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Aziraphale gazes out of the cab's window, watching the rain patter against the glass and slide down in thin tendrils. London's sky above him is dark and filled with clouds that eerily resemble plumes of smoke. The sun hides from the angel's view behind cloud after cloud. If he didn't know better, he'd almost take it personally.
"Almost there, Mr. Fell," The cab driver chimes from the driver's seat.
Aziraphale smiles faintly as he watches the dark streets go by, clutching his hands tightly in his lap. It had been over a week since Aziraphale last saw Crowley. He never really got to express his thanks for how Crowley saved him (and more importantly his books) from a group of backstabbing nazi spies. Sure, he helped Crowley by performing on the West End Stage for him, but that felt rather selfish.
He wanted to do something properly to repay his.. friend.
So, sitting beside him in its own seat is the most expensive, well-aged red wine he owned. He also brought a basket full of fresh ingredients to make him a proper homecooked dinner for the first time. He had thought it would be a nice change, considering they'd only ever eaten out together.
Now that the angel takes a moment to think, he realizes that he's never actually seen Crowley's home. The flat was given to the demon as a part of his position, and so it changed with him through time. He's had the same house for thousands of years. Aziraphale only got the address from the demon because Aziraphale insisted on mailing him a letter once postal delivery started to take off in the mid-1800s.
Aziraphale had also elected not to tell Crowley he was coming.
He'd like the surprise!
... right?
Aziraphale's smile falters for a moment as he briefly considers the possibility that he may be stepping over a line.
Crowley was very private. Maybe there was a reason that Crowley had never invited the angel over.
.. what if he gets angry?
Aziraphale shakes the thoughts away with the reassuring knowledge that Crowley had never been disappointed to see him before.
He was going to love it.
"Alright Mr. Fell, here we are," The cab driver chimes, already holding out a hand to accept his payment. Aziraphale fumbles with his cream coat's pockets for a moment before pulling out the appropriate change and spilling it into his hand, "Cheers."
"Many thanks," Aziraphale says graciously as he opens the door, grabs the bottle of wine and his basket of food, and steps out onto the curb.
Aziraphale stands before a rather impressive-looking flat that stands alone at the end of a one-way street. Its walls are made of black vinyl that almost resembles sleet rock, giving it a cold aesthetic. From what he could tell, it was two stories. Magnificent windows lined the second story but had black velvet curtains pulled shut so that he could not see inside.
"So, this is where you've lived all this time.."
Aziraphale walks up the short paved path to the flat, humming while he does so. He steps up two stairs onto the porch, where he comes face-to-face with a tall, black door.
Strangely enough, the door is already open just a crack.
Aziraphale's eyebrows furrow at the sight, questioning if Crowley was the kind of person to leave his house unlocked. It seemed far too welcoming for the demon he knew.
Forgetting it, Aziraphale steps forward and gives a polite knock on the door. He steps back and smiles expectantly, waiting for the moment when Crowley opens the door and the permanent scowl he wears on his face would be swept away with pleased surprise.
.. but that moment never comes.
The door doesn't open.
Aziraphale clears his throat and knocks again, this time harder.
"Hello?" He calls through the crack of the door, "Crowley? It's me, Aziraphale!"
He waits with one ear basically pressed against the open door, waiting for a response.
Silence lingers around him, so dense that he can feel it in the air around him.
.. it feels wrong.
Something is wrong.
Aziraphale swallows back his polite manners and, using the hand still clutched around the bottle of red wine, pushes against the door to let it creak open.
"Crowley? Are you here?" He calls out again, glancing nervously into the home.
He shouldn't be doing this. He should turn around and leave. This was highly inappropriate. Crowley had been so respectful of his space, he should reciprocate it.
.. but what if Crowley needed him? What if someone broke in?
Well, in that case, Crowley really couldn't object if he just let himself in, could he?
Aziraphale swallows a nervous gulp of air as he steps into the home uninvited, his light-blue eyes instantly scanning his surroundings for any sign of danger. He quietly closes the door behind himself and steps into the front hall, finding not what he had expected from someone like Crowley; plants. Dozens of plants line the walls on either side of him. And from the look of it, Crowley was quite a talented botanist. There is not a single leaf spot found on any single plant. They are all vibrant green and standing healthily tall.
".. Crowley?" He calls again, his voice echoing through the empty house.
As he walks past the plants, he starts to hear strange noises coming from the next room. His heart starts to beat fearfully against his ribs as he comes to an immediate halt, straining his ears to hear some clue of what waits for him.
He hears breath. Desperate, haggard breath. Like someone forcing themselves to breathe. They sound like they had just run miles on foot.
Aziraphale slowly lowers his bottle of wine and basket onto the ledge closest to him, setting it next to an impressive fern to his right. He starts to wring his fingers nervously as he keeps approaching the sounds, making an unconscious effort to step as lightly as possible like he was stepping on paper-thin ice.
He reaches the next corridor, the walls maintaining the same cool sleet material as the rest of the apartment. It almost feels like he's in a maze. He starts to take a short turn to the right, one hand trailing along the wall comfortingly.
"... Crowley, are you--"
He stops dead in his tracks with a gasp as he turns the corner and sees a figure hunched over a hell-red desk. They wear a black blazer overtop of a sleek blue dress shirt with a shocking red tie hanging untied around their neck
And the moment he notices the figure's wine-red strands of hair that fall into his ivory, angular face, he knows who it is.
Crowley's head snaps up, his golden, slit eyes blown wide with shock. He can barely manage to get an entire sentence out fast enough to match the pace of his reeling mind, like a film whirling off of its spool.
"What the hell are you--" Crowley yells, stumbling over his own words as he rises from the desk and takes several steps away from the angel, "Why are you here?!"
Aziraphale flinches in surprise at the volume of the demon's voice, taking a cautious step back himself and raising his hands in submission, "Sorry, sorry- I'm so sorry, I just-- I saw the door was open and--"
"---and you just let yourself in?" Crowley finishes his sentence in a scathing hiss, his chest rising and falling quickly as his breath comes with much difficulty. A growl rumbles through his throat as he seems to lose balance for a moment, but quickly catches himself with the desk again, "Why didn't you- why didn't you knock or -or announce yourself?!"
"I did!" Aziraphale quickly defends, watching the demon's eyebrows furrow in doubt, "I knocked at your door for several minutes, and--"
"Well, that gives you no right to just- to just come in here!" Crowley interrupts, pushing up from the desk in a rather dramatic fashion that makes him stagger back. He catches his balance and approaches the angel, lacking the usual swagger that accompanies every single step he takes.
"I thought that you might be in trouble, so I came in to make sure you were alright." Aziraphale insists with concern twisting in his voice, "I didn't mean to intrude- I just.. I was worried."
Crowley exhales forcefully as he nears Aziraphale and grabs him by the shoulder, turning him around forcefully toward where he came from. For a moment, Aziraphale can see a grimace cross the demon's face at the movement, something he hides with another snarl.
"I appreciate the sentiment," Crowley hisses the words almost breathlessly, using one hand to push the angel. He keeps his face down, hidden from Aziraphale's line of sight, "But now is not a good time."
"Wait-- but-" Aziraphale says as he struggles to turn back around with Crowley consistently pushing him. He manages to find stronger footing and push back against the demon, turning around to face his friend again, "Crowley, you seem unwell! Is everything alright?"
"Aziraphale, I assure you that I am perfectly--"
Crowley's words catch in the back of his throat as he takes a step and his trembling legs suddenly give out from underneath him.
"-God!" Aziraphale exclaims as he catches the demon before he collapses onto his knees, clutching his thin waist and wrist to keep him up. He can feel Crowley's body quivering like he had been out in the cold all night, but his skin is warm, even hot compared to the angel's, "Crowley--"
Crowley makes a sharp noise of pain as he pushes away from Aziraphale's hold, one arm wrapped tightly around his lower torso as he steps back and turns his face away with an ashamed scowl.
Silence lingers between the two, only broken by shallow breaths that seem to pain the demon with each exhale.
"... Are you going to tell me what happened?" Aziraphale says cautiously, breaking the thick silence. He hears a scoff come from the demon who still refuses to face him, his arms wrapped around himself tightly.
"Why would I do that?" He retorts, his signature sarcasm watered down with dull exhaustion.
"Because I'm asking," the angel insists, "And because I'm worried about you."
Crowley snickers, clutching his blazer around himself while he takes wobbly steps toward the other side of the room, "Are you now? I thought I was your hereditary enemy."
"Yes, well, you're that too.." Aziraphale says, pausing before hesitantly adding, "But more importantly, you're my friend."
Crowley stops in his tracks, his posture stiffening dramatically. Aziraphale takes a cautious step toward the turned demon, wincing empathetically as he notices the way Crowley's shoulders raise in pain with each breath.
"Listen, it's just.." Crowley starts before stopping himself, letting out a frustrated exhale, and continuing, "It's demon stuff. It's none of your concern. So, just leave and I'll--"
"Are you hurt?" Aziraphale interrupts.
Crowley presses his lips into a firm line and slowly turns, his serpentine eyes finally making contact with Aziraphale's, "I don't need your help, nor your pity, Angel."
"Are you hurt?" He repeats, taking another assertive step toward the trembling demon.
Crowley's jaw flexes at the question, infuriation flickering in his golden irises at the angel's determination.
"Yes, alright?" Crowley concedes in a low hiss, "Yes. Is that what you wanted to hear?"
Aziraphale's expression softens as grief tugs at his heart, his pale blonde eyebrows drawing up in the inner corners. Crowley's eyes immediately fall from Aziraphale's face, the corner of his mouth curling into a suppressed frown.
"I can handle myself," Crowley assures, readjusting his grip around his ribs with a slight wince. He starts to turn away, "Lock the door on your way out."
Aziraphale watches the demon turn as slowly as he can manage with short, shallow breaths.
"No."
Crowley stops, looking over his shoulder in confusion, ".. what?"
"No. I'm not leaving until you let me help you. How could you possibly expect me to leave you like this?" The angel says, "I care about you, Crowley. And I know that you trust me, however much you might deny it."
Crowley clenches his teeth together tightly, his thin fingers digging into the fabric of his blazer.
"So, please," Aziraphale pleas gently, approaching another few steps to close the distance between them, "let me try to help."
Crowley's eyes meet the angel's once more. He stares long and hard at his only friend in the universe, conflict shining in his irises like the shine of the apple he gave mortals all those centuries ago. Aziraphale raises his eyebrows expectantly, pulls out the chair at the desk, and lowers himself into it. He crosses one leg over the other and rests his hands on his lap.
Crowley lets out a long breath that twists into an annoyed growl as he runs a hand through his hair, pushing strands out of his face.
"For the love of..." He hisses under his breath, looking exasperatedly around the room, "Alright, fine. Whatever."
Aziraphale rises from his seat and approaches the demon, patiently folding his arms behind his back. Crowley meets his gaze, brow furrowed with annoyance as he eyes the angel's expectant expression.
"Well, let me take a look," Aziraphale says, gesturing to Crowley's shirt.
Crowley mutters a series of curse words as he dramatically pulls his tie free, crumples it into a ball, and drops it. His arms then go inwards to clutch the lapels of his black blazer but stop inches away as a shot of agony shoots through his ribs at the movement. Crowley lets out a tight grunt, freezing in place and shutting his eyes tightly while he waits for the pain to subside. Aziraphale can't help but wince, feeling the demon's pain as if it was his own.
".. here, may I?" Aziraphale offers gently, reaching slowly for the edges of Crowley's blazer. Crowley's eyes snap open, flickering with shame and a thin trace of tears that he forces back so it goes unnoticed. He huffs and lets his arms fall to his sides, averting his serpent eyes to the side.
Aziraphale takes his silence as a 'yes' and moves into the demon's space, immediately smelling a wash of the sharp cologne that Crowley's been wearing for the last 20 years. He carefully reaches out and begins to remove the suit jacket from his friend, going as slowly as possible to avoid hurting him any further. He manages to slip the fabric over his narrow shoulders and is forced to step closer so that he is mere inches away from Crowley in order to fully pull the blazer down. He manages to get the jacket free and lets it fall to the ground, retrieving his arms from around Crowley and stepping back to give him space.
Crowley's entire face burns with heat, making him hope that it wasn't visible in the slightest to the angel. Unfortunately, his skin is so pale that the blush is easily seen blooming into his face, mimicking the shade of withering cherry blossom petals. He distracts himself by reaching up to start to undo the buttons of his blue dress shirt but stops with a sharp inhale as his torso instantly objects to the motion. His lips curl back into a frustrated snarl at his inability to undress.
"Allow me," Aziraphale offers, reaching out for Crowley once more. He softly grips both of the demon's trembling hands and lowers them back to his sides, giving the demon a reassuring smile. Crowley does not return it, merely clenching his hands into fists and looking away. Aziraphale reclaims the space he gave Crowley, stepping so close that he can feel the feverish warmth radiating off of the other being. His hands delicately undo the first button and then two others, revealing the very top of Crowley's bare chest.
Aziraphale pauses as he accidentally brushes against Crowley's skin while he unbuttons another, blinking hard as the intimacy of this encounter starts to settle.
He's never even seen Crowley without a top on, let alone undressed him himself. All of a sudden, he can feel heat crawl into his own features so that he mirrors the demon's noticeable embarrassment. His own pulse starts to quicken in pace like a train picking up speed.
He can feel himself stepping through a barrier that has held between the two of them for countless millennia. And for a moment, he considers stopping.
What would Heaven say if they knew he was doing this? What would happen to him if they ever found out?
But the uncontrollable shaking of Crowley's entire body, the sound of his weak, fading breaths, and the faint feeling of his racing pulse assures Aziraphale that he is undoubtedly doing the right thing.
Aziraphale clears his throat and continues, unbuttoning the last few quickly. He carefully pulls the shirt away, making Crowley's entire bare torso visible to him.
And he doesn't even have the chance to feel embarrassed before he sees the true horror of what pains his dearest friend.
Deep bruises stipple Crowley's lower torso, following the curve of his ribs. His skin stretches across his angular features like parchment, revealing every edge of his bone structure. And Aziraphale can immediately tell that the demon has had ribs broken, judging by the 3 strange jutting points on his right side and another 4 on his left, as well as the deep purple of blood pooling under his skin. Looking at the structure of his ribs and torso as a whole, Aziraphale puts the pieces together that his friend has had ribs broken multiple times before that weren’t treated and did not heal right.
"... staring, Angel?" Crowley jokes weakly, laughing a little to himself. He is quickly reminded by a sudden pang in his left side not to laugh, lest he irritate his broken bones further.
"That's not funny," Aziraphale scolds, looking back up to his face with an expression of horror and suppressed wrath.
"It's a little funny.”
Aziraphale blows air through his nose disapprovingly before continuing, removing the shirt from around the demon and carefully sliding the sleeves off before letting the shirt join the pile of clothes behind. He steps back, lips pulled back into a thin line as he stares deeply into the demon's eyes.
".. is there anything else that hurts?" Aziraphale says, his voice so still with cold anger that it hardly sounds like him anymore.
Crowley's jaw flexes, but he does not answer. Aziraphale reads his silence with ease after thousands of years of interpreting it and circles around the demon, his eyes scanning the being's form for any sign of injury.
And he finds it.
Whip marks lace the demon's back in a criss-cross pattern. Some are shallower, only biting half an inch into his skin. Others, the ones that cross over the first, are so deep that Aziraphale loses track of their depth under pooling blood. Blood trails down Crowley's back, following the curve of his spine. Worse yet, Aziraphale can see puckered lines of light skin where past whip wounds have scarred over. Some are so light that they are barely visible. Some are so dark that they look like they had been caused in the last 6 months. His entire back is a canvas of anguish, both past and present. It almost resembles a very heavily used cutting board on its last legs, cut into so many times that the top layer of wood hardly exists anymore.
But more prominent than any scar on the demon's back are two dark clusters of red, raised skin on each of his shoulder blades. They almost look like the remains of a terrible burn, as if a hot iron had been pressed down onto his back.
Aziraphale pushes his tongue into his cheek as he circles back around to face Crowley.
Crowley doesn't meet his gaze, keeping his eyes locked on the ground as if it were the answer to the universe's most prominent problems.
"So," Aziraphale begins, "are you going to tell me who's done this?"
Crowley lets out a scoff, "Not a chance."
"Have they threatened you?" Aziraphale interrogates further, watching the demon's eyes finally return to his own.
"Constantly," Crowley says nonchalantly with a wave of his hand, "But that's not why I won't tell you. I don't want you doing anything stupid."
"I won't do anything. I promise, okay? I won't get involved at all." Aziraphale pleas in that tone that Crowley can never seem to say 'no' to.
Crowley runs his tongue over his teeth, staring long and hard in consideration at his old friend. He grimaces as another wave of pain greets him, nearly dragging a scream from him.
He just doesn't have the energy to fight about it. Not today. Not after days and days of torture, days and days of holding back screams and pleas for it to end.
".. let's just say that Hell has quite the reprimanding system," Crowley says lowly, unpleasantly reminded of Lord Beelzebub's stare on his face as they waited for him to break under the flog.
"Your head office did this?" Aziraphale parrots in disbelief, his eyes widening to take up most of his face.
"Don't look so surprised," Crowley winces as he leans against the desk once again, feeling his legs start to go numb from beneath him, "Hell is eternal punishment, remember? It's just what they do."
"I just.." Aziraphale pauses, considering the best way to phrase his sentence before continuing, "I guess I never thought that they would be punishing you."
Crowley swallows thickly at the hurt in Aziraphale's voice.
"But why? Just because you're a demon?" He questions further.
"No, because I am a terrible demon," Crowley says as he wobbles in place, taking slow breaths to try to keep back another rush of pain.
"What?" Aziraphale steps closer, hesitantly reaching for the demon's shoulder but deciding quickly against it, "But what about all your paperwork? I thought they believed you were doing everything you were told."
"They do," Crowley nods, "But every now and then, they'll find out about something.. less-than-evil I did."
"Like what?"
"Well, like.." Crowley's brow furrows as he reaches back into his profoundly long memory, "like when they found out I took the Laudanum so Elsbeth couldn't. Or when they figured out that I was the reason they lost their bet with Heaven about Job's love for God."
Aziraphale feels his nails bite into his palms as breath catches in the back of his throat. He swallows hard, feeling his anger reach his face as his nostrils flare.
They were torturing his best friend for being a good person.
They were torturing Crowley for being himself.
"How many times?" Aziraphale demands with rage twisting in his voice like a rabid dog behind bars, "How many times did this happen?"
”I don’t know.”
Aziraphale is now the one to look away, gritting his teeth as his heart sinks in his chest.
That response was worse than any response the Angel was expecting. Worse than any number.
Because this response means that it happened so many times and so frequently that Crowley has simply stopped counting. It has become as ordinary as a performance review.
”Did they do this to you because you saved me in that church last week?” The angel asks in the tone a child uses when they ask a question they already know the answer to, but hope that the answer they get will be different.
“No,” Crowley replies without a second of hesitation, the lie leaving his lips so casually that he nearly believes it himself. He had always been a good liar, even before he fell. He had no tells, no twitching of his eyes or crinkling of his smile.
Crowley knew it would break Aziraphale to know that he was the reason the demon was punished. And nothing hurt Crowley more than the way Aziraphale’s face twitches when he swallows a difficult emotion, or how his eyes seem to lose their shine when the words he wants to speak go unsaid, or the way he looks away when his emotions betray his face, a face that was supposed to remain utterly unbothered with angelic superiority.
So, Lord Beelzebub and all of Hell’s demons could tear Crowley apart if they wanted to because nothing in this universe could ever pain him more than seeing Aziraphale cry.
But Aziraphale is not stupid. It didn’t matter how good of a liar Crowley was, Aziraphale could feel the lie come from him.
He didn’t know how, and he didn’t care to question it.
He had been the reason Crowley was tortured, and perhaps this wasn’t the first time he was at fault for how the demon was treated.
And nothing in this universe, not even falling from Heaven, could hurt Aziraphale more than knowing that this was his fault.
”Ah,” Aziraphale says as he blinks away the burn of tears. He reflexively pulls his quivering bottom lip into a simple smile, “I see.”
It was Aziraphale’s fault that he ended up like this.
The least he could do was heal him.
Aziraphale pulls himself together and focuses back on his friend in need, pushing away the wave of troubled emotions that wash over him. He reaches behind himself and pulls the red velvet chair before Crowley, flipping it around so that the back faces the demon.
"There's nothing you can do," Crowley assures him as he takes the seat, sitting backward on the chair so that his bare back faces Aziraphale and his arms dangle over the backing of the seat, "It's all miracle-proof."
"The least I can do is try," Aziraphale says authoritatively as he steps away to take another chair in the corner of the room, dragging it over and setting it before Crowley. Crowley listens for the sound of the angel's every movement, his form trembling with each breath he takes. Aziraphale slips into the seat and pulls himself closer to Crowley so they are mere inches away from one another.
"May I?" Aziraphale asks him, his hands reaching out to hover over the demon's back. Crowley shudders at the warmth already radiating off of the other's palm, feeling the blush reach the very tops of his freckled shoulders.
"Knock yourself out," Crowley says, his calm tone a complete contrast to the terribly obvious blush that paints his paled, mottled face.
Aziraphale's hands close the distance, his pointer and middle finger landing softly at each side of one of the longest slashes. Crowley flinches, sharp consonants trapped in his throat as his skin blazes at the mere touch of the angel. He flinches harder than he'd ever admit to, but not because it was intensely painful.
It just.. was.
It was Aziraphale touching him in a way that he never had before.
It was being so vulnerable in front of the only friend he's ever kept.
"Let me know if you want me to stop," Aziraphale adds gently, watching Crowley give a short nod.
Aziraphale closes his eyes and reaches deep into himself, his digits tracing slowly along the length of the cut. He reaches into the profound, angelic part of who he is, feeling the warmth of the gifts that God had given him. He can feel a pleasant shiver run over his skin like the touch of warm rain, the same feeling that always accompanied his miracles. A soft breath swirls between his lips as he focuses on the injuries themselves.
And that warmth, that buzzing embrace of magic, is suddenly thwarted by a rush of cold dread radiating from the wounds.
Aziraphale inhales sharply at the change, his eyebrows furrowing as he struggles to keep his focus. It almost hurts to question the nature of the injuries as the emotions Crowley felt as he sustained them start to spill into Aziraphale's being. There is fear and dread and guilt and rage, but stronger than anything else is an overwhelming feeling of shame.
Aziraphale nearly pulls his hand away in shock but manages to steel himself with the reminder that Crowley needs him. He keeps his fingers against the demon's burning hot skin, focusing his attention back on the process of healing.
The skin starts to stitch back together as if Aziraphale was pulling a stitch and needle through the cut. His skin reconnects like clay finding clay, hiding away the demon’s innards. A long, light scar takes its place, adding to the collage of torment on his back.
Crowley lets out something that sounds awfully like a whimper as a sudden burn streaks across his back, feeling as if Aziraphale cauterized the wound. He flinches so hard that Aziraphale pulls away immediately.
"Sorry, I’m sorry,” Aziraphale apologizes profusely, touching the demon gently on the shoulder, “Did that hurt?”
"It's fine," Crowley says hoarsely, his shoulder blades rolling against his scarred skin as the burn ebbs like a retreating tide. A soft tingle replaces the pain as it goes, spreading down the length of the slash. His eyebrows narrow at the feeling of cool relief pouring down his back like cold water.
"... well?" Aziraphale asks, watching the demon's shoulders slightly lower, "Any better?"
"Yeah," Crowley says cautiously, discomforted by the peace he's been granted, ".. actually, yeah. It is."
Aziraphale smiles widely, giving the demon a reassuring pat before trailing his fingers down to the next whip mark that runs from the nape of his neck down to his waist. Crowley inhales sharply at the feeling of Aziraphale's nails tracing softly against his skin, feeling the blush reignite on his face. He bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, eyebrows furrowing with confusion as his pulse starts to skitter.
Aziraphale continues to do the same thing he did on the first injury to the next, sliding his digits lightly along either side. Crowley's back arches as the same searing pain blazes across his skin like a trail of gasoline. Aziraphale continues despite the motion of his patient, watching the demon's split skin sew back together at his command. Crowley lets out a sigh of relief, his breath coming to him easier as the constant, nagging agony lessens. He hesitantly allows himself to relax into the chair more, shaking as the tension drains from his limbs.
"These burns on your shoulder blades.." Aziraphale says as he runs a finger over one of them, "What are they from? They feel different."
"Oi, it's not a free-for-all all back there!" Crowley hisses, squirming uncomfortably at the angel's curious touch, "Just leave it alone."
"Maybe I could heal them--"
"I promise you that you can't," Crowley cuts him off, looking over his shoulder with a stern look.
Aziraphale redirects his healing touch back to the whip marks, eyebrows furrowing with confusion at the demon's reaction.
And not even a second later, his eyes light up with realization.
His shoulder blades. The curve of the burn.
"Your wings," Aziraphale exclaims, feeling the muscles in Crowley’s back stiffen under his palms as the words come from him, "The burns are from your fall."
Crowley's jaw flexes as his mind wanders to a memory he rarely revisits.
The fall was sudden like he had been shot from the sky. One moment, he was standing in front of Metatron, asking questions.
All he ever did was ask questions.
In the blink of an eye, the ground and walls vanished from around him.
He can still remember the feeling of utter panic and horror as he watched the universe fly past him. He remembers trying to beat his perfectly-white wings, trying to fly up and fight the downward pull.
But he couldn't.
His wings worked as hard as he could make them, but they couldn't overpower whatever cast him down.
And he can remember his entire being igniting into flame like a meteor. He can still feel the scathing burns that raced across his skin, he can still feel his throat choked with screams that never made it past his lips, and he can still see his own hands reaching upwards in desperate, clawing movements. He can remember how the pit of his stomach tightened and dropped as if Hell itself tied a string around his innards and pulled down to join him to it. He can still feel the blinding heat that spread as if he had tried to fly into a star moments away from becoming a supernova. A chill creeps across his entire body at the memory of a burn so hot that it’s almost cold.
And he burned all the way down. His very soul burned like a star at the end of its life.
But nothing burns better than feathers.
His wings.
His white, spotless wings.
They burned faster and brighter than the rest of him.
It felt like they were being ripped from his back as flame enveloped them. Feathers turned black with ash of their own making.
And he prayed for it to end, prayed for the universe to stop screaming past him, prayed for the unbelievable agony ravaging his slender body to cease.
He felt breath being sucked from his chest and pulled into the sky above. He felt himself moving so fast that the world around him seemed still. He felt that sinking feeling you get when you can sense an end coming with the knowledge that there’s no way to stop it.
And only then did he realize that he was falling.
"Like I've said a million times before," Crowley clears his throat, forcing his thoughts back to the present, "Heaven and Hell aren't that different."
Aziraphale can see the memory of a pain more profound than time itself cross the demon's face, making his heart heave with hurt. He can't even begin to imagine how much it hurts to fall from Heaven.
Then again, the angels who fall have always deserved it.
.. But that would include Crowley.
"Can I ask you something?" Aziraphale says as he refocuses on his work, working to close another whip wound.
"Mm?" Crowley says with a short breath in as another slash closes.
"Why did you fall?" Aziraphale asks as gently as he can, moving on to the next bleeding laceration.
"I asked God a question," Crowley responds simply. Aziraphale waits several long seconds of silence for the rest of the story, but it never comes.
".. that's it?" Aziraphale asks in blatant disbelief, "What did you ask?"
Crowley tilts his head up as he tries to recall his exact wording, "'What is the point of creating a beautiful, infinite universe just to destroy it in 6,000 years?'"
Aziraphale blinks hard, eyebrows furrowing at the demon's recollection.
That wasn't possible, was it?
God was forgiving, understanding, loving.
God would never cast out an angel for something so trivial.
All Crowley did was ask a simple question.
She could have done a million things.
She didn't need to destroy him.
...
But she did.
Here Crowley is, bearing scars that will never heal. Scars that will burn past the end of time.
.. he used to be so.. happy.
He used to be--
No.
He is so good. Naturally, effortlessly good.
".. I met you," Aziraphale says after a period of long silence, his fingers stilling against the demon's bloodied back, "back when you were an angel. I met you once."
"Did you?" Crowley asks, his face scrunching as he tries to recall meeting the angel all those millennia ago.
It wasn't easy to remember everything before the fall.
He can't even remember what his name used to be.
"I don't remember that, are you sure?" Crowley concludes, struggling to turn in his seat to face Aziraphale.
"Positive," Aziraphale nods with a saddened smile, "You were working on a nebula. You called it a 'star factory.'"
"Ah, yes," Crowley says, remembering floating amidst the void while working to breathe a new section of creation into existence, "I was cast out shortly after I created Alpha Centauri.. Are you sure you were there?"
"Yes. I was there. I helped you start the engine, or whatever," Aziraphale insists, his gaze wandering as far as his thoughts, "Your hair was more orange and curly back then. And you were.. happy."
Crowley's eyebrows furrow as he watches Aziraphale's smile widen at the memory.
"You were all excited about your nebula," Aziraphale continues, ".. and I can just remember thinking that you were beautiful."
Crowley's expression breaks as if he just saw God herself as the word 'beautiful' comes from the angel behind him.
Aziraphale clears his throat awkwardly and starts closing wounds again, a horrible blush burning up to the tips of his ears.
They continue on in silence. Aziraphale’s fingers glide across his skin in intricate motions as he seals wound after wound. Crowley shudders with each one closed before breathing out in much-needed relief. The healing no longer hurt, but instead burned pleasantly across his back before dissolving into warm pins and needles. He unknowingly melts back into Aziraphale as his eyes flutter shut and his head tilts up to the ceiling.
Aziraphale can’t help but chuckle quietly to himself as Crowley basically dissolves under his touch. He comes to realize that he’s been smiling widely for the past 10 minutes when his mouth starts to hurt. He immediately forces the grin away, blinking in confusion at the bright joy that bubbles in his chest as he gazes at Crowley's peace.
”.. thank you,” Crowley says quietly, eyebrows twitching downwards for a moment as the words come from between his parted lips.
”Oh, why yes, of course,” Aziraphale stammers a little, the burn of a blush flaring in his cheeks, “No.. no need to thank me.”
Silence lingers once more between them, dense with words that each of them wants to speak but can’t seem to find permission to.
The last whip lash closes behind the angel's fingers, replacing it with a thin, light line. Aziraphale leans back to admire his work, smiling to himself as his eyes scan the demon’s form.
"Alright, all done back here," Aziraphale declares as he reluctantly pulls his hand away from the demon's skin. Crowley stands with a grunt of effort, followed by the whisper of a whine as his ribs shoot with white-hot pain after not having moved for so long.
"Here, sit down," Aziraphale says, patting the seat, "facing me."
Crowley obeys, clutching the arms of the chair to lower himself into it. Aziraphale pulls his seat closer, sitting so close to his friend that his knee rests between the demon's legs. Crowley swallows tightly as Aziraphale's face lingers before his own, his friend's crystal-clear eyes scanning his face.
".. what are you.." Crowley trails off, sounding breathless as if he had just sprinted 10 miles.
"Let me do something about your ribs," Aziraphale offers, raising his hands to hover over the demon's sides as if waiting for permission.
"No, no, you've already done too much," Crowley denies, pulling away from Aziraphale's touch, "If Upstairs finds out you're doing too many miracles again--"
"They'll send me a strongly worded note," Aziraphale cuts him off, " They won't hurt me like Hell hurts you."
Crowley grinds his teeth together, already shivering at the thought of Aziraphale's hands on his torso.
They were getting into dangerous territory.
It was intimate- more intimate than either of them ever dared to be with one another.
But Crowley was in so much pain that each breath was becoming a battle he just wasn't winning anymore.
So, maybe.. just this once...
".. Alright," Crowley consents, leaning back toward Aziraphale until there are mere inches between them.
Aziraphale nods and gives him a warm smile before scooting even closer. He slowly presses his palms against the demon's sides, feeling his entire form tremor as soon as their skin makes contact. Aziraphale keeps his eyes locked on Crowley's, watching the demon's own squint in discomfort. He slows his own breathing as he applies more pressure against the broken bones, feeling them shift under the weight.
He pours everything he has into healing Crowley, feeling warm light exude from his palms and seep into Crowley's ivory skin. He can feel Crowley's ribs start to warp under his touch, slowly pulling back into their proper positioning. Something that sounds like a repressed whimper comes from deep within Crowley as he feels the bones snap back into place. It felt like the lead pipe was swinging repeatedly into his ribcage, breaking them over and over and over.
Before he knows it, he lurches forward and grabs Aziraphale's shoulders tightly to support himself.
"Aziraphale--" The angel's name comes from his mouth like a plea, his eyes squeezed shut so tightly that colours blossom underneath his eyelids.
"Bear with me, my dear," Aziraphale whispers back, his heart wrenching at the pain in the demon's strained voice, "Just a little longer."
Crowley yelps loudly as another rib snaps back into place, falling forward completely into Aziraphale so that his face is buried in the spot between the angel's neck and shoulder. Aziraphale goes completely still as he feels Crowley's haggard breaths against his neck, his heart starting to pound harder than it has in his entire existence. Crowley inhales sharply at another tug from deep within him, inhaling a whiff of Aziraphale's signature smells.
The angel smells of coffee and antiques and books.
The angel smells of comfort and trust and happiness.
Crowley can feel his head growing lighter and dizzier as if he had been deprived of air for days. He's never felt more vulnerable, less in control, and more afraid in his entire existence.
The only thing he can think of doing to make it better is to hold onto Aziraphale tighter.
And so he does.
His spindly fingers dig into the angel's cream-colored jacket and hold on like it's the last thing to keep him from falling again.
And he won't let go.
He won't.
Not for as long as Aziraphale will let him stay.
The pain fades as quickly as it had come, replaced with the same fuzzy feeling as his back. He takes another deep breath and breathes out in relief when the action doesn't make him nauseous with agony.
The golden light coming from Aziraphale's hands has ceased completely, and yet his palms remain glued to the demon's side.
The angel can barely breathe as he feels Crowley's heart racing against his own.
He can feel his wide eyes fill with a thin line of tears, and yet he does not blink them away.
They feel right.
They feel.. human.
Aziraphale's hands slowly trail up Crowley's sides, shaking with inexperience, fear, and desire all at once. Crowley sucks in a sharp breath at the angel's pleasant touch, his back arching ever slightly as Aziraphale's hands curl around his torso to slide up his back. Aziraphale's fingers can nearly count the vertebrae on the demon's spine as they explore further than they ever thought they would. He can hear Crowley hiss another breath as his hands brush over the burns from where his white wings turned charcoal black. His fingers study the curve of the burns, their texture, their depth, everything. And his hands rest there against his most traumatic scars.
Crowley doesn't dare lift his face.
Not while tears of desire are tracing the outline of his demonic, yellow eyes.
Not while Aziraphale could so clearly see how much the demon needs him.
Aziraphale lowers his face so that his lips brush against Crowley's ear.
His lips tremble with strange anxiety, as if afraid of the words he was about to speak were going to turn against them. As if afraid that the words he would speak were capable of destroying his world.
He shuts his eyes tightly and silences every thought of doubt that dares to make itself known.
Crowley needs to know.
"You're still just as beautiful as you were the day we first met."
Crowley stiffens in his arms, the sounds of his breathing silencing. Aziraphale can feel the demon's grip on him lessen.
And for a moment, Aziraphale thinks that Crowley will pull away and start screaming at him-- or worse, laughing.
But the demon merely wraps his arms shakily around the angel's neck, presses his face deeper into him...
and cries.
Thousands of years worth of torture, of trauma, of betrayal, of dread, of fear, of shame.
It all comes pouring out of him.
He had hidden it away for so long that he hadn't even realized it was there.
He never remembered how soul-crushing it was to fall. He never remembered how ashamed he was every time Beelzebub and their demons pulled him into a damp cellar and beat him bloody. He never realized how he would do anything to avoid looking at his scars in the mirror.
He didn't realize how much pain he was in until Aziraphale acknowledged it.
Worse yet, Aziraphale accepted his scars.
Called them beautiful.
And that,
that was too much for Crowley to bear.
And so he cries.
Silently at first.
But he loses quickly control of his vocal cords and starts to sob audibly into the angel.
And Aziraphale does not speak. He rubs soothing circles onto the demon's back, feeling the trickle of tears running down his own face as Crowley comes apart in his arms.
And he'll stay for as long as Crowley needs.
He'll never mention it again if that is what Crowley wants.
It doesn't matter how many times Hell hurts him, Aziraphale will be there to mend him, to tell him how beautiful he is and always has been.
It doesn't matter if Aziraphale is cast out of Heaven for helping the enemy.
He doesn't care if he falls.
Just as long as he doesn't fall away from Crowley.
Just as long as they are together.