#I have returned to tend to your wounds good omens fandom

[hansoeii]

look at you, you're gorgeous!

[29-pieces]

Whumptober day 17 - Good Omens

Day 17: Blackmail Fandom/Setting: Good Omens, pre-Apocalypse (mid 2000s) Read on AO3 Read on FF.net

~*~

Aziraphale hadn't been himself lately and Crowley didn't like it.

If he didn't know any better, he'd say the angel was avoiding him. He'd declined all of Crowley's suggestions that they meet up for a nice bottle of wine and a chance to complain about their respective Head Offices. He was barely taking calls, always finding a good reason to hurry off the phone with a hint of anxiety. Crowley wasn't hurt, that would mean he had feelings which of course he absolutely did not, not a single one, but if he did have just one feeling it might have been concern.

Something had to be going on. And so, Crowley swiped the best bottle of wine he could find at the store, reminded the owner he'd already paid for it (he hadn't, but he was supposed to do demony things like that), and went straight for the Bookshop.

It was closed, which was always statistically likely, so Crowley headed for the back window and slithered in as a snake, the bottle of wine carefully held in his coils.

Inside, he changed back to his human shaped form and strolled towards the front where Aziraphale could normally be found at a desk or chair with a heavy book.

No angel.

"Oy, Aziraphale!" Crowley shouted, setting the wine down and tossing his dark glasses onto a nearby shelf. "Wine!"

And still no answer, leaving Crowley to frown and prowl around. It could be the angel was just out; it wasn't like they told each other about all of their assignments, but Crowley was starting to feel like he was being left in the dark, and that didn't feel nice. So, when the front door jiggled and opened with a light ring of the bell, he stayed where he was back in the shelves so he could give Aziraphale a proper scare as payment.

The door shut again, then there was a moment of silence, then a long, weary sigh. Crowley frowned, listening to Aziraphale's heavier than normal footsteps cross slowly to the coat rack. He peeked out in time to see the coat slide down off Aziraphale's shoulders, followed by the vest, and then Crowley's snake eyes grew wide with shock and fury.

There were bloody stripes on Aziraphale's back, showing through his shirt. Had he tangled with another demon? Crowley watched Aziraphale reach behind him and gingerly dab at one bloody streak with a soft whimper of pain, and that was enough. The demon stormed from the shelves, making Aziraphale leap around with a squeak.

"Oh, Crowley, it's you," Aziraphale sighed, hand over his heart. "You shouldn't be here."

"What happened to you?" Crowley demanded, ignoring the frankly rude greeting with one of his own. "You're bleeding. Was it a demon?"

"What? No, of course not. Everything's fine. Crowley, please go."

Crowley crossed his arms, fixing his yellow glare on the angel. His forked tongue flicked out, testing the air for hints of sulfur, but what he smelled was even worse. Reeling back, Crowley hissed.

"You smell like Heaven," he said. His jaw clenched. "You smell like you've just been to Heaven, and your back is bleeding." It wasn't hard to connect the dots from there. Crowley's fists tightened. "When I get my hands on Gabriel-"

"It was my own fault!" Aziraphale yelped, more frantic than the situation called for. "I, erm... I made a mistake, and I was justly punished for it. So- so let it go, there's a dear boy, forget you saw anything. Now you really must be leaving. Good day." He stormed towards the back, or really sort of hobbled because no storm moved as slow and painfully as he did.

Crowley followed him, hardly satisfied. "Made enough of a mistake to be flogged?" he hissed. "How? You haven't even had an Assignment in ages!"

"Crowley, please let it go."

"Something's going on," Crowley barreled on. "Since when did we start hiding things from each other?"

They'd reached the back room now, but somewhere at the front of the shop, the bell rang again. The faint tinkling of celestial space followed, an angel in the shop. Aziraphale's eyes grew wider and he shoved Crowley bodily away.

"Go!" he hissed in panic. "Go, go, I'll call you later, please just get out before anyone sees!"

Crowley watched his friend hurry back out to the front, torn. On the one hand, it wouldn't be the first hasty exit he'd made when another angel came to call unexpectedly, of course he shouldn't be found there. His safety and Aziraphale's depended on it. But on the other hand, something was wrong and Crowley wanted—needed—to know what. Frowning, he pulled out his cellular device and opened the video recorder, staying out of sight.

"Ah, Aziraphale!" a cheerful voice rang out, not one Crowley recognized.

"Zaccheus," Aziraphale returned with a distinctly frosty edge. "What do you want?"

"Relax, old boy, only popped in to check on you. That was kind of Gabriel to only give you ten since the others hadn't healed yet."

The others? How many floggings had Aziraphale been getting? Crowley cursed himself for not having pressed the matter sooner.

"Yes, very... kind," Aziraphale stiffly replied. "Now I expect we're through here."

"Ah, well, since you bring it up..."

"Zaccheus..."

Now there was a clear edge of panic that Crowley did not like one bit. He tipped his phone around the door jamb, watching in the screen as a dark-haired angel slowly circled Aziraphale.

"I mean," this Zaccheus angel said, "it's in everyone's best interest for us to keep up this... partnership. Don't you think?"

"I've already taken the fall twice for you now," Aziraphale retorted through gritted teeth. "I did what you asked. I told Gabriel your mistakes were my fault and I took your lashes-"

"For which I'm terribly grateful," the other angel said, beaming. "You were very convincing. I get the impression they rather expect for you to make mistakes, you know, that's why it couldn't have been a better arrangement. And speaking of arrangements, I mean, come now, Aziraphale. Can you really afford not to play along when I need you to? What would happen to your demon then?"

Crowley inhaled sharply as the picture formed a little clearer. So it was blackmail. Aziraphale took this angel's punishments in exchange for not spilling the beans on their partnership?

"You said," Aziraphale spoke up shakily. "You said if I did this, once, you would destroy any evidence. I didn't breathe a word. Zaccheus, please. If you tell Gabriel and he tells Beelzebub, it's not just me who would be in danger, Crowley-"

"Would be demon fodder, yes," Zaccheus beamed. He clapped a hand on Aziraphale's shoulder, not noticing or not caring about the soft whimper it brought as he hit one of the wounds. "So... you do the math... Next time I need you, you're going to be readily available to take the licking, right?"

Crowley saw Aziraphale's shoulders sag and he'd had enough. Turning off the recorder, he kicked the door open with a bang and strode out into the room, brimming with demonic fury.

"Wrong," he snapped, ignoring the terrified yelp from Aziraphale, the stammered insistence that Crowley leave at once what are you doing and focusing instead on a shocked Zaccheus. "You twat. You absolute prick. So that's what's been going on? You found out about our Arrangment and made your own arrangements to have Aziraphale punished for your screw-ups?"

"Zaccheus," Aziraphale cried, holding out his hands. "I didn't tell him, I swear it, I asked him to leave, this isn't what it looks like, please don't tell Gabriel-"

"Oh, he's not going to," Crowley growled, getting in Zaccheus's face. He'd give the other angel this much, Zaccheus didn't back down, but rather smirked.

"I'm not? I have enough evidence to-"

"Evidence that goes nowhere if I kill you right now, makes all the problems go away."

"No!" Aziraphale squeaked, bodily shoving the two apart and standing in front of Zaccheus, pleading eyes gazing up at Crowley. "Don't, Crowley, please, don't kill him."

Crowley sighed. "Y' never let me do anything fun," he grumbled. The demon glowered at a more uncertain looking Zaccheus now and growled, "Fine, but the only reason I'm letting you live is because somehow you've got Aziraphale's protection, in spite of what you did to him! If it were up to me, I'd tear you apart right now. But Aziraphale says no, so it's back to Plan B." The demon smirked and held up his phone. "Ever heard the term 'mutually assured destruction'?"

He clicked the button to play back the recording he'd taken, watching with satisfaction as Zaccheus's face grew crimson and then white, hearing his own voice incriminating himself. Crowley pointed the phone at him and snapped, "So you get the message, there's no way we go down without you going down, too. Now, if I even think you're going to blab anything to anyone, or if I even suspect you've been bothering Aziraphale, I'm going to get very angry." His eyes shifted to full snake, the whites disappearing into gold, skin morphing partway into scales. Crowley stretched slightly taller, looming over the other angel. "And when I'm angry, I tend to forget thingssss," he hissed. "Might even forget he doesssssn't want me to kill you. Underssssstand?"

Zaccheus swallowed, then bobbed his head. Crowley shifted back to normal size and gave him a feral smile.

"Good. Then I suggest you gather whatever 'evidence' you've got, if you've even got any, and send it to Aziraphale."

Again, Zaccheus bobbed his head, then with a glower in Aziraphale's direction, hurried from the bookshop. As soon as the door had shut, Crowley bit his lip, waiting for Aziraphale to tell him off, but when he turned to look, the angel only slumped down into the chair and buried his face in his hands.

"Crowley, I'm so sorry," he muttered into his palms.

Taken aback, Crowley stared. "Er... for what?"

Aziraphale pulled his hands away and looked up at him with sorrow. "I should have told you, but- he said if I even hinted... I think he was scared of you, truth be told, and the risk... it was just too much. If my office ever told yours, I- I don't think they would give you a flogging and send you on your way. I couldn't risk it, Crowley, I'm so sorry. Can you ever forgive me?"

He really meant it, Crowley could tell. The demon regarded Aziraphale, then slowly moved to sink down in front of him. "Got nothing to be sorry for, angel. You were trying to protect me. I'm not angry with you. Wish you'd let me kill him, but I'm not angry. But..." Crowley released a long breath and shook his head. "The whole Arrangement was my idea. The thought of you being the whipping boy for that tosser for the rest of your life, because of me..." He swallowed. "Do you... do you want to keep doing this? Or- I'd understand if..."

Aziraphale smiled and patted Crowley's hand. "I don't regret the Arrangement," he said firmly. "Or our friendship. I don't know how Zaccheus found out, but we'll collect whatever he's got on us, and... well, we'll just be more careful. And thank you, my dear. For making him stop. Truth is, I was starting to feel ill whenever he came to call, not knowing what he would ask for—mostly just menial tasks after... after the first time... filing his paperwork for him and such. But knowing he might ask worse of me, and that I'd have to go along with it for both our sakes..." Aziraphale shuddered. "And I'm so sorry for having been distant, my dear, I just- I thought- if he'd gone back on his word and alerted anyone, if they were just waiting to catch you here..."

Crowley glowered, remembering the note of anxiety Aziraphale had kept trying to conceal. It all made sense now. "You don't have to explain, angel. I get it. How many times did you take his punishment?"

"Just the twice," Aziraphale assured him softly, looking away. "Gabriel didn't even question it. Fifteen the first time, but- but he's right, it was only ten tonight, since I couldn't heal the wounds from the week before."

"How merciful," Crowley spat, standing up with a glower. "That was, by the way, sarcasm, as I can tell some part of you actually believes that tripe. That's not mercy, but there's no sense arguing over it. Right, I assume the lashes are magicked and can't be healed away by me either, but I can at least clean them off and wrap 'em. Get that shirt off, I'll get some hot water going."

"Crowley."

He stopped and turned, waiting as Aziraphale glanced at the floor, then up at him with a small smile.

"Thank you."

Crowley quirked his mouth in an answering smile, then turned to fetch the water. His angel did require some taking care of, but after all Crowley didn't mind.

[hecohansen31]

Godamn, Man Child

First Part of The ‘Madge & Jade’ Series

Arthur Shelby x Madge Lionkel (OC) 

Prologue: Your Head In Your Hands

(A/N): Hello there, lovelies!

I know that I said I wouldn’t ever post series on there, but on my new blog I felt like this might not have had the exposure it would have had on this (even more because this is a first chapter) so I decided to post it on here.

This is my first ever work for this fandom, so if you could give off some encouragement to me, I'd love it and it'd certainly make me want more of this series (it is my for ever OC insert instead of Reader so I am a bit unsure about this).

So, please, if you want more, don’t forget to leave some kind of feedback I truly apprecciate it from the bottom of my heart and it’ll truly make my heart beat stronger and my fingers write faster!

Have a lovely reading!

SUMMARY: The return from the war wasn't difficult solely for soldiers.

But also for who they had left behind.

And who stayed.

Madge is a daughter to a soldier and a sister to a dead brother, left wiht nothing more than her intellect.

The one thing that might get her involved with everything she had sworn to avoid.

And even worse... she might just learn to like that new world.

WORDS: 5,3 K

WARNINGS: Poverty, Famine, Mentions of Death-War, Violence, Non-Following Canon.

Madge walked with a few things in her hand, in the new apartment she had found, after she had been evicted in the house she had inhabited her whole life.

She had chosen to move there, after she had sold every piece of furniture she owned previously in the house she had grown into, since they were all her latest properties, after her family had slowly disappeared through famine, sickness and war.

Three of the four horsemen of Apocalypse, Death herself being the sole one she hadn’t meant yet, although she saw it on the face of her beloved parents and brother, consummating themselves through a slow agony that had brought them underground too early.

And had left her alone.

Without a penny to her name.

She hadn’t grown up with all the money in the world.

Living in Small Heath after all had never been synonym of richness, but her father had had some business trades in London and it had been enough to give him some kind of respect and fame among people and between his children.

But when the war had stopped the trades and her father had been sent to war, they hadn’t much and meanwhile her mother gave her children all the food she owned, she had starved herself in a slow death and when the Spanish flu had started being a guest in their house, Madge had been the only one that had been able to see her departure.

She cursed Luck each time she looked at herself in the mirror.

The new house or better apartment, since it was in a smelly complex in a part of town that wasn’t either trafficked or at ‘big’ risk (as if small or medium risk weren’t still dangerous), hadn’t a big price monthly because was actually managed by a religious association, which meant that the owner tended to be more lenient, having immediately noticed that the trembling girl in front of her didn’t have much hope in her eyes anymore.

But she hadn’t certainly been truthful when she had explained that she would have the apartment all to herself, because as she moved in the small place, it looked half-filled with different things that belonged to somebody that wasn’t hers.

She thought that it might have been something that the previous owners had left behind.

And then as Madge had walked in what would have been her room, she found a girl on one of the two mattresses laid on the floor.

A green-eyed elegant girl, dressed in a nurse uniform, lacking solely of the thighs and of the hat.

Madge had seen quite the number of nurses when her father had come back from war, his wounds making him unable to do anything and eventually smothering him with a pillow had been a mercy that still weighted to Madge’s name.

The only good thing in her whole life that kept here on that side was Gabriel, her fiancé, who had promised to support her through thick and thin, choosing to try out going to London to a relative that might have him put in some kind of business he didn’t want to talk with her, since jobs for a person like him were scares.

‘When I’ll have the money for an house, we’ll be together again, my love’ he had said when they had last spoke after he had kissed her hands, a promise in his light eyes, of a beauty that had always made the shy and small Madge wonder why he had chosen her.

But, back then, she had just nodded.

And she had soon thought that she could have found some kind of job for herself, at Small Heath, to help Gabriel reach their goal faster, not wanting to weight on his family, although he himself had suggest that she just moved in his old house.

But Madge knew that to his family she would have been nothing more than another mouth to feed.

So, she had sold everything and now she was in her new apartment.

Or so she had thought.

‘… I am sorry… I must have been… I must have walked in the wrong apartment…’ the girl raised her beautiful green eyes at her, the shade was much more mellow than normal, having a darker tone that seemed the bottom of a broken bottle.

They were laced with apathy, as if the woman truly didn’t care about what would have happened and Madge thought for a moment that this woman, dressed as a nurse might as well be some kind of criminal or some crazed woman, who the war had destroyed in every conceivable way.

‘I don’t think so’ commented the woman, as she moved in a sat position, meanwhile Madge stood painfully uncomfortable in the small entrance of what was supposed to be her own room, but now seemed almost a small laugh at her face ‘… you must be Madge, my roommate’.

Roommate?

No, she had rented the apartment for her own.

The owner of the complex hadn’t talked about that in he slightest and she had barely mentioned any other person interested in the apartment since it reeked of piss and it looked as stable as the small stack of book in her box.

The few ones she hadn’t throw in her chimney to warm up her and her family when wood had been too expensive.

‘… ahem… I do think that there was some kind of… mistake’ Madge tried to do her best to appear calm and polite, not knowing who this woman truly was and wondering whether she was in some kind of danger, the hair on her arms standing tall, which was something that she always thought as an omen.

She never knew whether it was good or bad.

She just knew that the last time it had happened, her brother had died, meanwhile she sold some of her family jewels for food.

‘No mistake, sweetheart’ although her eyes spoke of apathy, there was a tint of sarcasm in the nickname the woman gave her, but it wasn’t mean-spirited ‘… Mrs. Carlin actually chose to rent the apartment to two ladies, since it’ll make her double the gain’.

Which was quite smart, since the woman had to donate half of the income from the complex to the Church, and had she been able to make two girls spit the room, she would have doubled her income, which came in quite handy in these hard times.

But had Madge known about it, she would have tried to get her to lower the price, mostly because it wasn’t fair for her to pay for a full apartment whereas she would have used half of it, making her space even smaller than it already was.

And most importantly she would have to share it with a stranger.

Whoever this woman was, certainly didn’t seem the worst company she had ever been in, but having grown up in a distinct neighborhood, constantly tutored in literature and ‘good manners’ she couldn’t help but feel somehow uncomfortable at the thought of not having any other choice.

She hadn’t paid Mrs. Carlin her own share, yet, so she could have turned around and kept on living in Gabriel’s house with raised eyes every time she ate and stayed at home, searching desperately for a job she couldn’t find.

But at the same time, she knew that staying in the past wasn’t a choice.

‘… she screwed us both, if it helps’ commented the beautiful woman, as she moved to finally raise up, coming close to her and towering over her since Madge was barely able to reach a normal height, meanwhile this woman looked like quite the giant for her ‘… I am Jade, by the way, roommate’.

And she offered her an hand, calloused and slightly scratched, but her fingers were elegant and nimble in Madge’s small ones, cursed and yet so thin that you could see the profile of the bones, her own chest and torso looking like that, in a way that was an omen in itself.

That’s why she needed this apartment.

This way she would have had the set up to start searching for a job on her own, to make her own money and be able to eat up properly, alongside supporting her own small growing family.

So, she accepted Jade’s hand.

A month had passed, and her first rent was due in a few days.

She had the money, but had she used it to pay for her rent she wouldn’t have the money for anything else.

And she would have either been forced to go back in Gabriel’s house or starve.

Either solutions seemed quite horrid in her mind.

She had learned through her whole experience, meanwhile she was in search for a job, that she was as proud as her mother had been back then, begging her father to bring them with him to London, to have a nicer life than the one they had in Birmingham.

But Madge’s father had always been a sentimental man and he had grown in Small Heath, although he had wanted his children to move as far away as possible, wanting them to reach out for success, something which he had ensured, through expensive tutors and even more importantly his own suggestions, he had raised them in the same city he had been born.

He kept on repeating that to them after he had come back from the war, in an horrible way that seemed more a taunting that a true suggestion and now, with each day closer to her demise, she found herself hearing his voice again in an horrid lullaby that left her eyes open each night.

At first, she had refused any jobs as a maid or as a normal cleaner, since she had quite the ‘important’ skills, but the truth was that she had never raised an arm for any cleaning.

Although she knew the theory of it, she was afraid of not being of much help as a maid.

But now, when she was thoroughly desperate, she had tried reaching out to any job that was legal, just to hear ‘we aren’t interested’ or ‘we don’t need anyone like you’, which sounded almost as insult and she was growing damnably frustrated.

Before the war she had been studying to become a teacher, but she had never been able to go to a private school to get her own license or such, so she couldn’t even try to send some kind of applications to private ladies schools, something that would have implied her finally moving away from Small Heath.

And as her father had been a stubborn emotional bull, she knew that this city held the last memory of them.

Gabriel had suggested that she came with him to London, although he had also insisted that she’d have to have her own means to survive since his relative wouldn’t help and provide for them both, and she had denied, maybe postponing to when she got a few pounds saved for the occasion…

… but the truth was that no matter how grimey the entire place was she thoroughly was part of this.

And she couldn’t deny it.

Jobs seemed as scarce as the food she could grab for herself.

There were other means to gain money, which weren’t properly legal, something that she had always been prohibited to herself, before.

But now she didn’t have much choice.

She had watched the newspaper and heard rumors about horse races.

Betting seemed the only way she would have gotten some money.

But it’d have meant selling her own last founds for something that might turn out to be a true failure, and meanwhile she did all of this, Jade had caught alongside her thoughts.

She had grown close enough to the tall nurse, although she doubted that anything would have changed from the stranger status they both had started this journey in, since Madge had her own reason not to want a deeper relationship with her, and Jade seemed a mystery that didn’t have any solution.

She didn’t speak a lot and most of the time she wasn’t at home, since she had long turns at the ambulatory, but Madge had also noticed that she also had some kind of secondary job, mostly at night, which made her come home with a bloodied uniform and money that reeked of dirt.

But as she had learned to satisfy herself with jobs that she had always though as ‘lower’, she knew not to ask Jade questions she didn’t want to hear the answer to.

Had she had a chance she would have done the same.

She could have started selling her body, it would have made her gain a steady income, but not only she would have been under somebody’s control, but the sole thought of the act in itself filled her body with a terrible feeling, not for the fact that she had always been taught how horrible and desperate such an act was, but the act itself, it just… it just made her feel violated.

But horse races were equally dangerous.

Her father had warned about them, telling her that the only people who won were the ones behind it, not the one who did the bets.

Poor people could only become poorer.

And yet, she wasn’t solely poor, but she was truly desperate.

When Jade had seen and probably noticed her decision about this, she had talked through it with her, something that she had to admit the nurse had handled quite well, since had it been everyone apart from her, it would have made Madge reply annoyedly, because she might have perceived it as an invasion of her own privacy.

She had definitely inherited the stubbornness from her father and the proudness from her mother.

Which made a lethal mix.

‘Are you considering betting something at the horse races in the Shelby’s shop?’ she had seemed completely disinterested about it all, as if she had just asked about the weather outside, meanwhile she ate a small toast she had filled with butter and marmalade, something that had made Madge’s mouth water immediately.

She didn’t remember the last time she had eaten marmalade.

And although she knew that she only needed to ask for Jade for one for herself, since the nurse had many times offered her some food, she felt like not only it would have meant stepping on some kind of unwritten boundary, but she was also damnably too proud to beg others for food.

She swore pride would be her downfall.

‘.. maybe’ she had bitten on her own mouth to calm her hunger.

To keep it inside.

‘… it is a quick way to make money’.

Her words tasted of foolishness and she knew it.

Even more under Jade’s emotionless stare.

She was barely a few years older than her, but her eyes spoke of being much older.

An old soul, Madge would have dubbed her this way, for sure.

Some kind of ancient poet, she loved reading about, and yet nothing about Jade was poetic, she was analytical and logical and although her roommate knew that she was able to random acts of kindness, Madge wouldn’t have been sure about her having truly a soul.

She just seemed so at lack of taste for life.

‘If you need a job, I might ask out for you’ her proposal was dangerously lined with interest ‘… I saw that you had a few books about ‘teaching’ and ‘children’, maybe I could ask around to the clients at the ambulatory if they have a need of a maid for their children…’.

Which would have been downright impossible, since in hard times the last thing people thought about was for sure the education of their children.

‘… I am not picky with jobs’ Madge said calmly ‘… still I have to admit that I wouldn’t make a proper nurse…’.

A calm smile appeared on Jade’s face, almost as if she was having her own fun.

‘… not many that work with me are proper nurses’ there was almost bitterness to her tone, mixed with sarcasm ‘… but I do imagine that you don’t like working with blood’.

Madge nodded vigorously.

She had seen too much blood, in the latest years.

‘If it doesn’t bother you…’ muttered softly Madge, not knowing truly what it might have brought her in, but Jade nodded her head as if Madge hadn’t just pushed her last hopes on her,

As if she had simply asked her a favor.

As if they were friends.

The war had taken many of her fellow friends and many didn’t associate with her anymore after her family’s downfall, leaving her alone when she needed it the most and still now she felt like it was the greatest of betrayals.

But at the same time, it hadn’t been all their fault.

She had been too damnably stubborn to ask out for their help.

So, it tasted bittersweet to rely on Jade.

The woman shot a quick look at her wrist-watch a small thing in leather that she always checked, as if it rhythmically marched her day down to the ‘t’.

‘… I’ll go, now, gotta open the ambulatory today’ she commented, as she stuffed the rest of the toast in her mouth, leaving one that was buttered and full of marmalade in her plate, something which was the only kindness that Jade did to the prideful Madge that she accepted.

She left behind her a toast she knew she wouldn’t eat, so that Madge would eat something that was more than tea for breakfast, as a secret agreement between each other, because Jade had soon learned that any word might offend Madge’s frail pride.

So, she would always cook a toast that she wouldn’t eat and leave it to her roommate.

Madge ate it in a few bites, as if it helped lessen the shame she felt for that charity.

When Jade had told her that she had found her a job as a tutor for a private household, she had rejoiced.

But now faced with the Shelby’s shops backside entry, she couldn’t help but feel nauseous at the thought of what Jade might have found for her, even scared about what ‘job’ might be hiding under the pretense of tutoring.

Had Jade seriously thought that she was truly that desperate?

And how the heck had Jade managed to find her a job at the Shelby’s betting shop?

Although it now made sense why Jade would come back at such terrible hours with blood on her hands.

If she worked on the side for the Shelby’s when she didn’t have turns at the ambulatory, she undoubtedly gained quite the money, doing something that was unbearably dangerous and for a moment Madge was terribly worried of getting involved in their own’s business.

She didn’t know them personally, and neither she had ever had the occasion to.

Her father’s business trades mostly involved London, hence they didn’t ask him his monthly fee for protection and her mother had made sure to put both her and her brother through private tutoring to avoid them mingling with the ‘wrong crowd’ in public school.

But she knew what they did.

They were some kind of gangsters.

After they had returned from war, they had set up their own true mission and now they were escalating powers through the various gangs of Birmingham, certainly having quite the control over Small Heath.

But to them poor and invisible people like Madge, didn’t matter.

And she had done her good amount of work to avoid being noticed.

And now she was walking straight through in the lion’s den.

And before she could rethink all of this, the door was opened, probably since she had been noticed through the window, standing in front of the house like a complete idiot, and then a beautiful woman came face to face with her.

She must have had the same age of her mother, but whereas her mother showed her age gracefully, in the body of this woman there was no time for aging, in an elegant assemble of clothes that made her appear younger, but not in any way vulgar.

Her clothes were classical, maybe a bit old-fashioned but in no way outdated, giving the woman an immediate aura of control and leadership, even before she ushered in Madge, with a quick look and a gesture of her hand.

And then uttered:

‘Oh, sweet girl, don’t stand outside of the door! Come inside! Come on!”.

Well, at least these criminals had manners.

‘You must be Mary’ commented the woman and Madge almost felt an horrible feeling at correcting her with a quick “It’s actually Madge” ‘… oh please do excuse me, lovely, you just had the face of a Mary’.

Everybody would have looked crazed saying that, but the woman said it with such a self-assurance that made her almost stand on her feet, as the woman quickly dragged Madge inside, and she kept her head low, almost something to use as an excuse if she ever was questioned about not seeing something.

‘I am Polly’ the woman said, as Madge’s eyes sent her an immediate confused look, which she deciphered quickly ‘… no need for any Mrs. or such, Madge, or you’ll make me feel old’.

That was the last thing Madge wanted, for sure.

They came to a halt to a room that might have looked like any common dining room she might have ever been in.

The flowery wallpaper looked old, in some part coming undone, as if also the most-well known gangsters of Small Heath had their own financial problems, something that made Madge smirk lightly as she sat down next to the woman, after she had been invited to.

‘Might I offer you a cup of tea, little one…’ she looked almost as if she was trying to busy herself, feeling too active to sat herself down, something which she looked quite used to, making Madge smirk at the memory of her own mother, being a little fretting beastie ‘… or you might prefer whiskey?’.

‘Just water would be perfect’ she didn’t want to sound needy or even talking out of place, but her tongue stuck painfully to the upper part of her palate, something that made her talk numbly.

‘You aren’t one for expensive tastes’ commented the woman, a serious smirk over her face, although it kept itself to a sarcastic amusement, that made Madge gulp loudly once she turned to bring her a glass of water, pouring herself one of an amber liquid she didn’t question ‘… or maybe you are too afraid to speak up’.

The last part cut her deep and she raised her face with cheeks burning of rage, but she held her tongue, knowing that she wasn’t risking solely a nice job, but also her life.

Thankfully, the woman moved quickly to push herself away from that topic, almost as if she hadn’t said it.

‘… the job is easy: my nephew, the youngest, Finn has been slacking off more and more at school, something that I won’t allow, because as much as his brothers were allowed to leave school early for war, he isn’t and I’d like to see one my boys with an instruction at least’.

She adjusted elegantly her dress, since the quick words she had spit out had somehow compromised the way she looked, although she seemed as collected as she had been before.

She had been through a cyclone and she had come back from it, winning.

Hadn’t Madge feared her already, she would have admired her, truly.

‘… you’ll be required to help him through math, literature, geometry and any other subjects that might be difficult for him’ explained the woman, as she knocked back in a sole gulp the whole glass of amber liquid, as the glass water laid untouched in front of Madge ‘… Jade told me that you were studying to become a teacher so it’ll be easy for you, although I do have to warn you…’.

And before she could finish the phrase, which had been almost a bad omen in itself, a fury of black and as tall as her (which meant pretty short) appeared in the room, another man in his tail, his elegant suit, identifying him as another of the Blinders and again Madge’s eyes were pasted to the table and the full glass of water.

But soon all her attention was caught by the little child that had walked in, decked in a full suit with a Blinder’s hat, making her half smirk at the irony of the situation, meanwhile the child looked at you with annoyed eyes, definitely not looking forward to her being his teacher.

‘… my nephew can be quite… active’ commented annoyedly the woman, as she moved to deck the boy in the back of his head, sending another to the other male that had accompanied him, making him yelp and Madge, caught by that anguished sound, raised her eyes for the first time, meeting the ones of the man.

They were small and yet so open that she found herself completely immersed in them, of a light grey tinted with green, in a way that made them shadowed and yet offering themselves to Madge, making her shiver as they answered her gaze, before they fell down.

Almost shy.

She wouldn’t have ever thought that a Peaky Blinders would have been shy of a woman.

But she had been told that although her eyes were common they reeked of something powerful and old and many times her younger brother would call her Athena, since she resembled her and one time she had even played her in a family play.

‘Arthur don’t you have some business to run?!’ Polly looked definitely looking forward to have him away and Madge couldn’t help but agree, as much as he had been intimidated by her staring competition, she certainly didn’t feel at ease with the knowledge of having a killer like that near her.

His hands were as dirty as the mud under her shoes.

But hadn’t she also killed?

Although it had been a merciful act…

… but did it seriously matter?

‘Yeah yeah, Pol’ he commented, but Madge felt him push last a gaze onto her as he left the room, and she had to will herself to avoid looking at those beautiful and slightly hooded eyes, pushing her nails in her palms almost as a punishment ‘… Finn, fucking behave’.

Another slap was heard and Madge wasn’t able to stop herself from smirking lightly.

‘… Finn this is Miss Lionkel, your teacher’ commented softly the woman, trying to usher the child closer, although he looked like he had planted his soles on the ground and she couldn’t help but smirk softly ‘… I do hope that you’ll get along and learn something from her’.

‘I don’t fucking want to’.

She had to admit that in that family they were all used to curse.

And as soon as he had uttered those words, Pol pushed a small slap on the boy’s face, who much to his courage didn’t flinch but looked like he could relatively cry at any time and Madge couldn’t help but remember a similar scene.

Her own brother had never liked in the slightest learning and her mother had always had to plead desperately with him.

‘… Finn, right?’ she called out to him, only gaining a disdainful reply ‘… well, we aren’t going to learn nothing today, but we’ll count money…’.

And she slowly grabbed her small pouch with he few money she needed for a her daily errands around the city, Pol looking at her carefully, almost as Finn did, ready to be tricked, but as she started naming the numbers, making willing mistakes, the child exasperatedly, took them away from her, starting to count them on his own.

She softly corrected him each time he chose a wrong number, but quickly Finn seemed to have relaxed himself something that was quite helpful for when she moved onto teaching him some new math, under Pol’s attentive glance, the woman eventually leaving to start what looked like dinner, but Madge felt her eyes glued to her.

Eventually Finn didn’t seem that annoyed with her anymore and although he certainly lacked some basilar knowledges, he was smart and fast and she didn’t have to anger herself much more, knowing quite the trick to make the boy learn.

At the end of the turn, before it could become truly dark outside, Polly stopped their lesson and moved to accompany her outside, keeping the same route, which meant that she wanted t keep this separate from ‘the business’ she had talked with Arthut, and at the door, before Madge could mumble a ‘hello’, Pol cornered quickly.

‘… I do think that you know what goes on in this house’ it seemed almost a threat in itself ’… Jade trusts you and she is the one that recommended you so I do trust her, and you haven’t given me any chance to think otherwise. You are smart and you do seem to make Finn study, but in this house, we don’t appreciate people sticking their noses where it isn’t proper, do remember this’.

This was instead a straight up threat.

‘… I won’t’ Madge commented, wondering what the heck she had put herself in.

When she was finally back at home, Jade joined her a few minutes after, and she could tell that she had just been back from the ambulatory.

Whenever she came back from the ambulatory there was always some kind of tension in her shoulder, a cold anger in her eyes, and Madge had soon learned to recognize it and strangely she was mirroring her stance that night.

She hadn’t been able to calm herself since she had come back from the Shelby’s shop, and she had been going up and down in the small dining area the apartment had.

The money Pol had given her were enough to cover the rent and some more but they hang heavily in her pockets, burning an hole in them.

And she hadn’t taken them out.

For a moment, when she had been on the road she had thought of turning back and give them back to Pol, assuring that she’d never visit the house and wouldn’t say anything in the whole world of what she had seen.

But then some kind of survival instinct had gotten to her and she had thought that she deserved those money for simply having moved herself in that house.

Her mother would have frowned upon it.

But she was poor.

And she didn’t have a mother, anymore.

But still her words were bitter towards Jade, when they came face to face.

“… what is your business with the Shelby?” her voice was inevitably screeching “… they are damnably dangerous!”.

And much to her advantage, Jade didn’t appear surprised in the slightest by Madge’s insulting affirmation as if Madge had just asked the weather outside, again.

And Madge honestly thought that nothing could surprise the trained nurse.

“… they aren’t anymore dangerous than some men that wear uniforms, believe me” and she pushed down her bag onto the small coat hanger Madge had brought, where her scratched and patched up coat was set up already.

She might have bought another one with the money in her pockets.

“… but I am sorry if the job wasn’t what you expected” Jade’s voice was like the calm water that dug a hole in a rock “… feel free to reject it, Pol won’t say anything to the brothers, don’t worry, there won’t be any repercussions”.

That’s all Madge had been thinking since she had come back.

Give back the money, refuse the job and try another.

It would have been the way she would have gone before the war.

But now the loss she had suffered hanged heavily on her had and made her greedy and desperate.

“I just…” ‘I just don’t want people to think I am some kind of horrible woman’ “… don’t want my fucking brains to be blown off”.

And strangely both she and Jade found themselves laughing at that affirmation, an evident smirk on both their faces, as they took each other’s faces in.

But she knew that there was much more behind their laughs.

Their destinies were now intertwined.

---

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[thetunewillcome]

I'll Think About Tomorrow If I Can Get Through Tonight

Fandom: Good Omens (TV)

Relationship: Crowley/Aziraphale

Rating: T

Warnings: blood, knife wounds, cut wrist

Word Count: 4, 988

Whumptober Prompts: stab wound, shackled, unconscious, muffled scream, secret injury, stitches, trembling, adrenaline, recovery, embrace (@whumptober2019)

Rain pounded like fists on the shop’s windows.  The shelves and stacks of books sat in silent darkness, the sign on the door turned to “Closed.”  Suddenly, with a small popping noise, Aziraphale appeared, breathing heavily.  After glancing around, lights clicking on all at once in every room, he let his eyes fall closed with a tremulous exhale.  He was safe.  The steady patter of the rain masked the sound of thick golden droplets falling from his left sleeve onto the threadbare carpet.  His hands shook.  A minute passed.

Eventually, he stepped over to his coatrack and shrugged his jacket off of one shoulder, then gingerly tugged the other sleeve until it slid off his arm.  He winced at the sight of the long tear in the blue fabric, running from elbow to wrist, encircled by a dark stain with spreading edges.  With a sigh, he took off his waistcoat and miracled away the ruined shirt, deeming it a lost cause.  He sat down stiffly on the edge of his armchair.  Down the inside of his left arm ran a long, thin cut; he frowned, studying the golden blood flowing from it.  “Not good,” he muttered to himself, “but it could have been much worse.”  He knew, but couldn’t see, that a matching wound sliced its way across his collarbone and down his chest a few inches.  Both burned.  

His breath was slowing, evening out, but adrenaline still hummed through his veins and he could not shake the feeling of the blade that had dragged its way across his skin and left these marks.  Desperately, he wanted to call Crowley, to hear the comforting coolness of his voice, but he couldn’t let Crowley see him like this.  He had saved himself, and he would heal himself, too.  If Crowley knew what had happened – well, he couldn’t find out.

Closing his eyes, he laid his fingertips gently on the wound and summoned up healing energy from within him.  His skin tingled, but the edges of the cut did not draw together as they should have.  Nothing happened.  “That’s odd.”  Brows furrowed, he tried again: nothing.  He thought back to the knife, searching his memory for signs that the blade had been more than simple metal.  It had appeared ordinary, though the hands wielding it hadn’t been.  For the first time since the averted apocalypse, he wished he could speak to fellow angels.  A cut that he could not heal… With a snap, he dressed the wounds, aiming to at least stop the loss of blood.  He had time, albeit not an infinite amount, to find the answer.  He walked over to his desk, picked up a dusty volume, and began to read.

(Keep reading on AO3 here or below.)

——

“I have to go, Crowley.”

“You don’t have to do anything, angel.  Not anymore.”  Long frame draped across Aziraphale’s couch, Crowley was trying very hard to appear indifferent to the news he had just received.  The dark glasses helped.

“I may no longer receive orders, but I am still an angel, and I must do what I can to help when humans are suffering.”  In between sentences, Aziraphale sipped tea from his white mug.  “I’ve been inactive for far too long.  It’s time I made myself useful.”

Crowley gave a low, dissatisfied noise and turned his head away, apparently staring at the back of the couch or the wall.  Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile at how obviously he did not want him to leave.  “I will only be gone for a week, at most.  Tend to your plants, listen to a few records, cause a spot of mayhem, and I will be back before you even notice I am gone.”

They both knew that last part to be untrue, though neither would admit it.  They had barely spent more than a day apart since their world almost came to an end, but there had been no unburdening of feelings, no fevered embraces: just a slow tilt inward, toward the other, one quarter-inch at a time.  Since the prerequisite confessions had not yet happened, Crowley could not protest Aziraphale’s departure with anything close to “I love you, don’t go.”  Somehow, Aziraphale knew anyway, but in the aimlessness of life without Heavenly direction, he needed a mission to give him purpose again.

“I can help them, and I have to… to know I can still do good, help those in need.”

Crowley made a quiet hum that sounded to Aziraphale like reluctantly-admitted understanding.

“One week, if that, and then, once I return, we should have that picnic that you mentioned last week.  Before the weather gets any nastier.”

A moment of silence passed, and then Crowley spoke without turning his head.  “May not be a park to picnic in when you finally return.  You’re abandoning the city to unchecked demonic forces, after all.”

Aziraphale hid a fond smile behind his mug.  “Do spare the water fowl, at the very least.  Innocent creatures, you know.”

“No promises.”

——

In spite of his sense of urgency, Aziraphale could barely keep his eyes open as he read.  Mind foggy, all the words were blurring together, leaving his thoughts a tangled mess.  There was something in this one about cursing weapons, I know it, he thought in frustration.  He turned the pages with one hand, his left arm pulled protectively to his chest.  The long lines of the cuts burned constantly, but he tried his best to ignore the ache and focus on the words in front of him.

——

Compared to London, Italy felt oppressively hot.  Even at night, with the windows of the old school building mostly shattered and a breeze flowing through the room, the air was warm and heavy.  Since the closure of the local center, many refugees had taken shelter in abandoned buildings like this one.  Others lived on the streets or hid in farmers’ fields.  Aziraphale wandered from settlement to settlement, pretending to be a volunteer with an aid organization.  He brought food and supplies, listened to the stories of the people who would speak with him, and performed minor miracles of comfort.  Days after he left, the people there would discover they had been granted temporary humanitarian protection status.

In the remains of a classroom, Aziraphale knelt in front of a tattered mattress.  “All better,” he said as he lightly touched a young girl’s finger, bones moving back into place.

She grinned, and her mother pulled her close and gave Aziraphale a nod of thanks.  He tipped his hat, stood, and walked through the maze of blankets and sleeping figures to the door.  Before leaving, he silently blessed the poor souls taking refuge here.  That night, they all dreamt of happier days, and in the morning, they felt more peaceful than they had in months.  Aziraphale wished he could do more – construct homes, forge citizenship papers, bring back their loved ones who had died in the war or in the sea – but at least he could do something.  After a few more days here, he would head to Greece, and then home.

As he stepped out into the dark maze of run-down buildings and winding streets, he wondered how Crowley was getting on without him.  In the millennia of chance encounters and rare meetings, he had never felt alone without Crowley.  He may have thought of him more than he should have, hoped to run into him for reasons beyond thwarting his evil deeds, but being on his own was ordinary.  Now, Aziraphale felt alone.

A man at the school had told him a group of other refugees were taking shelter under a bridge a few streets away.  Heading in that direction, lost in thoughts of Crowley’s growing presence in his life, Aziraphale failed to notice the figures hiding in the darkness of the alley he was passing.  He didn’t hear them fall in step behind him.  He sensed nothing sinister until he felt heat encircle his right wrist and hands grab his shoulders.  Startled, he tried to shout, but cloth filled his open mouth, a gag tied behind his head.

Aziraphale could fight.  After all, he had been a soldier, long ago.  He hated violence and avoided it at all costs, but the knowledge of how to take down an enemy slept, dormant, in his core.  At this threat, it woke.  He pulled himself out of the grasp of the hands on his shoulder and turned, ethereal energy rippling through him.  Three men stood in the darkened street, momentarily stunned.  Two had knives in their hands.  Aziraphale did not recognize them, thankfully.  No real threat, then.

He pulled the gag from his mouth with one hand.  “Aid may be scarce here, but that is no excuse to resort to violence and theft.”

“We don’t need aid,” one of the men said, stepping closer.  “I think you’ll find we have things under control, angel.”

Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed at that last word, hating the sound of it now on anyone’s tongue but Crowley’s, realizing he might be in more trouble than he had assumed.  “Demons, then?”  They looked very human, but no human would call him that.  “I don’t want to have to hurt anyone, and you all know I am capable of it, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to continue on my way.”

They were inching closer as he spoke, and despite his brave words, Aziraphale grew nervous.  The one who had spoken earlier said, “You’re not going anywhere,” holding his knife in front of him, and Aziraphale decided a weapon of his own may be in order.  He thought to manifest a sword, but his hand remained empty.  He tried again.  Nothing appeared.  One of the demons chuckled at his confusion.  Then, he looked down and noticed the source of the heat he felt around his wrist: a metal shackle, glowing sigils carved around it.

As the severity of his situation set in, fear winding around the pit of his stomach and constricting, one of the demons flicked his hand and the chain jumped, clasping around Aziraphale’s other wrist, too.  He turned to run, but rough hands stopped him, pulling him into the dark cover of an alleyway.  Every instinctual response he had required using the power that was trapped within his corporation by the shackles.  He managed one cry for help before they replaced the gag over his mouth, but he knew shouting was futile: the only one who could save him was a thousand miles away.  They had no reason to suspect a threat from Hell.  They were supposed to have scared them off, won some well-deserved peace for themselves.

The question of why hovered in Aziraphale’s mind as they shoved him back against a wall.  Unable to brace himself with his hands chained in front of him, his head hit brick, and he blinked slowly to clear his vision.  What could they want from him?  He watched as they grinned at each other and walked closer.  He looked down at his shackled hands and recalled the last time he had stood in front of demons, powerless, hands restrained: Crowley’s trial, in Hell.  Flashes of the terror of that day overwhelmed him.  The uncertainty of the mechanics of trading corporations.  The fear of slipping up, revealing the ruse and damning them both.  The worry that putting an angel in a demon’s body might not actually make holy water harmless.  Underneath it all, the knowledge that the last time he had seen Crowley might actually be the last time.  All the unsaid words, just waiting for the freedom to be voiced, dying inside them, never heard.  

Memories of that day paralyzed Aziraphale.  He barely registered the demons speaking to him, holding up their knives threateningly, waiting for reactions he didn’t know he was supposed to give.  When he didn’t respond to some question they asked, their apparent leader pressed the tip of his knife to Aziraphale’s throat, and the pain brought his attention back to the present.  

“I need an answer,” the demon said.  Aziraphale realized the gag had been removed from his mouth, but without knowing the question, he couldn’t respond.  “Alright, then,” and his eyes darted from left to right.  Aziraphale felt hands take hold of each of his shoulders, pinning him against the wall.  The knife trailed lightly down his neck to his collarbone, bowtie untying itself, collar unbuttoning as the demon moved.  “Let’s see if we can convince you to tell us.”  And the knife dug in, dragging across his chest with a searing pressure.  Aziraphale clenched his teeth and bit back a cry of pain.

——

While Aziraphale was off rediscovering his noble sense of purpose, Crowley was busy realizing he didn’t have much of one anymore.  As he crossed the street, he momentarily contemplated shutting down the power to the intersection.  He could picture the chaos that would ensue, the arguments between motorists who didn’t actually know the rules of the road and relied on lights and signals to keep order.  It would amuse him, and it would mean he had accomplished something with his day, but he wouldn’t report it.  No one expected his report anymore.  Aziraphale could tell himself that doing good was good, regardless of who noticed you doing it, but evil just didn’t seem to work the same way.  What’s the point, to push people to make the choices that nudged their souls a little closer to eternal torment?  Crowley was a demon, but he wasn’t cruel.  Better to just leave the traffic lights as they were and let the humans go on making whatever decisions they would make.

With nothing else to do, and finding himself missing Aziraphale even more than he anticipated, Crowley took the stairs to the shop two at a time, unlocked the door with a flick of his hand, and closed the doors behind him.  Embarrassing, hanging around the angel’s place just waiting for him to return, but he didn’t need to know Crowley was ever there.  Except, “Wha- Aziraphale?  Back already?”  

Aziraphale sat at his desk, back turned to Crowley.  His hair looked wildly out of place, and he was wearing a dress shirt just a shade off from his usual blue.  “Oh, Crowley, hello,” he said without turning, and he sounded tired.  Crowley, head tilting in confusion, walked quickly over to him, heart racing.

“Rough trip?” Crowley asked, trying to sound casual, but when he leaned back on the corner of Aziraphale’s desk and took in the sight of him, his face gave away his worry.  “What happened?”

Aziraphale took off his reading glasses and attempted a smile.  “I’m fine, just a bit worn out from my travels.”  He shifted his left arm a little to make sure it was out of Crowley’s sight, hidden by the desk.  “Get into sufficient trouble while I was away?”

“Loads,” Crowley answered automatically, eyes searching Aziraphale’s face suspiciously.  “Kept plenty busy.  Look,” he paused, considering not saying anything before pressing on anyway, “you possessed a human without getting so much as a hair out of place.  I don’t believe a few days of miracling canned goods into existence would do this to you.”  Crowley waited with a fraction of his usual patience, a knot of worry in his gut.

Aziraphale normally relished when Crowley showed his kind, thoughtful side, but in this moment, he really needed Crowley to believe him and go home.  He had apparently fallen asleep on his book sometime during the night; he hadn’t even been conscious when Crowley had arrived.  He still needed a solution, and he couldn’t find one with Crowley right there.  So, despite the throbbing pain in his arm and chest, despite how muddled his mind was, he put on his most convincing smile and said, “I really am fine, dear.  It is kind of you, however, to show such concern for –“

“Nope, not going to work this time, angel.”  Crowley, eyes narrowed, leaned forward.  “What’s with the shirt?  You’ve worn that other one for ages now,” and he reached out a hand to touch the collar.  Aziraphale pushed back in his chair, trying to move out of reach, and winced at the pain that shot through his whole left side.  “Ah, there, knew it.”  A mix of anger and concern on his face, Crowley fell to his knees and waved Aziraphale’s shirt open to reveal the bandage on his collarbone.  “Tell me what happened,” he said forcefully.

Aziraphale sighed.  “It was nothing.  A little run-in with a young man with a knife.  I handled it.”  He watched as Crowley pushed his glasses up into his hair and started to peel away the tape and gauze.  “Just– Crowley, please, it should stay covered so it can–“

A sharp inhale, and Crowley’s yellow eyes grew wide.  “For Heaven’s sake, Aziraphale,” he said, voice deadly serious, “if you don’t tell me exactly what and who did this to you…”  He trailed off, a finger gently reaching out to touch the blackened blood vessels that bloomed from the cut in all directions.

“Oh, it didn’t look quite that dreadful last night.  Hm.  Okay.”  Aziraphale took a shaky breath.  “It was my third night in Italy,” he started.

——

Warmth was spreading over Aziraphale’s chest as blood flowed from the knife wound.  The demon, seemingly enjoying the pain he read on Aziraphale’s face, laughed.  “So you’re not untouchable after all.”  His face was so close to Aziraphale’s that he could smell smoke on his breath.  “Good.  Very good.”  He took a step back and wiped his knife on his pants.  “See, we’d heard you were indestructible.  Most of our lot is too scared to even talk about you or that sunglass-wearing moron that follows you around.”

They must be young, Aziraphale thought.  Too confident, too bold to have spent much time in Hell’s bleak bureaucracy.  The hubris of youth.  Icarus.  Wax wings, too close to the sun.  Wheels were coming unstuck, starting to turn in Aziraphale’s mind.

“Imagine what they’ll say when we drag you down there, show them what we’ve done.”  The demon tapped the metal cuff around Aziraphale’s wrist with the knife.  “Can’t fight back with these on.  Can’t heal yourself.”  He slid the knife point to Aziraphale’s wrist and pushed it in to the thin skin there.  Aziraphale winced.  “You feel that, don’t you?  They walked you into Hellfire and nothing, didn’t even feel the heat, but this…”  With a gesture, the sleeve of Aziraphale’s coat folded up.  “When you can’t use your powers…”  He lifted the knife and gave a hungry grin.  “You’re just another cowardly angel who can’t handle a bit of pain.”  Aziraphale looked away and tried to keep his face still as the knife point pierced his shirt sleeve, bit into his wrist and slid slowly upward.  Breathe.  Don’t look.  Think of anything else.  

He closed his eyes and thought of dinner, days ago, after he’d told Crowley of his trip.  How Crowley had stretched out the meal with dessert and glass after glass of wine.  How he had lingered by the door of the shop, not coming in but not leaving either.  How his face had flushed when Aziraphale had laid a hand on his shoulder and said he’d miss him and would see him soon.

If he wanted to keep that promise, he needed a way out, and by this point, it was clear Crowley wasn’t swooping in to save the day for him.  No matter.  Soldiers, regardless of how much time has passed since they’ve stepped foot on a battlefield, never lose their sense of timing.  Even with his eyes closed, Aziraphale knew the demon would look to his accomplice when Aziraphale tugged his right arm out of his grip.  He knew the knife would slip, and if he lifted his hands just so, it would hit the crack he had noticed in the lefthand cuff, scratching the surface.  He knew, then, that it would only take one quick collision of metal against brick to crack it further, breaking the ancient pattern of demonic sigils.  The young demons had been too confident, too rash to check the old shackles.  With the pattern broken, Aziraphale could release his pent-up energy.  The burst of light shone bright enough to be seen from high windows all across the city.

When the alleyway returned to darkness, Aziraphale stood alone.  He took a few shallow breaths.  He snapped his fingers and his shirt was re-buttoned, his tie retied.  As soon as he was sure no one was watching, he closed his eyes and thought of home.

——

As Aziraphale recounted the story of what had happened to him, Crowley choked back angry and bitter words.  This is why you shouldn’t have gone.  This is why you shouldn’t have been alone.  This is why we shouldn’t have let our guard down.  Of course we’re not safe.  Fury clouded his vision when he heard demons were responsible.  He jumped to standing and started to pace.  “Names.  Who were they?”

“I don’t know.  It’s not as if they introduced themselves.  I hadn’t seen them before.  It’s not important, Crowley.  They’re gone.”

He paused.  “Gone where?”

“I… don’t know.  I sent them away.”

“Not obliterated, then.  Not good enough.”

“They won’t come back.”

“You can’t know that.”  His hands were clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms.  He looked at Aziraphale’s tired face and reminded himself there was something much more pressing than revenge.  “Fine.  Continue.”

Aziraphale finished explaining.  When he came to the part about his arm, Crowley returned to his side, rolled up his sleeve, and uncovered that wound, too.  It also had blackened around the edges, as if something was spreading from the blade’s contact.  Crowley, eyes betraying his stress, paled at the sight.

As soon as Aziraphale finished talking, Crowley stood and held out his hand.  “C’mon.  Couch.  You should lie down.”

Aziraphale shook his head.  “I’m fine here.  I need to keep looking.”  He gestured toward the books on his desk.  “One of these mentions demonic blades, if I recall correctly.”

Rolling his eyes, Crowley waved his hand at Aziraphale.  “You’re not in any state to be reading.  Couch.”

“For goodness’ sake,” Aziraphale sighed, but he started to stand.  “It stings a little but it’s not…”  He swayed on his feet, the room suddenly spinning around him.  Crowley grabbed his good arm and steadied him.  “Thank you,” he muttered as Crowley led him over to the couch.

Once he laid down, Crowley kneeled next to him on the floor and pulled his shirt open enough to see the chest wound properly.  “Feels warm,” Crowley said to himself.  He touched the skin next to the cut.  “You should be able to heal anything… except Hellfire, but this wasn’t…  You’re sure the knife didn’t have any marks on it?”

“Not that I saw.”  Aziraphale let his eyes fall closed, comforted by Crowley’s attention.  Beads of sweat dotted his forehead.  “It looked ordinary.”

Thinking, Crowley gently set his hand over the cut.  “Feels like a burn, almost.”  Visions of bladesmiths forging longswords slid into the forefront of his mind.  “It is Hellfire,” he said, excited to know the cause and then immediately terrified of what it meant.  “Must be.  They used it to make the knives, or heated them with it, something.  I can feel it.”

Without opening his eyes, Aziraphale raised his eyebrows.  “Makes sense, I suppose.  As you said, anything else would have healed by now.”

“Angel, this is…”  He swallowed.  “You… I can help, I think.  I’ll try.  It may hurt.”

“I trust you,” and Aziraphale placed his hand over Crowley’s where it rested on his chest.

Crowley’s mouth opened but no words came to his stunned mind.  He shook himself and closed his eyes, too.  This had to work.  He had never healed an angel before, but he had been one, once; his wings had been white before Hellfire had burned them.  It should be as simple as calling that darkness back to him, out of Aziraphale’s veins and into his own.

A whimper from Aziraphale.  Crowley clenched his teeth and pushed on.  His fingertips grew warmer, started to tingle.  Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably, breathing uneven and quick.  Come on, out, Crowley begged, knowing if he couldn’t pull the fire from him, he would lose him, and that loss would consume Crowley, too.  That much had been proven the last time he thought he’d lost Aziraphale to fire.  Come on, and it came, burning up his fingers into his hands, then dissipating.  Aziraphale groaned in pain and then fell quiet.  Crowley’s eyes flew open.  “Aziraphale?”  He kept his hand in place, still pulling the heat from the wound, but Aziraphale’s limply slid off of his.  “Aziraphale?  Can you hear me?”  No answer, but he could feel a heartbeat under his palm.  Fast, but present.  Just unconscious, then.

When Crowley finished with the first wound, he moved on to the second, watching Aziraphale’s chest rise and fall as he worked.  In the end, neither wound felt warm to his touch anymore, and Aziraphale’s heart slowed to a normal rhythm.  Sure no Hellfire remained, he stitched the cuts with a wave of his hand and let his heavy head fall forward onto the couch’s soft surface.

——

He woke to fingers moving gently through his hair.  He kept his eyes closed for a moment longer, enjoying the sensation, until the events of the previous night came flooding back and he jerked upright.  Somehow, he still sat next to Aziraphale on the floor; the couch must have held him in place as he slept.  Aziraphale, smiling a little, was pulling his hand back to him.  “Morning,” he said.  “Or, well, it may technically be afternoon now.  I can’t see the clock from here.”

Crowley looked questioningly at him, noticing the color had returned to his cheeks.  “I feel much better.”  He started to unbutton Aziraphale’s shirt, but Aziraphale stopped his hand.  “I finished your work this morning when I woke.  All healed, now, thanks to you.”  As if he didn’t understand, Crowley stared at him for a second, then continued to struggle with his buttons.  “Do you not believe me?”  Aziraphale snapped his shirt open so Crowley could see the unblemished skin there.  “See?”

Relief swept over Crowley’s face.  With grateful reverence, he skimmed fingertips over the area where the wound had been and noticed Aziraphale’s breath catch, his face flush.  It hit Crowley then, the foreign, unintentional intimacy of the moment, his hand hovering over Aziraphale’s bare chest.  Age-old reminders about boundaries, speed, rules and punishments rushed to his consciousness.  He withdrew his hand with the speed of someone who had held a lit match a second too long.

As he started to stand, seeking to put back the distance normally between them, Aziraphale stopped him with a hand on his cheek.  Fingers on the back of his neck held him in place; a thumb swept over his jaw.  “You saved my life,” Aziraphale said.  “Again.  Your power and your cleverness astound me every time.”  Crowley, like one staring into the sun, was overwhelmed by the admiration in Aziraphale’s eyes and had to look away.  “Before you say it, yes, I should have told you right away.  I had hoped to avoid frightening you, and I worried you would try to go after them if you knew.”  At that, Crowley’s eyes snapped back to Aziraphale’s.  “You can’t.  You must promise me you won’t.”

“I–“

“Crowley, please.”

“If I don’t take care of them and they come back–“

Aziraphale withdrew his hand nervously.  “Then we’ll handle them then, but seeking them out is foolish and you know it.”

Unwilling to admit it, Crowley narrowed his eyes and said nothing.

In that silence, Aziraphale realized what he’d have to concede to earn Crowley’s surrender.  He had said it a hundred times already, in other words, in gestures and glances and questions, but not like this, never like this as it would have meant destruction for them both.  Now, Aziraphale could see only salvation in the confession, so he searched deep within himself for where he had hidden those words away and dragged them up into the air at last.  

“I love you.  You know I do.  I have, for such a long time.”  His hands trembled, though there was strength behind his words.  Crowley stared at him, not breathing, unblinking.  “And now, finally, we are able to speak openly, to spend time together without worrying who will take notice.  I am asking you not to jeopardize that by putting yourself in harm’s way.  Please.  It was all I could think of in that alley, how I had counted on more time with you and how I might not get it–”

Crowley silenced him with a light press of lips.  After a stunned second, Aziraphale returned the kiss, cradling Crowley’s face in his hands.  Immortal as they were, he had learned that forever was not guaranteed.  Still, the kiss felt like a vow of tomorrows, that whatever time they had would not be wasted in silent doubt or reckless action.  When Crowley finally broke the kiss, he only pulled back far enough to say “I promise” and see the hopeful smile dawn on Aziraphale’s face.  

When he returned his lips to Aziraphale’s, it was to promise more.  I won’t go after them, the kiss pledged.  I won’t waste a minute of this fluttered in the desperate tangle of his fingers in Aziraphale’s hair.  I will stay right here threaded through the moan that escaped him when Aziraphale took hold of his tie and pulled.  I will save you, every time lay in the force with which he took Aziraphale’s hand and interlaced their fingers, bringing palm to palm.  He promised until his mind lost hold of any word except Aziraphale’s name, and even then, his name sounded like a covenant on Crowley’s lips, guaranteeing more days spent like this, safely in each other’s arms, holding nothing back.

(Check out my Whumptober 2019 Masterlist here.)