Warning: Contains slashy things
Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale
Words: 1235
Disclaimer: Do not own, making no money.

Written for the prompt, "Take me home and leave me there."


Take Me Home


It was obvious to everyone on the road that Aziraphale had never learned to drive – an impressive feat given that, as an angel, he had been around for quite a bit longer than automobiles. The only things keeping the Bentley on the road were a string of increasingly desperate miracles and sheer force of will.

"Get off the curb," Crowley snapped weakly from the back seat.

Aziraphale's hands tightened on the wheel. (1) It had helped to keep up a steady stream of prayer under his breath – but he'd stopped that a while ago after realizing that it made the Bentley a bit sluggish, and in the relative silence he could hear every pained groan that Crowley tried (but never quite managed) to swallow.

The angel swerved the car into the next lane, away from the curb and nearly into a bus. Crowley slid with the motion of the car and bashed his head against one of the back doors. He blessed loudly.

If you'd just use one of those safety belts, Aziraphale thought but didn't say. Just like he hadn't said, What on earth were you thinking getting into a fight with a Duke of Hell, or My dear, you look absolutely terrible. If he were to say any of those things it would open a floodgate and then he might actually start to panic.

It wasn't because Crowley might die. The demon had been inconveniently discorporated a number of times over the past few millennia, but he'd always come back eventually. What worried Aziraphale was that his friend (2) was in a great deal of pain and there was only so much he could do about it.

That and driving. He was quickly deciding that loving all of God's creations definitely did not include cars.

"Just drive to my flat," Crowley hissed. "Take me home and leave me there, before you crash my bloody fucking car…"

Aziraphale's head snapped around. The Bentley careened.

"I am not leaving you alone in this condition…"

Crowley glared at him through broken sunglasses. "Watch the road, you idiot!"

A significant number of miracles later, they managed to reach the bookshop without any major traffic collisions. (3) Aziraphale parked on the curb and helped Crowley inside, unheeding of the demon's protests or the usual requirement of needing a key to open a locked door.

"You really are an idiot," Crowley grumbled as he was forcibly settled onto a conveniently materialized sofa. (4) "If Hastur is still looking for me—"

"Then your flat is the worst place you could be right now. It's far too obvious," Aziraphale interrupted. His hand settled anxiously on Crowley's shoulder. "Show me?"

"No." Crowley curled up a bit more on the sofa defensively, eyes narrowing.

With a pained look, the angel knelt down beside the sofa and gently removed Crowley's sunglasses. (5) Rationally, he knew that Crowley would heal eventually and that praying for God to heal an agent of Hell would probably only cause more problems. Angelic sympathy, even at its most extreme, was still supposed to be rational. But…

"I am going to do what I can," Aziraphale said bluntly. "I'll limit myself to the flesh wounds if I must, but I'm not going to watch you suffer like this."

"Taking advantage of me in my weakened ssstate, angel?" Crowley hissed. He put up a token struggle before relaxing just enough.

For a stomach wound, (6) it hadn't bled very much at all – Crowley had probably put in the extra effort to clot well for the sake of the Bentley's upholstery. Aziraphale bit his lip. It certainly wasn't the most painful wound ever inflicted, but that didn't make it any more pleasant. (7)

He was so caught up in his inspection that he was a bit late and distracted in replying. "I wouldn't dream of taking advantage, my dear…"

Crowley laughed, sounding pained. (8) "No, of course not," the demon grumbled. But he didn't try to curl up again, staying unusually quiet as the angel prayed over him.

As the wound receded, it left behind the vague certainty that he was going to be sick all over the bookshop's back room. Nothing quite turned Crowley's stomach like a divine Healing – it was the infernal equivalent of setting foot on a boat for the first time in years and having to face the unpleasant prospect of having lost his sea legs.

After a moment he waved Aziraphale away and tried to sit up. "That's enough. Unless you're trying to smite me, which in my opinion is really uncalled for…"

Aziraphale pushed him back down onto the sofa almost instantly. "You still need to rest. I'll… I'll go get you some tea."

"No tea," Crowley protested, his stomach churning at the thought of having to cope with even a liquid at the moment. He managed to catch Aziraphale's wrist before his so-called Enemy went very far. And wasn't that perhaps the greatest irony of the day, being attacked by someone on his own side and cared for by someone from the other? "Listen, for the love of— I told you not to drive my car, but you did anyway. I told you to take me back to my flat, but you didn't. Can't you just sit and not do anything for a minute?"

Struck temporarily dumb by this outburst, Aziraphale allowed himself to be tugged over to sit on the edge of the sofa. Surely there was nothing wrong with wanting to make Crowley more comfortable? It was the thought that counted, even if the implementation lacked style – surely, after all the time they'd known each other, Crowley could appreciate that.

"You don't have to be quiet, jusst…" Crowley sighed. He still held on to Aziraphale's wrist, thumb pressed lightly to pulse point. "Ssstay there. I need to… need to rest a bit."

Aziraphale looked down at Crowley's hand, then his counterpart's weary face. It didn't seem as though Crowley was angry at him after all. "All right," he said softly, with a faint, relieved smile.

Crowley flashed him a slightly stronger grin. "Good."

A few moments later his eyelids began to droop, hiding his golden eyes by a few degrees. Moments later he was fast asleep, still holding on to Aziraphale's wrist.

They could have tea later.


(1) The white of his knuckles had, by now, spread to the rest of his hands. If the steering wheel were an animate object, it would've been screaming in pain.

(2) Because one couldn't be this concerned about an acquaintance without admitting that they were a friend

(3) A few fenders probably ended up bent, but none of them belonged to the Bentley.

(4) It was chintz. He was trying hard not to look directly at it.

(5) The fact that Crowley had made no attempt to repair them and regain some of his usual suaveness was in itself telling.

(6) The sort that probably would have eviscerated a mortal being

(7) Nor did the (admittedly somewhat faded) memory of Adam Young's promise that they wouldn't catch any trouble for their involvement in averting the Apocalypse. Apparently that promise didn't extend as far as personal grudges formed around that time, and the oversight inspired in Aziraphale a kind of frustrated anger that he was trying very hard to ignore.

(8) The reason for this merely seemed obvious. It wasn't. (9)

(9) Not even to Crowley.