Living together was easier than Aziraphale might have expected.

The circumstances by which the situation had been brought about were less-than-ideal at best (and nothing short of horrifying at worst, which had unfortunately been the reality), but it had been a few weeks since he'd found a thoroughly destroyed bookshop with a thoroughly mangled demon, and things were, dare he say it, falling into some sort of familiar routine.

It was a little unexpected in the beginning, truthfully, but not awkward or even unwanted. Crowley just...never brought up the idea of heading home, and Aziraphale was certainly in no rush to put the thought in his head.

So they spent a lot of time in the flat, which had always been cozy enough for one but felt a little more like home with two.

Aziraphale had closed shop for the time being, had miracled clean any books he couldn't dare to part with (most of them, if he were being terribly honest) and tossed the others, along with knickknacks and furniture that had seen better, less bloody days. He could have saved it all easily enough, but he didn't want the reminders for Crowley or himself. He was sorry to see the angel mug go, but wouldn't have much enjoyed drinking from something he'd seen broken and smeared with dark blood.

He would always know the stain was there. Better to just be rid of it.

So the blinds were drawn, the door tightly locked and a ward in place that would alert them if anything of an occult (or ethereal) manner passed the threshold. He still received several calls a day, asking for specific titles or wondering when he'd be open again, but he only ever cited a family emergency and told them to check back soon.

"I hope everything's alright?" Particularly well-meaning patrons would sometimes ask before he was able to hang up the phone.

"Oh, yes, nothing at all to worry about. He'll be in tip-top shape again in no time at all, thank you so much for your concern. Do take care, now," and he would end the call before there could be anymore questions, least of all inquiries as to who 'he' was.

But Aziraphale was a bit of a liar when he said he wasn't worried for Crowley.

Just as he often was when he was talking to Crowley.

"This is one of my better ones, I do hope you like it," he would say, offering the demon another of his terrible tasting creations with what he hoped was a believable smile. He knew they were awful, but maybe if he were convincing enough the taste would just...change? He didn't want to outright miracle anything Crowley would be ingesting, who knew what the side effects of that might be for a demon.

But the thing was, he was a good cook (he'd learned from some of the best over the centuries, after all), and he did know how to make some great soups. But in lieu of not using any angelic alterations, he'd taken up trying human cures and supplements. They wouldn't help with everything, but Crowley did have a human body, after all, so surely it wouldn't hurt to try. So he had all sorts of things, small bottles from pharmacies and powdered vitamins from health stores and some dried herbs from the strange little shop down the street, the owner of which had assured him they would help with any common cold.

Aziraphale knew there was nothing common at all about what Crowley was dealing with, but some of his symptoms did seem similar to a human cold, so he'd agreed to try all the same. When her suggestions moved towards other solutions, such as burning some sage to purify the air, he politely declined and took his leave.

So he carried on with the awful tasting soups and hoped to see any sort of improvement at all. Tastes awful, and it works, he was pretty sure he'd heard that about human medicine once.

He had yet to see any of his attempts make much of a difference, though.

He tried to make up for that with baking, not altering any recipes at all and making enough that he would have been able to open a part-time bakery, should he have had any interest. And although he knew Crowley didn't often have much interest in sweets, anyone would have to prefer them to the other meals he'd been providing, and the demon turned out to be no exception.

Besides, baking was a labour of love, he'd heard that one before as well, and maybe love was as good a healing agent as the medicines.

Not that he was quite ready to admit that, when Crowley once asked why he did it. He was quite certain that at this point no one upstairs would be appearing to reprimand him (or worse) for fraternizing (or worse), but old habits and all that.

"Not to worry, we'll go another time," he would say cheerfully, after suggesting they perhaps go to the park for a picnic or for a stroll around the block - anything to get Crowley out of the flat, really - and seeing what little colour was left in the demon's face quickly drain away. The sharp spike of anxiety and borderline panic that would fill the room was impossible to ignore, and he always felt terrible about it. "It's looking rather cloudy today, anyway," he would add, taking another peek out the window.

It had been cloudy every day for weeks.

Sometimes Crowley suggested he go by himself, but Aziraphale would brush that thought away with a few words and touches. He really had no intention of letting the demon out of his sight for longer than an hour or so at a time, given his current state. And since Crowley seemed largely uninterested in leaving at all - to put it kindly - they both stayed put.

Truthfully, Crowley didn't much look like one ready to go out and interact with the public, anyway. The styled hair and carefully put-together outfits hadn't made appearances in some time, and although the housecoat Aziraphale had given him in a vain attempt to keep the shivering at bay was very nice, it really wasn't his style. And even if he did decide to get dressed, the dark rings around sunken yellow eyes very much gave the impression the demon should go and sleep for a week rather than go out for a picnic lunch. Crowley usually took a lot of pride in appearances, so the very idea that he couldn't be much bothered now was in and of itself a little concerning. But he certainly didn't need anything else weighing on him for the time being, so maybe it was good that he'd been avoiding mirrors ever since he'd caught a glimpse of his wings.

And his wings...

"They're coming along nicely, my dear," he would say, almost impressed with how believable his own voice sounded. Crowley, sitting cross legged on the floor in front of him, eyes closed and head in his hands, would offer some sort of noncommittal sound of agreement and not a lot else.

That was likely for the best, though, and Aziraphale was silently grateful that he never opened his eyes until his wings were hidden away again.

They were better than they had been the day he'd found Crowley in the bookshop, but 'better' was also a generous and somewhat subjective word.

There weren't any further injuries, or still freely bleeding wounds, or any trace of infection, which was actually surprising because there also wasn't much in the way of healing seeming to be happening either. There was no new skin growing over exposed bone and muscle, no downy feathers coming in to cover the frame of the wings. Any broken bones he'd set the day it first happened had stayed straight and were fusing back together, but they were the only thing seeming to be making any progress.

All in all, Crowley's wings were looking rather skeletal, in all senses of the word.

Nothing Aziraphale did seemed to be helping, and that was a realisation that was weighing on him more heavily each day.

And so, as he had countless times before for many different things, he turned to books for help.

He had quite the collection of..."reference" books acquired over the centuries - some likely reliable, some probably not - theology, demonology, occultism. He was prepared to look through them all, to try and find anything that might help explain what was happening, or point him in another direction to search.

A tiny miracle altered the appearance of the books to anyone except him, and therefore helped avoid any questions he might receive inquiring after the subject of his reading.

Not that that had ever been an issue in the past, and it certainly wasn't now. Crowley, although always respectful of the angel's collections and pastime, had never been too terribly curious about the contents of his books, pretending or otherwise - and nowadays he was usually too tired to even bother feigning any interest.

And so they spent many overcast afternoons on the sofa together, Crowley inevitably falling asleep before the first episode of whatever reality show he'd settled on was finished, and Aziraphale making his way through book after book, providing whatever small comforts he could to the sleeping demon even while he searched for a more longterm solution.

They were nice (the word he'd eventually settled on, for now), those times spent cuddled up together, but he couldn't shake the feeling they might be numbered (an especially frightening thought, for an immortal being) if he didn't find the answers he was looking for soon.

Aziraphale wasn't often one for sleep, and he certainly wasn't going to start now that there seemed to be a sort of theoretical timer for Crowley, counting down to something he tried desperately not to think about. The first night Crowley shuffled off to the bedroom to try and sleep proper, Aziraphale took as his chance to get some real research done in his study.

A noble intention that didn't even last an hour, because that was also the night they both learned about the dreams. It took Aziraphale far, far too long to wake the demon up, and the haunted eyes that met his worried gaze when he finally did broke another piece of his aching heart.

"It was nothing," Crowley would say roughly, wiping tears off his cheeks with a shaky hand before Aziraphale could do it for him. "I'm fine."

But he didn't resist in the slightest when the angel wrapped him in a hug, gentle near his shoulder blades, in a desperate attempt to reassure them both.

After it happened two nights in a row he took to retiring to the bed when Crowley did. He could still read there rather than the study, and being present from the moment Crowley started whimpering in his sleep meant he could provide a little angelic intervention almost immediately, and wake him up before the dream escalated.

The demon had never gone into too much detail about what had actually happened - "Some old friends came looking for me, things got a little heated" was Crowley's understatement of the decade, if not century - but Aziraphale knew well enough it was other demons, and probably not ordinary ones either, given the injuries that were still failing to heal several weeks on.

And that was to say nothing of the nightmares.

So he kept on reading, kept on looking for answers (or even a tiny hint at this point), and did his best to not be discouraged as his pile of books to check grew smaller and smaller.

"Do you need anything?" he asked one morning, glancing over to the opposite end of the sofa, from which Crowley hadn't yet migrated towards him. He was somewhat buried under a few fluffy blankets and staring blankly towards the television, and that was only a little concerning for the fact that he hadn't actually bothered to turn it on.

Crowley turned to meet his gaze, offered a tired smile that did nothing at all to alleviate the worry. "I'm fine. Right cozy, actually."

Aziraphale tried to smile back, knew his own was probably just as empty, and stood up to go and find another book.

Crowley wasn't fine. But he might be eventually, if he just kept looking.


It was late, just past three in the morning when Aziraphale sensed just the slightest disturbance to the ward around the shop. He looked up from the book in his hands, glanced at Crowley for half a moment - still sleeping peacefully - before snapping his fingers and reappearing in the darkened shop downstairs an instant later.

"Hello?" he demanded, well past any need for even false niceties as he lit up the room with a quick wave of his hand. The lights burned brightly, and the shop appeared to be empty and untouched.

But there was still a warning in his mind, like the softest of alarm bells chiming, and he knew there wasn't any chance of the ward tripping a false alarm.

"I know someone is there," he spoke loudly again, but then paused for a moment as the fact that he'd shown up for a confrontation without any sort of weapon caught up with him.

Well, no matter. He would improvise if he had to. The old letter opener on one of the desks looked particularly sharp.

He felt another shift, so quick and near unnoticeable it was akin to someone disappearing through the finest curtain of mist. Almost immediately the warning faded - and then three things happened, in near instant succession.

First, there was a heavy thud from the floor above.

Second, the screaming he'd quickly grown to dread like nothing else started.

And third, Aziraphale realised he'd been played for a sucker.

"Fuck," he was already back in the bedroom before he'd even finished the word, but he already knew he was too late.

Crowley was kneeling, hunched over on the floor - likely in the very same spot he'd fallen out of the bed - head in his hands as the continued screaming mixed with broken sobs. The back of his grey cotton shirt was intact, but it was damp with a slowly growing red stain.

Aziraphale dropped to his knees beside him, reached out a hand that was tentative only for the fact he didn't want to cause any more pain. "Crowley? It's me," he settled on touching a shoulder, but pulled his hand back quickly when the demon flinched. But he fell silent, as well, save for the unsteady breathing.

"It's me," he said again, soft but insistent, getting as close as he dared without touching him again. "Are you awake? It's Aziraphale, I -"

And Crowley looked up then, and the doubt and wavering disbelief in his stare was enough for the angel to feel heat behind his own eyes. He straightened ever-so-slightly, reached out his own hand to cautiously place cold fingertips on Aziraphale's cheek. "You're here?"

He grabbed Crowley's hand tightly with his own. "Yes, I - I'm so sorry..." he cut off his own guilt-ridden apologies when Crowley all but crumpled into him, apparently satisfied that the angel was real and snaking trembling arms around him in a desperate hug. He was crying again, but it was quiet this time and Aziraphale could only return the gesture, careful to avoid bleeding shoulder blades.

"Where were you?" Crowley asked after some time, head nestled in the crook of the angel's neck and arms tightening ever so slightly, as if he was afraid Aziraphale was about to try and move away.

A needless fear, because neither Heaven nor Hell would have been able to get Aziraphale to move an inch until Crowley was ready for him to do so.

"Only downstairs. The ward sounded and I thought...well, they fooled me. I'm sorry," he said it again, as though if he said it enough times, it might actually do any good. "It won't happen again, I promise."

Crowley was silent for a time, long enough that Aziraphale started to think that - somehow - he'd fallen asleep, but then he spoke again, nearly a whisper. "She said they'll be back soon."

"We'll be ready," he wanted to sound confident, and knew he'd probably failed spectacularly.

He didn't want to lie to Crowley, but it seemed to happen regularly nonetheless.

But he was well and truly at a loss now, and maybe - if he did want to be ready, if he didn't want it to be another lie - they needed some help from something more than books.