Chapter Text
There's a saying about sleeping dragons that Dire Crowley almost laughs about, except he's far too preoccupied trying to not get decapitated by an extraordinarily pissed off former General of the Right, and also, Lilia is a bat, not a dragon. Thankfully for his head and general health, Lilia is retired, and while his own physical form has deteriorated to uselessness in battle, Crowley is exceptionally skilled with defensive spells.
He has a knack for making enemies.
Lilia screeches another insult at him and almost takes his arm off. He cleaves Crowley's desk in half instead. The office currently consists of seven portraits (shredded), one desk (destroyed), a desk chair (in pieces), and his very expensive rug (bloodstained).
He's running out of things to put in between him and the raging Vanrouge. His desk takes another blow, and all of Crowley's souvenir drawers crush and shatter. Why, oh why, could it have not been the paperwork drawers?!?
Actually- it can still be the paperwork drawers, because Lilia still wants him dead very badly. Crowley will mourn his many precious trinkets, of course, but he will also take a small delight in scrambling behind the last sort-of-intact section of desk and letting the brutal magearm do its work. Paperwork obliterated.
Lilia Vanrouge doesn't thirst for paper destruction, though. The man is out for blood and Crowley is beginning to tire.
It's surprising, for a moment, to realize that Lilia, too, is wavering. His chest heaves and the heft of his magearm weighs him down in a way it never has before. Then Crowley remembers the conversation that started this rather unfortunately justified attack on his persons, and a terrifying clarity takes hold- because Lilia is dying, and if Crowley doesn't stop him, he may well exhaust what time he has left with this mania.
He's already squawked and shrieked a myriad iteration of apologetics to no avail, but Lilia is hefting up his magearm once again, and Crowley must do something.
So, abandoning all sense of self preservation, Dire Crowley throws himself bodily at Lilia Vanrouge and wrestles him to the floor. They roll through glass and splintered wood to a chorus of fae obscenities and Crowley has never been so thankful for his thick layers, else he bleed even more onto his poor carpet.
Lilia is less lucky, but so high on adrenaline that he doesn't notice at all. What he does do is clamp down on Crowley's shoulder with a bite force Baur would be proud of. Something definitely just broke. Very badly, if the crunching is to be believed.
Crowley does not shriek or scream or shout this time. It hurts enough, yes, but he expected it, and he braced himself, and now he's got Lilia pinned down and finally thinking somewhat clearly, and one little shoulder is a small price to pay.
Lilia licks the blood off his teeth and his expression turns to putrid disgust.
"...Ew."
"How very kind of you."
"Shut your stupid fucking face, Raverne!"
Crowley decides to shut up. He doesn't get off of the floor, even if kneeling precariously over Lilia with only one arm to balance on is incredibly uncomfortable, because it seems like a great way to invite more stabbing. Still, he can't help but hiss when Lilia prods gently at his shoulder. A gentle stream of magic starts to flow, meant to heal, and Crowley panics quite badly.
He ends up headbutting Lilia to break his concentration, since all of his limbs are otherwise occupied.
"ARE YOU INSANE, VANROUGE!?!"
Lilia swears at him. Extensively. As if it were Crowley being ridiculous and not Lilia trying to waste his scant magic on him, of all people! Perhaps he's an ego too large and walls far too high, but even Crowley knows he's undeserving of that, after all he has (or more importantly, has not) done.
"Point taken. Can we perhaps continue this conversation in the infirmary?"
The answer is no, because Crowley's legs are kicked out from underneath him, and then he and Lilia are laying side by side in a very painful pile of broken limbs and furniture debris. It's... it's quite nostalgic, really.
Dire Crowley has no place on the battlefield, but once upon a time, many centuries ago, the General Vanrouge and one Dragoneye Duke would fight together. In the end, they'd collapse to the ground and nurse their wounds, snipping and mocking each other about the most minor of combat faults. Or perhaps about who stole whom's kill, and whether or not Lilia should really be eating that whatever it was he found on the ground, or any number of ridiculous and stupid things.
They don't banter, because they aren't those people, but the point is that laying prone and feeling like death has come for the both of them is familiar and that hurts worse than Crowley's mangled shoulder does.
Lilia doesn't break the silence. Crowley isn't going to, either, so he convinces his phone out of his pocket to see if it survived, unlike the rest of his belongings. It did not. There goes the last dredges of his vacation funds as well as his dignity. It's one thing to repair his office in secret- his staff will assume he's decided to make a new, ridiculous, expensive renovation -but his phone?
He will be mocked. It will be justified. Fate is a cruel, cruel mistress.
...Oh, why does he bother? It's not his stupid phone that Crowley cares about.
"You need medical attention, Lilia. Please. I can wallow miserably if that's what you really want."
"Shut up."
"Will you say nothing else? I don't want you to die! Is that so hard to understand?!?"
Lilia does not respond, and Crowley- no. No, Raverne, who has been dead for centuries, only remembered ever so recently and hidden away like the bloodstained secret he is, wants quite desperately to cry. He won't. No, no, he won't do that to his dear nightheart.
"... Lilia. Lilia, I forbid that you die."
"How cute," Vanrouge spits at him, "how kind, when it's your fault I'm dying."
It's... his fault? Ah. Oh dear. If he hadn't vanished, Lilia's lifespan would be intact. Something happened that he should have prevented.
But Raverne wasn't there, and Crowley didn't remember yet.
"I'm sorry."
"Liar."
Oh, Seven. What has he done?