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Aziraphale has been alive for over six thousand years. He’s seen a lot of things he'd rather forget, and learned to understand things that had once confounded him.
When Aziraphale first encountered a human harming themself, he was confused, and is ashamed to admit that he handled it rather poorly. How could pain possibly make things hurt less? The girl had listened to his scolding without a single word, eyes empty and dull, and killed herself a few months after. Only her mother mourned her.
Her mother, and Aziraphale, who had gone to Crowley in hysterics and spent the night crying into the very confused demon’s tunic.
“They already have such short lives! Why would they attempt to shorten them further? Oh Crowley, I don’t — is this my fault?”
“Nah, angel, I don’t think stuff like that can be one person’s fault. You probably could’ve handled it better, but it isn’t like you told her to kill herself— ngk, you didn’t, did you?”
“Of course not! I’m not— I wouldn’t—”
“Exactly, so it isn’t your fault. You can’t save everyone, angel, and not everyone wants to be saved.”
“But why?”
“...Don’t ask so many questions. You can get into trouble, and I don’t think… I honestly don’t think you want to know. Trust me, Aziraphale.”
“But you’re a demon.”
“...”
“I’m sorry, that was uncalled for. It’s just, I don’t understand why wanting to understand would be a bad thing.”
A sad smile. “I hope you never do, angel.”
Of all the terrible tragedies that Aziraphale has witnessed, that girl’s death still hits him the hardest, even over five millenia later. The girl’s empty eyes are so like his own these days that it scares him. He’s covered all his mirrors, afraid of seeing her gaze reflected in his own — afraid that he might follow her footsteps.
More than he already has, that is.
Aziraphale understands now that it isn’t always the pain. Sometimes it is — the humans have figured out that pain releases dopamine, which makes the brain feel ‘happy’. Sometimes, the pain is grounding. Sometimes, it helps Aziraphale focus.
Most times, Aziraphale cuts because he doesn’t like the pain.
It’s punishment.
He isn’t good enough, isn’t strong enough, isn’t kind enough, isn’t smart enough. He’s hurt so many people. It’s only fair that he hurts himself as well — a reminder that he will never be better than he is right now. That he will never be enough, no matter how hard he tries, and that he owes it to everyone around him to etch the pain he’s caused back into his own skin.
Scars litter his thighs and hips and forearms. The ones on his arms are the most satisfying — for some reason, they hurt better than the others. He doesn’t know how to explain it.
Thankfully, he doesn’t have to, because no one knows. Not even Crowley — Aziraphale had healed all the fresh cuts before the two of them swapped bodies, and Crowley never had reason to remove Aziraphale’s clothes during the execution, so Aziraphale’s secret remained just that — a secret.
After the apocalypse that wasn't, Aziraphale managed to stop self harming for over two years (he relapsed quite a few times at the beginning of his recovery). He'd been proud of himself.
He'd thought that he'd beaten it.
But life isn't that simple, and everything went to shit. Gabriel arrived, and Metatron offered Aziraphale a chance to make a difference (to do something good for once in his miserable existence), and he'd accepted with nary a second thought.
In doing so, Aziraphale lost his best friend.
He returned to Heaven and held out for three whole days before relapsing, the miracled box cutter slicing at his corporation's skin and spilling its scarlet blood all across Aziraphale's prim white suit.
He miracled away the stain.
(It was still there, and Aziraphale knew it. The knowledge brought him a sense of sick satisfaction. Good. He deserved to suffer, and there wasn't a person alive who could possibly disagree with him about that.)
Surely Aziraphale's relapse would just be a one time thing. After all, Heaven can't have a Supreme Archangel who's at risk of bleeding themself dry at any given moment.
Aziraphale traced his fingers over the welts on his thighs, all in different stages of healing. He’d been cutting multiple times a day. Guilt pooled in his stomach like led — he had been getting better. He was supposed to be better.
Yet, never before had he been unable to go more than twenty four hours with cutting, and there he was.
What was wrong with him?
The following few years passed in a blur of pain, misery, and divine politics. Then the world nearly ended again. It didn’t though, and Crowley was back in Aziraphale’s life again.
The second coming was foiled and Aziraphale had made up with Crowley. Things should’ve gotten better after that, right?
They didn’t.
This time, Aziraphale finds it very difficult to hide his habit from Crowley — the two have moved in together, after all, and it’s much harder to hide these things from someone whom you sleep in the same bed with at night.
It’s only a matter of time before Crowley figures it out.
It starts like any other day. Aziraphale wakes up curled next to Crowley — he’d never slept so much before, but he enjoys the intimacy of doing so with Crowley. He blinks sleepily into the soft fabric of his demon’s shirt.
“Good morning, angel,” Crowley murmurs, yawning loudly and pulling away, stretching out his long limbs and cracking his back. He smiles fondly at Aziraphale, and Aziraphale smiles back at him.
“Good morning, dear. Did you sleep well?”
Crowley shrugs, yawning again “Meh. Nightmares, you know? It helps that you’re here with me, though. This way I know that you’re not actually dead, and don’t have to worry about it being a prophetic dream or something.”
Heart sinking, Aziraphale gently envelopes Crowley in a hug. "I'm alright, dear boy," Aziraphale murmurs, barely able to get the words out past the lump in his throat.
"I know," says Crowley, sighing. "S'just, asleep me doesn't always know that."
Aziraphale nods, but the guilt is rapidly building, squeezing around his lungs like rope and making his fingers itch for something sharp.
There's a scalpel in the first aid kit in the bathroom. It hadn't come with the first aid kit of course, but it looks enough like it belongs there that no one has ever questioned its presence, thankfully.
Unthankfully?
Aziraphale doesn't know what to feel anymore.
Sighing, Crowley slips out of bed. “Right. I’m going to get some coffee — and check up on Nina, while I’m at it. She seemed upset last time we talked.”
Aziraphale smiles. “How nice of you,” he teases, anxiously tapping his fingers against the bed (under the covers, of course, so that Crowley doesn’t see the nervous habit). He can hear his heart pounding in his ears. Now that the thought has arisen, it’s all Aziraphale can think about.
“Shut up,” Crowley groans, slipping on his sunglasses. “Love you, angel. I’ll be back in a bit.”
“I love you too, dear boy. Please be safe.”
…Aziraphale might be a bit of a hypocrite, which is funny, since Aziraphale hates hypocrites. It makes sense then that he should hate himself as well.
The bell over the shop door jingles as Crowley exits.
Aziraphale waits all of three seconds, frozen in place, before leaping from the bed and rushing to the bathroom. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He shouldn’t be doing this.
The scalpel is where it always is, and Aziraphale removes it with trembling fingers, snapping off his trousers and pulling up the fabric of his pants to better get at his thighs.
One, two, three, four…
Aziraphale loses track of how many cuts he adds, but by the time he’s done his thighs have been thoroughly reinjured. The scalpel gets placed back in the first aid kit. He sighs heavily, then cleans the cuts and bandages them, careful not to get any blood on his trousers when he pulls them back up.
It’s routine at this point.
He washes his hands, flushes the bloodied tissues down the toilet, and exits the bathroom.
Crowley is sitting at the kitchen table, and Aziraphale jumps, schooling his expression from alarmed to neutral.
He does his best to smile. “Hello, dear. Back so soon?”
Crowley frowns, tilting his head. “Yeah. Forgot it was a holiday — Nina’s got the shop closed, so I miracled us some coffee instead. Er, well — I miracled myself coffee, but I figured you’d probably want hot chocolate, so I miracled you th—” Crowley freezes, his expression shifting from one of confusion to concern, and he stands from his chair and walks the few steps over to Aziraphale.
Removing his sunglasses and setting them on the counter, Crowley looks at Aziraphale with concerned golden eyes. “Aziraphale, what’s that on your shirt sleeve?” His voice is calm, but there’s a undertone of fear that Aziraphale unfortunately doesn’t miss.
Nervously, Aziraphale examines the sleeve Crowley is pointing to.
There’s multiple red lines, obviously blood, far too straight, neat, and defined to be brushed off as the result of an accident.
His stomach drops. Shit, shit, shit. How did that happen? He hadn’t cut his arms this time, and he would’ve felt it if any of his previous cuts had reopened.
Fuck, he must’ve rested his arm on his thigh when he went to put the scalpel back.
“Nothing,” Aziraphale says, not meeting Crowley’s eyes. He ducks past the baffled demon and examines the cups on the table. “Which one of these is hot chocolate?” They both have lids on them, and Aziraphale doesn’t want to accidentally take a sip of Crowley’s coffee. Six shots of espresso indeed.
Crowley narrows his eyes and points to the cup on the left. “Were you cutting?” he asks. “Because I’ve been around for a long time, Aziraphale, and that’s what it looks like from where I’m standing.” His worried eyes, wide and slightly watery, betray his scathing tone.
“I— I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale says, but his voice cracks, and he immediately averts his eyes. “I’m fine.”
Crowley scowls. “If you’re hurting yourself, then you’re most certainly not fine. How long has this been going on?”
“It’s none of your concern,” Aziraphale replies, giving up on trying to play dumb. It clearly wasn’t working. His heart is beating rapidly in his chest, and he does his best to keep his hands from shaking so as not to drop his cup.
“None of my— angel, you’re my partner! It most certainly is my business, because I care about you, and because you don’t deserve any of — any of that! No one does. Someone, angel. Please tell me you at least cleaned them?”
Aziraphale grits his teeth. “I cleaned them,” he says carefully, trying not to let show how much Crowley’s words affected him.
“Good. That’s — that’s good.” Crowley exhales slowly, running his fingers through his hair. “Aziraphale, how long has this been going on? Please tell me. Not if — you don’t have to if it’s going to be triggering, but I…”
Aziraphale sets down his cup on the table and sinks into one of the chairs, gazing at the smooth wooden surface of the table. If one looks closely, they can see a burn mark where Crowley had knocked over a candle while drunk — but that’d been over two hundred years ago. It’s dark, shaped like a frame, a slightly lighter brown around the edges. “The Flood,” he answers quietly.
Inhaling sharply, Crowley nods. “Okay, that’s… okay.” This time it’s the demon’s voice who cracks, which only makes Aziraphale feel guiltier.
Aziraphale stands up. “I think I’m going to go lie down for a bit.
“Alright,” Crowley says, but he follows close behind as the angel walks back to the bedroom. “We— we can talk about this later. It’s completely fine if you, if you need a moment.”
Pausing, Aziraphale pulls a face and crosses his arms, hugging himself. “There isn’t anything to talk about.”
“Excuse you?” Crowley exclaims.
In a poor attempt at a joke, Aziraphale says, “You’re excused.”
“What do you mean there isn’t anything to talk about?” demands Crowley, gesturing wildly. “You need a— a therapist, or something. We can get them to sign an NDA? And I need to know if there’s anything I can do to help, because this isn’t healthy.”
“But I don’t need your help, Crowley!” Aziraphale protests, wringing his hands. His breaths are heavy, and he’s fighting back tears, tilting his head so it’s harder for Crowley to see his face. “I can handle it perfectly fine by myse—”
Crowley shakes his head. “Angel. Angel, this isn’t handling it.”
“But it is! I put antibiotic on them, so there’s no worry that they’ll get infected,” Aziraphale attempts to explain, his words coming out faster and faster. “If— if I were to cut too deep, I could always just miracle it closed, so— so there’s really no need to worry, you see!”
Eyes completely yellow, Crowley gazes at Aziraphale with a look of such distress that Aziraphale can’t hold back his tears anymore.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, burying his face in his hands and sinking into the couch. He can’t breath. Oh Lord oh Lord oh Lord—
There’s two strong hands on his shoulders, firm and grounding, but Aziraphale is unable to lean into the touch. He can’t move, even though he desperately wants to. The words won’t come either, and he doesn’t know how else he’s supposed to communicate to Crowley that he wants a hug.
“Aziraphale. Hey, hey, Aziraphale, you’re alright, okay? Everything’s fine. You’re fine; we’re fine. Deep breaths, okay? In and out— you can do it, just copy me. In and out, that’s it, in and out. You’re doing great.”
“Crowley,” Azirpahale rasps.
Stiffening, Crowley pulls Aziraphale into a hug, rubbing comforting circles on the angel’s back as he cries. Aziraphale melts into the touch. “Crowley,” he rasps again, saying Crowley’s name like a prayer. “Crowley, Crowley, Crowley.”
“I’m here, angel,” Crowley says in a choked voice. “I’m here. Not going anywhere ever again, okay?”
“Please don’t— please don’t leave me. I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry—” Aziraphale isn’t completely certain of what he’s saying anymore. It’s like a dam has broke, and now he can’t stop speaking. He doesn’t want Crowley to leave though, and he’s still terrified that when he opens his eyes Crowley will be gone, so he keeps his eyes shut tight and grips Crowley’s jacket like a lifeline. “Don’t go, don’t go! Please, I’ll never do it again, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
“Ngk,” Crowley chokes out. “That’s — that would be great, but I don’t think addictions work like that? I’m not leaving, okay? No matter what. Shit— Aziraphale, breathe! You’re going to make yourself sick!’
Aziraphale gasps, his lungs straining, pulling in air that isn’t enough isn’t enough isn’t enough oh God he’s dying he’s dying he’s going to discorporate and—
There’s an icy cold pad on his forehead. It’s being held there by Crowley’s hand, firm and shaky.
“C– Crowley?” he asks after a second, once he finally gets his voice back. It hurts. His words are fragile and tentative and so, so broken.
Crowley exhales, sounding relieved. “Thank Somebody,” he says under his breath.
With a teary sniffle, Aziraphale opens his eyes and pulls back just a tad, confused and disoriented. He meets Crowley’s gaze and flinches.
The demon’s eyes are wide and terrified. He looks just about as shaken as Aziraphale feels, and Aziraphale is hit with a wave of guilt so intense that he finds himself wishing he had walked into hellfire after all. “I’m sorry,” he croaks out again. “Crowley, I’m—”
“Stop,” Crowley says. “Don’t get yourself worked up again.” He hesitates, then adds, “Please. Aziraphale, just let me help you. This isn’t — you can’t honestly think this is okay.”
Aziraphale purses his lips and averts his eyes. “I’m not,” he whispers, gets choked up, and takes a deep breath. Then he tries again. “I’m not hurting anyone, though.”
“Do you not count?”
When Aziraphale doesn’t answer, Crowley growls. There’s something fierce in his voice as he repeats, “Do you not count as ‘anyone’, Aziraphale? Because linguistically speaking — I know how you love your linguistics — you are most certainly included in ‘anyone’. That’s like, that’s like the whole blessed definition, isn’t it?”
“It isn’t the same and you know it.”
Crowley scowls. “I do? Tell me, Aziraphale, why is your life worth less than anyone else’s?”
“For Goodness’ sake, Crowley, I’m not suicidal,” Aziraphale says, clenching his jaw and tightening his fists. “It isn’t that serious.”
There’s a long, long silence. Crowley isn’t saying anything. Why isn’t Crowley saying anything? Eventually the silence gets to be too much, and swallowing harshly — his throat is very dry all of a sudden — Aziraphale anxiously lifts his gaze.
Crowley is staring at him with a look of abject horror.
Fuck.
“Crowley…” Aziraphale whispers, but finds himself unsure of how to continue. He should’ve known better than to lie to Crowley’s face, especially about something like this. The gig is up now. “Crowley, I—”
Crowley launches himself forward and wraps himself around Aziraphale with the same flexibility and disregard of physics that snakes are known to exhibit, despite very much remaining in human form. “Fuck, Aziraphale,” he mumbles into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, wet tears smearing against Aziraphale’s skin. “Don’t you dare leave me, don’t you fucking dare. I’ve lost you twice now. I’ll be fucking blessed if I lose you again, do you hear me?”
“I’m not going to kill myself,” Aziraphale says, and surprises even himself with how empty his words sound.
Like a human child trying to convince their parents that they absolutely aren’t planning on throwing a party and getting half their high school drunk when finally left alone over the weekend.
Crowley’s grip tightens around Aziraphale, who finds himself obliged to amend his statement. “I mean… I can’t say I haven’t considered it, but I’m not — I don’t have a plan, or anything of the sorts. I swear it, Crowley, I’m not planning anything.”
This time, the words ring true.
“If you ever, ever think about— about offing yourself,” Crowley says, “please come and get me. Promise me, Aziraphale. Promise me that if you ever think about doing it, you’ll come and get me, no matter the time or what’s going on. I don’t care if we’re in the presence of the fucking Metatron himself, pull me aside and I’ll get us out of there. Please, Aziraphale. I don’t — I don’t want to lose you.”
Aziraphale swallows, mouth dry. He closes his eyes, braces himself, and says, “I promise.”
It’s a promise he won’t allow himself to break.