He seemed to have forgotten everything, perhaps even his own name.
What could be causing it? The trauma and pain? But no, Aziraphale had seen Crowley seriously injured before, and he’d never shown a hint of memory loss.
Which left the smiting. Holiness burning away everything, even who Crowley was…
Aziraphale shuddered. He held another cloth to the wound on Crowley’s shoulder, which at least wasn’t bleeding as badly as the one on his belly. But red trails emanated from each puncture, signs of the holiness spreading out. “You’re going to be okay, Crowley. I promise you’ll be okay.”
Once the bleeding slowed somewhat, Aziraphale bound the wounds on the more human part of Crowley’s body. Then, after an apologetic stroke across the red hair, he rose and scrambled off to search for the shredded clothes.
They weren’t difficult to find, at least. Traces of infernal energy cling to all of Crowley’s belongings, strewn along the path of devastation through the forest. He had been fleeing for his life, pursued by a force that he could never hope to match or even truly escape. And Michael had caught him.
Aziraphale found Crowley’s pack at last, and heaved a relieved sigh as he examined the contents. A small jug of wine, miracled to be unbreakable. Two more cloaks. A comb and some ribbons.
The cloaks would certainly come in handy, as would the ribbons. He quickly gathered the remaining bits of clothing and scrambled back up the hill, following the path of devastation.
Low whimpers reached him as he neared the clearing again, and he sped up. “Crowley?”
Crowley was moving, very weakly. Clawing at the dirt, trying to drag himself towards the remaining trees. His tail lashed, and fresh blood ran across his scales. “No… no…”
“Crowley, hush now. Don’t move, dear fellow.” Aziraphale dropped to his knees in the dirt and caught Crowley by the shoulders. “Hush now, lie still.”
“What did you… do to me?” Frantic golden eyes stared up at him, wide and accusing. “Get away, you hurt me!”
“No, I didn’t. I’m just trying to—”
“Sssstay away from me!” Gasping, Crowley thrashed and struggled until Aziraphale let go. He fell back against the dirt, color draining from his face, and struck out feebly in an attempt to knock Aziraphale’s hands away. “Did… did something, hurt me, made me pass out…”
“I was only trying to help you.” Aziraphale clutched his hands together, battling against the deep seated instinct to reach out and try to soothe the demon. For all Crowley knew, Aziraphale was the one who had stabbed him. “I’m so sorry it hurt, but I was not trying to harm you. I was helping you.”
“Sounds like… some fucking manipulative lying bullshit…” Crowley’s eyes lost focus, and he went limp. Shudders rippled through him from head to tail, and his breaths grew increasingly labored.
“Oh, oh, my dear. No, I swear, I am not trying to manipulate you.” But it was no wonder he thought such a thing. He had no way to tell friend from foe in his current condition. “Crowley, I need to tend to your injuries before you lose too much blood. Please, may I bandage your other wounds?”
Crowley just trembled, vacant eyes staring up. But as soon as Aziraphale shifted closer, he tensed. “No, don’t… Get away from me, don’t hurt me!”
“I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.” Blinking away tears, Aziraphale fumbled with Crowley’s bag. “Look, I’ve found some of your belongings. Would you like a drink?”
The dazed eyes narrowed, suspicious. “Drink?”
“Mhm. You had some wine in your bag, see?” Aziraphale slowly held out the small jug. “In truth, I don’t know whether wine is a good idea when you’re so injured. But your mouth must be very dry, hmm?”
Crowley managed a tiny, weak nod. Sweat broke out across his face, rubbing down in rivulets. “It’s… dry, yeah. But how do I know you didn’t bring that? Could be trying to… to poison me.”
Aziraphale’s heart sank at the suspicion. But more than that, the terror. Crowley was so frightened of him that it made Aziraphale feel rather like weeping. “Would you feel better about it if I drank some first?”
Hesitation, and then Crowley nodded.
Aziraphale took a careful sip from the jug, chest tight. He needed to convince Crowley to allow treatment. The slow blood loss would take a toll on him, and the trees cast long shadows. Night was falling, and along with it, the temperature.
“Okay,” Crowley finally said, lip trembling. “Just… don’t drown me with it.”
“I won’t.” Slowly, Aziraphale slipped one hand under Crowley’s head and lifted up. He held the jug to Crowley’s lips, helping him take a sip. “That’s it, nice and slow. There’s no rush.”
Crowley drank, then fumbled with the beige cloak. He tried to pull it up, to better cover himself again, but he was trembling too badly. He slumped back, breaths quick and shivery.
Aziraphale fixed the cloak, then carefully touched his arm. “Crowley. I can’t imagine how terrifying this must be for you, but I want to help. I’m going to bandage your remaining wounds now. Is it just the two on your abdomen and the three on your tail?”
Crowley’s thin chest heaved with ragged breaths, and for a moment Aziraphale thought he’d lost focus again. But then he glanced down at himself, pulling his tail in. “I thought… I thought I had legs. Not that I remember, really. But you’ve got legs. Why don’t I have legs?”
“Ah.” That was a difficult thing to explain, especially without Crowley having any memory of anything. “Well, you… you normally have legs, yes. But you were being chased, and I believe you tried to shift into your serpent form to escape.”
Crowley tried to glare at him. “How do you know I was being chased if you weren’t the one chasing me?”
Oh drat. Crowley had always been so inquisitive and clever, so alert to any inconsistencies. It seemed that hadn’t changed, even with the loss of his memory. “There’s a path of decimated trees and such. Your belongings were strewn along it.”
Apparently satisfied with that explanation for the moment, Crowley curled up. He was shivering even more now, though. Aziraphale touched his cheek and found it icy cold. He’d need to start a fire soon.
Injuries first. Aziraphale slid down to Crowley’s coils, quickly looking them over. There was the skinned section, but that wasn’t bleeding much. The stab wounds were worse.
“It’s going to be just fine,” he murmured, risking a small miracle to clean the torn black clothes. It wouldn’t do to get dirt and plant matter in Crowley’s wounds. “I’ll bandage this up, and then I’ll start a fire.”
Crowley didn’t answer for a moment. But then he swished his tail weakly, as if trying to pull it out of Aziraphale’s reach. “Don’t wanna be on fire. Already hurts, burns so bad.”
“Oh, no. I don’t mean that.” Aziraphale’s heart wrenched. He stroked Crowley’s scales, cooing softly. “I’m not going to cauterize your wounds, I’m going to light a fight nearby to keep you warm.”
“Oh.” Shivering, Crowley wrapped his arms around himself and curled tighter. He’d gone so pale, but he was still sweating. “Zir’phale, I… I don’t feel good.”
His voice broke, and a little sob rippled through him. Aziraphale stroked his side again, making a soft shushing noise, and then slid a hand under his scaled body. He lifted up a little, just enough to push the cloth strip underneath. “I know you must feel awful, dear fellow. But I promise, I am going to do everything I can to help you.”
Crowley fell silent again, although his ragged breaths echoed through the clearing. His shivering grew increasingly violent as the temperature fell. It was going to be difficult to keep him warm.
Aziraphale secured the first bandage, then moved on to the next. If only he could get Crowley inside somewhere, out of the chill. But using a miracle to transport him when his system was already swamped with holiness… that would kill him outright. And carrying a half man, half serpent being into a human settlement would get both of them in trouble.
Crowley whimpered and writhed weakly as Aziraphale bandaged the last of the wounds, the most severe one aside from the belly wound. The lance had pierced deep into the serpentine part of Crowley’s body, and the wound burned with contamination from the smiting.
“All done for now,” Aziraphale said softly, moving back to kneel beside Crowley’s head. He ran a light, careful stroke across the damp hair, pushing it back from Crowley’s face. “I can’t do anything else with your injuries for the moment. You’re still too weak for me to risk drawing any of the holiness from your system.”
He’d expected perhaps questions about the injuries, or maybe more concern about the fire. But instead, Crowley looked to him with big, vulnerable eyes that glistened with tears. “You’re really trying to help me? Are we friendssss?”
Oh, how could he deny it under these circumstances? Tears of sympathy rose in Aziraphale’s eyes, and he gave a smile as he stroked Crowley’s hair again. “That’s right. We’ve been friends for a very long time.”
Skepticism flashed across Crowley’s face, but he closed his eyes and curled up again, pulling his tail in closer as if trying to get the entirety of his long, serpentine body underneath the cloak. His teeth chattered, whole body shuddering.
Aziraphale shook out one of the black cloaks and spread it over Crowley’s scaled coils, then sat back and just looked at him for a moment. Crowley was losing even more color, going a horrible sort of grey except for the red streaks that emanated from his wounds.
Bandaging the injuries to slow his blood loss had prevented him from crashing completely. But unless Aziraphale could keep him warm and calm, he might never stabilize enough for more treatment. If his condition continued to deteriorate, the smiting would simply burn away all that was left of him.