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Nor Any Drop To Drink
by afrai

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Aziraphale grinned triumphantly. Crowley wanted to stab those glowing eyes out, but he didn't dare move.

"I hate you," muttered Crowley. He was cold and sweating and he felt dizzy. His fingers hurt from clenching onto Aziraphale. Feathers all around him, and if only he could stick his hand in and pull . . .

He could feel the pulsing holiness beneath him like a wall. He curled into Aziraphale, because even his cold angel smell, its sharp edges only slightly smudged from his years on Earth, was better than the terror that radiated from the water below them. A gust of wind blew the scent right into his face, and it seared through his nostrils and into his brain.

He was going to kill the angel. He was going to tear him apart. Just as soon as he got to dry land and could move, because he couldn't move right now except to cling and shake. Go -- Sa -- Nobody, the smell . . . .

"I'm sure you do, my dear," said Aziraphale. Crowley squirmed in an agony of fear and suppressed violence.

"You could just open your wings and fly away," said Aziraphale happily. "I won't stop you."

Crowley couldn't remember Aziraphale being this vindictive back in Heaven, before the first Fall. Obviously his time on Earth had warped him. Crowley spared a moment for a vicious jab of pride in his craftsmanship -- damn, but he was bad, he corrupted women and angels, Crowley the smooth operator -- but then Aziraphale did a loop-the-loop and Crowley's stomach did the fandango.

"And I suppose you wouldn't do anything with that blessed sword you have there?" said Crowley, after Aziraphale had gone back to hovering and he had calmed down enough to be sure he wouldn't scream when he opened his mouth.

There was a reason why he was clinging to an angel above a sea of holy water, and not carving the angel's guts out. "Blessed" was not merely an epithet in this case. And Aziraphale was fast.

"What sword? Oh, this sword? Of course I wouldn't do anything with it, with you unarmed and all," said Aziraphale. His eyes were wide and innocent.

Crowley cursed himself for the thousandth time. Right, let's start a fight near a large body of water with an angel who's still pissed off at you after that last "charge of the demonic pigs" incident. You don't need a weapon; you've got your claws, haven't you? It won't hardly take any time, be over in a few minutes and then you can go on with your routine tempting and maybe have a celebratory cocktail at that nice little tavern down the road while you're at it.

Next time, he would bring a sword. Two swords. And an axe and a few knives and hell, why not a morningstar. A little symbolism wouldn't do any harm.

At least, it would, but that was the point.

"Take me to land," he said through gritted teeth.

"Oh, aren't you enjoying yourself?" said Aziraphale, and there was a flash of steel.

The pigs had trampled the angel's poofy clothes into the ground, Crowley recalled. Aziraphale seemed to have a thing about having his clothes destroyed.

Crowley was beginning to think the amusing irony of possessed pigs running up from the sea wasn't.

"Please," said Crowley, hatred and shame vibrating in every syllable.

Aziraphale pondered.

"No," he said. He swooped.

Crowley hung from the angel's back, shivering. He watched as the drops of sweat rolled off his forehead and plopped into the sea, exploding when they touched the surface of the water.

The smoke from the explosions drifted up. They smelled like the Rebellion.

Crowley shook.

Aziraphale had no idea. But he would learn. Crowley would make sure of it.

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