Disclaimer: I own very little.

A/N: This is my Valentine's Day fic -- one I would have submitted in time if just the comp would have let me log in. >. Anyway, sorry about the stupid title, but then I never was that good at naming things. Also, if the thought of Crowley ouchies or angel/demon love of the male/male sort disturbs you, please turn away NOW. Don't waste both of our time by flaming.

My Angel, My Valentine

Crowley liked this time of the year. Oh, how he liked it.

Well, he didn't like February in general, mind you; being pretty much a snake at heart, he loved the warmth of summer over any moment of wintertime. Or fall. Or springtime, for that matter. However, the few days before the Valentine's Day were truly enjoyable. All those people hurrying around, wanting to make sure that everything would be perfect for their beloved, practically begging to have their plans messed up... Really, what more could a demon ask for?

Thus he was on a pretty cheerful as he walked down the street in the middle of busy people. All the time he let his mind wander, looking for opportunities for some mischief, doing everything and anything he could to mess up people's lives. It was his job, after all, and he was damn good at it, too.

He was so caught up in his work that he didn't even notice the threat at first.

Suddenly, however, all his instincts started crying out in alarm. Glancing around, he didn't notice anything wrong at first. Then, however, he saw it and froze.

Heading right towards him, flying above the unsuspecting humans, were three angels. And they didn't appear to be about to greet him politely and ask how he was doing.

Making everybody nearby look away for a moment, he immediately unfurled his wings and rose to the air, knowing that he would definitely get away faster that way than by running in the crowd. I would be no use to hide; they could sense his aura just as well as he could sense theirs. His only hope was to find Aziraphale before the angels caught him.

He was already near the bookshop when he felt a horrible pain on his back. Yelping in pain, he faltered in his flight, dipping towards the ground. From the corner of his eye he saw something dropping to the ground - the missile that had just struck him.

His eyes widened as he recognized the object. A crucifix. Those bastards.

Crowley flew on as best as he could with the burn on his back, mentally calling for Aziraphale, hoping that his angel would somehow sense that he was in trouble. And, even in his near-desperation, he somehow managed to chuckle at his own thoughts. 'His' angel, indeed. As if that'd ever happen.

He was already almost at the bookshop as he was hit with another crucifix thrown by the angels, this time to his right wing. Crying out, he fell down, unable to fly further with only one properly functioning wing. The angels landed near him and he turned towards them, yellow eyes flashing, fangs and claws appearing as he prepared for a fight. "You'll regret this," he growled.

"I hardly think so," one of the angels said. "You, on the other hand, will not be able to regret anything." And with that, they all attacked him at once. Now, was this what angels called fair play? It really didn't seem very fair to him!

Crowley did his best, kicking and lashing and biting and clawing as he could. However, he was alone against three angels, all of whom were armed with holy objects and one even with a sword, and it had been quite some time since he'd had to truly fight for his life. All the time he received more and more wounds while his assaulters remained almost untouched.

Finally he fell to the ground, torn and bloody, gasping for breath despite having no need for it. He watched with dazed eyes as the angel with a sword stepped forward, preparing to finish him with one blow. He bared his fangs, growling weakly, but that was about all he could do as the deadly blade was raised, then started to rush down, right towards him. Knowing he could not do anything, Crowley closed his eyes, imagining a very particular face looking at him, smiling. "Aziraphale…" he muttered quietly, inaudible even to the angelic ears.

There was silence. Suddenly Crowley realized that he hadn't died yet; in fact, the blow hadn't even touched him. Could the angel have missed? After a moment he dared to open his eyes a bit. As soon as he saw the scene, the said eyes flew wide with shock.

Humans didn't notice anything, of course, walking past them like nothing unusual was happening. The three angels, however, had momentarily lost completely their interest in him, everyone staring at yet another angel who stood in front of them. This angel was also wielding a sword, and with it he had stopped the one that had been meant to bring about Crowley's death. Over the locked blades of their swords the two armed angels eyes each other.

"May I ask," Aziraphale said slowly, his each word warm and friendly like pure ice right from the North Pole, "just what in Heaven's name do you think you're doing?" As he spoke he looked at the other angels, inspecting each of them from head to toe.

"Do you even have to ask?" asked the other angel, sounding astonished. "We're ridding you of the demon. Shouldn't you be thanking us rather than questioning?"

"If I wanted Crowley dead, I could very well do that by myself." As if to prove that he suddenly flicked the other angel's sword from its owner's hand. Catching it from the air, he then swung it back and forth while speaking. "I am the angel assigned to Earth. What demons happen to go about here are my responsibility. If I need help with them, rest assured I would ask for it. However, I do not approve of young rascals going about killing demons just because they're bored."

"But - but that's a demon!" exclaimed one of the other angels. "Of course he should be killed!"

"Crowley's hardly a competent demon," Aziraphale said coolly. "Last week I saw him petting kittens. He provides me with more amusement than true problems. However, if you now kill him, they might send up here somebody who actually causes trouble."

At any other time Crowley might have protested. Now, however, he knew better than to do so -- and besides, he very much doubted he would have been capable of comprehensible speech anyway. The pain was absolutely horrible, like somebody had been tearing him apart with rusty hooks. Soaked in holy water. With some archangels' feathers covering his skin completely.

"Get lost," Aziraphale spat at the other angels, throwing the sword he'd nicked at their feet. "And make sure I never see one of you around here again." To punctuate this threat he let flames flare up around his sword. The angels seemed startled, and immediately began to hurry away.

Letting the flames on the sword die away, Aziraphale turned towards Crowley, his expression now softening. "Oh, my poor dear," he sighed. "You've truly gotten yourself in a bad shape."

"Hurts," muttered Crowley, finding himself unable to produce anything more sensible. "Hurts much… need… sleep…" He felt Aziraphale lift his body with surprisingly little effort. However, he couldn't marvel on this any more as he now passed out.

When Crowley woke up he found himself lying in bed. The surroundings were strangely familiar. However, it wasn't before he saw Aziraphale's worried face that he recognized the angel's small flat, situated over the bookshop. As the angel saw him opening his eyes, he leant back in his chair, looking relieved.

"It's about the time you woke up," Aziraphale said, sounding just as relieved as he looked. "You've been out for quite some time already."

Crowley tried to sit up, but immediately hissed in pain, noticing that such a thing was impossible. Aziraphale hurried to push him gently back to the bed, a reprimanding expression on his face.

"You are not to leave that bed until you've fully recovered," the angel said sternly. "I managed to heal the actual wounds, but I hardly could do anything about the damage done by holiness. That your body will have to cure by itself, and to do that, it needs complete rest."

"Whatever," muttered Crowley, the effort of uttering a single word much greater than he cared to admit. "Where're the… other angels?" he then struggled to ask. "Aren't… coming back, are they?"

"Oh, no." Aziraphale smiled. "They won't dare to. You see," he explained as Crowley gave him a questioning glance, "I saw that flames-on-the-sword trick back when I was guarding the Garden, right? The problem is, back then I was a cherub. Usually only cherubs know how to do the flame trick, and those angels automatically assumed I am still one of the cherubim, too. They won't dare to come back in fear of having to oppose me."

Crowley gave the angel a tired smirk. "Way to go, angel," he muttered. Then, however, the exhaustion became too great. He fell asleep, secure under the watchful eye of his friend.

When the demon next woke up, he had a fever. It was a really bad one, too. Shivering, he tried to bury himself as deep under the covers as possible, doing his best to ignore the pain that still hadn't vacated his body; in fact, it seemed to have hardly even faded away at all. Struggling to remove the traces of holy powers from his system, his body was working near to its limits, and thus he now had a fever.

"Don't even try to get up," Aziraphale's voice carried into his ears. "Just wait a minute and I'll get you something to drink. You're running a very high fever, you know."

"You're telling me," muttered Crowley. However, he accepted gratefully the cup that was soon pressed against his lips, greedily drinking whatever was in it. The liquid felt cool as it slid down his throat, and he momentarily shivered, feeling even worse. Then, however, a sensation of soft warmth started to spread through his body, making him feel slightly better. Not much, mind you, but still better.

For a moment he just lay there, enjoying the little comfort the angel's medicine had provided him with. Then the coldness returned, feeling even worse than before, and he muttered a half comprehensible curse. It wasn't fair, he decided somewhere within his rather hazy mind. He was a snake in the end, wasn't he? The Serpent of the Garden itself? So, the fever should have given him more energy, not tied him to the bed! However, the fact remained that he was in far too much pain to even raise a finger, leave alone get out of the bed. In fact, he had to work quite hard to even keep his eyes open, never mind keeping his thoughts somewhat sensible.

One thought rose above all the others. And that thought was, 'I love Aziraphale.'

It was true, he knew it. He had actually known it for quite a while, but -- after all the expected states of denial, anger, and blaming the angel for it all -- he had come to the conclusion that he could never tell Aziraphale. The angel had never showed any indication of returning his feelings, and he wasn't about to risk the friendship they now shared for a most likely futile dream.

However, even though he had indeed made the decision to stay silent, he could no more do that. He had almost been killed -- not just discorporated, mind you, but actually killed for good -- and if he had indeed died, he would have never got the opportunity to tell Aziraphale. He didn't want that, didn't want to die even without knowing whether he'd ever had a chance. But how could he just bring up such a thing?

Unfortunately -- or fortunately, as he never would have done such a thing in his right mind -- his fevered mind seemed to forget any restraints placed on it by logic, pride, and demonic behaviour. His mouth acted on its own before he could even think about closing it. "You're an angel, right?" he asked needlessly. "And angels are supposed to love everything?" As he got Aziraphale's confused agreement, he continued almost frantically, "Do you love me?"

Now, Aziraphale looked definitely surprised. "Of course I do," he replied immediately. "You're my dearest friend, Crowley, how could I not love you?"

"I didn't mean that," the demon replied, struggling to produce comprehensible words. "Not general angel love like I was one of those ducks in the park that you love. And not just friendly love, either. Do you love me? Really, truly love me?"

An odd expression rose to Aziraphale's face, only to be banished as quickly as it had appeared. "I think you'd better get some more rest now, my dear," he said quietly, placing yet another blanket over Crowley. "You've been under quite much pressure lately. You'd better take it easy."

"I mean it," muttered Crowley even as exhaustion once again threatened to take over him. "Do you love me, angel?" However, even if he had got an answer this time, he never heard it. Eyes sliding shut on their own, he soon fell asleep again, at least safe even if not exactly warm and comfortable.

Still, he didn't rest easy.

He should have not woken up again, was Crowley's first thought upon coming to again. It seemed that every time he reached consciousness he was feeling only worse. These pessimistic thoughts left his mind quickly, however, as a wave of pain crashed through him, washing away any attempts at sensible thought. All he could do was lie there, lie there and hope that he could somehow make it through this whole ordeal without dying.

He could only see some hazy images at best, nothing specific enough to even tell whether he was alone in the room or not, but he felt the presence of his angel and that soothed him. Somehow he managed to force words out of his mouth, quiet and weary, not knowing whether the other would even hear them.

"Love you," he muttered, trying in vain to get his hand to his forehead to wipe off the beads of sweat forming there. "Love you, angel. Shouldn't. Not supposed to. Demons don't love. But I do." He sighed, his delirious mind unable to form any coherent combinations of words. "Love you, love you, love you so much it fucking hurts... hurts like Falling... Fall, Fall, fall in love... hurts, angel, hurts to love angel..."

He felt a cool, soothing hand on his brow and heard the echo of a quiet voice whispering silent assurances. He didn't hear the exact words; the voice was enough. It was something he could grasp on, a proof that he wasn't alone in his agony, that there was a reality beyond his fevered mind.

This shouldn't be happening, he thought during a short moment of relatively clear thought, this just wasn't right. Aziraphale had mostly healed him; it should have been just an issue of clearing out the last traces of holy powers. However, his condition was clearly getting worse all the time. Apparently there was just too much of the holiness for him to fight off.

With a startle he realized that he didn't have his wings out. Still, one of the rare things he could remember clearly was that he'd had them out when he had fought the angels. He couldn't remember drawing them in, though, and doubted he would have done so at any point; wings were impossible to heal unless they were out. His body must have automatically drawn the wings back in, and that was really bad news. That only happened when a demon -- or an angel for that matter -- was at the limit of their healing powers and every bit of power was needed to simply staying alive, and thus everything needing extra energy was disposed of. He coudln't feel his fangs and claws either -- not that he'd felt pretty much anything, mind you, but he did know they weren't out. Bad signs, indeed.

For some time he just lay there, slipping in and out of consciousness, no more aware of even himself. However, he could still feel the presence of another being by his side, keeping him company, not moving an inch.

Later he couldn't tell what it was. Maybe it truly happened, maybe it was just an illusion created by his hazy mind. However, the fact remained that, just before he slipped into unconsciousness, he felt a pair of soft lips brushing lightly his forehead.

Dark. It was completely dark, and he didn't see anything, didn't hear or feel or smell or taste. It was like all his five senses had gone on a strike at the same time. Or, like Crowley soon realized to his horror, like his body had been completely shutting down.

"Angel…" he muttered to himself, but the word echoed in the emptiness of wherever he was, not reaching anybody but himself. He was floating in the middle of darkness with no contact to outside world, and with a heavy heart he realized that he was going to die, he would die and could never properly tell Aziraphale just how much he loved him.

Love was a funny thing, he decided, a funny thing indeed. Demons were not supposed to love, he knew that, but then again he'd never much stuck to the rules. But the angel? The one he was supposed to think of as the ultimate enemy, who had been his main opposition for millennia? It wasn't like Aziraphale was that attractive to most, either. A bit plump, a bit old, and very old-fashioned, he was entirely unlike Crowley himself. But perhaps that was exactly what drew him to the angel; they were so different yet similar in a way. And no matter what Aziraphale looked like or behaved like, he did love his angel very much indeed. To him the plump hands and outdated clothes were just adorable – not that he hadn't ever hoped the angel would gain at least some kind of a fashion sense, but he was ready to accept Aziraphale exactly as he was. Except that now he couldn't, not ever. And Aziraphale hardly would accept his love, either, if his fevered recollections were indication to go by.

But he couldn't die now. He couldn't, not before he had gotten a proper answer to his question. He refused to die before he had heard whether Aziraphale loved him, too.

There was little he could do, though. His control of his body had disappeared completely, and before long he would lose the touch to his mind, too – he would fall asleep and never wake up. This wasn't like discorporation; the holiness was killing his very essence, just like he had done to Duke Ligur. Oh, the irony of the world, indeed.

"Angel!" he shouted, now furious, wanting to reach his angel, wanting to reach something solid, anything else but this endless darkness where he was alone and couldn't sense anything but his own words, unheard by any other being in the universe. "Angel, angel, angel…" His voice trailed off as exhaustion took over him. He wouldn't last much longer, he realized. His body had already given up, and his own frustration and longing were the only thing that kept his mind from shutting down, too. And now he was using up even those last reserves of strength.

He still struggled weakly, tried to cling to consciousness, but found his grip failing. With one last whisper of, "Angel…" he slowly slid further into the darkness until even the last thoughts left his mind.

Somebody touched him, reached out from the darkness, caressed his cheek, kissed softly his fevered brow. Crowley didn't mind. He felt warm and safe, loved, too, and he reached out to respond the touch. When he tried to, however, it escaped him, escaped further into the darkness that surrounded him, leaving him alone again. For some reason he felt betrayed.

Now, that wouldn't do! With stubbornness that had taken six millennia to perfect he continued his struggles towards the source of the touch, trying to reach it, wanting to see who it was that had tried to reach him. He couldn't, but he didn't give up trying, determined to reach whatever it was that had touched him unless he was dragged away kicking and screaming. And even then he would put up a fight.

The darkness still surrounded him everywhere, overwhelming and invincible, but he wouldn't give up trying, wouldn't, wouldn't, wouldn't…

Crowley opened his eyes, slightly surprised. For a moment the only thing he could see was light. But how was that possible? He had died, he knew that, and even in the very unlikely chance that he had ended up somewhere instead of just ceasing existing he should only see flames and ashes. Bright light wasn't much of a fashion Down There.

Slowly his eyes slid back to focus. To his immense shock the demon found himself still in Aziraphale's flat, on the very same bed he had spent who knew how long during his failed recovery. Only now he felt much better – not exactly healthy, mind you, but very close to that. He certainly hadn't felt like this when he had last woken up.

Very carefully he turned his head to look at his side. And there was Aziraphale, asleep in his chair, one hand resting on top of the covers of the bed like shielding him. The angel looked so very innocent and pure that even the demon's heart was touched. And, once again, he wondered why Aziraphale couldn't love him. Angels were supposed to be all about love, right? If he, a demon, could love an angel, why couldn't the angel love him?

Suddenly he realized that there were traces of tears on the angel's face. That shocked him. Whatever could have made his angel cry? It wasn't because of him, was it? It couldn't be, he didn't want his angel to ever cry because of him, such a thing simply couldn't happen!

Just then Aziraphale stirred. Slowly the angel opened his eyes, immediately looking at Crowley. As he found the demon looking back at him, however, his eyes immediately flew wide open. "Crowley!" he exclaimed. "But – how? You died, I was sure you did, but you're alive, how can it –"

"Angel," Crowley interrupted the other's excited outburst, "I don't know even myself. I was sure I died, too, but apparently I didn't. In fact, I feel quite excellent, aside from a bit of dizziness." He smirked a bit. "It's definitely nothing to cry over, you big baby."

Aziraphale sniffled a bit, then smiled as he futilely tried to wipe off the tears that had now started rolling again. "Of course it's worth of crying, you stupid, stupid demon," he said softly. "I thought I had lost you, Crowley, lost you forever! The holiness almost killed you – how can you feel good? There are still traces of holiness in you, I can – oh – oh."

"What now?" asked Crowley, his voice slightly irritated while in the inside he was bouncing up and down with joy, not that he would have ever admitted that. He still could have his angel!

"The – the parts of holiness still clinging to you," Aziraphale said, "they feel like parts of my aura…" He trailed off. Then, after a moment of looking thoughtful, he suddenly took on a very cheerful expression. "Anyway! If you feel as good as you claim, you can probably eat something, can't you?"

Even the mere thought made Crowley's stomach feel very, very much not good. "I – I think not, angel," he said with a grimace. "It'd probably come up as soon as it went down. However," he then hurried to say as he saw the angel's slightly disappointed expression, "I think I could drink something!"

"Okay!" Aziraphale said cheerfully. "I'll go and make us some hot chocolate, you just rest and wait, I'll be back in just a minute…" And then he was on his way, again the usual fussy, cheerful angel that Crowley knew and loved.

The angel was back in a minute. He helped Crowley into a sitting position despite his many protests and stuffed several pillows behind his back, something the demon was secretly very grateful about. As they both then sat there, Crowley in the bed and Aziraphale in his chair, the demon finally thought to ask, "By the way, angel, what day is it? How long was I out?"

"Why, it's the fourteenth," Aziraphale replied, blinking in surprise. "You were in and out of it for several days. I already lost hope, you know – I was so sure that you had died!"

Crowley just nodded thoughtfully, absentmindedly blowing at his drink. 'It's Valentine's Day,' he thought. 'Most probably the angel doesn't even remember that, the silly thing.' Then he finally said, "Angel, can I ask you a question?"

"Of course," Aziraphale said, again looking surprised. "What is it, my dear?"

Crowley drew a deep breath despite not needing it, nailing his eyes at those of the angel. He didn't have a fever now; rather his mind seemed clearer than in ages. He knew exactly what he would ask. "Angel," he said, more serious than he could recall being ever before, "do you love me? Not as a friend, either. Do you really love me?"

For a moment Aziraphale just stared at him, looking stunned, shocked. Finally, though, he spoke. "Yes," he said quietly, "yes, I do."

The (Happy) End