Good Omens: The Pharaoh's Son (Aziraphale x Crowley)

Chapter Four: Desert Skies

It had been almost a month since Crawley had come home drunk and not really wanting to think about a particular fluffy-haired angel, but it had still happened anyway. After only a few days, he'd found himself searching for Aziraphale. He needed to ask why everyone was convinced the water had turned into blood. It was then he'd realized the Pharaoh had revoked the angel's stay at the palace. His room had been stripped bare without any trace of any angelic presence. Crawley had tried and failed to hide his displeasure with the decision, but it had all become more apparent as to why when a swarm of locusts had descended upon the unsuspecting capital. And that was just the start. Heaven was up to something.

Crawley had hidden from hordes of flies, dodged fireballs raining from the sky, scowled away boils, and grumbled at the lack of meats suddenly unavailable in the city.

He found himself wandering through the streets again and noted the lacking scent of honey cakes in the air. It did odd things to his insides, twisting them in most unpleasant ways.

So much had changed in so little time. When had he started seeking out the angel? When had he started wanting to bask under the warmth of his gaze? He tried not to think about it. Thoughts of those pale blue eyes placated his mind. He glared at those stupid cakes now, glared at the soft white blossoms that grew by the river's edge, and hissed the singers who thrilled at the chance to rejoice in the romantic affair between Isis and Osiris. And, Crawley, who had resumed his demonic scowling, had gone out every day for the last week, still seeking every one of those things. He was cursed. It was the only reasonable and logical explanation.

The angel had cursed him, and Crawley would travel to the ends of the Earth, seeking him out. He would swim the seas, walk the deserts, even scour the holy temples if it meant finding Aziraphale. Crawley had no qualms with giving him a piece of his mind. He would tell him off for whatever vile magic he'd used on him without his knowledge. Demons were not supposed to care about things. They didn't care about sweet cakes or flowers of an almost angelic white, or romances that led to kissing. He vaguely wondered what it would feel like—Oh, shit! Shitshitshitshit. He had to stop this madness.

Crawley almost snarled as someone grasped his arm.

The woman froze as he stared at her. His hissing died away as he spotted a small child wrapped in her arms.

"What's wrong with him?" He nodded at the young boy she cradled.

The woman regained some of her courage at the mention of the child. Many of the commoners hadn't dared speak, much less touch their terrifying snake god. She had to have been quite desperate to seek him out.

"Please," she begged, "my son, the boils...he's not eating. He hasn't slept in days...I-I don't know what to do." She trembled as she spoke. Her eyes met his in a watery haze, but even if she recoiled under his serpentine stare, she didn't back down. If there was any chance in the snake god helping her, then it seemed she would take it.

Crawley sighed, realizing that if she'd asked any other demon for help, she probably would have ended up burnt or maimed or some other horrible fate. He glanced at the child. His breathing was shallow, and the boils, dotting his thin frame, puffed and oozed worse than any he'd seen. He needed healing. If Aziraphale had been there, he might have been able to help, but all the humans had was Crawley. A demon.

Could he heal? He had no idea. In theory, he could; he'd been an angel once. He could do miracles then, so maybe he still could. He'd never tried. Never thought to try, to be honest. He glanced over the kid again and chewed at his lip. The poor thing was probably going to die, even if Crawley didn't do anything. "I, uh, I'll see what I can do." He swallowed down a lump. He really hoped he didn't make it any worse. There was no telling if he could heal, but he suspected he'd have more of that damnable guilt if he refused.