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Michael’s true form could never quite be replicated in the human world. None of the archangels’ could, really, but Michael’s was the worst. Suffice it to say that when an angel says “do not be afraid,” it was for very good cause.
On a good day, Michael’s eyes were like close stars, twinkling with a bluish light that spoke of distant fire blazing with white-hot heat. On a bad day, you remembered that stars were suns.
Aziraphale shifted nervously on the stand under the eyes of the Host. “It seemed...wasteful. For the Lord to spend so much time on something just to blow it all up over...some...”
Michael was glaring.
“You have lost sight of our true purpose, Aziraphale,” Michael said, and his voice was like a flaming sword. “You have lost sight of His will. It is not for us to judge His plan.”
“But what if this was all part of the plan?” he said desperately. He tried to tug at the sleeve of a jumper he wasn’t wearing here. “Only He knows, after all, and...”
“IT WAS NOT,” said Michael in an entirely different, terrible voice, reminding Aziraphale vaguely of someone, maybe even Someone, “A PART OF HIS PLAN. YOU ARE TO BE JUDGED, AZIRAPHALE.”
Aziraphale fidgeted nervously. “Very well.”
Michael’s eyes were cold then, and it was worse somehow.
---
It was raining in London. Crowley was not fond of the rain. His windowsill was made of slate and raindrops made an unnecessarily noisy plopping sound when they fell on it and nothing in the world seemed to be able to muffle the noise. It was almost enough to make a demon consider double-glazing. Almost.
He was trying to enjoy a cup of tea while he monitored the most recent developments in reality television when there came a loud thump on the roof. Crowley shouted and accidentally spilled the majority of his tea down his dressing-gown. He scowled and made to give the source of the thump a good talking-to or, failing that, at least a good kick.
Strictly speaking, residents of his building were not allowed on the roof, but the lock on the door and the camera monitoring it had a habit of malfunctioning whenever Crowley got it into his head to have a smoke up there. He opened the door, remembered suddenly he had forgotten an umbrella, and saw the angel.
Almost naked and soaked to the bone, he was sprawled across the roof on his stomach. His long white wings were extended, but they looked wrong somehow: too many angles, feathers out of place. He lay so still that only his breathing assured Crowley he was alive.
In a flash Crowley was kneeling at Aziraphale’s side, stroking his hair and praying his angel was conscious. “Oh, no you don’t. I categorically forbid you to die on my roof. You’ll be gone for weeks begging for a new body and I simply won’t have it.”
“Dying’s not the point,” Aziraphale murmured.
Crowley scowled. “Those...” He took a deep breath and squeezed Aziraphale’s hand. “Come on now. Can you stand?”
“It won’t be a walk in the park.”
He gritted his teeth and pulled himself to all fours. Crowley did not fail to notice the ugly bruises flowering across his front.
“I’m going to touch you now,” he warned, “and it’s probably going to hurt.”
Aziraphale nodded. His eyes were squeezed shut.
Crowley looped his arms through Aziraphale’s and pulled him to his feet. He gasped sharply, winced, and stiffened.
Crowley cringed. “Sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry!”
“All fine.” Aziraphale managed a pained little smile that was somehow worse than the wince. “Ignore me, dear. Never was much of the warrior type. Not little old me.”
“The angel of tea and chocolate, a stay-at-home type? No.” Crowley laughed a little too nervously.
He was not entirely sure just how they got downstairs. He remembered apologizing over and over every time Aziraphale cried out, and the way he eventually stopped making any sound at all and fell limp and ragged against him. He remembered lying Aziraphale on his stomach and hating himself when he saw the tears on Aziraphale’s cheeks. He remembered borrowing more or less an entire medicine cabinet from his very confused downstairs neighbor, looking up ornithology websites on the Internet, splinting the bones in his wings while Aziraphale bit his hand to keep from screaming, and taping his ribs. He remembered lying next to Aziraphale as he wept in his sleep, stroking his hair and whispering in his ear and hating all the forces of heaven.
---
Aziraphale spent most of the next few days asleep. He woke occasionally to eat or drink something that Crowley, who had heard somewhere that such substances were good for invalids, thrust upon him. He probably didn’t need it, of course, but it humored Crowley, and that was good. Sometimes he woke to find the demon lying beside him, watching him as if he expected him to disappear any second. Sometimes he was woken by the sounds of Crowley actually attempting to cook.
He can’t remember once waking to find Crowley gone.
In between there were dreams where he was still in a small, hot, bright room with Michael and a half dozen angels he didn’t recognize, being bound hand and foot.
“You have broken our Father’s heart, Aziraphale, and for that your own heart must ache.”
Four sharp blows to his ribcage in quick succession, two on each side, knocking the breath out of him so hard he didn’t have time to cry out.
“You have loved mankind more than our Father, Aziraphale, and for that you will be cast down to Earth in disgrace.” Michael’s horrible star-eyes glimmered with a strange malice.
Six blows, one along each of the three long bones of his wings, and this time Aziraphale could shout, but when he gasped, his ribs burned.
There was more, things he couldn’t quite recall, things that left no mark on his body but hurt all the same, so much he was nearly out of his mind.
He couldn’t remember how he’d left, but he remembered wishing more than anything to be in the demon’s obscenely overpriced flat taking up much more space than strictly necessary on Crowley’s obscenely comfortable bed, and he was there.
It was a wonder Aziraphale didn’t wake more often. Dreaming was unpleasant these days.
It was almost a week before he was really and truly awake. On a sunny Good Friday the year after the Apocalypse was averted, Aziraphale got up and out of bed again.
Crowley was on his balcony supervising the execution of a slightly wilted ficus when Aziraphale padded cautiously out of the bedroom wearing a pair of plaid flannel pajama pants and Crowley’s blue dressing-gown. He immediately dropped the ficus over the railing and darted to Aziraphale’s side, seizing his elbow and trying to turn him back around.
“Damn it, angel, what in the world do you think you’re doing?”
“You’re a terrible influence on me. I’ve been sleeping forever. I’m getting up.”
“You stupid bastard, you’re held together with toothpicks and tape! At least sit down or something!”
“Fine, fine! I’m sitting down!”
He shook Crowley off and painstakingly made his way to an easy chair, maneuvering his wings so they rested on the arms.
“I feel like a Christmas tree topper.”
“I, er, wasn’t entirely sure what to do with those,” Crowley said nervously. “Had to do a bit of researching.”
Aziraphale nodded, looking over his wings. “Looks alright.”
Crowley knelt in front of him and took his hands. “Alright then,” he said. “Who was it? I know how hard I’m hitting them, but I do need to know how difficult it’s going to be.” His tone was light, but he knew it wouldn’t be for long.
Aziraphale closed his eyes. “Who is it ever?”
“Of course.” Crowley shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. “It was that fucker Michael, wasn’t it? He’s a bloody psychopath! Always with the strongarm bullshit--”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly.
“--why the fuck they never put someone in direct management of him! Someday that cocksucker’s going to go all the way off his rocker and burn someone alive, if I don’t tear his heart out first--”
“Crowley.”
“--and where was the Big Fellow during all of this, eh? Refiling the paperwork for the new Grand Plan, I expect, or off ignoring some African genocide--”
“Crowley!”
“--wherever He was, I’ve no fucking idea why He doesn’t leave some responsible management in charge of the dispensation of justice while he’s--”
Aziraphale kissed him.
It hurt, to be sure. He had to bend over to reach him and his ribs ached and he winced as he kissed him, but it was worth it. Crowley squeezed his hands as hard as he could, wanting to hug him to his chest but knowing he couldn’t. One of them was crying, or maybe both, and it was never clear who.
They only stopped when the pain in Aziraphale’s ribs became unbearable and he sat up with the smallest grimace. Crowley wiped his face and briefly reflected on the fact that demons really weren’t made for healing.
Nevertheless, he asked, “Back to bed?”
Aziraphale smiled and nodded.