Written for the Aro Way Challenge prompt "The prayer inbox room in Heaven" and Good Omens Celebration theme "Rescue".
Thanks to kaiannathi for betaing the story!
On a Wing and a Prayer
Aziraphale is holding a building.
He has been holding a building for hours, maybe days. He doesn't really know long exactly. Time has a tendency to get blurred and distorted when you are holding a damned building.
It is literally a damned building. It has been damned by the bomb that fell on it, guided by demonic power.
That dark power is all over the ruins, smelling of brimstone. But in the middle of the rubble is a pocket of angelic influence; a bright light in the darkness. It is a small safe space bordered by white wings, like a cozy blanket fort. Two children are sleeping in that space: a boy and a girl with dark hair and pale skin that looks like it hasn't seen sun for a while. Siblings, by the similarity of their features, the girl a bit older than the boy. Their faces are calm and a little smile is on their lips, as if they were dreaming about what they like best.
If we leave the protective dome of angelic wings, we would see the tons of rubble that used to be a five-storied building. There are single bricks and larger pieces of walls, with broken timber, wires and everyday objects sticking out of the mess like dead fish swimming on the surface. A bent frying pan. A coat hanger. A piece of a flower-patterned curtain.
If we zoom out more, we see a street like an old person's set of teeth. A few buildings protruding from between the holes that used to be someone's home. It is late afternoon. The sirens have subsided, the roar of German bombers and thundering explosions giving way to a dusty breeze and falling pebbles. Several people are sorting through the rubble, but they don't seem to be in a hurry. They already stopped looking for survivors.
No zooming out would help to see the next place we are going to focus our attention on, though. We need to shift our perception across several layers of reality.
There we can see the corridors of a dark, smelly basement. The pipes are leaking a liquid that might or might not be water and the cold neon light bulbs flicker in an infuriatingly unpredictable pattern. The halls are crowded with beings that look vaguely human. Most of them, at least.
We are looking for a particular demon (because yes, this is Hell and they are demons) here. He is wearing a dark suit and a black fedora covering his fiery hair. He's slouching in a shabby chair that's too low for his long limbs in what looks like an old classroom. Despite the dim light in the room, he's wearing sunglasses. He practically radiates boredom, as do a dozen other demons in the room.
Crowley has managed to avoid Hell's regular briefings for quite some time. It has caught up with him, however. Just as he was leaving Beelzebub's office where he was summoned to report his demonic bomb diversion to hit a church with an angel inside, the Usher of Hell grabbed his ankle and ushered him (despite his size, he was unrivalled at ushering and any resistance was futile) inside the room where the important lecture about filing the new F-54c form was taking place. There were a few differences compared to the outdated F-54b, like the order of sections and underlining the option that applied instead of crossing out the one that didn't.
Let us enjoy the fact that we can leave this boring lecture and, while staying in the same layer of reality, let's take a look somewhere much, much higher.
There is a prayer inbox room in Heaven. It is white. The floors are white. The shelves are white. The angels working there have white clothes. Heaven is not very creative with interior design.
There are countless shelves with folders, some marked with "heard", some with "granted", "rejected" or "forwarded". A relatively small shelf is marked as "fulfilled". There are several angels busy with going around the shelves, sorting folders into their proper place. Others are sitting at a long table with numerous telephone lines, listening to the calls and writing on the cards which they move into the proper folder on their table. When the white folders are full, they get sorted into the white shelves.
Karael is new to the Requests Division of the Prayers Department. Unlike others who usually request transfer to the Confession Division or the Personal Prayers Division, she asked for the opposite. Listening to personal prayers felt somehow intrusive to her. They are the talks of human consciousness with its soul. The soul usually figures things out on its own and carries the result into its final judgement.
Not to mention, it got boring and repetitive after a few centuries. All prayers needed to be heard of course, but that was all that she could do with them - listen to them, write them down and move them to the Heard folder. She thought that in the Requests Division she would actually be able to do something useful. There are two folders in which to sort the prayers: Rejected, and Forwarded for Fulfillment. Approximately one in 500 prayers is sorted into the second folder.
Many things must be considered when deciding which folder to use. Opposing prayers, for example. Players of two opposing sport teams, each praying to win the match. Soldiers of two sides, each praying to win the fight. There has been a lot of the second one lately. She understands there is some really big war going on down there. More and more prayers are simply "oh God, please make it stop". Most of those go to the Rejected folder. No wonder there were so many transfer requests to the Confessions Division.
She mostly moves the prayers mechanically now. One copy into the Heard folder, the second one into Rejected. The Training Manual provides clear instructions that disqualify most of them. "God helps those who help themselves" is not just a saying.
She almost moved another one to the Rejected folder as humanly impossible to fulfill, when she notices something strange. The prayer is from an angel.
"Oh Lord... give me… strength..."
Aziraphale's wings are trembling. He doesn't know how much longer he can bear. He used too many miracles countering the demonic intent behind the bombs, on top of the malicious human one. The demonic intervention aimed the bombs exactly where they would do most damage - at the weaknesses of bomb shelters, the buildings that people refused to evacuate, the children…
He knew it wasn't Crowley's work. Crowley wouldn't do such a thing. He knew for a fact that Crowley had been summoned to Hell to present some report. When will he come back? Surely it must be at any moment. When he comes back, he will surely know that Aziraphale is in danger. He always does.
He must hold on just a while longer… just until Crowley comes back.
"My God… give me strength… until help arrives…"
Karael is studying the manual.
Selflessness of the request… check.
Faith and devotion of the asker… check.
Genuineness of the request… check.
Potential for good by fulfilling it… check.
Physical and metaphysical possibility of fulfilling it... check.
"Excuse me?" She waves at the Division Chief, an angel with an oriental look and gaze as sharp as a katana.
He instantly materializes beside her. "Problem?"
"Well, not really. Just a question. I've got a prayer here that fulfills all conditions from the manual."
"Excellent. Forward it for fulfillment then."
"But it's from an angel."
"Ah. Why are you bothering with it then? Just throw it away. Next time you should do that right away."
"But it says here that all prayers should be heard," Karael points at the first page of the manual.
"Human prayers. An angel should know the proper channels and contact their superior directly. They can even request an audience with the Metatron."
The angel turns the manual to page 437 and points at a tiny script at the bottom of the page. "See? An angel should fulfill prayers, not ask for it. And the prayer fulfillment department is busy as it is, without us giving them additional work."
"I see…" Karael says, trying to hide the disappointment in her voice. "I'm sorry for bothering you, sir."
Crowley staggers out of the room, dazed by the lecture. How long has it been? Hours? Days? His sense of time blurred a bit there. He presses his fingers to his temples. He knows he is still behind on these briefings, although putting "brief" anywhere around their name seems like a joke. He considers biting the bullet and sitting through another one, just to have a few decades of peace from them.
With an internal groan, he follows the badly designed poster with an arrow saying "learn to fill the D-13 form properly or DIE".
"Hey, you're Crowley, right?" a youthfully looking demon with a predatory grin asks suddenly.
Startled, Crowley almost jumps, but he has learned long ago to hide such reactions. He puts on an air of nonchalance instead. "Yeah? Any reason you ask?"
"Lord Beelzebub told us it was your idea to use demonic intervention on the bombs. That was fun! Just wondering why you weren't there. It was your adversary, after all."
Crowley feels his blood run cold. "Was, you say?" he asks, dangerously low. There is a beast howling in the empty space of his chest and it wants out.
"Well, I'm not sure, but I think we got him this time. Your try at the church showed that he can protect himself with miracles, so we made him exhaust those by aiming at other targets. Clever, right? You really missed the fun," the demon grins.
Crowey transforms. He lets out the beast, and it's a snarling, dangerous thing, terrifying the other demon.
"Nobody told me about it!" Crowley keeps snarling even after he reigns it in and is back in his human form.
"W-We should have waited for you, s-sorry!" The demon starts stuttering an apology even before Crowley says the last word. "I told them to leave that last bomb for you! That's his personal nemesis, lads, I said. He will want to be the one to hit him! But they didn't listen to me…"
Crowley is not listening, either. He storms up the escalator, taking three stairs at once.
"Oh God, please… let him come… in time…"
Sweat is running down Aziraphale's temples. It draws paths in the dust on his brow. It drops from his nose, making it itch. He can't scratch it. He's holding a building.
The children are still asleep. He didn't want them to feel the terror of being trapped in this small space, under tons of rubble. He didn't want them to hear the ominous creaking above their heads anytime he shifted a little, anytime a tremor ran through his body. They are getting more frequent, more violent, those tremors.
A drop falls on the ground, right next to the sleeping girl's hand.
It is not sweat. It glistens in the faint light like a ruby.
Another drop falls, making a little crater in the white dust.
Blood is dripping from Aziraphale's wings in the places where the sharp edges of the rubble dig into the white feathers.
"Oh Lord…"
Karael's hand is hovering over the trash basket, holding a slightly crumpled piece of paper.
Karael hesitates. She withdraws her hand and smooths the paper. Then crumples it again. Almost throws it out. But in the last moment, she withdraws and smooths it again with a little miracle.
Before anyone looks in her direction, she moves the file into the Forwarded for Fulfilling folder. This automatically creates a copy that is sent to the Prayer Fulfillment Division.
The Bentley's engine roars with impatience, her gas pedal pressed to the floor so firmly it would break in an ordinary car. The Bentley is obviously no ordinary car. She is cutting the turns of London's streets in a way that breaks several laws of physics.
Crowley's hands clutch the steering wheel, serpentine eyes behind the sunglasses narrowed in focus. He can feel that Aziraphale is in danger. The sensation hit him like a sack of bricks as soon as he set foot on Earth and it's only getting more urgent with every passing moment. He wants to teleport straight to the angel, but only has a general direction. He wants to stop time, but can't focus on such a miracle while driving or maintain it long enough to walk. And so he drives, wheels screeching on the road, leaving the smell of burnt rubber and brimstone behind.
A new message manifests on Karael's table. It's from the Prayer Fulfillment Division.
"To Whom It May Concern,
The enclosed prayer that has been forwarded to us, most likely in error, is from an angel and therefore does not qualify for fulfillment. We ask that such prayers not be forwarded to us in the future, and please remind the angel in question to use the appropriate channels.
Sincerely,
Prayer Fulfillment Division"
Aziraphale has no strength to pray anymore. All of his muscles are cramping painfully with the effort of preventing the tons of rubble from crushing him and the two children only by sheer strength of will.
Sweat is dripping from his brow. Blood is dripping from his wings. And now something else drips on the dirty ground, illuminated by the fading light like a pure crystal.
An angel's tear.
Karael should get rid of the prayer now. She should claim it was an oversight. She knows that, but she still doesn't throw it into the trash bin. Appropriate channels, is it? She opens the White pages and looks up the heavenly hierarchy. Who is Principality Aziraphale's direct supervisor?
The Bentley breaks a few more traffic and physics laws, as she halts to a stop from 75 mph. There is a heap of rubble that used to be a building and Crowley knows he is in the right place. He can sense the fading angelic light buried in the rubble.
"Aziraphale!" he calls.
There is no answer.
"Aziraphale!" Crowley rushes towards what remains of the building, starts throwing the bricks away with his bare hands.
The soundtrack from the Sound of Music plays in the phone instead of the ringing tone.
Then someone picks up with a disinterested "Yes?"
"Archangel Gabriel?" Karael asks, uncertain.
"No, this is his secretary. How can I help you?"
"May I speak to the Archangel, please?"
"He is very busy. If your message is important, I will forward it to him."
"Ah. All right. I have a request from his direct subordinate here. It seems urgent. I will forward it to him in a letter. Please, ask him to check it as soon as possible."
"Of course, I'll see what I can do. Have a nice day."
The call disconnects.
Something in the ruins creaks ominously as Crowley throws aside a larger chunk of mortared bricks.
He freezes, desperately willing the tons of rubble to stay in place. He can sense the ethereal presence getting weaker somewhere under that weight. He can't teleport there - he feels there's not enough room in which to land, and it might disturb the balance.
"Shit! Bollocks! Pustulent, maggoty bollocks!" he howls, but refrains from kicking the rubble, choking back a sob instead.
There's only one way left and he loses no more time. He turns into a snake and shrinks until he is small enough to fit into the cracks and little spaces between the debris, light enough to not disturb the precarious balance. It only has one disadvantage. The smaller he is, the longer the distance becomes to the angelic essence.
Crowley slips into a narrow crevice and climbs down. Down and ahead, towards the dark, cramped place where he can sense Aziraphale… his exhaustion… his pain.
"Hold on, angel! I'm coming!"
Karael waits for a response from the Archangel. More prayers from humans end in her phone line and she listens to each, writes down each of them in two copies and moves one to the Heard and the other to the Rejected folder. None of them fulfills all the conditions.
As more time passes, it starts feeling futile. At any moment now, the prayer could stop being relevant. If the Archangel wanted to respond, he would already, wouldn't he? Maybe he did, but didn't inform her. Why would he? She just forwarded the message, he doesn't need to reply to her. It's enough if he replies to his subordinate. Karael tells herself that she did what she could. But deep down, she finds it hard to believe.
Crowley runs into a dead end. Even in his current size, the way is blocked. He can feel the tremors running through his surroundings, the microscopic shifts that suggest something unstable deep down under all the crumbled walls. Something that will be crushed once it gives up.
He makes himself even smaller. So small that he can pass through the maze that are the pores within the bricks. So small that passing through the several inches wide obstacle becomes like the distance from Mayfair to Soho. Again he wishes he could stop time, but he can't focus on two miracles at once. He doesn't know if he's going fast enough. He pushes himself more, turning the corners around the grains of baked clay.
"God, let me be in time…"
Karael's phone rings with another prayer. She has never done this before, but she almost puts the receiver down without listening.
It's from a demon.
All prayers need to be heard. She remembers that, but is it also true for prayers from demons? She turns to ask her superior, but then she decides against it. She puts the receiver back to her ear, glad now that he didn't notice.
She listens to the prayer.
Aziraphale is at the end of his strength. He's at the end of his will. He feels regret - regret for the children he's unable to save. Regret for leaving Crowley, for having no more endurance to persevere.
It's almost dark under the dome of his wings. No more light. He feels like a candle burning with the last millimeters of the wick, the flame soon to be drowned in the molten wax.
He wants to give up. He imagines the moment of relief before the weight crushes his corporation. Just a moment of letting go...
He knows he will not give up. He will continue straining and resisting until the very end. No rest for him. No relief.
He grits his teeth even more tightly and puts every bit of his stuttering will into forcing his cramping muscles to persist.
A low moan is trapped behind those clenched teeth. It reverberates in his throat, a desperate, animalistic sound.
He endures.
Karael writes down the new prayer and puts her hand over it, so nobody would see it on her table. She can't hide the words in her mind, though.
The prayer is from a demon, but it complements the one from the angel. That is rather suspicious. It is not proper. She should inform her superiors.
But she doesn't.
Instead, she takes a new envelope and puts in both prayers.
Every angel has a unique name. If you know their name, you can write them a letter and send it through the internal system of pneumatic tubes. A little heavenly postal miracle assures that with the correct name, a letter finds its recipient.
But it can't be that easy, can it? There are rules. Protocols. Proper channels.
Yet she writes "GOD" on the envelope and slips the envelope into the pneumatic tube.
The light is so faint he only catches it thanks to his snake eyes.
In the next moment Crowley finds himself enveloped in feathers. It feels warm and cozy, like a freshly washed, soft blanket. He doesn't linger on the feeling and pushes through, into the little space protected by the wings.
It only takes him a second to orient himself. It only takes that same second to notice the two children sleeping peacefully on the ground. It only takes that same second to observe Aziraphale's empty stare, the terrible strain in his face, the almost inaudible moan passing between his clenched teeth.
Within the next second he is already morphing himself into a human form large enough to grasp both children and Aziraphale and teleport them all to safety.
They appear in a cloud of dust in the one place Crowley associates instinctively with safety when he has no time to think.
They are in Aziraphale's bookshop and morning light is barely penetrating the unwashed windows to dapple the bookshelves.
The children are asleep. Crowley is not concerned for them.
Aziraphale is still standing, his wings stretched protectively around the kids. His wings are only white on the underside. On the outside they are grimy and disheveled. There is blood, both dry and fresh, and broken feathers. His face is grimy too, covered with pale-grey mortar dust, making traces of tears clearly visible on his cheeks. His eyes are too dark, his pupils too big. Crowley knows that stare, unfocused and fixed somewhere in the distance. He has seen it on battlefields, in the soldiers after days under fire, days without rest.
"Aziraphale!"
Crowley, now fully human-sized, reaches around the angel's shoulders to support him.
Aziraphale moans. His muscles under Crowley's hand feel like deep-frozen iron: hard but fragile, cramped into such a stiffness they can't relax.
Slowly and carefully, Crowley leads him down to sit before he falls, makes him lean back into his arms. But the wings and arms remain stiff, locked in place. "Angel, look at me! Look at me, please…"
Aziraphale blinks, for the first time since they got here. He tries to say something, but his teeth are clenched too forcefully.
"Yes, it's me." Crowley's voice trembles. "I'm here. It's all right. You did it, angel. You saved the kids. So strong, so brave. Relax now, okay? You can relax…"
Aziraphale just moans again, his face contorted in pain.
"Easy to say that, I know, I know. Let me help you, all right? I'll try to ease those cramps, okay?"
It seems Aziraphale is now aware of him as he nods just a little.
Crowley starts massaging his shoulders where the muscles from wings and arms meet. He needs to press with all his strength for the hardness to yield.
Aziraphale cries out in pain and Crowley apologizes over and over, but doesn't let go. Slowly the worst cramp yields under his long fingers and the angel collapses, trembling uncontrollably. His eyes focus on Crowley's and damn, when did Crowley put down his sunglasses? It must have been in the darkness under the rubble and now his eyes must betray all his fear and concern.
But Aziraphale seems to be anchored by the sight of their snakish slits. He finally seems to believe that he is safe.
"Crowley…" he whispers. "You… came…"
"Of course, angel. Sorry it took me so long. They delayed me Downstairs, couldn't feel you there…"
"Please, Crowley… take care… of the children…"
"Right. The children." Crowley looks at them and with a snap of his fingers heals some minor bruises and sends them to the sofa, still asleep. He also makes sure the door is locked, dims the windows of the shop and turns on the lights. It only takes a short moment and he didn't even leave Aziraphale's side.
"The children are fine, angel. I'll wake them later and give them something to eat, but let me take care of you now. Alright?"
Aziraphale nods hesitantly. He looks barely conscious now, exhausted beyond all endurance. He's still trembling.
"Good. I'll just.. uh, you don't have a proper bed, do you? You've just got that narrow thing upstairs, that won't do…"
Crowley snaps his fingers again and there's a bed in the middle of the bookshop, miraculously fitting there. It has black silken sheets and enough space to accommodate wings.
"Is that… your bed?" Aziraphale murmurs. "I'll get it all dirty…"
"It's just a bed, Aziraphale."
"I'll just… wash a bit…" Aziraphale makes a movement as if to stand up, gritting his teeth as his whole body protests.
"Bless it angel, relax!" Crowley snarls, restraining him. It doesn't take much effort. Aziraphale falls back, trembling even worse than before.
"I'm sorry, angel. Didn't mean to be harsh, but you shouldn't strain yourself. You did enough already..." Crowley takes Aziraphale's hand and presses it reassuringly. "I'll help you wash soon, but you need to lie down first. I will carry you to the bed and I will take care of you. You don't need to do anything, just let me. Do you understand?"
Aziraphale nods tiredly, not looking him in the eyes.
Crowley sighs and then unfurls his own midnight black wings. With them, he carefully supports Aziraphale's sore and disheveled ones as he carries the angel to the bed.
After some gentle maneuvering, he lays him down on his stomach and spreads the wings on the custom sized bed while hiding his own. He can see now that Aziraphale's back is in the same state as his wings, and it would take a miracle to save that coat.
He does that miracle simultaneously with the one teleporting the coat aside. No other way around the wings save cutting it.
"Aziraphale? I'll now remove your vest and shirt so that we can get you clean and patched up."
Aziraphale shifts his head just a little, turning it more to the side so that his words aren't muffled by a pillow. "Crowley..."
"Yes, angel?"
"The children… please…"
Crowley glances at them, then he looks at Aziraphale's bleeding, dirty wings. "You won't relax until they are cared for properly, will you?" he sighs. "Very well. I'll be back soon."
"Thank you, dear," Aziraphale murmures, looking at him like Crowley did something terribly nice for him.
Crowley makes a disgusted face at that as he turns away from the angel, but doesn't say anything. He puts on his sunglasses and goes to the kids. Before waking them, he summons a curtain across the shop to hide Aziraphale, his angelic wings and his poor state.
"So, no need to worry now," he says when he draws back the curtain a while later. "They're fine. They had a meal and a drink. You didn't need that old vintage of Chardonnay, did you? Just kidding, they got pie and hot cocoa. Your neighbour took them in for now, the one with the… angel?"
Crowley kneels at the bed to see Aziraphale's eyes. They are dark and unfocused again. His fingers are clenched into the pillows.
"Aziraphale…" Crowley covers those fingers with his own hand. "Hey, angel. The children are safe and I'm here now. It's alright. I'll take care of you, okay?"
He gets no answer. He presses Aziraphale's hand reassuringly and then summons a washbasin with warm water and a soft cloth. Carefully he washes the angel's face, erasing the traces of tears in the dirt.
Aziraphale exhales, and finally looks at Crowley.
"There," Crowley smiles reassuringly. "The kids are fed and safe. Now we can focus on you."
"I don't deserve…" Aziraphale whispers, but at the same time he's leaning into the touch, enjoying the warmth and cleanliness.
"Cut that nonsense," Crowley snarls. "You do."
He gets up and climbs on the bed. He kneels in the space between one trembling wing and Aziraphale's torso and gently puts his hand on the angel's shoulder. He can feel the muscles spasming again, getting stiff and gnarly like the roots of an old tree.
"I'm going to undress you so I can take care of these wounds," he informs Aziraphale.
There are a few miracles involved in taking off and repairing the vest and shirt. A pattern of cuts and darkening bruises is revealed.
He could clean and heal them by a miracle too, but it doesn't feel right. An abrupt change wouldn't do much good to Aziraphale. The angel is stiff, trapped under the rubble of memories. What he needs is a gradual easing into the thought that he's safe, that he can relax. Crowley needs it too. He wants to focus on every hurt and make it better, to make up for how long it took him to come, for unintentionally causing the situation by giving the demons inspiration…
He soaks the cloth in warm water and starts cleaning the blood and grime. He heals the cuts and bruises slowly, under a gentle touch.
Yet it makes Aziraphale stiffen more instead of relaxing.
Crowley withdraws immediately. He circles the bed to see Aziraphale's face. "Angel, what's wrong?"
Aziraphale sobs, hiding his face in the pillow. "I don't deserve this," comes muffled from there.
"Did Gabriel tell you something? Don't listen to him, he's an asshole, you know that." Crowley leans closer to the sobbing pillow. "Of course you deserve to be cared for. You totally pulled some glorious heroics out there. Besides, you are my friend and that's a reason enough, heroics or not."
Aziraphale turns his head to look at Crowley, his fingers clenching into the pillow. "Not Gabriel…" he whispers.
"Who then? I'll have a word with them."
Aziraphale shakes his head. "Nobody. I just… don't deserve… being your friend..."
"What?" Crowley frowns. "That's bullshit. Why would you think that?"
"I can't give you the holy water you want…" Aziraphale says and Crowley can sense the muscles in his shoulders cramping again, can see the wings trembling.
"I left you… I left you in anger… and you were the one who came back, who saved me again. You walked on consecrated ground for me. And I… I still can't give you what you want…"
"Oh," Crowley says softly. He sits on the edge of the bed and reaches for Aziraphale's cheek. The traces of tears are invisible now, but they are there and Crowley wipes them away.
"I'm not asking, Aziraphale. You can't give it to me, I accept that. All I'm asking for is the friendship we had. That's what I would like to get back, if you can give it."
Aziraphale sighs shakily. "My dear boy… I can't give you back what I never took away."
Crowley freezes with his hand on Aziraphale's cheek.
Aziraphale withdraws from the touch, though. "But I let you think I did. I let you think I'm angry with you… I don't deserve your care..."
Crowley takes off his sunglasses. He watches Aziraphale for a moment, his snake eyes expressive and sad. "Are you saying that I am your friend?"
"Yes. Yes, of course…"
"And you are mine. So, you do deserve it. End of discussion."
Aziraphale's lip wobbles a little.
"Angel, it's my fault you got into this predicament. I told Downstairs about the diverted bomb and they got ideas."
"Not your fault…" Aziraphale murmurs.
"And you invited me in and healed my feet after that church stunt."
"Not worth mentioning…"
"Bless it, Aziraphale! I selfishly want to do this! Will you let me care for you now? Please?"
Aziraphale looks at him in surprise. Crowley can see the disbelief turning into shy hope and it's breaking his heart.
And then Aziraphale nods shyly.
"Good. No more 'I don't deserve it' s. Just relax."
Aziraphale closes his eyes wearily. "Can't…" he moans. "Hurts…"
"I know. I'll help you relax, okay?" He presses Aziraphale's hand reassuringly and then climbs on the bed again, taking his position between Aziraphale's wings to continue healing his back.
He warms and massages the tense muscles.
At first, Aziraphale bites back his moans when Crowley touches the painful knots. Almost subconsciously, he hides them behind clenched teeth.
But Crowley's hands are gentle and work slowly. There is something reassuring in their movements, releasing that other kind of tension, the one in Aziraphale's mind.
"You deserve this," Crowley says quietly. "And you know what else you deserve? You deserve someone to tell you that you deserve it."
The teeth unclench and a moan escapes. And then another.
The hands move along his back and warm cloths are placed where they passed. There is pain as the hands release the knots, but after the pain comes relief and a moan turns into a sigh.
Aziraphale finally stops struggling against his exhaustion and slowly relaxes into the feeling.
Crowley's hands move to the muscles in his shoulders and arms and every touch takes him further away from the dark place under the ruins.
When the hands stop and Crowley asks: "May I take care of your wings now?", Aziraphale feels so weak he doesn't think he could move even if he wanted to. He doesn't want to, though. He just makes an approving "mhm" sound.
Crowley doesn't need more. He soaks another cloth in the water that remains miraculously warm and clean. His fingers are almost reverent as he takes the first flight feather at the base of the wing into his hand. He cleans it carefully and then smooths the barbs and repairs any damage that is there. The feather is left white and spotless again, smelling of jasmine and freshly fallen snow. Crowley moves to the next one.
One by one he washes and repairs the flight feathers and with every feather, Aziraphale exhales in a hazy contentment, his breath getting slower and deeper.
Then Crowley moves to the coverts and repeats the process row by row. He cleans and heals all cuts and bruises hidden under the feathers and then starts massaging the tense muscles of the wing.
Aziraphale doesn't restrain the moans this time, but after them comes the blissful relief. His wing is heavy with weariness, but the soreness is gone and the fingers buried into its soft plumage make him feel cared for and deserving of it.
And then Crowley places warm compresses on the wing and moves to the other one.
By the time he is finished, it is dark outside. Aziraphale is not asleep, but he looks like he is. His eyes are closed, his breath even and his expression relaxed.
Crowley covers him with a blanket and lets him rest.
Aziraphale allows himself to remain in that not quite sleeping but peaceful state for hours. It is morning when he opens his eyes, and that's only because he can feel the smell of tea and pastries somewhere close.
And it's getting closer, brought on a tray by a red-haired demon in sunglasses, as if Crowley sensed the very moment Aziraphale decided that a meal would be worth moving just a little.
"Good morning, angel," Crowley says without a hint of the usual sarcasm. "Do you think you can hide your wings now?"
Aziraphale blinks groggily, but his expression soon grows more alert. "Good morning to you too, dear boy. Hide? Why yes, I think that's a good idea. It's a bit limiting to lie down with them out."
He focuses for a moment and folds his wings on his back with a grunt of effort. Then he makes them disappear into another layer of existence.
Crowley puts the tray on the edge of the bed.
"How are you feeling?" he asks.
"Oh, I'm just tickety-boo."
"Aziraphale."
"Well, okay, still a bit sore. And rather weak, I'm afraid. How are the children?"
"They are fine," Crowley assures him as he helps the angel to turn on his back and props him with pillows. "Their parents are on the way already."
"Their parents? But they don't have parents here, poor dears. They escaped from Germany alone…"
"Well, their parents managed to escape too, and are on the way here. Almost a miracle, really."
"Oh, Crowley!"
"What? Eat your breakfast before it gets cold. Or should I also feed you?"
"No, no. That's ni-... Tha-... Just put it here, you wily serpent."
"Right." Crowley puts the tray on Aziraphale's knees, his expression just a little disappointed as if he hoped Aziraphale would agree to the feeding. "Don't strain yourself, okay?"
Aziraphale smiles and takes a sip from the tea.
"Where did you get the brioche? Haven't seen it for a while, with the rationing."
"Rationing doesn't apply to demons," Crowley winks and retreats to the sofa.
He watches Aziraphale eat. The intent look might make a mortal uncomfortable, but on the angel, it has an opposite effect as he savours the meal.
And that's how we shall leave them now.
There is a prayer inbox room in Heaven. It is white. The floors are white. The shelves are white. The angels working there have white clothes. And one of them is wondering if she should throw out the copies of two prayers, or move them to the Fulfilled folder.
She has to decide that on her own. I'm not going to reply to Karael's letter, although it was nice to get it. I don't get letters often. But even without it, I knew about the prayer. I have known about it since the beginning of time.
All prayers are heard.
Some are fulfilled.
Some I fulfill by having prompted the creation of the prayer inbox room in Heaven.
And others I fulfill before the prayer is even sent. For example, by arranging the meeting of an angel and a demon on the walls of Eden and just letting them be themselves.