20. By the waters of Paradise
Crowley doesn't dare to breathe.
A little flower is growing from the bud. It seems white at first, but at a closer look it is opalescent, shimmering with many colours. The petals unfold, then fade and fall off. The flower turns into a little green fruit. It grows steadily. The fruit is the size of a plum now, and has a glossy sheen. Slowly, it ripens. From green, its skin turns golden.
He reaches out and the fruit falls from the stem into his palm. It's soft and warm like the caress of Aziraphale's hand.
"Angel! Angel!"
He's kneeling at Aziraphale's side. The angel is not breathing and the heat emitting from his body has scorched the grass. The hellfire has a fiendish glow in the growing darkness, making the beloved face look like a painting made with blood. Crowley tries to not pay attention to any of that, pushing aside the idea that it might be too late. He focuses on the fruit in his hand instead. It seems to be pulsing faintly, like a beating heart. Is that a good sign? It has to be.
He carefully pushes his nails into the silky skin and breaks the fruit open. Fine threads of pulp are still connecting the two halves. It is full of thick juice that spills on Crowley's fingers and makes them sticky.
He licks them absently before touching Aziraphale's cheek.
"Angel, I need you to drink something, alright?" he says to Aziraphale despite knowing that his words are not heard.
He pulls the angel's chin down, opening his mouth. He keeps it open with one hand and lowers the fruit to the cracked lips. He squeezes it a little and a few drops of golden juice flow into them.
"I know it would be too much to ask from you to swallow it right now," Crowley says, a bit at a loss at the moment. He watches a drop on Aziraphale's lips, willing it down into his mouth and into his throat. He notices the cracks healing in its path.
"Well, maybe you don't need to. Just don't choke, alright?" But Aziraphale can't choke, can he? He's not breathing.
Crowley squeezes the fruit, causing a steady trickle of juice to flow into the angel's mouth. It ends too soon. At the end he clenches his fist to get every drop of life from the fruit.
He watches Aziraphale's face. It is pale in the darkness. He can't tell any difference - if there is any change, it is too slow. But it seems to him like the red glow is a little weaker than it was a while ago.
He takes the wrung out fruit again. It's just a skin with bits of drying pulp sticking to it. He presses it on the hellfire burn.
There is a hiss. He's not sure if it's just his imagination or a natural reaction of a fire to something wet… or if the snake really hissed when the fruit of life touched it.
But the snake's red glow is fading. Whether it's just the flickering of a dying fire or hissing of a serpent under his hand, that's not important now. It's fading. His vision is blurring as he watches it. He can see writhing coils, coming in and out of focus. He can see fangs and slitted eyes that are watching him from a boiling lake of sulphur. It's all fading.
The sun is climbing the blue dome of the sky again, creating a mosaic of light and shadow on the pale faces of an angel and a demon as its rays pass through the canopy of leaves and dry branches of the two trees standing next to each other.
Crowley wakes.
He doesn't remember falling asleep. His throat feels dry and his head hurts like a hangover. The surroundings don't help him to make much sense of the situation… until he realizes he's holding a hand.
It's warm.
"Aziraphale!"
Crowley bolts upright and then freezes, as if afraid that a careless movement might shatter the image he's seeing.
Aziraphale's eyes are closed. His skin is red and inflamed in places where the hellfire has burnt, forming an ugly scar in the shape of a serpent on his chest, but that's all that's left as evidence of it. No heat, no glow, no spark of fire. There's just a remnant of the skin from a fruit, burnt to crisp.
Crowley brushes it away and senses movement under his hand. The angel's chest is rising and sinking shallowly. He's breathing.
Crowley breathes as well. It feels like the first breath after a long time of suffocating. He feels wetness in his eyes.
"Angel…" he breathes out, leaning over the beloved face. Relief and gentleness is in that one word, but it's mixed with a deep pity. With regret.
Aziraphale doesn't respond.
He can't. Crowley sees that when he looks at his essence with the senses that can perceive beyond the material layer of the world.
At first, he doesn't see anything.
Then he recognizes it. A little spark - that's all that's left where there used to be a Presence of light as warm and brilliant as the sun. A faint little spark, almost too weak to be noticed.
Tears fall from his eyes. "Angel…"
He reaches for the spark with his essence, but it recoils.
Crowley withdraws immediately. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It's alright… I understand you are hurt and scared now. Of course you are. Who wouldn't be? I just wanted to tell you that you are safe now. We are safe."
He doesn't look behind the material layer anymore, doesn't want to disturb the spark. It's enough to know that it's there, that there's nothing hurting it anymore. Instead, he focuses on the tentative bond it has with the body. It wouldn't do, to save Aziraphale's essence just to have it discorporating and returning to Heaven.
The body is in bad shape. It's breathing now and not actively dying, so that's something, at least, but Crowley can see it's a mercy that Aziraphale's essence is too weak to take control of it. Of its senses, specifically. Of the pain.
Crowley is not sure how much power to heal he has at the moment. Demons have always been less proficient in that kind of stuff than angels and the reality of Eden feels strange, somehow. Different from the outside world, maybe because of the no-miracle field around it. He's not sure how miracles actually work here, although he already did one in shifting the stones. He wasn't thinking much about it at the time. He had nothing to lose if the miracle goes wrong (just his hands, maybe). If a healing miracle goes wrong, though…
He can hear the sound of a stream nearby. That might be a good idea for a start, he thinks. Cleaning the wounds so they're not healed with the sand still in them. Normally any dirt would be pushed out by the healing, but it's better to be sure.
He gets up to get some water from the stream. He makes a step.
Then his purposeful and rational thoughts scatter like cards in a failed magic trick.
A shoe was all it took. A random look at a shoe as he put one foot in front of the other.
One moment he is heading towards a stream to bring some water for his wounded angel and the next moment he's between two mirrors dressed in a freshly conjured suit with shiny fake leather shoes, a cup of excellent coffee on the table and angelic blood on his hands.
"Good job," Satan is telling him. "I'm glad you decided to work for me here."
"No! No no no no! I didn't! I'm not working for you!" he stammers, feeling that something is off about this, that there was something else that happened, something that's evading him.
"Oh darling, of course you are…" Satan laughs. His diabolical laughter fills Crowley's mind and drives out all other thoughts.
"N-No..." he manages to stammer once more, but then it's all incoherent sobs.
o
A gust of wind brushes his hair and something tickles his nose. It's a blade of grass. He blinks in confusion. How can grass grow from a mirror?
There are no mirrors. Eden! He's in Eden! It slowly becomes real again: the grass, the sun high in the sky, the gurgling of the stream… Aziraphale!
"Shit! Aziraphale!"
He turns and sees the angel just a step away. He didn't move, didn't get better or worse. He looks exactly the same as when Crowley decided to get some water. He's breathing shallowly at the same slow pace.
Crowley sighs. "I'm sorry, angel. I should have gotten that water long ago, I know. Fucking useless, that's what I am. I'm going now, don't worry. I'll be back soon and I'll bring water this time. You must be thirsty, too…"
He realizes he's rambling and looks down in shame. Those fucking shoes. He draws a shaky breath as he sees the shoes again. Then he kicks them down from his feet. He rips the suit away, the inferior fabric tearing at the seams easily. The pants, the shirt. Everything is torn and scattered on the grass. He's naked now. It feels more proper for Eden anyway.
He takes a deep breath once that is done. Then he pauses. For the first time, he realizes that his back is healed. There are stains of darkened blood on the back of the torn suit lying somewhere around, but he is not bleeding anymore. It doesn't hurt to move at all. He frowns in confusion, because he knows he didn't heal it. Water first, he reminds himself. He can think about that later.
He finds the stream running over flat stones, shaded by willows. The air is fresh and cool around it, the sound of running water calming.
Crowley tries to conjure a bucket for carrying the water.
Nothing happens.
He frowns and tries with a bottle.
Nothing.
"You've got to be kidding me," he mutters.
A cup.
No.
A glass. A pot. A bowl. A cloth.
No. No. No. No.
"Fine," he snarls.
He grits his teeth and returns to where he left the torn clothes. With a visible disgust, he takes the shirt. He washes it furiously, then soaks it in water and returns to Aziraphale with the dripping fabric. On the way there it hits him. If miracles don't work, he can't heal Aziraphale. He pushes that thought aside, refuses to acknowledge it before he tries. He can't think about it now. He would break down again.
"I'm sorry," he whispers as he kneels at Aziraphale's side. "The conjuring miracles don't work, I need to do it like this. I know Satan miracled the shirt, really sorry for that. I'm going to use it to clean your wounds, though. That's a good use, right? Maybe negates the origin a bit?"
He bites his lips and squeezes the shirt slowly, letting a few drops fall into Aziraphale's mouth.
"Bodies need water, you know? Especially after losing a lot of blood. Better to take care of the body the human way and save your strength for your essence, okay?"
He lets the water drip slowly, willing it to go down smoothly around the intersection of the digestive and breathing tract - a major design flaw of human bodies and now that Aziraphale is breathing, it could cause a problem. Then he washes Aziraphale's face, cleaning the dried blood and sand from it. His fingers tremble over the gash that runs through the cheek and lips, but he forces them to be steady.
"I would carry you to the stream, but I don't want to cause you more pain by that," he continues talking despite knowing that Aziraphale can't hear him. "I don't think you would feel it right now, but I don't want to cause you pain. Never again. I want to soothe it, angel. Will you allow me?"
He knows he won't get an answer and so he gently dabs at one of the burns.
The sand is stuck to it, but Crowley never uses force. His hands are light and patient, removing grain by grain. He returns to the stream every time the shirt gets dirty or too dry.
"I will carry you closer to the water later, deal?" he continues speaking as he works. "When I find the best place and something comfortable you could lie on. The moss and grass here is quite soft and warm actually, as one could expect in Paradise. Kinda like an all-inclusive naturalistic hotel, I guess. You can't really expect the humans to know how to make a bed right after you've created them. But it can be better than this. I will make it so, alright? Once I heal you enough so I can move you without pain. I really hope I can heal you. There, that burn's all clean now. Let's try."
He's tense, half-expecting the miracle to not work, like his attempts at the stream. To his surprise, it does work. The mark of the Destroyer of Kings slowly fades, the charred flesh healing, covered with new skin.
There is no scar.
Crowley slumps with exhaustion, but almost laughs with relief. It works! It works and even better than expected. He was worried the sigils were enchanted and there would be scars, marking the angel with the Antichrist's titles forever. But it seems there will only be one sigil marking him forever, and it won't be the Antichrist's. That makes the smile disappear. He takes a deep breath, focusing on things he can do.
"The healing works great, angel. You are doing so well," he says encouragingly. But then his tone gets apologetic. "I'm just not sure I'll be able to steady my hands after I heal another one. It's a bit exhausting, I fear. I'm so sorry. So, I will clean all of them first, okay? I wish I wouldn't need to make such compromises, angel. I really do. You deserve the best, no compromises. You only have me here, though," he sighs.
He gets up to make a quick trip to the stream again. This time, he remembers to drink a bit, as well. It helps with the exhaustion. A little.
He returns with a clean shirt soaked in cool water and kneels at Aziraphale's side again.
"By the way, somehow my wounds got healed," he speaks as he cleans another burn from sand, as if Aziraphale could hear him. "I thought you might want to know. I did not do that… so I hoped yours might get healed as well, by whatever healed mine. It seems not. I'm sorry." He feels like he's constantly apologizing to the angel. He feels like he's not apologizing enough.
The sun is setting. A full day has passed since they got here and he only remembers about half of it. He's taking his time with the burns and gashes, working on an almost microscopic level if needed, just to not cause more pain than necessary.
"Must have been the fruit, I think," he says as he's almost finished with the last burn. "I was careful with it, tried to save it all for you. But I got some juice on my fingers. I don't remember what I did with that. Might have licked it, I guess. Yes, that might be it… And I'm finished here. You are doing so well. My brave angel. I'll clean your wings now, okay? The front first, and then I'll have to turn you over to get to your back. I'm sorry… I'll get clean water now."
He makes the trip again. He's not counting how many times he did that anymore.
"I'm back, angel. The wings, right? I… oh God… they are a mess… I'm sorry, I'm sorry… Don't worry, I'll be gentle. You won't even feel my touch, I promise."
He still hesitates before touching them, his hand shaking a little. Satan took out all his fury about Crowley's refusal on those wings. And Aziraphale had endured it, clutching a pickpocketed key in his palm without ever revealing it. A true guardian. And what did Crowley do in turn?
The memory threatens to overwhelm him. He can hear the sound of the whip on the wings, he can smell the blood. He knows what comes next.
He looks around, searching for something that looks real, that can stop the memory rising like bile in his throat.
There is the sky. The grass. The trees. Nothing seems real enough. There's Aziraphale. He's real, but he was there, his blood, his screams, his pain - all of that is real, too.
Crowley feels his heart racing and he tries to calm it, to take deep breaths. Deep… breaths. In… and out.
Aziraphale's fingernail is what brings him into focus. It's real and unhurt. It's just dirty. Crowley imagines taking the angel's hands and doing his manicure, like he used to in some other time, other life. Clipping the nails, filing and buffing them. Pushing back the cuticles, rubbing that clover and shea butter scented lotion into the soft skin…
A deep breath… in and out…
"I'm sorry… Getting to it now. The feathers will grow again. It will be fine…"
There's a lot of sand and dried blood.
"I wish there was another fruit," he sighs. "Can't really ask it from the poor tree, though. It did its best."
The trees around rustle their leaves mournfully.
"It stopped the hellfire, that's what matters most, even though it wasn't enough for anything else. Considering how little of it was needed to heal my back, I can't help feeling it's a bit unfair, though."
It's getting dark, but Crowley's serpentine eyes allow him to work as gently and precisely as in the light. Besides the moments when his vision gets blurry with tears. He continues talking to Aziraphale in a very one-sided conversation, telling him about everything he's doing, encouraging him and apologizing over and over.
When he is finished with the inner side of the wings, he gathers the softest moss he can find nearby and covers it with big leaves. Only then does he carefully turn Aziraphale on his belly and lay him on that cot.
He continues working on Aziraphale's back and outer side of his poor wings.
It's close to dawn when he is finally done and tries to gather enough strength for more healing miracles. One of those nasty burns in the crooks of Azirapahle's knees, he decides, because those must hurt with every movement and he doesn't need to turn the angel again to get to them.
He's tired. He knows he's using the last drops of his strength as he wills the burn to disappear.
Yet he extends his hand over another burn.
It starts to tremble. The burn is not healing.
It trembles violently and Crowley is gritting his teeth. The burn is not healing.
Finally he withdraws his hand, defeathed.
"I'm sorry…" he whispers, his words slurred with weariness. "I can't... Yes… damn useless again, I know…"
With those words, he sinks into the grass and falls asleep, covering Aziraphale with his wings.
He wakes around noon.
Heals the other burn.
Falls asleep again.
Next time he wakes, he leaves briefly to get some fruit. He avoids all apples, but manages to find pears. Aziraphale likes pears.
What is the nutritional value of pear juice? Crowley wonders as he assures it goes down smoothly past that tricky part of anatomy.
He eats the rest of the fruit because what else can he do with it and also because he knows that Aziraphale would want him to.
He's rewarded for it by managing to heal two burns and a few lashes on Aziraphale's wings before dropping with weariness again.
He stops trying to keep track of time after a while. Sometimes it's dark when he wakes, sometimes it's daylight. Aziraphale is always unresponsive, his essence still a spark of its former light. Not getting better, but not getting worse, either.
Crowley tries not to think, not to remember. He gets used to the simple cycle, focuses on it. Getting some fruit and water that will sustain the corporation without more strain to the angelic essence. Eating a bit to get a little boost for his own power. Healing as much as he can until he feels dizzy and too exhausted to continue. Sleeping to regain some strength. Over and over.
Until there is nothing left to heal - on the body, at least.
