“Crowley,” Aziraphale begs, and Crowley wonders why he sounds so damn worried. Everything is wonderful. Doesn’t he know that? It’s wonderful. “Crowley, dear, stay with me. You’ll be all right. You will. Just stay with me.”
He nuzzles against the hand on his cheek, trying to leech from it every last iota of comfort it has to offer.
He’s feeling sort of light now, like he’s floating. Like he’s flying. He hasn’t flown in a long time, a very long time, and he wonders why…
“Don’t leave that body, Crowley. Do you hear me? Don’t you do it!”
Aziraphale sounds distant, his voice is echoing.
Crowley’s glasses slip from his face and then Aziraphale is there, right there, his eyes as blue and pale as ever. Crowley has never been able to find anything on Earth that matches that colour, and not for lack of trying. He doesn’t think Aziraphale knows that.
“Do you know, angel,” he says, and the sound of his own voice surprises him. It sounds wrong, somehow, like it’s not really his, “do you know, you’ve got the most beautiful eyes?”
Feeling proud of himself for saying something so kind, he grins, at least he thinks he does, and his eyes slip shut.
Then, he’s being shaken. Violently.
His eyes snap back open. He shuts them again.
He’s seeing double. At least, in a manner of speaking. He’s seeing Aziraphale, the Aziraphale he’s known for six millennia: the dowdy, soft around the edges, bibliophile he’s come to consider a friend. But he’s also seeing Aziraphale, Angel of the Lord: all light and brilliance and divinity and fuck if it doesn’t burn. Fuck if it isn’t more than a bit terrifying.
“Stay awake, you! You can’t—you can’t do back Down There. You—I may never see you again.”
“But. It. Hurts.”
And it does. His head feels like it’s about to burst, and he feels hot, too hot.*
“I know it does, darling, I know,” Aziraphale is closer now, his arms are snaking around Crowley and pulling him in, holding him, “but you need to stay here. With me. Please.”
He feels Aziraphale’s forehead rest against his own, feels soft curls tickling his nose, and opens his eyes. Aziraphale’s eyes are clasped shut and he looks pained, almost.
“Angel…”
“Shh! Just stay here. Stay.”
The edges of Crowley’s vision are swimming now, the world looks like an old television set, waving and blinking in and out of focus. He nods, weakly.
Soft lips find his and then Aziraphale is kissing him. Any other time, Crowley may have feigned surprise, perhaps even disgust, but not now. Now he kisses back, now he indulges in it. Because it feels good, it feels good, and he wants to. Has wanted to.
He opens his mouth and Aziraphale’s tongue slides inside, caressing his own, soft and curious and Aziraphale.
Aziraphale.
Crowley passes out.
* *
When he wakes, it’s morning. At least, he can assume it’s morning: the fucking birds are making a ruckus outside his window like it’s morning. He blesses loudly and rolls over, pressing his face into a pillow and covering his ears.
A rustling behind him and a sharp intake of breath alert him to someone’s presence. Aziraphale’s presence, if he isn’t mistaken.
“You’re awake…” he hears.
He looks up and realizes he isn’t in his own bed, no. That’s not his bedside table, the dusty lace doily confirms as much.
“Angel?” he asks, looking up to see Aziraphale gazing down at him like he’s announced the Second Coming or something. He is positively glowing. It’s nauseating.
“You’re awake!” Aziraphale repeats, kneeling beside Crowley to clutch his hand. Crowley flinches.
“Yes, I believe we’ve established that.”
“Well, no need to be rude, my dear. I’ve been waiting three days for you to wake up, you know.”
Sitting up abruptly, Crowley rubs his eyes.
“Three days?”
“Yes,” Aziraphale moves to sit beside Crowley on the mattress, eyeing him with his patent concern, looking like he’s wondering whether or not Crowley has finally lost the last of his marbles, “don’t you remember what—?”
He trails off, but the light switches on in Crowley’s mind nonetheless. Attacked. Almost died. Kissed. Yes. Right.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Good Omens, Aziraphale/Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, PG13; PART 2
Date: 2010-04-19 07:37 am (UTC)He nuzzles against the hand on his cheek, trying to leech from it every last iota of comfort it has to offer.
He’s feeling sort of light now, like he’s floating. Like he’s flying. He hasn’t flown in a long time, a very long time, and he wonders why…
“Don’t leave that body, Crowley. Do you hear me? Don’t you do it!”
Aziraphale sounds distant, his voice is echoing.
Crowley’s glasses slip from his face and then Aziraphale is there, right there, his eyes as blue and pale as ever. Crowley has never been able to find anything on Earth that matches that colour, and not for lack of trying. He doesn’t think Aziraphale knows that.
“Do you know, angel,” he says, and the sound of his own voice surprises him. It sounds wrong, somehow, like it’s not really his, “do you know, you’ve got the most beautiful eyes?”
Feeling proud of himself for saying something so kind, he grins, at least he thinks he does, and his eyes slip shut.
Then, he’s being shaken. Violently.
His eyes snap back open. He shuts them again.
He’s seeing double. At least, in a manner of speaking. He’s seeing Aziraphale, the Aziraphale he’s known for six millennia: the dowdy, soft around the edges, bibliophile he’s come to consider a friend. But he’s also seeing Aziraphale, Angel of the Lord: all light and brilliance and divinity and fuck if it doesn’t burn. Fuck if it isn’t more than a bit terrifying.
“Stay awake, you! You can’t—you can’t do back Down There. You—I may never see you again.”
“But. It. Hurts.”
And it does. His head feels like it’s about to burst, and he feels hot, too hot.*
“I know it does, darling, I know,” Aziraphale is closer now, his arms are snaking around Crowley and pulling him in, holding him, “but you need to stay here. With me. Please.”
He feels Aziraphale’s forehead rest against his own, feels soft curls tickling his nose, and opens his eyes. Aziraphale’s eyes are clasped shut and he looks pained, almost.
“Angel…”
“Shh! Just stay here. Stay.”
The edges of Crowley’s vision are swimming now, the world looks like an old television set, waving and blinking in and out of focus. He nods, weakly.
Soft lips find his and then Aziraphale is kissing him. Any other time, Crowley may have feigned surprise, perhaps even disgust, but not now. Now he kisses back, now he indulges in it. Because it feels good, it feels good, and he wants to. Has wanted to.
He opens his mouth and Aziraphale’s tongue slides inside, caressing his own, soft and curious and Aziraphale.
Aziraphale.
Crowley passes out.
When he wakes, it’s morning. At least, he can assume it’s morning: the fucking birds are making a ruckus outside his window like it’s morning. He blesses loudly and rolls over, pressing his face into a pillow and covering his ears.
A rustling behind him and a sharp intake of breath alert him to someone’s presence. Aziraphale’s presence, if he isn’t mistaken.
“You’re awake…” he hears.
He looks up and realizes he isn’t in his own bed, no. That’s not his bedside table, the dusty lace doily confirms as much.
“Angel?” he asks, looking up to see Aziraphale gazing down at him like he’s announced the Second Coming or something. He is positively glowing. It’s nauseating.
“You’re awake!” Aziraphale repeats, kneeling beside Crowley to clutch his hand. Crowley flinches.
“Yes, I believe we’ve established that.”
“Well, no need to be rude, my dear. I’ve been waiting three days for you to wake up, you know.”
Sitting up abruptly, Crowley rubs his eyes.
“Three days?”
“Yes,” Aziraphale moves to sit beside Crowley on the mattress, eyeing him with his patent concern, looking like he’s wondering whether or not Crowley has finally lost the last of his marbles, “don’t you remember what—?”
He trails off, but the light switches on in Crowley’s mind nonetheless. Attacked. Almost died. Kissed. Yes. Right.