Okay guys, part 2! This is kind of a bonus because I added this whole part during editing XD So enjoy even more H/c on me!

Part Two

Aziraphale finished his tea and then laid down on the couch, closing his eyes. Soon he was asleep, and Crowley frowned even more at this. In all their millennia, he had never seen the angel sleep before. Neither of them needed to, of course, but sometimes Crowley, being of a lazy disposition, enjoyed a good nap. (Sloth was a sin, of course, and one he tried to take part in as much as possible.) But Aziraphale was more the kind to sit up all night reading, probably thinking it a blessing that sleep was not necessary for his personal survival.

But right now, the angel was definitely sleeping, breathing deep and, at least for the moment, peaceful.

Crowley didn't really know what to do now. He wasn't about to leave Aziraphale there, wounded and alone, even though the angel would probably just sleep off all his injuries and wake up to go about his daily habits again like nothing had happened. And truthfully, Crowley was a little apprehensive of going back to his own place. Demons, being unimaginative, would look for him there first, and Crowley really didn't want to be caught off guard. It was probably risky leaving his car parked out on the street in front of the bookstore. Perhaps he should move it.

Crowley found himself pacing before he could stop himself. He bit his lip, hearing Aziraphale's voice in his head chiding him for being so paranoid. He knew he was, he always had been paranoid—that was just part of his nature. You didn't survive as long as Crowley had without being a little paranoid, after all.

But worrying wasn't going to do him any good at the moment. He got himself another cup of tea and forced himself to sit down, picking up one of Aziraphale's books. He wished more of them had pictures in them.

He didn't realize he had drifted off until he was woken by a strange sound.

Crowley started in the chair, nearly scaring himself to death as the book he had been looking at slid off his lap and onto the floor with a heavy thud. He hissed, sure that Aziraphale would wake up in a rage at the sound of one of his precious books hitting the floor.

He didn't though. The angel instead made a strangled whimpering sound of pain that had Crowley's head whipping toward him.

The angel was shuddering on the couch, curled into himself, one hand clutched tightly into one of the throw pillows.

Crowley cautiously made his way through the stacks of books to kneel beside the couch. "Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale's blond hair, unruly at best, was plastered to his forehead, and a flush had painted itself over his cheeks.

Crowley reached out to touch his hand cautiously and found it overly warm. He pulled back, worry gnawing a hole through him. "Aziraphale? Angel?" he tried again but there was no reply besides Aziraphale's face scrunching up as he let out another pained moan.

Crowley bit his lip, hating what he knew he had to do next, but there was obviously something wrong. Angels didn't sleep, and they also most definitely didn't get fevers. So Crowley reached out and carefully pulled the shoulder of the robe down to reveal Aziraphale's injury. The angel shivered at the sudden exposure and goosepimples broke over his skin. Crowley steeled himself and carefully peeled back the bandage.

Bile rose in his throat.

"Bloody hell," he choked out.

The wound had taken on a dark appearance. And worse, there were dark veins starting to spread out from it.

"Damn," Crowley cursed again. "Damn."

He stood, covering the angel's shoulder again before he reached up to run his hands through his hair, tearing at it in agitation as he started pacing again. This was not good. Why did he think they would just get through this? That Aziraphale would sleep it off, wake up fine the next morning and they would go to breakfast? Stupid Crowley! He had been such an idiot. No, worse—a Wishful Thinker. Crowley had learned long ago that you should never be one of those. It only got you into trouble.

"Damn it, angel," he growled, directing his anger for the moment at the unconscious celestial being on the couch. "You always have to go and get yourself into the worst binds, don't you?"

Aziraphale made no reply but to shudder and let out a whimper so pitiful it went directly to Crowley's stupid heart. He swallowed hard and scrambled suddenly for the knife that was still on the coffee table.

He studied it more closely, sniffing it and running a finger cautiously down the blade.

He'd cleaned off the blood before he tucked it into his belt but at the base, near the handle, there was a slight stickiness to the blade. Crowley very cautiously stuck his tongue to it and instantly spat as the bitter taste filled his mouth.

"Malebranche you bastard," he growled.

The blade was poisoned. Of course it was. Crowley should never have hoped differently. That was just how Malebranche worked, after all. In subterfuge and pain. This particular poison, Crowley knew, would almost instantly incapacitate a demon, and had he been stabbed with the blade he wouldn't have died, but he would have been unable to run or fight off anyone wishing to bring him back to Hell should he prove difficult. Or, probably in Malebranche's mind, even if he didn't.

But Crowley had no idea what kind of effect it would have on an angel. Already it hadn't worked like it would have on a demon. Aziraphale had seemed fine after receiving the wound—except for the fact that he had a bloody hole in his shoulder, of course—and now it seemed to really be digging in, its claws burrowing deeper and deeper into the angel until…

Crowley didn't want to think about the eventual outcome. There was only one outcome he was going to accept, and that was that Aziraphale would be back to his chipper, slightly fussy self soon enough and no one would be the wiser. They could put their fight with Malebranche in the park down as just another one of their misadventures, although certainly not one they would talk about fondly.

However, he wasn't stupid. He knew that something had to be done or…

No, there was no ominous or. Crowley wouldn't allow it. That wasn't an option. Not at all.

So he had to figure out some way to make it so the or didn't have to become a thing.

"Come on Crowley, think," he muttered to himself. He'd already tried disinfecting the wound. Wine may not have been the best substance to use for that, but it would work just as well, he assumed. It should have at least staved off infection and surely medical grade alcohol wouldn't work if that hadn't. Obviously because it wasn't something you could fix with antiseptics.

But what could he use? An antidote? Something to draw the poison? But what?

It was obviously of demonic origin, Crowley knew that as a fact, seen it used before on multiple unruly demons. But on demons it wore off eventually, and something told him it wouldn't do that in Aziraphale's case.

What could he use to combat a demonic poison then?

Oh.

Oh.

Even as Crowley thought it, he simultaneously balked and knew in all certainty he was right. He had to be, after all. It was just his luck.

There was one thing that could combat anything of demonic origin and he cringed just thinking about it.

Holy water.

Crowley started pacing again in agitation. He couldn't get it, though, of course he couldn't. It had taken him years, decades, to get Aziraphale to give him the thermos he had safely and securely locked away back at his flat. And his flat was possibly guarded by demons. If he was caught there, had the poison used against him too, he'd never get back to Aziraphale before the angel….

Crowley swore, slamming his hand against the wall. He couldn't take that chance, he knew it. So he would have to get holy water somewhere else. Somewhere close.

There was a church the next street over, yes—and what good would that do you, you bloody idiot! Crowley ignored his inner voice and turned toward the unconscious angel again.

Aziraphale shuddered and made noises of discomfort. He was so pale underneath the flush of fever, he looked like a corpse. The shoulder of his robe was still pulled down exposing the wound and the terrible black veins spreading ever farther. At best this would inconveniently discorporate the angel, and at worst…

Well, at worst Crowley would lose the only real friend he had ever had and he couldn't allow that to happen.

He swore again, and, decision made, he hurried to the kitchenette to see if there was anything he could use to safely collect and hold holy water.

He came up with a ladle and a thermos quite like the one Aziraphale had given Crowley before and carried them both out to Aziraphale's reading room again.

"Right, angel," he said, trying to steel himself for his mission. "I'll be back, just don't…don't you dare go anywhere—anywhere you hear?—before I get back."

Then he took a deep breath and turned to hurry toward his car before he lost his nerve.

He carefully placed his holy water gathering implements in the passenger seat, opened his glove compartment for a new pair of sunglasses, and sped off as quickly as the car would go to his destination.

Crowley stood with his back against pressed his car as if for support, looking up at the foreboding steeple, already feeling the holiness from the place as if it wanted to shove him back—like when you tried to push the same magnetic poles against each other, except, of course, there was nothing similar about this place and Crowley.

He stood there, holding the thermos in one hand and the ladle in the other so tightly his knuckles were white.

"At least forgive me this once," he said to No One In Particular. "I am doing this to save an angel after all. One of yours! Please don't blame him for his choice of friends, he's still quite righteous enough. Trust me." Crowley sighed, realized he was stalling and muttered, "Sod it," to himself before pushing his feet into motion.

His feet were already burning by the time he got up the steps. It was the middle of the night, thankfully, and no one was at the church, but it was unlocked. Churches usually were, after all. It was fortunate, because there would be no snapping his fingers and opening those locks. The consecrated ground would sap all his powers for the most part as soon as he stepped onto it.

He pushed the door open, hissing and snagging his hand back as it too burned from touching the handle. He really hoped one of the priests wasn't inside wandering the pews. He wanted to get in and out. No time for confession!

Crowley stepped inside and hopped and hissed and cursed as he went. It felt like the floor was burning right through his expensive Italian leather shoes.

The urn of holy water was not too far from the door and Crowley hobbled over to it, sweating liberally. He gulped, looking at the seemingly harmless urn of water that could kill him without too much effort.

"Just get it over with, you're stalling," Crowley muttered to himself, took a deep breath and unscrewed the top of the thermos.

He stuck the cap between his teeth, not wanting to have to fumble for it later, and edged even closer.

His hands were trembling and he willed them to stop. This was no time for shaky hands. He took several deep breaths and held the thermos out, away from his body, before he slowly lowered the ladle into the water.

He willed himself not to flinch as drops trickled from the ladle, holding it at an arm's length, before he edged the thermos closer to the ladle and began to pour it ever so gently into the container.

Crowley didn't breathe. He didn't blink. A bead of sweat rolled down his brow. His feet were burning against the floor and he hardly noticed. He didn't allow himself to relax an instant until every drop of that water was inside the thermos.

Success!

Unfortunately, it wasn't enough. Not enough to be sure. Crowley let out a choked off whimper at the realization and went for another ladleful.

This one nearly went off without a hitch too, until a few errant drops escaped and decided to dribble down the side of the thermos.

Crowley didn't realize what was happening until agony suddenly cut across his palm. He inhaled sharply, but had barely enough restraint not to throw the thermos across the room, or worse, drop it in the holy water. That would have been even worse.

Instead, he dauntedly continued, pouring the rest of the water into the thermos as the errant drops burned his flesh and then he simply left the ladle in the urn, not wanting to transport it, and took the top of the thermos out of his teeth and screwed it tightly shut.

Only then, did he stagger backwards before he turned and ran out of the church, his feet, and now his hand, on fire.

He burst through the door with a scream and barreled toward his car. He yanked on the door, slumped in the seat and slammed it closed behind him before he dropped the thermos, and cradled his hand to his chest, groaning through clenched teeth in agony. There were, though Crowley would never admit it, tears in his eyes and he swiftly yanked off his glasses so he could dash them away.

He finally looked at his hand, and saw the ugly acid burn in the center of his palm. He'd been lucky. It was just a drop so he didn't lose his hand, but it still hurt and would take days to heal.

Crowley growled again, grabbed a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around his hand, tying it with his teeth. Then he started his car and made his way back to the bookshop. Aziraphale was waiting for him. He had to get back to help his friend, he couldn't just sit around here crying over his own paltry injury.

He raced back and screeched to a halt on the side of the street, leaping out of the car and grabbing the thermos in his already ruined hand just in case. He practically crashed into the bookshop and raced to the back room, heart in his throat.

Aziraphale was still there, still breathing laboriously and shuddering. There was no change, and at least that was something.

Crowley breathed a sigh of relief.

"Alright, angel," he said quietly, setting the thermos on the coffee table carefully. "Let's get you fixed up then, shall we?"

He grabbed more towels, a lot of them. He couldn't move Aziraphale, and he didn't want to make a mess of everything.

He brought the towels back and carefully extricated the angel's injured limb completely from his robe's sleeve. Aziraphale moaned at the treatment; every movement obvious agony. Crowley bit the inside of his own cheek to bleeding seeing the pain on his friend's face.

Crowley gently eased the angel onto his stomach to better see the wound, adjusting the pillows so he wouldn't crick his neck. He then tucked the towels all around Aziraphale's shoulder, making a barrier to catch the holy water, mostly for his own safety.

It was time. If this didn't work…he was out of ideas, except to maybe beg another angel to come and heal Aziraphale. And that would be very awkward indeed—not to mention humiliating. The angels would be suspicious, Hell would never have him back then, and well, this simply had to work then, didn't it? Because otherwise he was out of options.

He quickly took up another tea towel and wrapped it completely around his hand then Crowley took a deep breath and took up the thermos. He licked his suddenly dry lips and began to carefully, carefully, unscrew the top.

He placed the top aside and then held his breath as he brought the thermos closer to Aziraphale's wounded shoulder.

"Now, I have no idea what this is going to do, but it's probably going to hurt—that's how you know it's working after all," he murmured to the unconscious angel. He braced himself. "Here goes."

He tipped the thermos and a little of the water dribbled out onto Aziraphale's shoulder, directly onto the wound.

He watched with bated breath. For the first few seconds nothing happened besides Aziraphale flinching slightly at the contact of the cold water against his fevered skin. Crowley wondered whether it wasn't working after all, until…

Aziraphale tensed suddenly and then let out a strangled sound, arching his back and tossing his head. Crowley hurriedly reached out to hold him down and glanced at the wound, wide-eyed. The hole in Aziraphale's shoulder was bubbling, dark ichor oozing out. Crowley gave a relieved laugh of triumph. It seemed his pains hadn't been for nothing.

"Hold on, angel," he said. "I don't think this is going to be pleasant."

He poured more holy water onto the wound and wasn't ready for Aziraphale to scream.

The angel nearly threw himself off the couch, body jerking violently. Crowley had to practically throw himself over top of Aziraphale to keep him lying down. The wound was hissing like a chemical reaction and blackness was leaking out, down his skin and into the towels. Tears stung Crowley's eyes at his friend's anguished cries and simply held onto Aziraphale as he watched the poison retreat from his body.

He poured the final amount of holy water over the wound as the last of the poison escaped and the fizzing wasn't nearly as bad this time. All the blackness was gone, leaving only the normal red of blood.

Crowley wiped the last of the mess away and gingerly removed the towels with his covered hand, hissing as the soaked fabric started to seep through the towel covering his hand. He threw them all into a pile in the corner. Aziraphale would unfortunately have to take care of those when he was better.

Right now, it was Crowley's job to take care of the angel.

Aziraphale was limp, seeming to be thoroughly exhausted and he had every right to be after that. Crowley was exhausted just having to watch him go through it. He quietly plucked up some more gauze to gently place over the wound, and tape in place, then carefully tucked Aziraphale's arm back into his robe, pulling it snug around him.

Almost as an afterthought he placed the back of his hand against Aziraphale's brow, but the angel's fever was already going down, it seemed. Relieved that he'd done the right thing and hadn't killed his friend—he'd been worried for a while during the cleaning of the wound—Crowley felt more pesky tears prick his eyes and did his best to glower them away. Demons did not cry.

He reached over Aziraphale, plucking the crochet throw from the back of the couch and gently laying it over the unconscious angel.

He then sagged and slumped down to the floor, sitting with his back against the couch and tipping his head back. It seemed that the exhaustion and the worry had gotten the better of him and he closed his eyes, finally allowing himself to rest.

Crowley started from his exhausted stupor at the sound of a moan.

He flailed for a moment, breath catching in his throat until he realized he was on the floor of Aziraphale's back room.

"Crowley?"

He jerked around, glancing up slightly to see the angel's eyes open and staring blearily at him from the couch.

"Aziraphale?" Crowley climbed to his knees, ignoring the aches that had settled in from being on the floor for an indeterminate amount of time and leaned over the angel. "How do you feel?"

The angel frowned. "I…sore and…a bit woozy maybe. I don't really remember what happened after we got back here…"

Crowley gritted his teeth, contemplating lying for only a second before he exhaled and instead told the truth. "The dagger was poisoned. Your wound went septic and you…took a turn for the worst." He looked away, unable to meet the angel's eyes, trying to force his voice to be nonchalant but it wasn't working very well.

Aziraphale's eyes widened. "Poison? But…I felt fine! And…how did you fix it?"

"Ah," Crowley said, waving a hand dismissively. "It was nothing. Don't bother your head about it, angel."

He realized too late he had waved his injured hand, still with the handkerchief wrapped around it and Aziraphale, sharp even when he was recovering from being nearly on Death's door, locked in on it instantly.

"My dear, what happened to your hand?" he inquired, propping himself on an elbow as if he were going to inspect it, the fool. Crowley snatched it quickly away.

"It's nothing! I'm fine," Crowley insisted, pulling the hand closer to his chest.

Aziraphale inhaled sharply as if realization suddenly came over him. "Oh, Crowley, you didn't…" he gasped.

Crowley bit his lip. "It was the only way, angel, and it worked. You aren't dead, are you?"

Aziraphale sighed and a pale hand reached down to take the demon's wrist, gently prying his hand away from his chest. Crowley resisted only a moment before he allowed the angel to do what he would. He knew he'd lose, after all, and he didn't want to lose a fight with an invalid angel. That would just be adding insult to injury.

He still looked away when Aziraphale pushed the makeshift bandage aside and he heard the angel's sharp breath.

"Oh, Crowley," he said.

"S'not that bad," the demon muttered, gave the angel a couple more seconds to fuss then promptly pulled his hand away, standing up. "And I did it for you, you idiot, so the least you can do is say thanks."

He finally looked up and saw the angel staring at him with a look that somehow chided at the same time he showed gratitude.

"Still, Crowley, it could have been far more serious! And where did you even get it?"

Crowley huffed and sat on the coffee table, facing the angel. "It doesn't matter. Look, you took a dagger in the shoulder for me, I drop holy water on my hand for you. I think we're even. All part of the Arrangement, right?"

Aziraphale frowned. "I don't think I like this new Arrangement."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Then let's go back to the other one we talked about before. The one where we're friends. This is what friends, comrades in arms, do, angel. They save each other. And I wasn't about to lose my only friend."

The angel smiled, tired and still a little pained, but genuine. He didn't say anything in that moment because he didn't need to. Crowley knew everything in his heart because it was in his own.

The demon cleared his throat and pushed himself up. "How about I go make a pot of tea?"

"That sounds lovely," Aziraphale said, sinking back against the pillows.

And Crowley knew at that moment, that, come Heaven or come Hell, it didn't matter. In the end all that mattered was that he and Aziraphale remembered their true Arrangement.

Not just the one where he did the good thing and Aziraphale did the bad one, but the one where an angel decided to become friends with a demon.

And the demon decided he was all right with that.