(no subject)

[average-adam.livejournal.com]

Date: April 6, 2000
Setting: John's room, the hospital, Raphael's room
Status: Semi-private (Adam, Raphael, John, Crowley, Aziraphale)
Summary: John gets medical help. Continued from here

Adam ran to John's room and sure enough, there was the man on his bed looking much the worse for wear. With a faint smile, he lifted him carefully and carried him to the hospital wing to lay him on the bed nearest the door. Checking to make sure he was stable, Adam ran off again to Raphael's room and threw open the door.

"Raphael, come quick, John's been hurt real bad and needs your help!"

Comments

[anthony-crowley.livejournal.com]

"I... what? Shit, John," said Crowley anxiously, fiddling with his shirt cuffs and looking away. That wasn't how this was supposed to go. John was supposed to affectionately call him rude names and maybe give a gruff thanks, and Crowley was supposed to call him names back and things were supposed to go back to normal without either of them feeling anything remotely like embarrassment, guilt, or hurt.

He squirmed to remember the depth of remorse that the man lived with every day. Crowley never considered that John might feel embarrassed by what he had seen in the man's mind. Any humiliating experiences or feelings were completely overshadowed by the guilt. It was, by any measure, the thing he most remembered from the brief journey. "It was worth a wound..." he muttered under his breath.

"Don't. Look..." he took a deep breath, "Fuck-all of what I said that day was right. I was... upset. There was only one thing I said that I'd actually stand behind. And I'd just... oh, Adam Young, John. You have no reason to be sorry. I'm the one... I should have told you."

Gruffly, he seized John's shoulders and pulled him into an awkward hug. A few seconds of seeing from someone else's perspective had been enough to change Crowley's world forever.

[dangeroushabits.livejournal.com]

John couldn't repress a small gasp--it was painful, being grabbed and manhandled around that way--but the discomfort was subsumed under a wave of almost delirious relief as Crowley's meaning filtered through the deafening background noise inside his head.

Later, he'd look back on it and be astonished that his friend would come so close to openly admitting he'd been wrong. It just wasn't Crowley's style. (Then again, it wasn't John's either.) But right now he was in no condition to analyze anything; the words were enough taken at face value, striking a visceral chord that ran deeper than his injuries, bodily and otherwise.

Forgiven. Home. He hadn't felt anything remotely like it since...well, in a really long bloody time, that was what.

And Crowley was hugging him. How fucked up was that? A sound that was half-laugh, half-sob broke out of him as he clasped the other close, shaking more than a little.

"Shit. Don't let's do that again," he muttered against the fine fabric of the demon's suit coat, mildly alarmed at the wavering, almost shrill timbre of his own voice. "My fucking head's on upside down. How long's it been, anyway?"

[ineffable-angel.livejournal.com]

It was a scene of uncharacteristic tenderness, and Aziraphale read heartbreaking sincerity in the lines of Crowley's figure when he clasped the injured man to him.

The angel was startled to realize that he had been thinking of John Constantine, owner of the Casual Sex Trenchcoat (which would likely need repairing, but that was no matter) as "ours". As his and Crowley's, or at least Crowley's. He hadn't felt so protective of a human in a very long, long time.

There was little for him to say; he had been, after all, dead when most of this had occurred. He couldn't help the little sigh of relief at their apology, however, like he couldn't help the bubbling of happiness somewhere above his belly over how sweet they looked.

Aziraphale had looked away after but a moment, raising his hand to cover the slight smile on his lips.

Such dear boys.

The angel stood when he heard the question, not a solid pull to his feet as he was exhausted, and came over, fussing with some of the other equipment that had been mildly disturbed with one hand and a lot of stretchy angel thoughts. He saw John's hands shake and quietly slipped a supportive arm around John's shoulders so that he could ease back to the pillows when he wanted.

"It's been too long, John. A month, nearly," he replied, somewhat sadly, and glanced at Crowley. "You're home now. We all are."

[anthony-crowley.livejournal.com]

"Fucking long month," muttered Crowley as he let John go more gently then he had seized him. He'd forgotten that Aziraphale was there and was faintly embarrassed at having been watched at such a moment. Despite the sinking sensation that he was never going to be able to live it down, or regain any of his Manor cred, Crowley pulled his comfortable sardonic mask back on and continued. "With both of you gone, the only people to talk to were Ellie and the Snob. I didn't socialize much. But then Aziraphale came back early looking like that," he indicated the new corporation with one casual wave, "And you came back looking like hell."

[dangeroushabits.livejournal.com]

John was, for a moment, less embarrassed at being caught in the act than worried that Aziraphale might jump to the wrong conclusion again. But it seemed he had conquered that particular insecurity (maybe the new corporation had something to do with that?) and his quiet, understated aura was soothing to nerves frayed by the fiend's corrupt presence.

"An express ticket home and an upgrade, huh? Good deal," John said tiredly as he settled back down and tried, with middling success, to sort out the tangle of sensors and tubes that were (mostly) still attached to him. He was glad for the momentary distraction; it gave him a chance to pull himself together, and also covered a brief flash of envy. Aziraphale had been the only angel around the Manor who'd favored an all-around unimpressive corporation. John couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to simply trade up to a newer, flashier model, but he did his best to squelch the thought. He was glad the angel had made it back so quickly, for Crowley's sake if no other reason, regardless of what he looked like.

"Yeah well, I'll ask the next fiend if I can stop for a shave and a haircut before we hit the churchyard," he said in response to Crowley. There wasn't a great deal of real humor behind it, but he felt somewhat encouraged that he could even make the attempt.

Though on second thought, there was really nothing remotely funny about the idea of such a thing happening again. If he couldn't keep his shit together better than he had this time, it was all too possible.

As the adrenaline drained from his bloodstream, a thick fog of exhaustion was gathering in his mind, tugging him back toward sleep. He fought it stubbornly, not eager to return to the disjointed solitude of his dreams.

"So's everybody else still in one piece?" he asked, unable to be more specific, though he could picture several faces and felt the names hovering somewhere just beyond his reach. A lot could have happened in a month.

[anthony-crowley.livejournal.com]

Vaguely relieved that John could joke about the situation, Crowley scratched his wrist thoughtfully.

"I don't know much of what went on while Aziraphale was gone," explained Crowley, glossing over those two weeks spent in a stupor of alcohol and loss, "but the biggest upset was with Mictain and Raphael. As far as we can tell, Mic attempted to rape Raph, but Adam stepped in and banished him from the Manor. Lucifer then called him to Hell. Raphael is blaming himself for it all and is feeling guilty for giving him over to the boss, so he's asked me to send a letter to the big bastard telling him that all is forgiven and he wants to nail him again soon."

John shut his eyes, like the idea of that hurt his head and muttered, "Ah, shit..."

"Don't worry about it now, though," said Crowley. Taking advantage of the man's closed eyes, he moved forward like he was going to fluff his pillow or something equally ridiculous and his fingers brushed John's hair, sending just enough power into him to knock him out. They all needed to sleep and the demon was tired of talking and being all emotional and stuff. When John was out again, Crowley reconnected all the medical equipment that he'd pulled out in his panic and sat on the next bed over.

Wearily, he looked up Aziraphale. "I can't let him sleep here alone," he explained. "I'm going to stay."

[ineffable-angel.livejournal.com]

Aziraphale was broken out of his reverie by Crowley's words, suddenly directed at him. "Hmm?" he said, blinking, and turned to the demon, who looked as exhausted as Aziraphale felt.

"I know, my dear," he replied, because what else could they do but stay? "I-" His nerve faltered here, and it seemed stupid because he'd already killed a creature tonight, wiped its existence from Everywhere... what problem could simply asking to stay with Crowley be?

"It'll be cold," he murmured instead, checking John's blankets and making sure he was tucked in. He kept his hands hidden in his sleeves as he did this. "I- I'll just wash this off, shall I?"

Crowley nodded, settling down against the pillows even as Aziraphale turned away, heading to a nearby sink. It was a quick scrub, as he contemplated the state of his fingernails and tried to ignore how that much blood got there. His clothes were a loss, he decided, but couldn't quite bring himself to care.

The silence of the wing was deafening, as Crowley settled down, nearly asleep, on the selfsame bed. Aziraphale chanced a last look at John, and sat down on the edge Crowley's bed, watching the man sleep.

Crowley shifted, restless, as Aziraphale silently toed off his shoes. "You realize," he whispered softly, as he curled into Crowley, snuggling up against him, "that if John wakes up first, why... he'll roll his eyes at us."

There was the shadow of a smile on Crowley's face - he could barely tell, dark as it was, and it was more felt than seen. There was the barest flinch as his own hands brushed Crowley's skin, and a curiously slow hand wrapped around him. Aziraphale laid his head against the deep breathing chest and fell, utterly and profoundly, asleep.