Work Text:
Sherwood Forest, 550
The first thing Aziraphale noticed as awareness flooded back in was the terrible headache. The second was that he was awfully sore, as if he’d been the one thrown from his horse for once instead of Crowley.
“Ohshitohshitohshit,” Crowley muttered, sliding down the muddy slope Aziraphale was sprawled at the bottom of as quickly as he could without shifting into a more serpentine form. “Are you alright?”
Aziraphale certainly didn’t feel very alright. His head was pounding to an almost unbearable degree, his tunic was surely ruined, and there was something warm and wet trickling down into his eyes. Though his mind was hazy, Aziraphale surmised it to be blood, based on the soft hiss of worry the sight drew from his traveling companion.
Crowley carefully brushed through the angel’s hair to get a better look at what they were dealing with, then winced at the bump he found. “Wow, you hit your head pretty good on the way down, didn’t you?”
Aziraphale had meant to say “I suppose you could say that,” but it came out sounding more like a jumbled string of consonants.
Oh dear, perhaps he’d hit his head harder than he thought. He had hit his head, right? He vaguely recalled Crowley saying something like that a moment ago, so that must have been what happened, though he couldn’t for the life of him remember how he got into this situation in the first place. And while that should have been alarming, his head was starting to hurt too much to rightly care.
Crowley, however, seemed to care a great deal more. He looked so worried for some reason, face pinched with concern, and Aziraphale wondered how he could help. Woozily, he reached up with the intent of smoothing the deep creases between Crowley’s brows, but the demon caught his hand and distracted him by rubbing soothing circles into his knuckles.
“Alright, I’m making the executive decision here. We’re leaving.”
Leaving? But what about their assignments? Wasn’t that why they were even out here in the first place?
“Angel, you just cracked your head open on a rock and you’re more worried about our assignments? They can wait.”
Oh. Had he said that out loud?
“Yes. You did,” Crowley huffed, amused despite the circumstances, and gently moved Aziraphale’s head onto his lap. “Besides, do you really wanna spend the rest of the day walking through this bloody wood?”
That didn’t sound pleasant at all, no.
“I didn’t think so. Now then, I’m gonna patch you up a bit before we get moving, okay?”
Demons generally didn’t perform healing miracles often, and it usually came at a cost when they did. Crowley knew this well, having saved Aziraphale and the odd human every now and then, and had long since resigned himself to experiencing the side effects that came along with it—exhaustion, headache, maybe even a fever if he really overdid it, but nothing really major. It was more of an unpleasant annoyance, if anything.
Crowley rested a hand near Aziraphale’s temple, then immediately apologized when the angel flinched. Head injuries were always a bit trickier to fix than flesh wounds, but he could reduce some of the swelling, at least, and make sure it didn’t get any worse.
Predictably, the bloody gash on Aziraphale’s forehead was the first to go, melting back into unblemished skin, and soon some color returned to his cheeks. Crowley, on the other hand, had gone alarmingly pale.
“That’s the best I can do,” he said, sounding winded. “Alright?”
Aziraphale rubbed his temple. A small headache still lingered, and the light shining through the trees stung his eyes, but it was better than it had been. “Oh, that’s much better.”
“Good. I’m—I’m…” Crowley blinked hard, looking as if he was about to faint. Aziraphale reached out and steadied him. “I’m alright. Uh, how about I miracle us back to the inn? I think we could both use some rest after this.”
“Yes, that would probably be for the best,” Aziraphale agreed. But before he could offer to take that miracle, Crowley had already snapped and transported them into a modest room with a single bed.
Aziraphale adjusted to the new surroundings slowly, head spinning. He hadn’t had the time to properly thank the demon before Crowley suddenly pitched forward into his arms, completely limp. His face was drenched in sweat, color sitting high on his sharp cheeks. The poor thing had definitely overdone it.
“My poor darling,” Aziraphale sighed, gathering Crowley up in his arms and laying him out on the bed. He gently combed back the fringe that stuck to the demon’s forehead, heart aching with sympathy, and then brushed a tender kiss to the burning skin there. “It’s my turn to look after you now.”