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Kingdom of Wessex, 537 A.D
Crowley can count on his fingers how many times he's been forced to actually be a soldier.
It goes without saying that Crowley is, in fact, a demon of Hell. Riding into battle isn’t something he’s ever been keen to do—it never turns out very well for him, if you can believe it. War was the driving force behind his Fall, and he knows it’ll be the factor that will ultimately end up getting him destroyed in The End. There’s no reason to invite it early.
Sure, throughout history, he’d always been lurking in the shadows, pushing humanity this way or that. He’d seen Hannibal cross the Alps, for Satan’s sake! Plenty of deaths were his fault, in a way. Crowley, if asked, wouldn't deny that he has that blood on his hands. Hell has expectations and he’ll say what he must to uphold them, as long as it benefits him in the long run.
It’s an exceedingly rare thing, being forced to pick up a weapon and expected to march alongside humanity into the bog of doom. Crowley avoids direct combat like the plague, as he much prefers the quiet terror he’s been spreading around the general population of Wessex. The Black Knight’s image was enough to strike fear into people’s hearts without him really having to do anything. He had Cuthbert and Wulfric to do the sword-waving and axe-chopping, and Crowley brought the strategy and thought needed to truly sow panic throughout the countryside. It’s been one of his better assignments.
At least, it was, until he discovered all the crafting he’d done had been for naught. Learning that the king and his knights were doing their own rounds, spreading goodwill and peace of all things, Crowley knew it was only a matter of time until their lucky streak broke. So he confronted their ringleader, intending on disposing of them as soon as possible—not King Arthur,1 as he presumed, but one of the knights themselves.
‘Sir Aziraphale of the Table Round.’ Not exactly a title Crowley would have expected from the angel, but clearly, he didn’t know Aziraphale as well as he thought.
After nothing was accomplished during their meeting in that forest, the tension between Arthur’s knights and Mordred’s2 men continued to rise. Such things happen during times of uncertainty. Mordred was getting restless, tired of the stalemate between him and Arthur. He wanted war, and Arthur wanted it to end. Their armies would meet—one final battle. Whoever came out on top would be in for quite the celebration on their newly conquered land.
In the past, when Crowley had found himself in circumstances as dire as this, he would try to tip the scales in his favour. Did they really have to fight? And so soon? There’s something that can be said for subtlety. Perhaps they could find a more creative way to defeat their enemy. Why couldn’t they wait until the fog cleared and the men stopped shivering? He asked questions, and lots of them. Questions plant doubt, and doubt brings caution. And if Aziraphale were at Arthur's side, he would likely be doing the same.
Which is precisely why Crowley decided to do none of it. He lets Mordred sit and impatiently wait, becoming more bloodthirsty by the day. Crowley continues prancing about the kingdom not doing a thing, making sure Mordred’s frustration builds and builds until it inevitably boils over, just to prove a point. Thanks to Aziraphale’s divine intervention, Arthur would stand down, but Mordred would go on to tear through Wessex like a brush fire, destroying everything and everyone in his way.
It would be worth it in the end. Aziraphale would see it soon enough. He had to.
Crowley is rusty, he discovers quickly. Oh, he’s very rusty, and he knows it will be the end of him. As the horns are blown to signal the charge, the two armies collide in a clash of metal and the dull smack of bodies hitting bodies. Crowley finds that he actually has no idea what he’s doing—he stands amidst carnage with a sword he does not know how to use in his hand, a distinct heaviness in his chest, and the irrevocable feeling that he will not last.
All Crowley knows to do with a sword is swing it, and he also knows there is much more to it than that. He could try to run—it’s possible he could make it into the woods and hide behind a rock until the humans all killed each other off, but he is utterly surrounded. Knights are on every side. Arrows fly from every angle. Horses trample over corpses without care. Crowley has been left with nothing but a metal stick and clunky armour to die with, and there is going to be so much paperwork.
There’s a rush of warmth that causes him to shiver, leading to a chill overtaking him. It’s a shame, really. Crowley would much rather be warm, especially with how cold and damp it has been for so very long now. The sky above them is a dense grey, indifferent to anything. The enduring fog continues to roll in over the marshlands of Wessex. The ground is soft, soaked in water and blood. His mouth is coated with the taste and it’s spattered on his skin, which is covered in dirt and rain and—best not finish that sentence, actually. If he starts thinking about it, the pain he has been soundly ignoring will catch up to him.
There is a heaviness to everything he overlooked before, when he had been clad in chainmail and armour to weigh him down. That defence is useless now—it lies in pieces across the battleground. Crowley should feel lighter in only his gambeson, but he slowly realises that he can’t so much as lift a finger without intense effort. Time hangs heavy, slowing and stretching at its leisure, prolonging the inevitable.
He’s lying down. Or, more accurately, he’s fallen over. Crowley isn’t sure when that happened. Pain pulses through his body in nauseating waves so fervently that there’s no telling what injury is truly the cause of his agony. The pain throbs and he retches where he lies. Crowley rolls onto his back, away from the sick, and all he can see is the abyss of foggy skies. The air reeks of blood, waste, and death. There is nothing to be heard but cries and the grotesque symphony of mortality. They will all end up in Hell, whatever they might try now.
There is no doubt to be had; Crowley is going to die here, all because he had to be clever. He’ll discorporate, end up back in Hell where he belongs, and everyone will have a good laugh at his expense. Won’t that just be lovely?
Oh, the paperwork. That’ll be the worst part of all this. Spending decades slaving over a desk painstakingly checking box after box will be terribly dull. He won’t get to see Aziraphale regret, to see him truly understand what Crowley has been trying to explain to him since the Garden—Hell would not exist without Heaven, and vice versa. It’s all or nothing.
Crowley stifles a groan as he rolls onto his other side. It takes what little strength he has left not to just close his eyes and speed up the process tenfold. He can see in his waning vision that Mordred’s men are being pushed back, overwhelmed by Arthur’s forces. Soon, the field of the fallen would be infested with the men of the Table Round looking to kill any left breathing in the haze of their brutality. Aziraphale is bound to be one of them, though Crowley sincerely doubts he will be doing any of the slaying.
Then again, if Aziraphale were to find Crowley like this, there is still a chance he would use the opportunity to do so. He might even have to, and that just won’t do.
First, Crowley has to get himself off the ground to flee. He tries to prop himself up with his elbows, but finds that even his own arms cannot support him, as his right arm is broken from being trampled over early into the battle. He falls face-first into the mud, giving him something else to taste besides blood and bile.
Okay, new plan. Crowley has experience with travelling on his stomach. He’s never had to slither with human limbs before, but there is always a first time for everything.
Crowley uses his good arm to pull himself through the mud, anguish radiating through him with every movement. Too many wounds to count are bleeding freely, the incessant thumping of boots and hooves making it even more difficult to crawl away from the havoc. The only thing that is keeping him from slipping is the thought of an angel being forced to finish the job, all for the sake of appearances.
Satan, there's no fighting this, is there? This is his fault. He should’ve run while he had the chance. Why? What was he even trying to prove? Nothing! Absolutely nothing at all! Crowley did a good enough job already. He didn’t have to stick around, but he did, he always would, no matter how much he likes to deny that.
Crowley gives up after only a few feet. The last thing he sees is a knight standing over him with what he can only imagine is a sword held over his head. He exhales shakily, ready for the killing blow.
He just hopes they make it quick.
—————
Crowley expects to wake up in Hell’s admissions. That’s where all souls arrive for their eternal damnation, formless demons included, and they don’t tend to get warm welcomes. He can already imagine it before he’s fully conscious; dense crowds of unwashed souls, only the dim flickering fluorescents above to guide you, and the distinct smell of boiling sulfur following you wherever you go.
What Crowley ends up getting, however, is a sea of white.
Hell is dark. Hell is grimy, dirty, and is most certainly not white. He’s been discorporated enough times to know the drill. He never wakes gently, nor is it ever cold, or quiet, or soft. There are two possibilities for what this can mean; either Hell redecorated drastically since his last visit, or…
As Crowley’s vision finally comes into focus, he realises that the wall of white isn’t solid in the slightest—it’s made out of feathers. The ground is rocky and bumpy, very unlike the soft mud of the battlefield and the smooth stones of Hell. He sniffs; the air is stale, smelling of dust and rock. Everything still aches, but it’s less of a vicious burn and more of a mild sting. His bad arm is splinted and wrapped. What little had been left of his armour is gone, so he is only in his gambeson.
Crowley startles as the feathers puff up, and the large wings they are attached to try to stretch. The space is too small to accommodate them without keeping them folded, as they are pushed up against the curved walls. A voice, one that Crowley knows all too well, is muttering to himself mindlessly as if to fill in the silence. It’s too quiet for Crowley to make out any words, but they are biting nonetheless.
Crowley’s first instinct is to be quiet. He stopped breathing the moment he realised he wasn’t alone. There’s absolutely no way he would be able to get out of this without dealing with the angel sitting a few feet in front of him, and he doesn’t really want to do that now. Surely Aziraphale will have many words for him, no matter how much Crowley will try to avoid hearing them.
So he doesn’t try to leave, at least for now. Crowley pats himself down as quietly as he can, feeling each wound that has been finely dressed without him knowing. Even his hair has been properly tied away from his face, falling down his back in waves. Aziraphale is thorough, he’d have to give him that.
Crowley shifts away from the wall keeping him upright. Placing his feet flat on the ground, he tries to push himself up to at least try and brush off the pebbles digging into his back. Of course, he slips gracelessly, and lands flat on his back with a thud and an ‘oof’.
Aziraphale jumps and spins around, his wings now awkwardly wedged in the corner of the small space. His hair is unkempt, as if he’s been tugging on the ends of it. His eyes are wide, surprise quickly melting away, leaving him looking absolutely exhausted. Crowley goes completely still, like a wild animal ready to flee at the slightest movement. They watch one another, unwilling to be the first to speak.
He's not sure what he expected. Maybe a ‘hello’, just to be polite. Aziraphale would try to be polite, Crowley thinks, seeing that they were both in such a vulnerable predicament. Now, however, he looks rather frazzled, almost terrified. Was he worried about him? Or was he just worried about getting caught helping him? Should Crowley greet him as if he wasn’t just dying on a battlefield surrounded by humans a few hours ago? (It was a few hours ago, right?) It was just Aziraphale. They’ve greeted one another dozens of times over the millennia.
It feels different this time, though. Crowley isn’t stupid enough to miss the tension hanging in the air, because there’s no doubting it now—Aziraphale helped him. Saved him, even. A horrific thought to be had.
“Before you ask—no, this is not my fault,” Aziraphale blurts out, finally managing to free his wings and fold them closer to his back.
Aziraphale’s voice is delicate and brittle, bringing a frown to the demon’s face. Now that he can move about more freely, Crowley sits up properly and glances around them. Though the light is dim, Crowley can see Aziraphale’s eyes shining as if he hasn’t blinked in far too long. His jaw is locked tightly, his shoulders high, and his right hand is not far from the hilt of the sword hidden at his side.
“Right,” Crowley says dimly, already well aware of whose fault it is. “Thanks, I s’pose.”
“Oh, good,” Aziraphale sighs, his shoulders dropping. “I was hoping you’d still be able to talk. It’s far too quiet up here, and the rocks aren’t one for conversing.”
Crowley wriggles restlessly, struggling to sit down. “We’re in—”
“A cave, yes,” Aziraphale finishes for him.
“And—”
“I brought us here, too.”
“So—”
“Yes, I did find you, and in quite a wretched state. It wouldn’t hurt for you to say thank you, probably.” He inhales sharply, then adds, “You’re welcome.”
When it looks like he isn’t going to elaborate further, they lapse back into silence. It’s too quiet, and Crowley has questions, but the sheer offness radiating from Aziraphale makes him hesitate. He went through all this trouble, and for what? Risking getting demoted? Crowley has to be calm. This is unfamiliar territory, even for them.
“You’re jumpy,” Crowley says plainly. “More than usual.”
Aziraphale gives Crowley an annoyed look and stretches his wings out as much as he can. Then he goes back to grooming the snowy white feathers and tenderly cleaning the battered ones. A small pile of feathers too damaged to be saved rests beside him, and it grows bigger as the stillness stretches on.
Crowley does not breathe too loudly, not wanting to test Aziraphale’s mood. He gestures with his free arm at the mess. “What’s with…those?”
“Hm?” Aziraphale stops his picking and looks up, his eyes immediately finding Crowley’s. He drops his arms into his lap with a heavy sigh. “Right. Well, it was all rather quick. We were losing ground faster than we could gain it. By chance, I just so happened to have tripped over your helmet. Surely you had to be close, and I was correct—I almost didn’t see you, as you were face-first in a puddle of mud. I thought—I thought about leaving you there, to be perfectly honest.”
Crowley snorts, and despite his own judgement, a faint smirk forms on his lips. “How kind.”
Aziraphale ignores him, taking a deep breath to steel himself before continuing. “Obviously, I didn’t. I should have, but I didn’t. I managed to get to you before you drowned in an inch of mud. You didn’t recognise me, which wasn’t very surprising—you were halfway in Hell already. I thought to myself—who knows how long it would be until you returned with a new corporation’? Ages, presumably. If it takes decades in Heaven, then Hell must be worse, by definition. So I decided to help you.”
Crowley raises an eyebrow at Aziraphale, trying to hide his surprise with snark. “An angel saving a demon’s life. What will your bosses say?”
“I wouldn’t phrase it like that. I mean, that makes it sound like I did more than I actually did. It was a completely impulsive decision which I could not control. I’m an angel, after all. Again, you’re welcome.”
Aziraphale returns to tending to his damaged plumage, risking a glance over at Crowley every once in a while. Crowley fidgets and cringes at his wounds, even though they’ve been wrapped snugly. He will not say a word about them, however, if it means their temporary truce continues to hold.
Eventually, after what feels like hours of awkward stillness, Crowley gestures lazily towards the sea of fluff around them. “That still doesn’t explain this.”
Aziraphale’s nostrils flare, and his feathers ruffle before he starts speaking again. “We weren’t the only ones on the battlefield, Cra—Crowley. Your men were everywhere, and I had to get through them without getting us both killed. It’s exceedingly difficult to reason with knights fighting for their lives, and I’ll admit I behaved recklessly. One thing led to another, and…I flew away.”
“You flew away,” Crowley repeats, completely astounded. “I would’ve liked to see that. Why don’t you just put them away? Seems more inconvenient than anything, now.”
“I can’t,” Aziraphale says, frustrated. He plucks out a stick near his head, placing it in the pile near him. “I mean, I can, but it isn’t as if they’ll be in any better condition if I do. I might as well make use of my time while we’re here. I didn’t go far, but this cave is far enough away from the conflict that no one is likely to come looking.”
“Right.” Crowley sighs, knowing what he must do. “Well, then. Go on and turn around.”
Aziraphale startles back like he’s been hit, but Crowley is unfazed. He asks incredulously, “Whatever for?”
Crowley rolls his eyes, edging forward until he’s an arm’s length away from Aziraphale. “I have to repay the favour somehow. The faster you clean up, the sooner you can leave. So turn around.”
Aziraphale continues to stutter flimsy protests, but ultimately, he can’t find any good reason to object. He gestures for Crowley to scoot back as he turns around, nearly knocking Crowley over as he flails to find a comfortable enough position, creating a stir of wind and dust.
Crowley winces in sympathy when he sees the full extent of the damage, as he hadn’t registered it when he first awoke. The usually pristine and well-groomed pair of angel wings has been muddied up, riddled with dead leaves, chunks of debris, and even a few sparse arrows. This was the disarray Aziraphale wasn’t able to fix on his own, and was likely what took the brunt of the force as he escaped with a half-dead demon in tow. The bigger the target, the easier to hit.
Crowley won’t allow himself to feel guilty, if he can help it. It was Aziraphale’s choice to make, and chose it he did. All he can do now is help lift the weight on his shoulders, both figuratively and literally.
Crowley starts with the sticks and leaves that are stuck in the sheer mass of fluff, which Aziraphale must have earned by running into a few trees. He works smoothly despite only having one arm, careful not to pluck out anything that doesn’t look like it’s halfway to falling out on its own. Still, he frowns as the pile of waste grows, even though he knows they’ll regrow quickly. It can’t be comfortable in the slightest.
They’re still soft, though, despite the wear and tear. Crowley resists the urge to let his hands linger, to touch a being that he doubts he’ll ever have the chance to again. He won’t, of course, but the thoughts will persist.
“No one survived,” Aziraphale says abruptly, “as far as I know. Arthur failed. I failed.”
Crowley grumbles to himself and tries to ignore the looming nausea that comes with what he knows to be the guilt threatening to overwhelm him. “That’s relative,” he says automatically, taking extra care to pull a matted bundle of feathers near the bone. “There’s always the next one, angel. You know how humans are.”
Aziraphale pulls away from Crowley wordlessly, but Crowley is anything if not stubborn. He leans forward to continue, ignoring the pang of hurt in his chest. If anything, he’s getting annoyed. If it’s any one of the two of them who should be feeling torn up about this, it should be Crowley, but all he cares about right now is making it clear to Aziraphale that he isn’t the problem here. It isn’t his fault, not the slightest.
He has to be cautious. He’s already pushed it with his first comment, and Crowley can’t risk Aziraphale tuning him out entirely. Crowley owes him that much.
“Look,” Crowley says, smoothing down one of the few patches of feathers that weren’t beat-up during the battle. “You did your best. You always do. No point in dwelling on it for longer than you have to. It just happens. It’s happened before, and it’ll happen again.”
“You say that now,” Aziraphale retorts bitterly, twitching under Crowley’s touch, “but there won’t always be a next time. Today just reinforced that notion—there’s no stopping the End. When that time comes…I won’t be able to help you.”
“You won’t need to,” Crowley snaps, hoping his curtness doesn’t leave room for debate. He nearly rips out the feather surrounding a stubborn piece of debris, which, somehow, has no traces of blood on it. “I’ll make sure of that. You just have to make sure you won’t need my help.”
Aziraphale looks over his shoulder, smiling grimly, and nods his head. “Right.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Why would I? You’re a demon. You lie. Goodness, how many times have you told me that by now?”
“I’ve never been a particularly good demon, have I? And you’ve never been a particularly good angel, seeing as we’ve accomplished nothing while we’ve been trotting about the kingdom for ages like two utter fools!”
Aziraphale rips away from Crowley’s grasp, whirling around to fix him with utter disdain. Crowley scowls back, another bunch of loose feathers smushed into his fist. “You sell yourself short, Crowley. It certainly looks like you’ve accomplished something now, considering the fact it was your side that initiated this whole war. Your side won. All Arthur wanted was peace! And—and you had to go and encourage Mordred to—”
Aziraphale snaps his mouth shut, but the damage has been done. He turns away, and Crowley doesn’t try to touch him again. “You’re right. There will always be another war.”
And without much warning other than that, Aziraphale flutters to his feet, his wings furling close as he storms out of the cave and out of sight.
“Angel!” Crowley shouts after him, hitting the ground with his fist in lieu of running after him right away. While he no longer feels like his body is on fire, he can’t just jump up and follow easily. His only line of protection has just gone up and left, but Aziraphale can’t go far. His conscience simply wouldn’t let him, and they both know it.
When there’s no response to his call, Crowley manages to drag himself to his feet using the cave wall as support. It takes longer than he would like, as it always does when he’s recovering from any ailment, but he does manage to stumble his way out and into the open air.
Crowley emerges near a cliff, overlooking the battleground they had fled from. Mountains tower in the distance, their snowy peaks glittering in the gloomy light. Aziraphale is sitting on the cliff’s edge, overlooking the decimation below. Crowley stops to gather his bearings as there’s a break in the dense clouds, just long enough for Aziraphale’s hair to catch some of the setting sun. The angel is beautiful, as all angels are, but that is the least of his priorities at the moment.
Crowley must have either breathed too hard or stepped on a stick without realising it, because Aziraphale whips his head around suddenly, scowling at his presence, and his injured leg. “You shouldn’t be walking around so soon,” he chides, watching as Crowley approaches. “You’ll only drag out the healing process further.”
Crowley sits himself right next to the angel, trying not to let the pain show on his face. If he hobbled out of that cave just fine, he’ll be able to sit down fine too. He might not be able to stand up again alone, but as long as Aziraphale doesn’t try to storm off again, they would be fine. “It’ll fix itself up. I just needed to say—I didn’t encourage him.”
“Really?” Aziraphale says dryly. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Swear it! I just…watched. Didn’t do anything. And even if I did, he would’ve gone and done it anyway. Nothing would’ve made him budge. I don’t think Hell would’ve let him.”
Aziraphale glares at Crowley with suspicion, lips pursed and eyes narrow. “Why are you telling me this? What does it matter now?”
Crowley gathers his courage before attempting to word it, as he has learned time and time again to be careful of how he words certain topics around Aziraphale without scaring him off. He can’t risk it happening again so soon, or he might not see him again for a very long time. “Sometimes, you can’t just follow orders. That leads to things like this. It’s not your fault. It’s theirs.”
“‘Not following orders’ didn’t prevent anything from happening, Crowley. I helped who I could, but—it simply wasn’t enough.”
Crowley resists the urge to shift closer, as he can feel the edges of Aziraphale’s wings brushing his back. He’s sure the angel doesn’t know that they’ve slowly begun to close around them, and he’s not about to mention it now. He pauses, then says, “I said what I said. Not your fault. You’re the one always bringing up ineffability. You and me? We’re tools. Choosing who gets saved and who doesn’t has never been part of our jobs.”
Aziraphale continues to stare, emotions warring on his face. Crowley can read him like a manuscript, his processing of Crowley’s words showing clearly in his eyes—at first, he’s offended. That’s just his default reaction to everything even slightly blasphemous Crowley insituates. Then his face scrunches in confusion, leading to wide-eyed shock, and, finally, an attempt at anger.
Crowley has seen Aziraphale angry; it doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it’s quite the show. This particular look isn’t really angry. If anything, it looks bleak. He turns to look out over the field littered with fallen bodies, grass still stained with copper and disjointed limbs twisting this way and that. Exhaustion, defeat, and sadness clings onto Aziraphale like a disease.
“It feels that way, a lot of the time,” Aziraphale says quietly, fidgeting with his hands on his lap. “It being my fault, that is. Like every stumble or step back humanity takes is reflected onto me. The responsibility always finds its way to fall onto me.”
“You need to listen to me.” Crowley slowly moves closer, finding subtle moves difficult with his leg in a splint. He sways towards Aziraphale, their shoulders brushing, and makes sure that he’s looking directly at him when he says it. “We are not responsible for them. This—” Crowley gestures to the scene below, “—isn’t any of our fault. Your boss gave them free will—we’re just here to try and pull them from one side to the other. They’re the ones who end up making the decisions. Mordred chose to do everything he’s done, same with every human before him. You win some, I win some, but—it’s like dueling. I think you said it best, once—blades invite the opportunity to let the wielder do good or evil, but it can’t choose how it’s used. It could try its very best, and they’d still end up accidentally stabbing someone in the stands. You don’t go blaming the sword for killing the knight, do you?”
Aziraphale blinks in sheer awe, amazed at Crowley’s sudden bout of wisdom. “Where did that come from?”
Crowley shrugs, leaning back to soak in the last rays of daylight. “I don’t know. A brief glimmer of insight.”
Aziraphale frowns, gaze drifting back down over the cliffside. He sways towards Crowley, mirroring him earlier, and their shoulders brush once more. Whether consciously or not, the angel’s wings close around them further, ticking Crowley’s bare skin pleasantly. Crowley keeps his eyes on the horizon and the fuzzy edge of the setting sun, red and gold streaked across the sky. Aziraphale’s hair absorbs the day’s last light, burnishing his curls a warm gold.
Crowley would never admit this out loud, but if you ignored the stain of a few hundred men’s worth of blood, it’s all rather beautiful.
“Well,” Crowley says loudly and hastily, slapping his hands on his thighs, “at least we can agree to no more mid-battle rescues, right? You know how I don’t like to owe you.”
“We can call it even,” Aziraphale muses, watching the night spill over the western horizon. “Unless you have something better. Actually, I think I might have changed my mind. Would it be so bad to owe me a favour?”
Crowley shudders. “Ergh. It feels wrong being indebted to an angel. I’ll take you up on that offer. Call it even.”
Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “You exaggerate. Now you’ll know how I’ve felt since…who even knows? You’ve saved me enough. Now, I can be the better one of us and call it even. Or, I can insist that you owe me, and we’ll be trapped in a cycle of reciprocity for all time.”
“I vote we call it even,” Crowley suggests. “You’ve always been the bigger angel.”
“Well, you aren’t an angel anymore, are you?” Aziraphale says with a tiny smirk on his face.
“You know what I mean.” Crowley waves the angel away. “It’s even—no more rescues.”
Aziraphale nods and brushes against Crowley’s shoulder again, intentionally this time. “No more rescues.”
Crowley nudges Aziraphale with his elbow. “Come on, help me back inside.”
“You shouldn’t have come out here to begin with. Just because you’re a demon doesn’t mean that corporation of yours can’t be broken.” Aziraphale rises to his feet with ease, sparking an (admittedly childish) wave of jealousy in Crowley. “Honestly! You would’ve had to go back to Hell and tell Beelzebub that you needed a new body because you inhaled too much mud.”
“Oh, shut up,” Crowley groans, grabbing Aziraphale’s proffered hand before he pulls him to his feet and wraps an arm around his waist to support him. “I would’ve come up with a much better lie than that.”
“So you claim. I suppose they’ll never get to hear them.”
Crowley is about to snap back another biting remark, but is stopped in his tracks when he catches the soft smile he’s sure he was never supposed to see. They fall back into that comfortable rhythm soon enough, but he won’t be forgetting it any time soon.
Overall, Crowley is certain that he won this argument. They walk back to the cave, their shelter for the night. There’s no paperwork to worry about, no hassle of waiting for a new body, and he’s pretty sure he managed to cheer Aziraphale up, at least a little.
They have nowhere to go but forward. That is more than enough of a comfort for them tonight.