They were on the floor of the living room, curled close and quiet, breathing each other's air. There was still a lot of blood about, though Crowley had tried to banish it. It had sunk into their skin in streaks like war paint. The sun was struggling to rise, hovering aimlessly beneath the horizon. Light seeped into the room, all rose and gold, and it caught in the curls of Aziraphale's hair. They hadn't moved in what felt like ages, save for their fingers, which twined and squeezed and grasped endlessly.

"I'll be alright, you know," Crowley whispered.

Aziraphale opened his eyes.

"I'm out of the job and all, but I'm not going to go take a holy water bath or anything. You don't have to worry," he said.

"I know that," Aziraphale said, looking confused. "Do you think—you can't possibly believe this is charity on my part."

"Well, it wouldn't be out of character," Crowley said plainly. The only thing worse, he imagined, than being alone was being with someone because that someone felt they had a responsibility.

Aziraphale seemed to consider this for a moment.

"Charity is for those in need. I harbor no illusions that you need me, therefore, this is not charity." Aziraphale's hands, his perfect, pristine fingers, glided through Crowley's hair with a tenderness that Crowley felt certain he should resent. "But, even if you did—need me, that is—that would be alright, you know. I'd fight for you if, need be."

Crowley exhaled into the crook of Aziraphale's neck. They were so tangled, sweat-soaked and sticky against each other's skin, that Crowley wondered if they would ever be able to extract themselves. How did mortals do this? Surely they would starve.

Some part of Crowley's brain registered that Aziraphale was still talking, but he found himself lacking focus.

"And I'm sorry, really."

"What?" Crowley asked, sitting up a little.

"I didn't trust you. I realise that now."

Crowley laughed, and the sound was only half bitter. "Because trusting a demon is always a smart turn. Actually, come to mention it, healing a demon probably isn't a brilliant career move, either."

"This isn't about trusting a demon. It's about trusting a friend."

Aziraphale dipped close, pressing his lips to Crowley's forehead.

"Friend? Is that what they're calling it? Well, you certainly are friendly," Crowley said, giving a serpentine flick of his hips.

"You know what I mean," Aziraphale said, without much irritation.

"Unfortunately," Crowley murmured, relaxing back into Aziraphale's body.

"Besides. Though I'm sure you loathe admitting it, you never doubted me. Why didn't you?"

"You're an angel," Crowley offered lamely.

"Of course. And you're so close with Gabriel."

"It's not. It's just. It's you, isn't it? It's us. We're not…" Crowley hissed subconsciously and rubbed his eyes. "I couldn't hurt you if I wanted to, could I?"

Aziraphale smiled.

"Besides, you know all my tricks. Haven't been able to get one over on you in ages."

"Do you ever want to? Hurt me?"

Crowley cringed.

"Only when you ask me stupid questions."

For a moment, it looked as though Aziraphale was going to keep blathering, but he seemed to think better of it. "I'm just glad, that's all," he said finally.

"Glad?"

"That you're alright. That you're not in a pit somewhere. That I can trust you. I need you around a good deal more than I was previously aware."

"Need me? Does that make this charity on my part?"

"Of course not, my dear. I'd never accuse you of such a thing."

"Good. All of it. 's good," Crowley said, burrowing into Aziraphale's warm skin.

The sun did rise, eventually, but Aziraphale and Crowley did not. At least, not for several extremely pleasant days.