T/W: injury, sadness, angst

Brimstone and a Demon

PLAYLIST:

Prayer of the Refugee by Rise Against

The Humbling River by Puscifer

Italy, 79 CE

"Keep going!" Aziraphale shouted. "Leave your bags, everyone onto the boat!"

The ground beneath them rumbled and shook. They were running out of time.

"Run! Go!" Aziraphale grabbed the arm of a young man who was rushing past. "Phaestos, is that everyone?"

"Everyone who's willing to leave," Phaestos answered. "Some people think they'll be safer in their houses."

"A house isn't going to help them!" Aziraphale looked from the overloaded boat to the city. "Get as many people aboard as you can, I'm going door to door."

"Zira, wait!" called Phaestos. "This is the last ship!"

But Aziraphale was gone. He pelted through the empty streets, the pounding of his sandaled feet lost in the cacophony of sounds from the volcano. He banged on every closed door, shouting at the occupants to run, get to the beach, get anywhere but here. It was too late for them—and for him—but he had to try.

Covered in ash and soot, he stopped in the town center. It seemed like the majority of the people were gone, or at least in hiding. Maybe he was wrong, maybe their homes would protect them from the burning rocks that would soon rain down. Maybe the poisonous gases wouldn't make it past their tightly closed doors. Maybe.

The cobbles bucked under Aziraphale's feet, sending him to his knees. He could leave this place, spread his white wings, leap into the air and—no. He would never make it, not with sky itself on fire and the hellish winds whipping ash about. And that was all right. He had failed in his mission to save these people; it was only right that he die with them. Maybe if he discorporated they would let him stay in heaven, instead of with these incredible, fragile, mortal humans.

The side of the mountain trembled, collapsed, and barreled toward the town. Aziraphale closed his eyes.

Something grabbed him and lifted him into the air. The last thing he saw before fainting was the city wall crumbling under an avalanche of fire.

Coolness flowed over his skin and into his mouth. He swallowed reflexively, tasting ash.

"That's it, angel. Don't choke."

"C-crowley?"Aziraphale rasped.

"The one and only." The demon grinned at him. "What were you thinking, standing in the way of a volcanic eruption?"

"What are you doing here?"

"I was doing a spot of work in Herculaneum."

"Of course you were." Aziraphale sat up, aching. "City of money and vice. I suppose you had something to do with this?"

Crowley was shocked speechless. "How could you ssssay that?"

"You'rea demon who just happened to be at the site of a catastrophe, what else am I supposed to think?"

"Of course, that's what you'd think," Crowley said bitterly. He stood up,walked to the other side of clearing, and dropped down onto a boulder. "I'm a foul creature, bound to do evil. Never mind that I just ssssaved your life."

"Well, did you?"Aziraphale pressed.

"No!" Crowley jumped up as quickly as he had sat down. "Of course not! I didn't even know about the eruption! Do you think I'd be here if I knew?"

Aziraphale immediately felt bad, but he couldn't bring himself to apologize. He was too angry at—everything. "Where are we?"

"Freshwater spring in a nearby forest. The wind patterns kept the ash away from here, for the most part." Crowley snorted. "Kind of reminds me of Eden."

It was a beautiful place: a mossy clearing surrounded by massive trees, with a pool of clearwater and a small stream. Aziraphale was sitting in a sort of lean-to beside the stream. He realized that the burns on his hands were wrapped in clean cloths.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I know you didn't do this. I'm just...I don't understand why this was allowed. So much suffering. So much death. Why does it keep happening?"

Sighing, Crowley sat beside him. "I don't know, angel. I tried to help. I tempted the rich people in Herculaneum to take their servants and slaves with them when they fled. Animals, too."

"How?"

"Sloth, greed, and gluttony. I told them that if they didn't take their servants, they would have to do things on their own, and if they didn't take the animals they might starve. It worked a little."

"And then you came back," Aziraphale said softly. "You flew into that hellhole...for me."

"I heard about someone who was trying to help," Crowley explained. "A man with blonde hair, all in white, who was helping people evacuate, but wouldn't leave himself. Who could it be but my angel?"

Aziraphale sighed and leaned his head on the demon's shoulder. "I'm tired, Crowley. I don't know if I can keep doing this."

"You can. You love the humans too much to abandon them. Our head offices should be occupied for a while," Crowley remarked. "What with the influx of souls. They won't have time to worry about one angel and one demon. What do you say we steal some time together?"

"You mean, stay here? In this forest?"

"For a while. I think we've earned the break."

"Okay,"Aziraphale said without hesitation.

"Glad to hear it. But first, let's get you cleaned up."

Crowley helped him to his feet, and into the pool. Aziraphale hadn't realized how badly hurt he was until the cool water touched his skin. He had burns from head to toe, his hands and feet were bleeding, his face covered in dozens of cuts.

"You're a mess, angel," Crowley teased. "Hell would definitely notice if I miracle'd all this away."

"I don't think I have the strength for miracles."

"You'll feel better once you're clean."

Gently, methodically, Crowley helped Aziraphale bathe. He dumped water over the angel's head to clean the ash from his hair, wiped the soot from his face, and cleaned his wounds. It took three rinses to turn his wings white again. The water around them turned black

"That feels much better," Aziraphale admitted with a smile. "Your turn."

"I'm fine,"Crowley insisted.

"Nonsense, my dear." He turned the demon's hands over, revealing raw, burned palms. "These must be terribly painful."

"The water helps."

"You saved me," Aziraphale reminded him. "Let me repay you, a little bit."

Crowley sighed. "Fiiiine."

"Your wings are in worse shape than mine," Aziraphale admitted a few minutes later.

"I'll preen them later," Crowley said dismissively. "At least neither of us smell like smoke anymore."

"You can't neglect your wings. Come along."

They climbed out of the water and wrapped up the clean blankets Crowley had stashed in the lean-to. Aziraphale had the demon lie on the ground with his wings out. Then he carded through them feather by feather, removed every bit of debris, and massaged the strained muscles. He pulsed warmth through his fingers to speed healing; it wasn't a miracle, not really. It would register upstairs as just trying to warm his cold hands. Nobody needed to know he was helping a demon.

"There," he said softly, stroking Crowley's silky feathers. "Isn't that better?"

Somewhere during the process, Crowley had fallen asleep.

"Oh, you silly serpent. Always basking in the sun. And always there when I need you." Aziraphale kissed his forehead, lightly so as not to wake him, and got up to light a fire.

1. The explosion of Mount Vesuvius (spelling?) in Pompeii.

2. Herculaneum was a nearby town, from which Plini the Elder did most of his observations.

3. Their little oasis likely did not exist, given the distance the ash and debris flew. Let's call it a miracle.