Chapter Text
Crowley woke up swearing. That by itself wasn’t unusual.
He woke up on someone’s couch, which was the unusual part, and the pain was substantial- also unusual.
A cold cloth on his forehead and Aziraphale shushing him gently, saying encouraging words.
But, it couldn’t be Aziraphale. Aziraphale had left for heaven all those years ago.
Crowley’s eyes flew open. His glasses were on.
Aziraphale sat by his side, holding a cloth stained with blood, looking at him with concern, and a complete lack of recognition.
--
A sleety, dreary and cold Edinburgh December night. Crowley’s hands stuffed into his pockets. The black hoodie under his black leather jacket pulled up, hood covering his head from the freezing drops.
There was nothing of note in this neighbourhood. That’s why he had parked down the street and walked. A way to try and connect with the world.
The world recoiled from him as it has always.
There was practically no one out in the street. The occasional passerby, hurrying from one place to the next. Not the best part of town, Everyone had a somewhere to be.
He didn’t.
He walked off the sidewalk on the side of the street. A rebel, truly.
A car puttered by, as insignificant as the rest of the world.
He kicked a can in the gutter and then his shoe stepped into a freezing puddle and he swore and stepped onto the curb. There was hardly anyone around to care how cool or uncool he looked. The water seeped through his shoe and now his sock was wet and his toes were frozen.
There truly was no justice in the world.
Year after year, sidewalks all looked all the same.
The sound of a speeding car. Too fast for this cobble-stoned road at night. A figure crossing the street.
A tragedy about to happen, Crowley knew.
Could see it approaching. The drizzle of rain, the speed of the car and the icy road. It was going to end in disaster. Car tires screaming as they tried to slow the vehicle down.
Not a chance. Inertia. He had helped invent it.
Too little too late.
Too bad he was an idiot who was very good at manipulating time.
The car collided with him a split second after he pushed the person out of the way.
As intended, really.
Pain exploded in his mind as he rolled over the car, over the top and down the back. Dumped like a sack of potatoes on the road on its other side.
There was no graceful way to get hit by a car.
Ah, well.
Face down in the freezing street. Still had his glasses, though.
Great. Fantastic. Wonderful.
It was a bit of a blur after that. Sound of screeching tires as the driver ran for it. The man he had rescued talking to him, looking distressed and looking like Aziraphale, which was impossible. Or, at least not very likely.
Maybe Crowley had spoken back. He wasn’t sure he remembered. Remembered something about asking to be left alone. No, don’t take off the glasses. Asking not to call an ambulance or police. He would heal quickly enough. His body had seen worse in hell and some human wars.
What didn’t discorporate you, made you wish it did. That was his saying.
Bits and pieces of memory: Being helped to standing, leaning on another body as he was assisted towards a building. Being lowered onto a couch. More words.
He didn’t remember. He did remember telling himself he’d wait until this person went to sleep then he’d leave.
Now on a couch in a small apartment made of dark wood and plush pillows.
It was Aziraphale sitting next to him, looking concerned.
Except it wasn’t Aziraphale, now, was it?
“Oh good, you’re coming to.” Said Not-Aziraphale, brow furrowed in concern and relief.
The not-Aziraphale in front of him was a little different than the angel he knew. A bit more modern. Only a bit- the tattered old suit was gone, and there wasn’t a tartan in sight.
Instead, a comfortable sweater vest with blue plaid. Sleeves rolled to the elbow, revealing that dusted-hair, strong arms that had haunted Crowley’s dreams. Soft slacks of light brown. The hair, that soft halo, still remained, the curls just a touch longer, no longer held in place with miracles, but allowed the natural bounce and frizz of human hair products, who, even at their best, struggled to tame curls.
Crowley couldn’t deal with Aziraphale right now, looking as perfect as the day he left. He looked down at himself, instead.
His black jeans were torn from the knee down to the hem on one side. A towel had been wrapped around his shin, blood soaked. It was the same side as his snapped femur. It was better now, but still broken. He healed far faster than humans in this body meant to last 6000 years.
Still hurt like hell, though.
His shoes and socks had been removed, feet hanging over the couch’s far armrest. His toenails were painted black, but that had been done intentionally on Crowley's part.
His back was in agony, but not broken. A couple of ribs had broken in the accident, now only cracked. It hurt to breathe. A shoulder had been dislocated, he'd have to deal with that.
His leather jacket was draped on the back of the couch within reach. Damaged and scuffed. A tear at the seam of the shoulder. That was almost more painful than his body.
The shirt he was wearing was torn at the side where the car had hit, Blood stained.
Neck had whiplash, but that was now only a dull ache.
Head took a beating, but other than a cut on his forehead and probably a goose egg on the back of his head, he was alright. That had probably concussed him. Now it was a killer headache.
Now, Aziraphale sans Aziraphale stood over him with that towel in his hands. Had he been tending to him? Crowley’s stomach made a lurch. That was messy on several levels.
“Right.” He said, mouth going dry at the proximity. This wasn’t Aziraphale. Crowley needed to leave. Probably before he admitted to himself how good it felt to have finally found him, how those soft features soothed his heart, knowing he was alright.
He knew, on some level, that Aziraphale was alright. Of course he was. He was an angel. He was going to be fine.
If there was anyone God looked out for, it was angels, right?
Crowley hadn’t been travelling the globe looking for him. But, finding him was a bonus. A missing part of his chest found its way back. A hollow so deep, sometimes Crowley worried it led straight to hell. Now the pit was capped, because not-Aziraphale was alright.
He needed to leave. He needed to leave.
“I need to leave.” Crowley tore his gaze from the angel’s with effort, and made to sit up.
His body pulsed with pain with each heartbeat, but it wasn’t as crippling. Not like yesterday.
He could dump himself in an alley and heal up for a day or two.
“Wait!” The angel rose as Crowley threw his legs off the couch as Crowley tried to get up without snapping his femur all over again.
Imagination did wonders. He wobbled towards the door.
“Wait…!” Not-Aziraphale insisted, following closely. “I won’t stop you from leaving, of course, but--” There was a nervous inhale behind Crowley, “You’re injured! You’re still bleeding!”
Crowley looked down. The towel that had been pressed to his shin had fallen off and there was a deep gash that oozed blood. He felt his liquid cool on his forehead as the blood reached his brow.
“Shit.” Crowley grumbled, wiping the blood off his face with one hand, and reaching for the doorknob with the other. “It’s fine. Looks worse than it is. Thanks for the couch and the…” He wasn’t sure how to put it into words. His head was aching and his heart was trying to dig in its heels and stay behind with Aziraphale. Not Aziraphale.
“You saved my life! Please--!” The angel behind him seemed to change his mind and instead said, “Can you at least tell me how you knew my name?”
This made Crowley pause. Hand on the handle. His hand was dirty. Blood and dirt and mud. He was filthy in general.
His hand didn’t move- not to twist the handle and not to let it go. He urged it to, but the signal was waylaid by more urgent thoughts.
“Your… name?” Crowley asked slowly.
Did Aziraphale… remember? Surely not, for then he would remember more than his name. He’d remember Crowley. Clearly, he didn’t. Watch him remember everything except Crowley. Sounded like something God would do.
Crowley looked over his shoulder at the angel, who was wringing his hands helplessly, finger rubbing at the pinky where Aziraphale used to have his ring. This man didn’t have anything there, but the fingers still rubbed at the skin.
“After you-- Well, after the car--” He looked uncomfortable but pressed on, “When you saw my face you called me-”
Crowley didn’t want the embarrassment of what was to come, but he saw it coming, like that speeding car.
“Angel.”
The blond watched him closely. Crowley tried to keep his expression neutral. Thank goodness, or badness, or whatever he was supposed to thank these days, that his glasses were on his nose.
“Right. Might have done that.” Crowley admitted. “Is that…” He licked his lips. Scented the air, nervous. The man smelled a lot like Aziraphale had, but also different. Covered in human lotions and hygiene products.
“Is that your name? Lucky guess.” He tried to play it cool but the angel wasn’t buying it. “Knocked my head, you know. Concussion. Probably.”
“The name I go by is Angelo.”
Angelo. That made a lot of sense to Crowley, somehow.