#Help I've fallen into Good Omens and I can't get out

[d20owlbear-deactivated]

Discorporation I

1098

Crowley knelt amongst the remains of men in a barren fig tree in the centre of  Ma'arrat al-Numan. His hands were smeared in blood, just as his lips and face were, and he vowed never to eat again to himself no matter how tempting it might be. He didn’t deserve this haunting taste out of his mouth, the bitter ghosts of flesh-warm copper blood and the bile-flavour of disgust and the acrid mouth-scent of self-recrimination.

His hands laid limply in his lap and after every exhale of godforsaken air from his lungs he gasped to fill them back up in an endless loop of detestable living. He was a demon, sure, his armour of impiety in pieces scattered around him, but he was one who lived up here. All the demons in hell, with their screaming and gnashing of teeth and tortured souls who kept far away from the Earth’s surface, only knew the suffering of the masses and grew apathetic towards it. But Crowley, how could he?

Crowley tasted the scents of life and laughter and his heart grew soft and vulnerable in turns to these poor creatures kept wrapped up in their humanity. Perhaps that was why he loves– tolerated children so easily. They had nothing but their humanity, distilled down to the barest of essences and condensed into something small and pure before it diluted over time with growth and accursed knowledge. 

Sometimes... he regretted. Deeply.

The scent of ozone wafted to him, overwhelming all other tastes in his mouth, replacing them with the spice of the calm after a storm and the perfume of fragrant, flammable oils. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley whispered to himself but didn’t move. Even as he heard the too-loud ring of a sword being drawn from its sheath in a swift, practised movement. He shifted his weight to brace himself and coughed at the sudden pain lancing through his chest.

"Aziraphale?" Crowley choked on the blood filling his lungs. The massive sword missed his heart, that would have been much faster. He can't even blame Aziraphale, he moved at the last second, shifted in his spot. This was meant to be something quick and clean. 

 "Crowley, I'm sorry." The voice trembled behind him and a soft hand lay gently on the back of his head. If it took discorporating to get this affection, he'd do it a million times over. It was worth it. 

 "I know. 'S ok. Glad yer ok." He mumbled back, not turning his head, not wanting to reveal how much the hand in his hair affected him. 

"I'll see you soon?" Aziraphale asked softly. Crowley scoffed and then coughed. Fuck that hurt, the blade scraped along his ribs every time he breathed ineffectually. Corporations were odd, normally he didn't need to breathe because he forgot about it, but now that he's hurt it was all he could think about. The difficulty of knowing something was meant to hurt you, and would, made it nigh impossible to get out of discorporating in situations like this. 

 "'F course, angel. 'T's the Crusades. They want me up here 's much as I don' wanna be down. Still owe me that mead." 

 "Crowley!" Aziraphale's voice was still soft, but he took on an affectation of disdain, even though his hand never moved except to card his fingers through Crowley's hair. Ha, he knew Aziraphale liked it long, the sentimental bastard. "That was from centuries ago!" 

 "And yet..." Crowley muttered, leaning his forehead against the tree the sword speared through him was shoved into. He didn't say it, didn't have to, not anymore. Aziraphale stayed with him until he knew no more of a kind hand in his hair and rough bark on his forehead, and armour heavy and useless on his body. 

 "Alright, coach, put me back in!" Crowley grinned viciously covering every vulnerable thing in him that wasn’t built to be here, raring to be out of Hell already.