Work Text:
London, 1943
When it came to the business of smuggling, one had to think on their feet if they wanted to make it out alive after a job went wrong. Crowley generally knew how to play his cards right, but even so, it wasn’t always in them to come away from such a situation entirely unscathed.
Blood poured from the countless holes in his torso as he staggered down a dark alleyway, breathing heavily. He wasn’t exactly sure where he was, or how he’d even managed to escape, but he could feel Aziraphale’s presence nearby, shining like a beacon that promised salvation from the pain.
He dragged himself towards it, gripping a building for support when dizziness swept through him. If he could just make it to the bookshop, then everything would be okay.
Aziraphale always made things better, that was one of his best qualities. Dependable, too. Which was why Crowley knew he could count on the angel to patch him up whenever he was too hurt to do it himself.
But with his strength rapidly failing, Crowley didn’t know if he would get there before the blood loss discorporated him. So, in an effort to avoid the humiliation of submitting a request for a new body, he tightened an arm around his waist and pushed on through the crowds still milling about, shambling along not unlike a zombie.
“Hey, there he goes!”
Recognizing the voice vaguely as one of the men that had fired at him, Crowley flinched.
Shitshitshitshitshitshit. He had to run, had to get out of here, had to—augh!—crash into someone walking the opposite way, apparently.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. Are you—Crowley? What are you doing here?”
“‘Ziraphale,” Crowley wheezed, vision dimming. A hand touched his shoulder, and he groaned.
“Crowley? What’s—oh my, you’re bleeding! What happened to you?”
“I’ll explain in the bookshop. Be an angel and miracle us there, yeah? Think m’gonna pass out soon.”
“But—”
“Aziraphale, please,” Crowley whined. Behind them, more shouting erupted. “S’not safe here.”
Seeing Crowley’s distress, Aziraphale hugged the demon close, muttering a quick “hold on,” before they momentarily blinked out of existence.
Though Crowley hadn’t remembered fainting, he was pleased to find a distinct lack of bullets lodged in his belly when he came to in the backroom. Aziraphale was hovering over him, bathing his face with a damp cloth, which also felt really nice.
“Sorry about your coat,” he croaked, guiltily eyeing the stains. “Didn’t mean to, y’know…bleed all over it.”
“I know you didn’t, dear. Don’t worry about it.”
“Here,” Crowley went to snap, but Aziraphale caught his hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “Er?”
“Better not,” Aziraphale murmured, his tone laced with a miracle. “I can’t imagine your corporation is very happy about the strain it’s been put through, you should rest.”
The feeling of fingers carding through his hair, stroking back the curls plastered to his forehead, was the last thing Crowley knew before sleep overtook him.