Crowley barely heard the booing coming from the crowd as he launched himself towards Aziraphale. He wrapped his arm around the other's waist and lifted to take pressure off of the remains of his wings before slicing the bonds that held him up. Aziraphale immediately slumped into him and Crowley had to hurry to make sure he was caught. While hovering this close Crowley had a clear view of the charred bones that were sprouted from Aziraphale's back, bits of muscle and nerve still visible clinging to them. If Aziraphale was capable of bleeding they would have a stream of blood flowing. As they were they twitched, instinctively trying to help Aziraphale take flight.

"Angel… angel!" Crowley cried as he cradled Aziraphale in his arms. Aziraphale whimpered a little as his left wing was pressed against Crowley's chest. "You'll be okay, you'll be fine," he barely heard himself as he spoke, lost in the feeling of his love in his arms until he was yanked back to reality by the feeling of something hitting him in the back directly between his wings, knocking him off balance for a moment, he had to flutter to stay up, instinctively holding Aziraphale tighter until he whimpered again. But Crowley couldn't let go as he noticed hundreds of demons that had been spectating beginning to boo as they realized Crowley hadn't gone up there to join in the fun.

"Heaven gave him to us!" Hastur shouted. "We can do what we want!" A few more rocks whizzed by Crowley's head and he could see a few wings raising as demons prepared to take flight.

Crowley didn't let the get as far as going into the air before he was gone, zipping away from there so fast his sunglasses fell off, revealing to everyone watching the absolute panic that was overtaking his expression. He glanced behind himself as he went and saw most of the demons losing interest and leaving, but a small, ferocious pack led by Hastur was ready to chase him down.

Crowley wasn't a particularly fast flyer, and with the weight of an unconscious figure in his arms even the fight or flight survival instinct wasn't enough to give him an edge. He did have one advantage, though, that no demon in hell could boast - Crowley had spent a lot of time around humans. He'd seen the entire evolution of humanity and had been watching races since the colosseum. And recently he'd been watching action movies. At the first chance he had Crowley turned down an alleyway, approaching it full speed, then tucking his wings in so that he fit, going forward like a bullet. He heard a thud as the demons in pursuit were taken by surprise.

Crowley stuck out one wing at a time to turn random corners, and though they hit walls and he could feel himself scrape a few feathers off each time he kept going. He could tell the mob going after him had split up because every once in a while he came across one of them. When it was one-on-one (or two vs. once if you count Aziraphale, which given the circumstances you shouldn't) he could swing out in a wide loop and kick them as hard as they could. A few times they dodged, but more often he surprised them enough to make solid contact with a wing, and even once Hastur's head.

He couldn't dawdle, though. He only had until they realized he was going back to Earth and went ahead to stop him there, and within a few minutes he reached the passageway between Hell and Earth and zoomed up into the bookshop. He could feel himself about to hit the floor so he wrapped his wings around himself to protect Aziraphale as they bounced for a little while, knocking over a few bookshelves. Eventually they rolled to a stop and it was just Crowley and Aziraphale in a cave made of jet black wings. Panting, he placed one hand on Aziraphale's cheek, and he kept his eyes trained on his love's face, unable to look at the charred remains of his wings.

His wings were up creating a cave there on the floor with only the two of them, no Heaven, no Hell, no company. Just the two of them. "Angel… Aziraphale…" Crowley hated the way his voice cracked. He hated the tears that ran down his nose and dripped onto his unconscious love's face. He screwed his eyes shut and pulled the other into his chest as sobs wracked his breaths. After a few moments he felt stirring, then his clothes being ruffled as Aziraphale grabbed it in handfuls. He couldn't tell who was shivering then, it may have been both as Aziraphale hummed small noises of protest.

"Don't cry," Aziraphale murured. "There's no need to cry."

Crowley let out a breathless sort of laugh. It was a relief to hear Aziraphale say something that only Aziraphale would say. "I'm sorry. Ange- Aziraphale. I'm so, so sorry."

"You haven't done anything."

"That's why I'm sorry."

A moment later there was some sort of moisture on Crowley's chest and he knew what it meant. His entire body tensed as he instinctively wanted to fight whoever made Aziraphale cry, but he knew there was no one person he could hold responsible. He wanted to tell Aziraphale not to cry, but he couldn't. Not when he remembered the excruciating pain when he'd fallen. Even after several thousand years he could still clearly feel all of his feathers burning off, burning through the skin and muscle until he thought there would be nothing left. And now Aziraphale - the wonderful angel Aziraphale - would also never be able to forget it.

No one will ever be sure exactly how long they sat there, but they only sat in a grief-stricken silence until Crowley felt Aziraphale's hands loosen and knew the other had lost consciousness again. Crowley was usually the only one to sleep, but with all the regeneration Aziraphale's body had to do he would be unconscious for a long time, and still tired when he awoke. Crowley slowly pushed himself to his feet, Aziraphale cradled in his arms when, like a bride over the threshold of their new house, Crowley carried him up to the flat. He created up there the most comfortable bed possible, covered with pillows and one of those fancy mattresses that adjusted to how you moved.

He settled Aziraphale on his stomach before gently adjusting the remains of his wings so that they were splayed across pillows. Aziraphale whimpered softly as Crowley moved them, and they twitched in his light grip, but he set everything up comfortable enough for a long, rejuvenating nap. For a moment Crowley sat on the bed next to Aziraphale's head, in the space above his shoulders and ran his fingers through Aziraphale's fluffy hair. Then he left his love to rest.

.o.O.o.

That night, for the first time in ten thousand years, Crowley prayed. But his prayers were not of the same nature as most prayers, and contained many uncouth words which will be here changed. "Hey, Almighty, you fridge-licking salamander. You and your bottom-feeding heckers you call angels need to go put a key in your porridge, because you've made a big festering mistake. You thieves of happiness should've kept your fresh daisies off of my cotton candy Aziraphale because now you've made me tickle your butterfingers, and I dare you to try to stop me. You may as well rename Heaven 'Swimming Pool' because without that perfect angel it's nothing but a swarm of nose-tickling, cup-listening, cat-cuddling milk jugs. You've made a mistake and you can never take it back. Maybe you're the one who should fall, go fall into a garden of yarn and when you do, along with all of your minions, I'll be laughing and you all can kiss my ant farm. And if I see any one of your cankerblossoms on Earth trying to get to him they'll wish they'd fallen instead of him because Hell would be far more merciful than me." Or, to translate into clearer language, Crowley said, "you've made a mistake, Aziraphale doesn't deserve this."

Once he finished, breathless, disheveled, and worse for wear, Crowley only stood there in the center of the shop. Then he did the only thing he could to help Aziraphale; he began to pick up the fallen books.