The Known/Unknown Quantity

Chap 11: The Best Performance of the Angel's Life Part Three

Chap 11: The Best Performance of the Angel's Life Part Three

An hour later Crowley woke up alone, and sore, and with blankets pulled up to his chin. Also, clean. Blearily, a little confounded, he did a mental check of his body. Someone had obviously and lovingly taken care to wash him down with a cool cloth, among other things. Oh no, the demon moaned inwardly, he didn't use lavender, did he?

Slowly, the account of the previous event came back to Crowley's waking mind. Every nuance came back to him, from the timbre of the angel's voice to the sheer oblivion he came to in the very end as everything crescendoed into one earthquaking climax. In the coolness of the night, he lingered in the thoughts, and vaguely touched himself.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw something red hanging somewhere in the bath room. Very stiffly, he rose and shuffled in to find a drying washcloth stained dark. He picked it up and looked at it quizzically then looked up at his face in the mirror.

His eyes were normal, but he remembered. I was crying blood! The fuck, I was crying blood!! It had gotten that bad! The angel had gotten to him in the nick of time. What...what could have happened if he hadn't?

He left the bathroom and slammed on the terrible revealing lights in the bed room. The linens on the bed were brand-spanking new, and the softest the angel possessed.

Once more he entered the bathroom and inspected things. There on a stand someone had laundered and pressed his clothes. They smelled nice, like spices and citrus. Crowley ignored that too, and simply whipped into his jeans.

Where was the angel?

He got on his naked feet and padded downstairs. And there he found the angel in his study at his desk.

Crowley leaned against the pillar bathed in the terrible light, crossing one leg over another. He stood there for some time watching the angel.

Aziraphale was back in bookshop mode, attending to some writing. He was wearing his glasses and that jacket that mimicked his other one in cut, but Crowley could never figure out if it was a sweater or a thing of processed wool.

The nib of the pen scored across the paper with swift little scrapes. Aziraphale sat bolt-straight, perfect posture, his feathery head aglow from the street lamps outside. People milled about out there, but in here it was utterly silent except for those little ticks of the pen. No Mozart. No Bach. Just Aziraphale making his own little music.

But, no humming...

After a time, the angel's head rose thoughtfully, and he removed his glasses and turned his head, searching. Then he twisted slightly and rested his arm on the back of the seat. Catching the sight of Crowley with an unreadable gaze. "Thought I heard you up."

Crowley couldn't wait any longer. "How did you do that? Where did that come from?"

Without looking away, the angel started to rise. "Something had to be done, Crowley," he stated so logically. " Your eyes remained that baffling size for far too long. It wasn't right."

"Yes, but I didn't know you had it in you!" the demon exclaimed, thrusting his hands into his pockets and making a large step into the room. "You just," he withdrew one hand and thrust it up in the air as if reaching for something, "turned it ON."

"I was the cause of your predicament," his friend continued frankly, finally braking eye contact and straightening out his tie. Then he began to neatly take off his jacket. "It wouldn't be proper to leave you in that state."