aziraphale blesses crowley
A little thought. A headcanon. But I do believe that Aziraphale, at a certain point, begins to bless Crowley. Because the demon, despite most of the things the Angel goes through, always stays relatively safe.
He says that his kind don’t send stern letters. We get a sense that “his kind” are more on the corporal end when it comes to punishment. But we only see Aziraphale being beaten, insulted, discorperated. Nothing ever happens to Crowley, who walks relatively unscathed through the Apocalypse. How?
An Angel was blessing him.
Aziraphale was blessing him.
He shouldn’t. It’s blasphemous, he knows, to imprint celestial protection onto a demon. A sort of blasphemy that, if the archangels knew, would have landed him with a firm talking to. An angry letter. A slip, tumble, Fall downwards, maybe.
He tries not to think about that.
Because there were times where Crowley returned to the bookshop smelling of sulfur and brimstone, doing his best to hide a limp. Impossible, really. Aziraphale knew him; his smile, his soft eyes, his sharp words; knew well enough when something had tilted from normal.
“Are you alright?” He handed the demon tea and plumes of cinnamon steam crested his chin.
Crowley had waved him off. “Fine. Just a disagreement.”
“A few demons began to notice my lack of… demonic energy. Just a reminder, Angel.” And he’d punctuated it with a sip of tea and a soft hum. “That’s all. Nothing to fuss about.”
“It certainly is something to fuss about!”
Crowley took off his glasses long enough to wink. “You fuss about everything.”
And so Aziraphale had begun to lay blessings.
It’s soft and deft and quiet - when he reaches and touches Crowley’s sleeve. The demon would never know, he thought. There’d be no reason to notice the specks of love he’d pressed delicately into the fibers of being. He never made them so strong that they’d burn, and never made them weak enough to linger and fade.
A blessing of protection, he willed on a rainy Sunday, elbowing past to a bookshelf. May you be safe from your own kind, my own kind, from all kind.
On a hot summer June afternoon, he’d adjusted the demons collar with a flick of deft fingers. “Really,” he said, “you could try to be a little more presentable.” A blessing of safety, he thought, pretending to clumsily skate fingertips across the demons neck, feeling the pulse of a swallow. May you be safe now. Safe always. Safe when I’m here and when I’m not. Keep him alive, and well, and whole. He flicked the collar again. “Better.”
Crowley cleared his throat, pushing up his glasses. “Thanks,” he said back, confusion heavy on his tongue. Then; “See? Fussy.”
And then an apocalypse arrives.
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