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“Do you trust me?”
“What kind of bollocks question is that right now?” Crowley gasped.
The temptation had gone horribly wrong--for some unfathomable reason, his target had had a holy weapon. Now the kid was gone, and Crowley felt the cold stone floor leeching off his heat; felt the dagger between his ribs unmaking him from within.
He wanted this to be someone else’s fault, not just that he was unprepared for a slip of a girl to stab him instead of running off with her lover.
His rep in Hell was going to tank if this ever got around.
He huffed a laugh. Then again, the way things were going he wasn’t going to be around, so Hastur could laugh all he wanted and Crowley would be safe in the arms of oblivion. That’d show him.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale said again, usual humor gone. Crowley realized he’d missed a few moments there. “I need your consent.”
“For what?”
“To save you.”
“Do it.” He coughed, felt something go wrong. “Nobody I trust as much as you.”
“It’ll hurt.”
“Get ON with it!”
“Very well. Demon Crowley,” Aziraphale intoned, palm hot on his clammy forehead. “I bind thee, in the Almighty’s name.”
Light shot through him. He arched, seized; screams tearing out of his throat. “A---ANGEL! What’re you--”
“Trust me, Crowley. I bind thee again, in Heaven’s name.” Heat again, searing every nerve. He gasped, unmoored.
Aziraphale shook. “With me?”
He wanted to scream, to run, to fight. But this was Aziraphale. He sobbed and tried to focus on their history, the Arrangement. “This better work.”
“Once more,” Aziraphale panted. Three was a Holy number. Crowley braced himself. “I bind thee a third time, in the name of… of love.”
It filled him, a flash of holy fire. He screamed again, his demon self crying out through his human throat as he was knocked neatly out of his corporation.
His body was unsettling, empty and dying, but he was tethered to Aziraphale, floating in the Other instead of shooting to Hell. He could feel the wound here, too--overwriting him with nothing. But here he was vast, and it was small.
Aziraphale shone bright and holy, wheels and rings and eyes. Some focused on him. “Crowley--”
“Get on with it.”
Aziraphale turned to the empty corporation before him. Poured blessings into it until the wound healed.
“That’ll fade in a moment.” Aziraphale’s attention turned to him. “Now you.”
“Could’ve warned me.” The bindings tugged as he turned to show the wound, a sickly light eating into his darkness. “Nothing vital yet, but…”
“Quite right. Erm,” he said, inspecting it. “It’ll hurt.”
“Really?” Crowley said drily. His scales rasped together in almost a laugh.
“Quite a bit. I think...” All those eyes, now, focused on him. “This will do.”
A pearly-white feather appeared from nowhere. The angel drew it out til it was bright and sharp. “I can cut it out, but the wound should heal cleanly.”
He hissed. No choice at all, really. “Do it.”
And Aziraphale--angel, enemy, dearest friend--cut him with a knife made from a feather. The holy corruption came with it, cut free and wisping away.
It hurt, but he’d had worse on a boring day in Hell. And with the holiness gone, he could heal himself, rejoin his corporation as Aziraphale released the binding.
His body came alive around him, pins-and-needles everywhere. He gulped cool air. “Need a nap.”
“I daresay. But not here,” Aziraphale said, helping him up. “Come on. You can rest at mine.”