It's forty five minutes past noon when Aziraphale starts the short walk back towards home, bottle of wine tucked safely in the crook of his arm as he exits the shop and joins the steady stream of people crowding the sidewalks. The day had started overcast, par for the course in London, but the sky has brightened up considerably since he left for his errand and so he sends a cheerful glance skyward as he walks.
It's just a small gesture of appreciation, really. The clouds could have hung around, cast their shadows on the city for the rest of the day, at which point they may have considered pulling a rain check for the picnic.
Although clouds usually seem rather perceptive, and he hopes they'll stay elsewhere by the time he's heading back outside towards the Bentley, basket and bottles and tartan blanket and Crowley all present and accounted for.
There seems to be many others taking advantage in the turn of the weather as well, the walkways more congested than usual and slowing down his trek home somewhat. He nearly drops his purchase when a crowd of young tourists all but crash into him as they both round a corner from opposite directions, but the boy with a slight limp and a camera around his neck catches the bottle at the last second before holding it back out to him carefully.
"Sorry about that."
"Oh, no harm done. Thank you," he takes the wine back, exchanges cordial smiles with the polite young man and continues on his way.
It's not until he's less than half a block away that he starts to feel the remnants of a ward cast around the shop. He frowns, is about to pick up the pace before he sees the Bentley parked at the curb and relaxes slightly.
Well, it was entirely likely Crowley just didn't want to deal with any potential customers.
He could have waited upstairs in the flat, of course, but then Aziraphale reconsiders the thought. Had he ever actually told Crowley to come and go as he pleased? It would be fine of course (more than fine?), but had he ever actually extended the offer in words?
He can't recall.
He resolves to make that offer today. It's the least he can do. Friends for over six thousand years, but he'd always been wary of stepping over some invisible line and alerting either of their respective head offices of the Arrangement, had always been good at avoiding any obscured boundaries that might tip them off.
Too good, maybe.
It doesn't matter. Things are good now, maybe better than they've ever been, and he can make that extra effort now.
The shop's entrance is unlocked even though the shades are still drawn, and that only reaffirms his belief in Crowley's disinterest in conversing with customers as he opens the door. The belief that's confirmed as he steps inside and sees the demon in question leaning heavily on a table with both arms, staring firmly at the page of a random, open book.
Later, Aziraphale will be guilt-ridden, thinking of how he should have noticed the way his arms shook slightly, how he wasn't staring at the book, but at nothing at all. How he should have felt the anger and the pain and the fear echoing in the room.
But in the moment, all he feels is joy from seeing his dearest friend, contentment from being reunited once again. "Crowley! So sorry to have kept you waiting, I thought I'd just nip out to -" he falters as he glances down, stops his next footfall just moments before he would have stepped on a pair of designer sunglasses. He picks them up, feels his heart drop painfully when he sees they're already cracked. "My dear, is everything alright?"
" 'm fine."
Aziraphale makes the few short steps over to the demon, places a hand on his back in concern, and withdraws it almost instantly when the hiss that escapes Crowley's lips almost sounds tangled with a sob.
He turns around, looking to leave the bottle on the nearest spot of free space in order to deal with the far more pressing concern that was rapidly making itself known, and distantly considers the fact that Crowley's blazer felt damp despite the fact it had never actually rained. He all but tosses the wine bottle onto a small end table, stops it from teetering off the edge with a haphazard thought. A good choice on the bottle's behalf, because he absolutely would have let it fall from his hand and shatter on the floor when he turns back to his friend and a scene straight out of his darkest nightmares.
The bookshop is unrecognizable from what he'd seen mere seconds before. Tables upturned, books and trinkets tossed everywhere, lamps and a window cracked, a box of his favourite chocolates and a mug with an angel-wing handle broken and scattered across the floor.
And blood. It's everywhere. Sprayed across tables and walls, pooled on the floor, seeping into cracks in the old wood. Blood, and skin, and...feathers? Black feathers.
He sees it all, but it barely registers because his eyes and his thoughts and his rapidly beating heart all focus solely on the demon who is no longer leaning on the table, who is instead trying to stagger the couple of steps needed to reach Aziraphale.
He too is covered in blood, rivulets of crimson dripping from torn sleeves to run off his fingertips and get lost amongst the gore-covered floorboards. It's near impossible to tell how badly his body is damaged, his dark clothes likely hiding much of the true extent, but it has to be nothing compared to the state of his wings.
Aziraphale had always thought Crowley's wings were beautiful - sleek and dark and well-cared for, much like everything else the demon took pride in. But what he's staring at now is nothing more than a horrifying distortion of what they used to be. Broken, mangled, useless things, stripped of feathers and in many places, skin and muscle as well. There's still more blood dripping from them, the sound of it hitting the floor in near perfect harmony with the ticking of the clock on the wall.
And there are tears already falling from bloodshot yellow eyes, which might somehow be the worst, most terrifying part. Had he ever seen Crowley cry before? Maybe he got a little weepy once or twice in the last six thousand years, when they were four bottles deep and humanity was struggling deeply, but never for himself.
Never.
Aziraphale is already in tears himself, already moving forward even as he takes it all in, arms extended, because he doesn't want Crowley to take another haggard step.
He doesn't, because his knees buckle and he pitches forward, but there's an angel this time to catch him when he falls.
Aziraphale holds him firmly with gentle hands, careful not to touch Crowley's shredded wings, keeps him upright. Any other position would cause even more jostling to his wings, cause more pain he most desperately wants to keep at bay. He feels trembling, bloodstained fingertips digging into his back, trying to grip on to some sort of stability, some kind of comfort. He tries to provide both as best he can.
"I'm here, it's safe now, nothing else is going to happen. I'm so sorry, sweetheart, I -"
His voice catches as the demon's head drops onto his shoulder, and Crowley begins to sob. Loudly, harshly, vocalising a pain Aziraphale has never had to suffer, but one similar to what he thinks Crowley himself may have gone through once before, a long, long time ago.
But he isn't alone this time. And needn't be ever again.
Aziraphale holds him as tightly as he dares, loathe to cause any more pain but determined to provide as much comfort as possible.
As angelically possible, preferably, but it's not even been a month since their trials and he doesn't want to attract any attention from upstairs with large miracles.
So instead Aziraphale continues to whisper comforting nothings, near fully supporting Crowley's weight as the demon continues to cry. He channels as much energy as he dares into the other as he tries to numb the pain and heal more superficial wounds. A slow and relatively minor, but steady stream that seems to start working it's magic when eventually the sobs begin to quieten.
Aziraphale still doesn't move as the other slowly begins to fall silent entirely, as the trembling shoulders and shaking hands become still. A little extra magic to help along unconsciousness was likely a blessing in disguise that the demon could still tolerate.
He stands motionless a moment longer, braces himself for the largest miracle he's prepared to carry out while simultaneously praying that somewhere, some other angel is pulling off something far larger at the same time, drawing any prying eyes from Heaven away from him and what he's about to do.
He snaps his fingers and the next instant finds them both upstairs in his bedroom. Crowley is no longer covered in blood or shredded clothes, instead dressed in comfortable sleep pants and a dark cotton shirt. His more concerning bodily wounds (had that been a stab wound between his ribs?) are already near healed, because the amount of blood downstairs in the shop was more than concerning. It had looked like far more than a human body should stand to lose, and if Crowley discorporated now, Aziraphale is frighteningly certain he would not be seeing the demon again.
So it wasn't an option, it had been a risk worth taking, and anything immediately threatening to his human body has been seen to.
None of that is really what Aziraphale is most worried about, however.
He'd also ensured Crowley's wings were seen to, the very worst of the damage healed just to the point where nothing would be irreversible. It would be slow going, the healing process - he couldn't do it all at once, that would almost certainly attract notice he wasn't interested in gaining them, but this was a start. And there are no trumpets sounding, no lightning strikes to announce the arrival of company he'd rather never keep again, so he considers his miracle both discrete and a success.
Besides, he isn't sure he would be able to heal Crowley's wings entirely with angelic magic anyway.
There's only one creature that would cause this kind of damage, never mind actually could, and their type of influence ran directly against the kind of which he would try to help with.
He has no idea what happened, but now certainly isn't the time to ask.
Aziraphale lays the demon on the bed carefully, resting on his side with wings gently spread out behind him. He's unsure when Crowley will wake up, so he makes short work of cleaning himself up. He removes his bloodstained coat, leaves it folded over the back of a chair before leaving to wash his hands and arms. He hadn't bothered to miracle himself clean - extra energy put to much better use elsewhere - and besides, there was no shame if he needed a minute or two alone in the bathroom to try and compose himself.
He's back in the bedroom within ten minutes, after having fixed himself up and placing a new, much more insistent ward around the shop. He sets a brand new pair of sunglasses fetched from the Bentley on the bedside table, ready should Crowley wish for them when he wakes up. Finally, he pulls his chair up beside the bed before settling himself into it.
There's the slow and steady sound of raindrops hitting the roof.
Clouds usually were rather perceptive.
He sits quietly, maybe for minutes, maybe for hours, watches his charge with a worried yet patient expression.
But however long it was, it wasn't as long as Aziraphale would have liked. That's not to say he doesn't feel immense relief as he sees yellow eyes slowly blink open, but at the same time, the longer Crowley stayed sleeping, the longer he wouldn't have to deal with all the pain and discomfort that consciousness would bring.
Aziraphale wants to ask so many questions, leading the charge with a near frantic what happened?
But that can wait for the moment.
"How are you?" He asks softly instead, when Crowley's bleary stare lands on him for a moment. The demon doesn't answer right away, nor does he move anything other than his eyes. His gaze moves from the angel to elsewhere in the room, including to the glasses beside the bed. He doesn't reach for them.
"Right fucked, actually," Crowley says eventually, quietly but with emphasis on certain words that Aziraphale has come to expect after such a long time as friends. "Or I would have been, without you." He pauses, once again looks around to meet the angel's gaze, and holds it this time. "Thank you."
In half a moment Aziraphale considers the countless times over the centuries they've told each other not to say those words, not to elaborate, not to bring it up again. He offers a small but sincere smile. "You are most welcome."
For his part, Crowley doesn't comment further and instead takes it upon himself to glance elsewhere around the room again. Aziraphale watches him notice the bloody handprints on the coat hung over his chair, and he has the audacity to look almost embarrassed as he purses his lips. "Sorry, angel. I'll fix that when I can.
Aziraphale takes the demon's hand resting on the bed between both his own without a second thought. "Darling, you will do nothing of the sort."
He might be imagining the flush high on Crowley's cheekbones, or maybe it's just more obvious against sickly pale skin. "But you said - a hundred and eighty years -"
"Means nothing at all compared to six thousand." His grasp is firm, and he hopes it helps to convey how adamantly he means the words. "Just as a coat means nothing at all compared to you. So it truly is the very least of my concerns."
He doesn't say anything else, only offers another smile and a return of the gesture when Crowley eventually gives his hand a tiny squeeze. Doesn't comment when he sheds a few more tears, only brushes them away with a gentle thumb.
Crowley doesn't let go of his other hand, though, not even after he's fallen asleep again. And Aziraphale doesn't loosen his grip, not even after the demon wouldn't know.
He can make the extra effort now.
Now more than ever.
