“I am fine,” Aziraphale says, a trifle snappishly.
“Your leg literally won’t hold your weight,” Crowley shoots back. “And if you were fine, you’d have miracled it better already.”
Aziraphale’s head swims, and he sags back against the tree. “I ought to- they might still-”
Crowley glowers down at him. “They’re definitely gone. You did the glowy thing. Bandits don’t like the glowy thing.”
“Humans don’t like it,” Aziraphale says, and laughs tiredly. It sounds slightly too much like a hysterical giggle.
“And I don’t like the fact that you can’t walk,” Crowley says. “Sleep. That’s non-negotiable. I can’t fix you, and you can’t fix yourself in this state.”
“Can’t,” Aziraphale says stubbornly. “I have to keep looking- looking out. Have to-”
“Have to rest,” Crowley interrupts. He folds himself abruptly to the ground next to Aziraphale.
“Someone has to-”
“I will, then! If that’s what it takes to make you lie down before you fall and hit your head or something.”
Aziraphale blinks slowly. His head feels thick, and his leg hurts, and he wants to keep arguing, because he has a responsibility, but he can’t figure out how to convince Crowley of that.
Wait. What did Crowley just say?
“You,” Aziraphale says, picking the words carefully out of the mud of his brain. “You‘ll do the- the looking, for me?”
“Yes, fine. Lie down already.”
Aziraphale leans sideways and slips off the tree trunk. Crowley’s arms catch him midair and gently lower him to the ground. Then he settles in front of Aziraphale, facing out towards the traders’ camp through the trees. One hand stays on Aziraphale’s shoulder, pressing gently, reassuringly.
Crowley rubs his thumb over Aziraphale’s sleeve. “I’ve got it,” he says quietly. “Go to sleep.”
Crowley is watching. Crowley will make sure the humans are safe. He can trust Crowley.
Aziraphale closes his eyes.