There are so many characters that I feel sorry for in this fic. But not Michael. She deserves having her wings clipped.
Aziraphale didn't know how long that he sat there, silent and motionless as he perched on the edge of the bed. Surrounded by yellow divider panels and soft music. Watching Crowley carefully for any sign that he was waking up or that anything was going wrong. Because he would call for help the instant that it looked like his demon was in trouble. He would be prepared for whatever happened to Crowley, good or bad. Aziraphale sat there like a statue. Perfectly patient and attentive.
Every slight movement as Crowley slowly breathed in and out. His slack features. The way he lay curled on his side, wrapped in gauze and covered by a blanket. Aziraphale studied every detail with fierce focus.
"Aziraphale?"
Perhaps a little too much focus. He couldn't help jumping at the unexpected interruption beside him.
He hadn't heard or seen anything slip into his curtain-surrounded sanctuary. Not until Warlock spoke quietly, alerting the angel to his presence right next to him. The fact that someone snuck up on him when Aziraphale was on guard was mildly distressing, but it was Warlock and avoiding notice was one of his talents. Even more distressing was his presence in Heaven, wearing an oversized knit jumper and his backpack like it was just a school trip. The boy shouldn't be in Heaven. Not while he was still alive and mortal. It went against all the rules in so many different ways. And it was dangerous.
But he, Adam, and the Them had a knack for getting into places they weren't supposed to be. Like sneaking into Hell and now Heaven.
"Warlock, what are you doing here?" he asked, rising to his feet as he rerouted some of his concern over Crowley into calmly panicking over their godchild's presence.
He didn't immediately answer. Warlock's eyes were locked on Crowley. Worry etched in the boy's pale features. His eyes moved across the gauze and the scabbed over cuts that decorated the demon's corporation, staring with such intensity that Aziraphale would have almost believed that Warlock could Look down towards the true form's wounds as well. [49]
"Warlock?" said Aziraphale gently, reaching for the boy's face and turning him away from the demon.
Blinking rapidly, he said, "I had a Dream… An angel attacked and there was a sword… I was going to warn you and Nanny. But… I guess it was the past, not the future."
"I'm afraid so," he said with a slow nod. "Michael tried— She tried to kill Crowley. And she came close. Too close. But Raphael saved him." Swallowing hard and giving a firmer nod, Aziraphale said, "He'll be all right, Warlock. It may take Crowley some time to recover fully and I might need to stay here with him a little longer until he's able to come home, but he will be all right. I promise."
Warlock blinked a few more times. His eyes shiny and wet, but no tears fell.
"I'm sorry. If I could control my Dreams," said Warlock shakily, "I could have prevented this. And Nanny wouldn't have been hurt. It's my—"
"No. None of this is your fault, Warlock. And it is better not to try to summon those Dreams," he said firmly. "Seeing the future drives most humans mad and none of us want to see that happen to you. But this isn't your responsibility. The only one to blame for what happened is Michael." Straightening slightly, Aziraphale said, "That does not mean, however, that I am comfortable with you being here. I told you not to break into Heaven."
Rubbing his eyes briefly and shrugging, Warlock said, "I was worried and was trying to warn you. I couldn't stay with Anathema and Newt if you two were in danger."
"I understand your concerns. But now that you know that we're safe, you need to return to Earth before someone sees you."
"No one sees me when I don't want them to," he muttered under his breath.
Warlock took a step back from the angel. He looked towards Crowley, as if trying to convince himself that Aziraphale was right about the demon being all right. Unfortunately, it wasn't something easily proven. Not with Crowley unconscious, his wounds still obvious despite the dressings, and the knowledge of what horrors that Warlock's Dreams showed him. It was something that he would simply have to trust Aziraphale about.
A leap of faith. Similar to the one that the angel was taking, trusting that Crowley would be fine and would come back to them.
"You'll both be safe here?" asked Warlock.
Smiling reassuringly, he said, "Raphael would never allow someone to harm a patient in his care. His healing ward is a sanctuary."
"My Dream had Michael attacking Nanny here," he said with a scowl.
"Well, yes, she did, but— That didn't go so well for her. Raphael punished her for what happened and I doubt she will attempt such a thing here again."
Though the Archangel's protection wouldn't extend beyond the healing ward. And there was no guarantee that Michael wouldn't try to destroy Crowley again. That fear gnawed at the back of Aziraphale's mind, but he did his best to shove it down. That was a worry for another day. A day after his demon was awake and healed again. A day when they were prepared to face the world again. He could procrastinate on worrying about Michael for a little while.
For now, all he had to worry about was staying with Crowley and making certain that Warlock was safe and cared for in the meantime.
"All right," said Aziraphale before pulling the boy into a short hug. "I wish that you could stay to visit with Crowley for a little longer, but you need to return to Earth. This is no place for a living human. Do you think that you can sneak back out the way that you snuck in? Or I could escort you. In fact, I probably should go with you as a responsible guardian…"
Shrugging, Warlock said, "I'll be okay. You should stay with Nanny." He stopped over to the bed and briefly squeezed Crowley's hand. "I can take care of myself. I even have the weird locating crystal to help me find stuff. I won't get lost and I won't be seen."
Part of Aziraphale knew that he should go with Warlock. Even with the crystal and the boy's knack for stealth, it was irresponsible to let him go alone. The very idea made guilt squirm in his gut. He was supposed to take care of Warlock.
But another part of him couldn't bear the idea of stepping away from Crowley, of letting his demon out of his sight for even a moment. As if something else might happen to him. And he knew that Warlock managed to win a face off with Satan when he was younger than he was now. He was a very capable teenager. Sneaking back out of Heaven with all of his advantages should be safe enough. It couldn't be more dangerous than sneaking in.
"Please be careful," said Aziraphale firmly. "And when you get back down to Earth, you will stay with Anathema and Newt until I return. And I hope you realize that you are grounded for the foreseeable future."
Warlock shrugged and said, "Yeah, I kind of guessed that. I figured it was worth the risk."
Aziraphale gave him another hug. Maybe a little tighter and longer than normal. Maybe he was channeling some of his worry over Crowley into that hug. Holding Warlock closer than he dared to hold the demon while he seemed so fragile. But it couldn't last forever. Eventually the hug ended and Warlock stepped back.
"When Nanny wakes up, tell him that I came to see him," said Warlock quietly, "and that I'm sorry I couldn't help more."
Then he slipped out before Aziraphale could protest that the boy did more than enough or to even say another word. Sliding between the yellow fabric panels and vanishing from sight. Aziraphale stared at the empty space where Warlock used to be. Guilt and worry churning in his stomach as he thought about all the things that could go wrong. Then he pushed his anxiety down as best that he could.
Warlock would be fine. Aziraphale would have to have faith.
This time, Aziraphale didn't merely sit on the edge of the bed like before. He manifested his wings and slipped his shoes off. Then he slowly lowered himself until Aziraphale was lying next to Crowley. He draped his wing across the demon like a feathered blanket. Carefully sheltering Crowley like he did thousands of years ago during the first storm, keeping him safe and close. The two of them curled up together the same way that they did every night in their own bed.
Aziraphale could almost close his eyes and pretend that they were back home. He could almost pretend that none of the recent awful things had happened.
Michael prided herself on her self-control. She was the Archangel of War. A wild and unfocused combatant would always be the first to fall. She wasn't impulsive or prone to temper tantrums. That was why her absolute rage was boiling under the surface. Hiding it away behind a mask of control.
How dare Raphael side with the traitors? Trying to heal the demon before she interrupted? Clipping her wings, grounding her for the foreseeable future? If he wasn't a healer and a fellow Archangel, Michael would have tried to beat his head in with his own cane. [50]
But at least Michael had succeeded. She tried to sooth her bruised ego with that knowledge. She'd poured her power deep into the demon's core, sending a blast of destruction and aggression to wipe out any trace of life. Extinguishing the remaining hints of existence. With her strength and the demon's defenses down, he had no chance of survival regardless of Raphael's efforts. Even miracles had their limits.
Her anger refused to be snuffed out though. It was humiliating. Being reprimanded like a clumsy and accident-prone soldier at the beginning of training. Having her feathers sliced like that. Michael hated everything about it. And even withal of her self-control, some of her anger managed to seep into her expression. Enough that no one tried to get in her way as she headed to her office after disposing of all evidence of her secret torture chamber.
Because of how wrapped up she was in simmering rage, [51] Michael didn't notice anything as she stomped her way into the room while slamming the door behind her. An office that should have been empty. That she expected to be empty.
She didn't notice anything until a sharp pain sliced at the back of her right thigh and into her true form, something snapping with the impact as her leg collapsed under her. Michael snarled in pain as she hit the ground. But before she could react to the surprise attack, there was something tackling her on her back to wrench up her head and a sharp blade into her throat hard enough to draw blood.
Not just blood, but ichor. Just like how it was pouring out of her leg, pooling on the white and shining floor. There was a cursed blade trying to slit her throat. Michael wisely remained still. At least until she had a better handle on her current foe.
"Archangel Michael," growled the young voice, owner of the arm pulling her head back to expose her throat and the cursed weapon cutting into her skin.
He was young. Probably not a trained warrior. She might be able to overpower him and turn the tables. But with the cursed blade threatening to kill her and with her mobility hindered by the severing of her hamstring, Michael wasn't completely certain she could react fast enough to survive. Both of them perishing was not ideal. She needed to wait for her moment. To figure out more about who she was facing.
"You kidnapped Nanny," he continued, the blade still digging into her flesh and prickling at her true form. "You tried to kill him. That's unacceptable."
Narrowing her eyes suspiciously, Michael said, "You're the decoy Anti-Christ, aren't you? The boy that everyone believed would start the apocalypse, but turned out to be nothing more than a distraction."
The knife pressed harder against her throat, more blood seeping out of the wound. She was losing far more from the deeper cut on her leg, pain radiating from the injury. A different kind of distraction. Michael's hand slowly drifted towards her jacket pocket. She didn't have a sword with her currently, but there should be a small knife of her own. Being armed might help turn the tables. A miracle might not be fast enough, but a sudden stabbing might catch him by surprise.
"I'm not a decoy," he growled. "I'm Warlock Dragon, the Anti-Christ. And you tried to take away what is mine. The last person who tried that was Hastur, Duke of Hell. I killed him for that. That's where I got this knife from. The person before that who tried it was Satan and I hit him with holy water and forced him into a deal where he lost all right to Crowley. I crush my enemies beneath my heel and you've made yourself my enemy."
Her hand moving slowly towards her hidden weapon, Michael said, "So you decided to hamstring one of the Lord's angels? And do you intend to try killing me next?"
"If I wanted to kill you, I would have slit your throat as soon as you hit the ground and stab you a few more times just in case. You would have been dead before you figured out I was here. But I don't want to keep killing everyone. That takes up a lot of time." Warlock chuckled humorlessly. "I was supposed to go watch the new superhero movie. Instead, you're going around hurting Crowley for no reason."
"No reason?" she snarled. "That coward used holy water on Ligur. He deserves to suffer."
"Self-defense," he snapped back. "And what do you want? Some stupid revenge cycle? He kills Ligur, so you try to kill Crowley? And then I kill you? What's next? Someone kills me and then they get killed in retaliation? That's how you start up a dumb Final War and we're not doing that. And I don't like killing people. So you and Crowley, Aziraphale, and me? We're calling it even and dropping this whole mess right now. Everyone ignores and leaves each other alone."
"Or else what?"
"I've proven exactly how easy it is to sneak up on you. This was your only warning. If you ever try something like this again, I'll kill you and you won't even know I'm there until it's over."
Her fingers wrapped around the hilt in her jacket pocket and Michael struck out. Ripping the small knife out, twisting around, and slashing at where the human child should be. Except the grip on her had released second before and the blade whistled through empty air. A moment, later, she heard her office door swing closed.
He was gone. The human had left with the strange stealth that he'd used to attack her. Leaving her alive, but bleeding.
Bleeding rather badly. Michael grimaced as she reached back, applying pressure to the deep wound to the back of her leg. Pain throbbed all the way up and down the useless limb. A healing miracle slowed the bleeding and roughly patched the injuries, but an occult blade that sliced into her true form needed more than that. It was something better suited for a healer to repair.
Unfortunately, Michael was not currently welcome in the healing ward.
Biting back several sharp words that were unbecoming of an angel of the Lord, Michael dug through her pocket for her phone. It she couldn't go to the healing ward, then she would need to see if one of Raphael's assistants could pay her a visit. They would help her regardless. Tending the wounded was a healer's responsibility. But she would rather not go crawling back to Raphael after her actions in the healing ward. [52]
A smart warrior knew how to pick her battles. Making Raphael into her enemy was dangerous. Targeting the two traitors further risked drawing attention to how she was bending the orders to leave them alone and apparently risked the strange human boy trying to stealthily murder her. And going directly after a short-lived mortal child would only imply that she was afraid of him. None of these battles were worth the effort.
She would leave all of them alone. Not because of Warlock's threats. Of course not. Michael simply recognized that they weren't worth further effort. Especially with the demon certainly destroyed, regardless of what the boy might believe.
Pain. There had been so much pain. Even more than the pain already wracking him, corporation and true form both. A sharp, shredding, and overwhelming paint that had jolted through him. Deep into him. The deepest part of him, unhindered and defenseless. An unraveling pain that gave way to cold darkness that plunged him towards emptiness.
But something red-hot had kept forcing itself into that cold emptiness. And eventually that strange inferno had warmed him enough that the darkness felt less like a waiting abyss. Leaving him to drift. Letting the quiet darkness cradle him like the ocean carrying a boat. He could practically feel the waves rocking him as he floated in an unconscious state. Nothing thinking or remembering anything except that previous pain. Too exhausted and worn away for real thought.
He almost wished that he could continue drifting in that darkness forever. It left the pain far away and the chill was almost gone now. The way it wrapped around him felt gentle. He wanted to stay like that where the pain and memories couldn't reach him.
Memories found him regardless. Memories of torture. Of rescue. Of Aziraphale bringing him to Raphael for healing. Of Michael appearing—
Michael. She was near Aziraphale. With a sword. His angel was in danger.
He needed to save Aziraphale. That realization urged him to start clawing his way out of that darkness. Trying to find his way back to awareness. Trying to reach his angel.
As he became more aware of his true form and his physical body, the pain grew more noticeable. The different types of pain. Most of it a duller ache of healing wounds, but some still felt sharper. As if they were inflicted seconds before. The deep and awful wounds on this back that stretched much further down into his true form. And the horrible gaping emptiness that he struggled to ignore, not wanting to face what was taken from him. The awfulness that he couldn't yet consider.
But there were other things. Softness under him. A softness brushing against him from above. Something wrapped snug around his abdomen. Quiet music. [53] And a few different scents. Not many, but a few. Antiseptic, ozone, clean linens, and…
Angel.
Not just any angel, but his angel. Aziraphale. He knew what Aziraphale smelled like. He took a deep breath, trying to soak in the comforting scent.
Weary and aching, he cautiously tried to open his eyes. He knew it would probably be painfully bright. The world always seemed that way after a long nap. But he needed to see his angel.
He'd already known that he was curled on his side and he'd guess that he was on a bed. And between his most recent memories, the pain still running through him, and the handful of scents, he was guessing that he was in Raphael's healing ward. But when Crowley managed to open his eyes a crack, he was confused by the dim light. Like it was being filtered through something soft and cream above him. And more importantly, there was a familiar face with bright eyes staring right back at him. A strained and worried expression that shifted towards timid hope. A timid and uncertain hope, as if afraid that they were imagining the demon waking up.
He'd seen that expression before. When Aziraphale found him strung up for Michael's torturing pleasure, trapped on the verge on discorporating. And when they were in the Annex in Hell. His angel scared of losing him and hoping that the worst was over.
But the important part was that Michael didn't seem to be there. No one was threatening his angel. Aziraphale was safe. Crowley could relax. He didn't need to protect his angel at the moment.
Which was good. Crowley wasn't certain that he could move much currently. Not with how exhausted he felt or how much he suspected it would hurt. Though he would certainly try if Aziraphale was threatened.
"Angel," he murmured.
Smiling as he blinked back tears, Aziraphale whispered, "Welcome back, my dearest."
One of Crowley's hands slid across the bedsheet. Reaching for his angel, the effort far more difficult than it should have been. Aziraphale wrapped his own hand around Crowley's and brought it up to press a kiss to the demon's knuckles. Even that much movement felt exhausting for his aching body, but it was worth it.
"I lost you, Crowley," he whispered. "You were gone. Not nearly gone, but truly gone. Michael— She… Her power… She… And you…" Aziraphale blinked rapidly as the tears threatened to fall. "Raphael managed to pull you back. After she tried to— After what happened. But it nearly didn't work. What she did to you… He barely saved you. You were gone and he almost couldn't save you."
"But he did save me," reassured Crowley. "I'm here. I'm right here, angel. I won't leave you."
"No, I suppose you wouldn't," he said. "Thank you for coming back to me."
"Always, angel."
They fell into a comfortable silence. [54] Which would normally be nice. Except it left Crowley with too much time to think to think about what happened to him at Michael's hands. Especially when he realized that it was Aziraphale's wing above him.
Crowley didn't want to think about it. He'd worked very hard not to think about it while he was still strung up in chains or even when they were in the middle of the daring escape. But now that he was relatively safe and things were calm, it was much harder to avoid thinking about what happened.
The pain and weariness could be handled, but the horrible wounds to his true form… The awful emptiness left behind from something vital being carved out of him. The sharp pain and knowledge that he'd lost part of himself again. Just like how the Fall—
"I should let Raphael know that you're awake," said Aziraphale abruptly. "He'll want to check on you. And when you're feeling up to it, he will likely want to heal more of your injuries. He didn't want to risk doing too much at once in case it caused more harm than good." He looked down towards Crowley's gauze-wrapped chest. "Your true form still needs help. Michael was… She was ruthlessly thorough from what I've gathered."
While Aziraphale might be thinking about where the sword plunged into him, which was admittedly horrible and painful on its own, Crowley's mind couldn't stop returning to the deep cuts on his back. That felt like the most ruthless thing that she could have done to him. And now he couldn't stop thinking about it. Dwelling on the sheer awfulness of it all.
It was because he was safe. He was safe, his angel was on guard and protecting him, and he didn't have be focused on survival or escape. Michael was gone. There was no need to hide away behind a mask of control. He didn't have to use stubborn spite as armor. He didn't have to be on alert. He could relax. And that left him vulnerable to the emotional fallout trying to come crashing down like an avalanche.
Michael did so much in that room. Tore out his feathers. Smashed his bones. But the pain had paled in comparison to the rest of her cruelty.
Crowley wouldn't let her win. He wouldn't let her break him. He fumbled for that stubborn spite to give him strength, but it was getting harder to keep a hold of it.
A long time ago, when he bore another name and he still carried some shred of innocence, he Fell. And with the Fall, She tore out Her Love from the former angels and left them to crash roughly like a ship upon the rocks. Leaving him to pull his broken pieces together and try to rebuild what was left. And he did. Not the same angel that Fell, but the demon who crawled out of the wreckage. He recreated himself into something that could survive the loss.
He could do it again. Crowley knew that he could manage it a second time. It wasn't the first time that someone ripped out a vital piece of his true form, of himself, and he was forced to adapt to that loss. And this time wouldn't be as bad. Nothing could be as bad as the Fall. Back then, during the first War and then the Fall? Nothing bad had ever happened before then. None of them had any experience with pain, misery, suffering, and loss. That naivety and innocence made those first instances of Bad Things Happening so much worse. There had been nothing to compare it to. After six thousand years, Crowley was far more experienced and he could handle it better now.
He could handle it. Besides, he didn't really need them. Not much need to fly on Earth. He kept them tucked away most of the time. He had his Bentley and humans had invented things like airplanes and space shuttles. And he would save so much time grooming them and keeping is feathers sorted out. Crowley could get used to their absence. He could manage just fine. He would get past it. He doubted it would take long. He'd pulled himself together after losing part of his true form once before. Crowley could do it again.
But he didn't want to do it again. He didn't want to be broken and chunks of himself carved out. He didn't want those empty spaces in his true form, parts of him simply gone like they'd never existed. He didn't want any of what Michael did to him.
"Crowley?"
Aziraphale's soft and concerned voice drew his attention to the fact that a few miserable tears had escaped down the demon's face. And even if Crowley might want to hide his misery to avoid worrying his angel, he couldn't. That emotional avalanche was already crashing down and there would be no stopping it.
But he was safe. He was with his angel. And he couldn't resist how everything was breaking free. If he was going to be vulnerable, broken, and emotionally distraught, at least he would be safe with his angel to protect him. That was probably the best that Crowley could hope for as the full implications of what was taken truly sank in, crushing him under the weight of it all.
"Crowley?" he repeated. "What is it?"
His aching and exhausted body didn't want to move, but the demon reached anyway. Trying to pull Aziraphale towards him those last few centimeters, craving an actual embrace. He couldn't manage that much though. He didn't have the strength to move the angel closer or drag his own body across the linen sheets. But one arm curled over his angel's side as a few tears grew into quiet sobs. Uncontrolled sobs that threatened to shake him apart.
"Talk to me, Crowley. How can I help you? What do you need?"
Strong angelic arms wrapped around Crowley, pulling him the rest of the way into that desired hug. Hands on Crowley's lower back to avoid the deep wounds further up. The demon's face pressed into the worn fabric of Aziraphale's waistcoat. The tears soaking in as he breathed in the angel's familiar and comforting scent.
It wasn't enough to combat the sorrow completely, but it helped.
"She took them," whispered Crowley roughly. "They're gone. She took them from me." [55]
"What did Michael take, my dearest? Whatever it is, I'm sure we can get it back. It'll be all right."
Crowley shook his head, his hands moving to cling to the angel's clothes. He wished that Aziraphale was right. But no matter what his angel might promise or what he might hope, some things could never be regained once lost. They were gone forever.
"They're gone," said Crowley, his voice fragile and shaking. "My… my wings. She took my wings."
He felt Aziraphale stiffen and his arms tighten around him. Then he took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and lean his face against the top of Crowley's head.
"I'm sorry. I'm very sorry," he whispered. "You didn't deserve that. Or anything that happened." Aziraphale held Crowley both firmly and carefully, as if broken and wounded demon was the most precious thing in the world to him. "I'm here, my dearest. I have you. You're safe and here with me. We'll get through this together. I'm here and I love you, Crowley."
Crowley shivered at the words, warmed by them even in his misery. But it didn't erase the pain or grief. That would be like trying to stop a raging river with a pebble.
He continued to cry into the angel's chest, grieving for what he'd lost. What was stolen from him. Crowley sobbed quietly as Aziraphale held him.
He could get past this. Crowley knew that he would eventually pull himself together, rebuilding himself after the loss just as he did before. He would adapt and move past the entire mess. He knew that he would be fine eventually.
But for now, he would grieve over the loss of his wings and the suffering that Michael caused him. He would weep over what happened, the way that she'd carved chunks out of his true form and left the horrible empty gaps behind. He would cry even as the pain of the phantom limbs taunted him with the illusion of their presence. Crowley's tears could fall freely for however long that he needed because Aziraphale was holding him close, muttering soft reassuring words in his ears, and using his own wings to shield the demon from the rest of the world. And as long as his angel was there to protect him, Crowley could afford to be vulnerable and weak for as long as he needed.
He grieved the loss until pain and weariness won out, Crowley crying until he fell back into unconsciousness while nestled in Aziraphale's arms.
Aziraphale ran his fingers through Crowley's hair, slow and gentle. The demon breathed slowly and evenly as he slept. A true sleep rather than being unconscious from his brush with death. He slept heavily with his fingers tangled in the angel's clothes and his head leaning against Aziraphale's chest. But even as he tried to sooth the demon with his touch, fingers sliding through red hair, Aziraphale kept him pulled close. Close and protected.
Crowley had spent thousands of years performing dramatic rescues, but Aziraphale was just as protective in his own way. He just tended to be subtler and focus more on preemptive measures. He preferred to prevent danger before it could strike.
But he couldn't protect him from everything.
There was anger. A quiet smoldering fire burning deep down. The type of anger that wished that Michael's punishment could have been worse now that he had a better idea of the full extent of her cruelty towards Crowley. But anger had never been his strongest motivating emotion.
That anger warred with the angel's relief that Crowley was alive, that he'd woken up, and that he was still himself even after they nearly lost him forever. And then there were the other feelings that twisted and swirled around. The mixture of overwhelming horror, sorrow, pity, and worry about Crowley's condition.
Breaking someone's wings in combat was one thing. Awful, but understandable in the heat of battle. But harming them enough to take those wings entirely? A cold and calculated decision to cut or rip them from someone's true form when they were trapped and at their captor's mercy? That was another matter entirely. That was needless violence and cruelty.
Aziraphale should have noticed sooner. When he'd Looked at Crowley's true form, he should have noticed those empty spaces where his wings should have been. And he could See their absence and the ugly wounds currently protected by the healer's power. At least now that Aziraphale was paying attention. But he hadn't wanted to See it. He hadn't wanted to know that his demon's true form had been disfigured like that. Pieces of him carved away.
Now that Crowley was back asleep, Aziraphale could cry over his poor demon and his missing wings. He needed to get it out of his system now in order to be able to support Crowley when he woke up. His demon would need him. Aziraphale couldn't fall to pieces when Crowley was the one who was hurt and had lost part of himself. Aziraphale couldn't afford to give into guilt over not preventing his injuries. This wasn't about him.
All that mattered was protecting Crowley now and being there for him.
Humming softly along with the music, Aziraphale continued to stroke the demon's hair. He would inform Raphael about Crowley waking up briefly… in a moment or two. He just wanted to hold Crowley a little longer.
[49] Despite his ability to not be noticed and his Dreams, Warlock could not actually See or Know things like Adam could when embracing his Anti-Christ status instead of rejecting it. Warlock was merely observant and good at drawing conclusions.
[50] Well, that and because the confrontation took place in the healing ward. He had the advantage there.
[51] And because of a certain someone's knack for metaphorically flying under the radar.
[52] Due to Warlock hamstringing her, that crawling would be rather literal.
[53] Music that reminded him of being trapped in an elevator.
[54] Except for the elevator music. Crowley definitely wanted to ask about that at some point.
[55] He wasn't completely certain if he was talking about what Michael had done to him or what She'd done when She made him Fall. Crowley was a tangled bundle of misery. Maybe he meant both.
And now everyone knows about what happened to Crowley's wings. No one is happy about it. But at least Crowley is with his angel... and Warlock got to stab Michael a little. That does improve things.