Though Aziraphale starts with Crowley’s shoulders, he does cast a glare at the tiny scurrying dots on the angel’s scalp. What likely feels to Crowley like a brief surge of very hot air against his head is in fact a very small tendril of demonic vengeance. The head lice experience it in unison as a sudden burst of terror, a total awareness of their mortality, and a knowledge that they’ve disappointed everyone who’s ever loved them, followed by a swift but agonizing death.
He knows soap would have done the job, but it would also have been far less satisfying.
With quiet care Aziraphale washes Crowley’s shoulders, his upper arms, the nape of his neck. Then he continues down the long arc of Crowley’s back, and at last he gets a really clear look at the red marks there.
At first count, once the angel bends forward to rest his head on his arms, it looks like eleven separate lines, but there’s a fainter one beside the others, one that’s already mostly a scar. Twelve lashes. Strangely, these don’t look like the work of Heavenly instruments—just the ordinary welts and cuts a human-made whip would leave on human skin.
Aziraphale thinks about the marks on his own back, marks that linger but that fade a little more every time he and Crowley meet up.
Carefully, one at a time, he washes each of the thin long wounds. And though there’s a faint background hum of noise—footsteps and voices from outside, the slosh of water, the regular tide of their own breathing—it still feels too quiet in this room. If he could play something, he would, but with both hands busy all he has is his voice.
But the thing is, humans have been finding ways of making music without singing almost from the beginning of their history.
“I was back in England a few years ago,” he murmurs, as if they’re sitting across from one another over a meal. Or lying tangled up in bed. “They’ve been writing a whole mess of poetry about Arthur, did you know? There’s an entire book about Merlin.”
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2020-04-19 07:54 pm (UTC)He knows soap would have done the job, but it would also have been far less satisfying.
With quiet care Aziraphale washes Crowley’s shoulders, his upper arms, the nape of his neck. Then he continues down the long arc of Crowley’s back, and at last he gets a really clear look at the red marks there.
At first count, once the angel bends forward to rest his head on his arms, it looks like eleven separate lines, but there’s a fainter one beside the others, one that’s already mostly a scar. Twelve lashes. Strangely, these don’t look like the work of Heavenly instruments—just the ordinary welts and cuts a human-made whip would leave on human skin.
Aziraphale thinks about the marks on his own back, marks that linger but that fade a little more every time he and Crowley meet up.
Carefully, one at a time, he washes each of the thin long wounds. And though there’s a faint background hum of noise—footsteps and voices from outside, the slosh of water, the regular tide of their own breathing—it still feels too quiet in this room. If he could play something, he would, but with both hands busy all he has is his voice.
But the thing is, humans have been finding ways of making music without singing almost from the beginning of their history.
“I was back in England a few years ago,” he murmurs, as if they’re sitting across from one another over a meal. Or lying tangled up in bed. “They’ve been writing a whole mess of poetry about Arthur, did you know? There’s an entire book about Merlin.”