Chapter Text
Aziraphale had been an idiot.
All the signs were right in front of him: Heaven wouldn’t have given up without a fight, even with their little demonstration via a simple sleight of hand (or in this case, sleight of being) just like hell – after all, haven’t they proven they were no better than their acquaintances in ever-burning fire? Of course they would send reinforcements. Of course they’d go after Aziraphale in the one place he’d always be, his bookshop. Crowley knew better, coldly pragmatic and logical Crowley had been right as always when he had insisted there should at least be some form of warding that would at least inform Aziraphale if anyone with sinister intent entered his bookshop, so that he’d have time to flee. Aziraphale merely laughed it off, saying Heaven wouldn’t try again so soon, and they wouldn’t do it on Earth where it could shake the human’s foundations (propaganda) of belief in Heaven and its holiness.
He’s been wrong. Heaven no longer cared about humans and their contemporary beliefs. Or perhaps they never did – to them, humanity always has only been nothing but a stepping stone. A path towards their war and eventual victory in the final fight. Doing what was expected of them to pass the time.
And his ignorance had cost Crowley.
The weapon had been aimed at Aziraphale, and Crowley, in that split moment, took the shot in his stead and crumpled to the floor like a sack of potatoes. The scream had brought the angel out of the near trance that came whenever he was absorbed in his book, and Aziraphale immediately rushed to Crowley’s side, ignoring how the assailant immediately fled at the spark of fury that burnt terrifyingly at a single glance.
Crowley wasn’t breathing (although not a good standard for determining life and death of a celestial being considering they had no need for it) but he was spasming and flinching as if high-voltage electricity had been – and continuing to – flow through him. “Angel,” Crowley barely spat out, “Angel- B’careful-“
“Ssh, my dear, just try to hold your strength,” Aziraphale reached forward to lend a comforting hand. It seemed to help Crowley, because the demon leaned towards the touch and promptly turned silent.
It did stop eventually, the shaking. The entire time he’d collected Crowley into his arms and cradled him, guilt needling him to merely observe while the demon recovered. If he’d only taken precautions, if he’d only been more careful, the traitorous voices of his own soul accused him, and he swallowed and forced them down as he carefully looked for any signs of injury. The blast from whatever weapon Heaven chose to employ was white, blindingly white, and considering that Crowley hasn’t dissipated into smoke he accepted the small mercy that it wasn’t holy water – at least they haven’t chosen to utilize the same weapon twice, thinking the first time was a false positive, because it would have destroyed Crowley.
“Crowley? Who’s Crowley?” Crowley murmured softly, coughing harshly and bringing his mouth in a fevered attempt to calm it – which didn’t work even in the slightest, but it muffled the sound. When the spasms eventually subsided, Crowley – at least what used to be Crowley – removed his sunglasses, and his eyes were glowing with a faint streak of heavenly gold instead of Crowley’s usual defining mustard eyes with slitted pupils resembling that of a snake. “My name is Raphael. Now, do you mind telling me where I am?”