18. The snake and the Little Prince

Crowley opens his eyes. There is sand in them. There is sand everywhere. In his hair, in his shoes, in his mouth. It's finding its way under his clothes, into his wounds.

Aziraphale!

That's his first thought. Not the usual stuff like where am I, what happened and why does my head feel like a team of cricket players mistook it for a ball. His first thought is panicked, making him bolt upright, making him ignore the movement of fabric stuck to his hurt back, ignore the tearing and warm wetness of fresh blood.

He registers the pale sand as a mere inconsequential background when he sees Aziraphale.

The angel is lying face-down in it, his wings spread and missing over half of their feathers, the remaining ones broken or disheveled. There are gashes on his wings and back, bleeding sluggishly. Some burns on his legs and arms are visible as well in this position. The sand is sticking to the wounds and to the pale skin, its white grains almost invisible in the white curls of his hair.

"Aziraphale!"

Crowley's voice is raspy, full of sand and guilt, bordering on panic.

There is no reaction to it.

Crowley reaches out. His hand is shaking. He sees it holding a branding iron, burning with hellfire, hurting… killing Aziraphale. He's afraid to touch. He's afraid to hurt again. And most of all he's afraid to feel the emptiness of death under his fingers. He remembers it vividly: the clammy feel of skin, still warm but cooling slowly, the blood stagnant in veins, a mere piece of flesh mockingly shaped in the form of a beloved being without the spirit inside. He's afraid to feel it again. It would be different now. It would be final.

"Aziraphale…"

The angel's head is tilted to one side. Crowley notices something there.

A grain of sand moves. A breath.

"Angel!"

There is still life under his touch as he gently places his palm on Aziraphale's cheek. He feels the blood pulsing, the spirit still inside the body. Burning.

"Oh angel…"

That's when his focus shifts to the background.

The sand.

Sand all around.

No trace of greenery, of life, of anything.

Wrong place.

Or maybe even worse - right place, wrong time.

"Oh."

His hope crumbles into the sand and the sand swallows it like the once fertile land under the dunes.

He wants to scream until his throat is raw. He wants to lie down in the sand and never move again, to let it bury him like an ancient pharaoh, hide all pain and guilt from the face of the world.

Later, he can do that. Now there is still one thing he can do. A painful thing. He deserves painful.

He spreads his wings on the ground, right next to Aziraphale's side. Carefully, he turns Aziraphale to lie on them.

The angel moans with the movement.

The fiery serpent on his chest is revealed, glowing like embers in a fire burning under the surface. Smoldering veins are spreading from it all across the angel's chest, already reaching the left shoulder.

Crowley draws a shaky breath, steadying himself against the overwhelming guilt and grief. Not yet.

One desperate attempt.

He reaches towards the burning sigil like a snake whisperer. He focuses on the hellfire, tries to coax it out of the angelic essence and into his own. He beckons, pleads, argues.

Nothing helps. It wants to consume. Like a predator that has bitten into the neck of its prey, it won't obey any power in the world, it won't stop until it devours the last bit of holiness. It seems to spread even faster under Crowley's touch, and so he withdraws, defeated. Holy water wouldn't help, he knows. It doesn't work like that. There's only one thing in the world that could save an angel from hellfire and that thing is 6000 years in the past.

He doesn't call Aziraphale anymore. Unconsciousness is a mercy. If it fails though, he is there. It's too familiar by now, the way he can only be there without actually helping in any way that matters. Soothing words, stories to distract from the pain. It's of no use against hellfire. It can only ease the finals hours a little.

The sun blazes and he's sweating in the cheap suit. It stings in his wounds. He barely registers the pain. It's distant, it's nothing. The true pain comes from watching the veins of fire branching and spreading, very slowly but steadily. There is no power in the world that could stop them now. It's dead, buried under the sand.

Aziraphale moans again. His breath quickens.

And Crowley freezes. He suddenly remembers the fear in Aziraphale's eyes. He could try to convince himself it was just an act to fool Satan, but he is a demon. He can sense true fear. He's suddenly not sure whether his presence eases the suffering or just makes everything worse. Maybe it would be better to hide and never show his face. He can't do that, though. Aziraphale is lying on his wings.

"Crowley…" Aziraphale whispers. His eyes are still closed.

A shaky breath. "I'm here."

"Oh Crowley… it hurts..." He still doesn't open his eyes, but his voice is surprisingly steady and present despite the pain in it.

A sob. "I'm so sorry, angel."

"It's hellfire, isn't it?"

"Y-Yes. I'm so sorry. I didn't notice. I fucking didn't notice. I was too… too... "

"Language, dear," Aziraphale murmurs. Then he sighs and finally opens his eyes. They are glossy with fever. And now they fill with tears as they focus on Crowley. There is no fear in them now, but whether it's absent or just well hidden, it's impossible to tell.

"Too distressed by my pain and wanting to stop it? It's alright," he whispers softly.

Crowley sobs. He did not imagine it like this. The comforting was supposed to go the other way.

"We are free, right?" Aziraphale's voice is faltering. There's so much pain in it it's a wonder he can form coherent words.

"Yes. Yes, we are. Thanks to you. You did it. You fooled Satan with a goddamned sleight of hand, you wonderful angel. You were amazing. I... " Crowley shivers. "... I'm so sorry I ruined it. I killed y-you, Aziraphale. I…" His voice breaks, full of bitter tears.

"Not… dead yet. But if someone did… it's Satan. Not you," Aziraphale whispers urgently, but his lips do not close after the last syllable. They gasp as a new vein of fire sprouts from the sigil, aiming for his abdomen. His whole body tenses, his face in a grimace, teeth clenched between parted lips. "Never you," he finishes after the pain settles in.

Crowley isn't convinced, but arguing makes no sense. He can at least pretend he has forgiven himself for Aziraphale's sake. To make it easier for him. He focuses on that, grasping at every moment in time that's running between his fingers, the last moments of them being together. That knowledge is crushing. He makes a brave face but it does not fool Aziraphale.

"Crowley… It's not your fault dear… I hate leaving you like this… I… agh!"

"Easy, angel. Don't speak if it hurts you."

"Excuse me darling, but… ow… but when else am I supposed to speak? Don't have much time, so… so you better listen, okay?"

Crowley sniffles, reminded of arguments about driving or furniture placement, the little inconsequential fights that were always fought without any doubt of mutual love and ended with apologies and snuggles.

"Do you love me?" Aziraphale asks.

"Angel, what kind of a trick question is that? Of course I love you."

Aziraphale closes his eyes slowly and then opens them again - a substitute for a nod.

"I love you too," he whispers. "And I want you to do something for me."

"Of course, angel," Crowley sobs.

"I want you…" Aziraphale grits his teeth in pain, but then relaxes them through conscious effort, speaking with urgency. "I want you to take the love you have for me… and give it to yourself. Care for yourself as I would. Promise me, please. I need to know you will be loved and cared for when I'm not here… and I can't trust anyone else with it. Do it for me, please. Promise me…"

Crowley gulps. "I…" His voice breaks. With effort, he collects himself. "I promise," he whispers.

"Liar..." Aziraphale smiles sadly.

Crowley bites his lip.

"It's okay, my dearest," Aziraphale says and his hand moves weakly, reaching for Crowley. "It may not be now. Just a little seed of temptation that I want to plant. It may take time to grow. It's okay…"

Crowley takes the hand. The skin is too hot and dry to the touch. He can feel the pulse of hellfire in Aziraphale's essence. The spreading burns are just a physical manifestation on his corporation. It's the angel's true self that is burning. It's the most agonizing death Crowley can imagine.

"Temptation," he smiles bitterly. "That's my job. I've got one for you, I fear."

"I know," Aziraphale whispers.

"I can't make it painless. I'm so sorry. Even at that I'm useless. Killing your corporation wouldn't help. The hellfire would just continue burning your discorporated essence. The only thing I can do is make it faster. Same pain, but focused into a few moments instead of dragging it out. It would be over soon."

Aziraphale smiles at him lovingly. "My dear snake…"

"I wouldn't offer it if I saw any hope…"

"My dear rose. You are so selfless to offer it."

"Ngk. Don't you mean insolent? Even the first time… you asked me not to do it, and I didn't listen. I promised I won't discorporate you and then I did just that. I hurt you and then your body died."

"I just didn't want you to carry that burden. But you did it for me. I just wanted to stay… stay..." he struggles for breath. The fire is spreading into his lungs.

Crowley presses his hand. "Stay with me?" It sounds like a plea.

"Y-yes…" Aziraphale manages to draw a painful breath. "Yes. I… didn't know... I thought I wouldn't see you again. It's alright, darling. You did well."

"But I did it again, Aziraphale. I burnt you and now it's not just your body that's dying. And the only thing I can do now… is break that promise again." Crowley's voice is choked, but he doesn't allow himself to break yet. He needs to stay strong now. Give a little final mercy. Then he can break.

"Not yet," Aziraphale's breath is raspy and smells of smoke. "But… when it gets unbearable… to me or to you… Yes. If I can't be with my rose… I'll have to ask you… to be my snake. My dearest snake… As a mercy, not a burden..."

Crowley nods, suppressing tears.

"Is that… why we're in the desert?" Aziraphale asks weakly and coughs with that. A little spark comes out of his mouth and sizzles as it falls on Crowley's feathers.

"No," Crowley sighs. "I wanted to bring you to the one place that could save you."

"A desert?"

"No. The one where it all began. Where I met you. But it's not here anymore. There's a desert instead."

"Oh. You mean…" Aziraphale focuses on their surroundings fully for the first time. "Crowley! It's…" Cough. "It's not here!"

"What?" the demon tenses, afraid to hope again. But Aziraphale is bound to that place. If anyone can sense it, it would be him. "Where is it then?"

"Ten miles… there," Aziraphale struggles to raise his hand. His finger points firmly in one direction before it falls back in exhaustion.

Crowley remains kneeling, but embraces Aziraphale tighter. He scrapes the bottom of his reserves for a teleportation spell. He has to reach so deep it hurts, but he manages to teleport them.

They land about fifteen centimeters in the desired direction.

Aziraphale gasps with the sudden movement. "It's protected…" he forces the words from spasming lungs. "By a… no-miracle zone."

Crowley understands now why his teleportation spell didn't work - neither the first nor the second time.

For a moment he contemplates how to take Aziraphale into his arms without pressing on his wounds. That's impossible though, since his back is criss-crossed by them and it's the hellfire burn on the chest that he wants to spare most. He can't hesitate for too long. The burn is spreading.

He puts one hand under the wing joints and immediately he feels the hot wetness under it, the grains of sand that his hand is pushing deeper into the wounds. The other hand he puts under Aziraphale's knees and can't help irritating the burns there, purposefully made on the sensitive skin of their crooks to cause unbearable pain with every movement.

Aziraphale winces a little, but makes no sound. The intensity of the hellfire burn must drown out all other pain.

Crowley makes sure that he is holding Aziraphale securely and then jumps into the air.

His wings beat once, twice. His back feels like fireworks are exploding in it and it's New Year with every move. He strains his wings to work through the pain, but it feels like they are catching no air. He cannot take off. He just jostles Aziraphale, making his wounds bleed stronger again. "A no-flight zone as well," he mutters bitterly, giving up the tries.

He looks at the angel, takes in the sight.

The white curls are a mess, full of sweat and blood and sand. He wishes he could wash and comb them. He wishes they were the biggest problem. As it is, they are very low on the list of priorities.

Little beads of sweat are on Aziraphale's forehead as well, looking like mist on a fine porcelain cup after pouring the hot water for tea into it. That's how his skin looks - a white porcelain, with the rosy glaze of fever in his cheeks. His eyes are closed now, squeezed shut against the pain. Blood from the wings is dripping on the sand.

Crowley wishes he could spend a miracle for healing the physical wounds, at least, before they enter the no-miracle zone. But he is exhausted and needs to save his strength in case a miracle can help in saving the angel's essence before hellfire devours it completely.

Even when not flying, his back is strained by the burden in his hands. He would rather tear his own flesh than drop it. He grits his teeth and sets out in the direction Aziraphale showed him.