He was wrong.
The shop's bell jingled, the unexpected sound making Crowley almost jump out of his skin.
"Shop's closed, go away," he shouted.
Angelic presence was suddenly everywhere. For a gleeful moment Crowley stared at the unconscious form on the sofa, expecting the bright blue eyes to flicker open, then he realised it wasn't the familiar, comfortable presence of Aziraphale he could feel.
"Who's there?" he asked, stepping out of the back room into the shop. The figure standing in the shop, looked like a tall middle-aged man, staring at the books in a slightly dazed fashion. He was dressed in the green overalls of a paramedic's uniform. Crowley wasn't certain if it was a heavenly power or the effect of the uniform, but he felt his own panic subside at the sight.
"Where is he Crawly?" asked the angelic paramedic.
"It'ssss Crowley. He'ssss through here," said Crowley, confusion making him hiss as his mind raced with nervous hope. He led the way into the back room.
The green-clad angel stopped in his tracks as he saw the tattered Aziraphale. "Oh,dear," he said vehemently, the air around him actually turning slightly blue with unspoken profanities. He knelt down by the side of the sofa, turning his back on Crowley and muttering to himself.
"C-can you ---? Is he ---? Who are---?" And was it really possible that his prayers had been answered? If so then the entire world and everything he knew was topsy-turvy, but it didn't really matter, did it, if this angel could save Aziraphale?
The angel turned infinitely kind eyes on the demon and let his human disguise waver for a moment.
Crowley had to think back 6,000 years to recognise features he had last seen in Eden, before the angel had ascended into heaven after having a cosy chat with Adam. "Raphael?" asked Crowley.
The angel nodded. "I can help him," he said, then quickly, "Whoa! Steady Crowley lad, sit down before you fall down."
Somewhere in Crowley's by now utterly muddled mind, he took offence that Raphael was patronising him, and reasoned that he ought not to obey him. Unfortunately for his injured dignity, his treacherous shaking knees gave way and he flopped inelegantly onto Aziraphale's best Persian rug.
The room finally stopped spinning and Crowley was able to watch Raphael at work.
Wherever Raphael's fingers lightly brushed Aziraphale's body, livid wounds closed, blisters shrank and skin smoothed. Where scorched shreds of raiment were seared into the flesh, the angel delicately lifted them away. Angry red and black cooled to soft white. The twisted and clearly shattered shoulder reshaped itself.
After a few moments, Crowley turned his head away and stared instead at the pattern on the rug. There was something about the slow, gentle, exploration of the angel's body that was almost too intimate to watch.
A knife-twist of envy in his stomach. This angel, who had probably barely spoken to Aziraphale in 6,000 years of existence, could heal him with barely an effort, was currently bonded with him in a manner so intense it made the air around the two angels fuzzy.
Surely, thought Crowley, he could just miracle the whole lot better in one go. Unless, of course, he just wanted to rub it in, remind Crowley of the unbridgeable difference between them, remind him that he had been unwilling to help, had been unable to heal.
He didn't realise that he was snarling until Raphael interrupted his thoughts.
"I can't heal him all at once, the shock would be too much. We almost lost him altogether Crowley," the angel spoke aloud.
'Get out of my head,' snapped Crowley in thought.
'Sorry,' thought back the angel, then tried to send vague soothing thoughts to Crowley, which only had the effect of making him angrier.
"There," said the angel, reaching a fingertip and standing back to admire his work. Aziraphale lay naked on the sofa, his body once again whole and beautiful - in a way that really hurt the eyes if you looked at it too long. It was much easier to look at the angel in his human form with all of its familiar imperfections, thought Crowley.
The wings were still in ruins and Raphael knelt again and began combing into shape what was left.
"This could take some time," said the angel. "And we need to have a little chat."
"Yeah? What about?" asked Crowley.
"You prayed Crowley. Knocked directly on heaven's gate. Demons just don't do that. They call up to rail angrily about divine judgement occasionally, but they don't pray for help for their enemies."
"Oh, that, er, well, um. I'm not sure enemies is strictly fair."
"The thing is Crowley, you knocked. So you can come back in. Redemption. Be an angel again."
Crowley knew the answer to that one. "What would you do if offered redemption?" It was one of the topics that frequently came up during the fourth or fifth bottle of wine.
"No thanks," he said. "I like being a demon."
Raphael raised an angelic eyebrow, then added several rows of feathers to the wing he was working on.
"Really," insisted Crowley.
Raphael glanced from angel to demon and a small puzzled frown appeared on his brow. "I don't understand," he said. "Surely it would be easier for both of you---"
"Easier?"
The angel blushed celestial rosy red, as he once had when Adam asked him to explain how heavenly spirits expressed their love. "Um, you know, union of pure with pure desiring," he muttered. "You're not pure. So you're immiscible."
Crowley didn't know the answer to that one. They'd never, ever got through enough wine to get onto that topic. He stared pointedly at the frayed edges of the rug, feeling his ears turning a demonic beet red.
"Um, ah," he said.
The angel finished off the wing and stretched it out to admire it, before moving on to the other one.
Obviously just as lost for words as Crowley, he took refuge in a speech he had made 6,000 years earlier. "Without love, no happiness, you know and all that."
The rug was really, really interesting.
"Sorry Raphael," he finally began. "I know you're an old romantic, but I couldn't stick to heaven's rules. Imagine the mess if I fell all over again. And I would you know. And it wouldn't be fair." He looked up from the rug and fixed his eyes on his old adversary and best friend. "It works, somehow, like this Raphael. It's not perfect happiness, but sometimes it's sort of better."
Raphael stretched out the other mended wing and nodded in satisfaction. Then he bent over the still motionless angel and planted a soft kiss on his brow. Aziraphale fidgeted and made a small sleepy complaining sound.
"He'll sleep for an hour or so yet. Look after him Crowley." Then, to Crowley's surprise the angel stooped to where he was sitting on the rug and kissed his brow too.
"No-one who knocks is turned away Crowley. If you change your mind the offer will stand." The uniformed angel left the room. The shop bell didn't ring, but Raphael's presence faded anyway.
When he was sure they were alone, Crowley struggled to his knees and knelt beside the sofa. He buried his face in the nearest of Aziraphale's great white wings, breathing in the warm softness, the newness, the pureness, the sheer Aziraphaleness of it. The feathers tickled his nose.
The angel shifted a little in his sleep and twisted onto his side. The other wing furled down over Crowley like a big feathery blanket.
"Thank you," whispered Crowley. The silence was still there and he knew this was likely to be his last prayer for a very long time. He hoped it was heard.
The End
The shop's bell jingled, the unexpected sound making Crowley almost jump out of his skin.
"Shop's closed, go away," he shouted.
Angelic presence was suddenly everywhere. For a gleeful moment Crowley stared at the unconscious form on the sofa, expecting the bright blue eyes to flicker open, then he realised it wasn't the familiar, comfortable presence of Aziraphale he could feel.
"Who's there?" he asked, stepping out of the back room into the shop. The figure standing in the shop, looked like a tall middle-aged man, staring at the books in a slightly dazed fashion. He was dressed in the green overalls of a paramedic's uniform. Crowley wasn't certain if it was a heavenly power or the effect of the uniform, but he felt his own panic subside at the sight.
"Where is he Crawly?" asked the angelic paramedic.
"It'ssss Crowley. He'ssss through here," said Crowley, confusion making him hiss as his mind raced with nervous hope. He led the way into the back room.
The green-clad angel stopped in his tracks as he saw the tattered Aziraphale. "Oh,dear," he said vehemently, the air around him actually turning slightly blue with unspoken profanities. He knelt down by the side of the sofa, turning his back on Crowley and muttering to himself.
"C-can you ---? Is he ---? Who are---?" And was it really possible that his prayers had been answered? If so then the entire world and everything he knew was topsy-turvy, but it didn't really matter, did it, if this angel could save Aziraphale?
The angel turned infinitely kind eyes on the demon and let his human disguise waver for a moment.
Crowley had to think back 6,000 years to recognise features he had last seen in Eden, before the angel had ascended into heaven after having a cosy chat with Adam. "Raphael?" asked Crowley.
The angel nodded. "I can help him," he said, then quickly, "Whoa! Steady Crowley lad, sit down before you fall down."
Somewhere in Crowley's by now utterly muddled mind, he took offence that Raphael was patronising him, and reasoned that he ought not to obey him. Unfortunately for his injured dignity, his treacherous shaking knees gave way and he flopped inelegantly onto Aziraphale's best Persian rug.
The room finally stopped spinning and Crowley was able to watch Raphael at work.
Wherever Raphael's fingers lightly brushed Aziraphale's body, livid wounds closed, blisters shrank and skin smoothed. Where scorched shreds of raiment were seared into the flesh, the angel delicately lifted them away. Angry red and black cooled to soft white. The twisted and clearly shattered shoulder reshaped itself.
After a few moments, Crowley turned his head away and stared instead at the pattern on the rug. There was something about the slow, gentle, exploration of the angel's body that was almost too intimate to watch.
A knife-twist of envy in his stomach. This angel, who had probably barely spoken to Aziraphale in 6,000 years of existence, could heal him with barely an effort, was currently bonded with him in a manner so intense it made the air around the two angels fuzzy.
Surely, thought Crowley, he could just miracle the whole lot better in one go. Unless, of course, he just wanted to rub it in, remind Crowley of the unbridgeable difference between them, remind him that he had been unwilling to help, had been unable to heal.
He didn't realise that he was snarling until Raphael interrupted his thoughts.
"I can't heal him all at once, the shock would be too much. We almost lost him altogether Crowley," the angel spoke aloud.
'Get out of my head,' snapped Crowley in thought.
'Sorry,' thought back the angel, then tried to send vague soothing thoughts to Crowley, which only had the effect of making him angrier.
"There," said the angel, reaching a fingertip and standing back to admire his work. Aziraphale lay naked on the sofa, his body once again whole and beautiful - in a way that really hurt the eyes if you looked at it too long. It was much easier to look at the angel in his human form with all of its familiar imperfections, thought Crowley.
The wings were still in ruins and Raphael knelt again and began combing into shape what was left.
"This could take some time," said the angel. "And we need to have a little chat."
"Yeah? What about?" asked Crowley.
"You prayed Crowley. Knocked directly on heaven's gate. Demons just don't do that. They call up to rail angrily about divine judgement occasionally, but they don't pray for help for their enemies."
"Oh, that, er, well, um. I'm not sure enemies is strictly fair."
"The thing is Crowley, you knocked. So you can come back in. Redemption. Be an angel again."
Crowley knew the answer to that one. "What would you do if offered redemption?" It was one of the topics that frequently came up during the fourth or fifth bottle of wine.
"No thanks," he said. "I like being a demon."
Raphael raised an angelic eyebrow, then added several rows of feathers to the wing he was working on.
"Really," insisted Crowley.
Raphael glanced from angel to demon and a small puzzled frown appeared on his brow. "I don't understand," he said. "Surely it would be easier for both of you---"
"Easier?"
The angel blushed celestial rosy red, as he once had when Adam asked him to explain how heavenly spirits expressed their love. "Um, you know, union of pure with pure desiring," he muttered. "You're not pure. So you're immiscible."
Crowley didn't know the answer to that one. They'd never, ever got through enough wine to get onto that topic. He stared pointedly at the frayed edges of the rug, feeling his ears turning a demonic beet red.
"Um, ah," he said.
The angel finished off the wing and stretched it out to admire it, before moving on to the other one.
Obviously just as lost for words as Crowley, he took refuge in a speech he had made 6,000 years earlier. "Without love, no happiness, you know and all that."
The rug was really, really interesting.
"Sorry Raphael," he finally began. "I know you're an old romantic, but I couldn't stick to heaven's rules. Imagine the mess if I fell all over again. And I would you know. And it wouldn't be fair." He looked up from the rug and fixed his eyes on his old adversary and best friend. "It works, somehow, like this Raphael. It's not perfect happiness, but sometimes it's sort of better."
Raphael stretched out the other mended wing and nodded in satisfaction. Then he bent over the still motionless angel and planted a soft kiss on his brow. Aziraphale fidgeted and made a small sleepy complaining sound.
"He'll sleep for an hour or so yet. Look after him Crowley." Then, to Crowley's surprise the angel stooped to where he was sitting on the rug and kissed his brow too.
"No-one who knocks is turned away Crowley. If you change your mind the offer will stand." The uniformed angel left the room. The shop bell didn't ring, but Raphael's presence faded anyway.
When he was sure they were alone, Crowley struggled to his knees and knelt beside the sofa. He buried his face in the nearest of Aziraphale's great white wings, breathing in the warm softness, the newness, the pureness, the sheer Aziraphaleness of it. The feathers tickled his nose.
The angel shifted a little in his sleep and twisted onto his side. The other wing furled down over Crowley like a big feathery blanket.
"Thank you," whispered Crowley. The silence was still there and he knew this was likely to be his last prayer for a very long time. He hoped it was heard.
The End