The Known/Unknown Quantity

Chapter 53: The Burn of Old Things Held Deep

Chapter 53:The Burn Of Old Things Held Deep

Aziraphale brought Crowley upstairs to share a bath.

The demon became very pliable after the healing light poured out of him, too exhausted to want anything but nurturing. The angel sat him up and undressed his unresisting body, massaging the elegant aching joints and burning muscles. The healed wound was large, and tender. Crowley only grunted when the angel lifted his arm, but Aziraphale knew the pain was extreme and he tried to be as gentle as he could. When he finished, he undressed himself, then guided the yielding Crowley into the tub with him. Into the steaming water they sat, though it nearly scalded the angel. He knew Crowley loved water that was close to boiling. He would put up with it, just this once.

Down the demon went between the angel's legs, with as much help as Aziraphale could provide to support him, grunted and gritting his teeth in every attempt to hide his pain. When he settled in with a long hiss, the angel pulled his thin frame to his chest and embraced him, murmured sweetly in his ear. His stroking and rocking lulled the demon into a restive state where the shadows of the battle couldn't reach.

But the monster had been right about one thing. Crowley couldn't get the image of the battle's ending out of his head: a girl, with the plaintive face of his dying child, falling before his own blade.

"Fucking posing bitch," Crowley muttered, closing his eyes to hold back the crimson tears.

Aziraphale leaned into the demon's face as close as he could, "What was that, sweet boy?"

"Nothing, angel," Crowley sighed heavily, wrapping himself in Aziraphale's love. "Just cursing ghosts."

Aziraphale kissed his forehead, and combed his fingers through the crimson hair. Suspecting with sorrow what repeated over and over in his little snake's hazy mind, he wished that either the light or the bath could wash all shadows away.

Crowley slept like a dead man the entire day, the angel watching over him from a chair at the edge of the bed. Here we come full circle, sweet boy, Aziraphale thought blearily, and now the roles reverse.

Oh, my little snake, why must you suffer like this, always? And what else haven't you told me?

The angel's eyes kept traveling to the empty sword sheath on the dresser, removed from Crowley's lank body once he'd been carried back to the bookshop. No blade sat in it now, or ever truly. So, what had it been? Crowley called it a curse, a thing only a demon could bear.

No, no, that wasn't it. He had merely said he was doing demon's work. Nothing about the curse hurting an angel. Right?

More apprehension slid across Aziraphale's contemplative face. What if it was a demon's curse? Crowley swore to him it wasn't holy water. It would have destroyed him.... unless.....

....and how did it flame like that? A blue flame, the type of flame you might see during the Great War, the only time when Heaven had burned, and had sent its flames to the enemy below...

All day into the evening, the angel sat up with these cycling thoughts, and he didn't know how he was going the broach the subject with Crowley, or when, with only hours to go before the most intimate experience of their lives.

It was an hour before midnight.

The angel held his tongue as they drove to Jasmine Cottage. After about five minutes of this nonsense Crowley grinned and said," Time to clear the air."