Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was a penance of sorts. 

A physical reminder of the path he’d chosen. Didn’t hurt much anymore. At least not if he could keep his mind occupied and his glass filled with any libation readily at hand. But the marks, starting on Crowley’s neck and extending down to graze his hips, were cruel markers; flaming red and inky black raking grotesquely across his back. One for each time he’d saved the Angel. His Angel. 

The first time he’d done it, Crowley believed no one had been any the wiser. It wasn’t so much saving Aziraphale as it was conveniently waving his hand and pushing the sword singing through the air off by a couple of inches. The Angel parried the now glancing blow and was able to disarm the much larger and imposing fighter. Over and done with in a matter of seconds. Crowley hardly believed Aziraphale knew what he’d done; he’d kept himself to the shadows and out of Aziraphale’s eye line. It was more instinct than an act of good intention—saving an Angel, even negligibly, should have gone against everything within him. Every dark, deep, ravaged part of his soul. 

But it didn’t. 

He watched as the Angel moved off towards the castle gates, blending in with the other knights, no worse for wear. 

Hardly even call it saving, Crowley justified internally. More like a happy accident. Discorporation was just so inconvenient, wasn’t it? The sword, hardly magical or cursed, would have done significant damage to Aziraphale’s physical form, but he would have been back in days, weeks at most. However long it would have taken Heaven to get him a new body. It was a hazard of the job, he once told Crowley. Discorporation. But Crowley didn’t feel like moping around Earth all alone for the time it would take the Angel to pop back up. Purely selfish the action was, as it turned out. For his own benefit. To meet his own needs. Barely a good deed at all. 

Crowley, tearing his eyes away from the glow surrounding his Angel’s head and steadfastly ignoring the way it lit something deep within him because that was not even a distinct possibility thank you very much, turned to slink back into the trees he’d come from. He could pick his way around the heat of the battle and retake his place, no one would even know he’d been there.

But when was anything ever that easy?

Not a handful of steps later and Crowley gasped, stumbling hard against a tree. It was as if lightning itself had erupted from above and below him, meeting at the center of his back and exploding outwards. He bit down fiercely on his tongue to halt the scream threatening to erupt from his throat. What in Hell’s name was happening? Another lancing bolt of agony sent him to his knees. Ice and fire and stinging acid and sharp pricks, drowning him, tearing at him. It was an entirely different sort of pain than any Crowley had ever before experienced. This time with an audible cry, the Demon collapsed the rest of the way to the earth, his face landing hard in the dirt. Wave after wave of the sickening fury washed over him, never giving him a moment’s peace. Crowley shut his eyes and wished for death. Heaven or Hell sent, it didn’t matter; he just knew the pain had the distinct metallic tang of otherworldly power. It ripped down to the very core of his essence, peeling away and digging in and scorching every atom inside of him. 

And then, just as suddenly as it came on, the pain was gone. 

It centralized and concentrated along Crowley’s back with a burning ache before it vanished. 

For several moments, all he could do was lay there. 

Fucking Hell, Crowley thought, breathing harshly. That was new. 

He swallowed down the bile in his throat, pressing his forehead into the dirt beneath him to ground himself. Maneuvering his arm behind him, Crowley gingerly probed where the pain had been. Even at the lightest touch, fresh tears pricked his eyes. Damn. Though he couldn’t see it, he could feel the jagged, raised line on his skin; a mark of some sort that began on his right hip and disappeared up beneath his armor.

Guess that wasn’t so simple after all.

Whatever that was.

Crowley swallowed thickly. Get up, his mind chastised him. Get up, get safe, get away. Gritting his teeth, he planted his hands beneath his shoulders and pressed up. The pain was deep, slicing anew through his right side. 

“Fuuuuck!"

With a strangled, helpless sob, Crowley collapsed back onto the ground, his chest heaving. He wouldn’t be moving anytime soon. There was no familiar tingle of power at the edges of his consciousness, no surging beneath his skin. He had no reserves to draw from, no convenient miracle to brandish. It was…discomforting. Feeling this vulnerable. It was as worrisome as the unknown source of the attack. He was without powers, without backup, and without a plan.

For the briefest of moments, Crowley wondered if Aziraphale was close enough by to help him. At the very least miracle them somewhere where he could properly lie down and not be facedown in the mud. But he dismissed the thought just as quickly.

Crowley could never let Aziraphale know what had happened. Not the minor saving, and most definitely not whatever the fuck this was on his skin. It was undeniable to the Demon that the two events were linked; one causing the other, a punishment, a brand, a physical toll to pay.

The Angel would never find out. Crowley knew that Aziraphale would undoubtedly protest quite maddeningly and self-righteously against harming another to save himself. In a fleeting moment of panic, Crowley feared that, should the roles be reversed, Aziraphale may even be on the receiving end of his own malicious…branding.

The thought made Crowley shiver. That was just not something he could live with. 

In one of his least favorite centuries, slick with mud and feeling much like he’d been unceremoniously skewered, Crowley found the briefest flicker of energy needed to get to his feet. The effort made him dizzy, his back screaming its protest. Eventually, haltingly, he made his way back to his campsite. 

It was more than two weeks before he could move again without it feeling like his entire right side was aflame. Every step was torture, every breath another twisting of a knife. It was another month before he risked using any ounce of his demonic power, and still it had him weak at the knees and lightheaded from exertion. 

The jagged scar, red as vengeance and black as scorn, did not fade.

It raised up from his skin from hip bone to neck, a raw and revolting reminder.

It was the only mark Crowley couldn’t miracle away. 

Chapter Text

It all became quite routine. The years passed, and he and Aziraphale continued to cross paths, darkness and light ever at odds. But the hatred and the betrayals and the enemy talk seemed thin to the two of them. They began to realize they could operate slightly outside of the normal modus operandi of old. And so the pure light and pure dark began to shift and lean towards shades of gray. 

But the punishment, if that’s what it was to be called, never changed. 

Scars, old and new, lay side by side across Crowley’s back, a demented and sick patchwork proof of his deceit. Someone, or something, knew when the universe was pulled away from its typical trajectory; when Crowley decided to take fate into his own hands and ignore the demonic whispers in his mind and save his friend. Because that’s what the two of them had become. In secret, over thousands of years, in times of trouble and times of peace, they’d become close. It was as natural as the sun rising every day, the waves ever lapping on the shore, the change of seasons. An unconscious pull towards one another, the two unlikeliest of companions. That’s just what happened when you saw the same person over and over again for that long. It became familiar.

A miracling of a cursed blade, healing of severe wounds, distracting meddlesome demons, flying in to even the odds when the Angel was outnumbered. The list went on and on, ever Crowley saving Aziraphale. And with each one, each yank bank from the brink, each thwarting of fate, another mark was laid upon Crowley’s skin. The pain became an expectation. It never got any easier to bear. 

Disappearing for weeks at a time was a far simpler venture when he and Aziraphale were passing one another by infrequently. Rudimentary communication devices, the drudgery of simple technology afforded Crowley privacy. But lately, they’d become more and more entwined in each other’s lives. As if the orbits they inhabited had started out quite far apart, until, quite by accident (or by ineffable design), they had begun to intertwine. After the Armageddon that wasn’t, it became harder to make excuses, to cut and run, to disappear to his flat and ride out the familiar pain. 

Sooner or later Aziraphale would catch on. 

What was he supposed to say when he did? Crowley had no answers, was no closer to understanding the brands upon his back as he was on that very first day. And he wouldn’t let their discovery stop him from any help he might supply the Angel with. Because he did really enjoy saving him, much as Crowley liked to pretend he didn’t. Saving his Angel was worth what he’d received ten times over. He didn’t dare to stop; he knew he never would. 

Pensively, Crowley looked over his shoulder and into the mirror. His snake-like eyes narrowed, trailing the marks. He really had lost count. And he hated them. They were ugly things, serpentine and severe, marring the skin on either side of his spine. Almost wing-like in their shape. The thought made Crowley’s throat tighten. 

He’d been hiding these scars for six hundred years now. They made him feel stained, impure. If they were Hell-sent, they were just another token of his demonic ways, a flashing sign of his sins, the ugliness outside matching the ugliness within. If they were Heaven-sent…then he didn’t know. Some sort of punishment for meddling in affairs larger than himself? Saving an Angel, his Angel, should elicit no ill will from above. But Crowley had known Heaven to be anything but good. 

With a final look at the grotesque lines, Crowley swallowed down his self-loathing and tossed on his customary turtleneck. Once he had gotten rid of his long hair several years back, he favored clothing items, naturally all black in color, that conveniently hid his scars. The high collar of this shirt covered the cruel marks that crawled wickedly up his neck.

One final satisfied but abhorrent look in the mirror and then Crowley spun on his heel.

He should have known the proverbial clock was ticking. And that the damn proverbial clock would implode when it was least convenient for him.  

The day started out gray, the same gray that it had been every morning for a month. Cold and gloomy and damp. Crowley, though hating every bit of the wintry weather, begrudgingly accepted it as the sort of weather that allowed him to hide all manner of sins. Especially those that raked across his back. 

They’d met at the park, as they’d done hundreds of times before. No glances over shoulders, no suspicions. Their guards were down. Ducks fed, the pair ambled back towards the bookshop. As they’d done time and time again. 

Crowley was only half-listening to Aziraphale’s explanation of how he got his hands on yet another incredibly old and incredibly rare book, much too absorbed in watching his Angel’s face shine with enthusiasm, when he felt a shift, like a tickling of air across his face. It was the sort of slowing down of time, when your breath sounds too loud and your heartbeat thumps in your ears. They were on the sidewalk, not fifteen meters from the bookshop. Crowley turned his head, frowning at the sudden unease. 

But he was just a fraction too late. 

He belatedly recognized the screeching of tires, the ripping of metal, and knew there was no easy way out of this one. The flipped car was skidding their way, it’d be on them in no more than five seconds.

Crowley only needed three. 

Instinct taking over, he shoved Aziraphale as far out of the way of the car wreck as he could. Crowley barely heard the Angel gasp in surprise and spared him only a glance to ensure he was out of harm's way, before he felt the car smash into his left side. It was a glancing blow, thank whomever you like. Another step or two back and Crowley definitely wouldn’t be walking easily away from it. As it was, the demon was lifted up and over the hood, smashing loudly into the windshield, before he tumbled off and landed on the pavement. 

Horns honked and people shouted but Crowley heard none of it. There was a faint ringing in his ears and all he could focus on was the smashed pair of his glasses lying a foot away from his face. He hadn’t broken a pair in over a week, a personal best. Hands were on him then, and he knew without looking that it was Aziraphale. 

“M’ glasses,” he mumbled. 

Crowley slowly began to realize that the pavement beneath him was quite uncomfortable and there was a dull throbbing from his back and left leg. The pain drenched him like an upturned bucket of water, completely absent and then suddenly unable to be ignored. He screwed his eyes shut. 

“Crowley? Crowley! My dear boy.”

He was turned onto his side gingerly and then pulled into a seated position. Furrowed brow and concerned mercurial eyes met his unfocused yellow ones. Ah, his Angel. There he was. Safe and sound. 

“Angel,” Crowley forced out, trying for a relaxed smirk. It came out more as a grimace. 

“Let’s get you to the shop, there’s quite a crowd forming. Can you stand?”

Crowley felt Aziraphale’s steadying grip on his elbow, urging him to stand. 

“Course. M’ fine.” 

Gritting his teeth, the Demon rose up to his feet. But he wasn’t there for long. Pain exploded down his left leg, hurtling towards his ankle then back up again in nauseating waves. The shock of it had his knees buckling beneath him, but the Angel’s strong hands kept him upright. 

“I’ve got you, Crowley. I’ve got you.”

Slowly, the pair made their way to the bookshop, with the Angel bearing more and more of the Demon’s weight as they went. When they’d made it inside the threshold, Crowley opened his eyes. He groaned as Aziraphale navigated them down the short steps. Just his luck—by his quick estimate he’d broken some ribs and had at least four fractures in his leg when the day had been going so well. Damn drivers and their human fallibility. He wouldn’t have needed to save anyone if they all just paid attention-

Save. 

Save. 

It took Crowley a moment too long in his current state before he remembered what was about to happen. What had happened for centuries after he’d done something just like this before. It was a sudden floodlight cutting through his mental fog. Panic gripped him fiercely and pushed all pains and aches from his mind. 

The one thing Crowley knew for certain was that he had to get away, far away. He couldn’t let Aziraphale see him in the state he was about to be in…

“Let me go, Angel!” Crowley growled, trying to pry himself free from Aziraphale’s fierce grip. 

Giving his friend a worried look, the Angel shook his head incredulously. 

“I will not! You’re hardly on your own two feet, Crowley. We’re almost to the back room, and-”

“I said get off!” 

With a strong tug, the Demon pulled himself out of Aziraphale’s hands. The agony from putting weight on his left leg was excruciating, but he had to get out of there. No telling when the pain would be coming, and he couldn’t let the Angel know. A bone-deep weariness tugged at his limbs and all Crowley wanted to do was collapse right there in the bookshop. But his fear kept him focused.

“Leave me be, Angel. I’ll be on my way,” he ground out. Crowley tried to take a step but listed sideways heavily into a bookshelf. The gasp of pain that filled the ensuing silence didn’t help his case. 

“I see.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, his gaze managing to strike the perfect, bastardly balance of concern and accusation. 

Before Crowley could reply with just the right amount of vindictive sarcasm, the familiar burning sensation began to blossom on his back. He arched quickly away from the shelf with a gasp.

“Crowley?” The crossly amused sound to the Angel’s voice immediately melted into worry. “Crowley, what’s wrong?”

Gentle hands were once again on his arms, his shoulders, the side of his face. Blinding pain lanced from his hip to his neck and Crowley fought the tears that threatened to spill. He gazed helplessly up at Aziraphale before his legs once again collapsed beneath him. 

This couldn’t be happening. Not after so many years, not after hiding this for so long.  

As it always did, the agony stole all words and thought from Crowley. He could only ride the onslaught of pain, icy cold and then hellishly hot, burning and sharp and all-consuming. There was a part of him that was vaguely aware of the Angel calling his name over and over again. 

Crowley clutched blindly at his back. Gentle hands followed his, and Aziraphale’s touch against the raw scar tore a strangled cry from the Demon’s lips. 

“Crowley? Crowley! Please, please tell me what it is so I can help you!”

The naked fear lacing his Angel’s voice focused Crowley’s attention. He blinked sluggishly up at Aziraphale, realizing in that moment that they both were lying on the floor, his head in the Angel’s lap. He wasn’t sure when they’d gotten there. Swallowing thickly, Crowley focused on the nebulous depths of Aziraphale’s eyes. 

“It’sss m-my b-back. Hurtssss.”

Aziraphale inhaled sharply and nodded. The Angel gently shifted Crowley, pulling him towards his chest and turning him onto his side so that he could see the Demon’s back. 

“I need to look, my dear. It’s alright, shh, it’s alright…” 

He continued to softly reassure Crowley as he pulled at the hem of his friend’s shirt. Warm fingertips brushed the sensitive skin near Crowley’s spine and alarm bells sounded in his mind. His eyes flew wide and he tried weakly to push away Aziraphale’s hand. With tears once more glistening around the edges of his gaze, Crowley felt helpless knowing the Angel was about to see his back. Ugly and ruined, stained by streaks of blood and shadow that revealed the darkness swirling within him, the stoked embers of the fallen’s mark. His grip felt weak against Aziraphale’s wrist, but the Angel still paused. Crowley choked on another assault of pain as it reverberated up and down his spine. He wanted to tell him not to look, he wanted to tell him to leave him be, he wanted to protect the tenuous coexistence and warm reliance they’d shared for the last several years.

This, this revelation, would shatter it. Destroy it. Wouldn’t it? Crowley pressed his forehead into Aziraphale’s shoulder and fisted his hands into the worn jacket. 

“D-d-don’t, Angel. D-don’t.”

The pleading made his voice small and desperate. Crowley felt Aziraphale’s hand come to rest on the side of his head, holding him close. They both were trembling. Crowley tried to focus on the familiar smell of the Angel’s clothes, the hints of ink and parchment, tea and home. He shut his eyes and nuzzled against his friend’s chest. It made him warm. Took his mind away from his pain.  

“Let me help you, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered urgently, his words betraying the tears that splashed his cheeks. 

When the Demon finally let go of his wrist, Aziraphale moved as quickly as he could. He expected shards of glass, broken ribs, mottled bruises, some sort of physical injury from Crowley’s earlier run in with the windshield. It had to be brutal considering the amount of discomfort he was in. 

But instead, as he raised his friend’s shirt, Aziraphale froze, not understanding what he saw. 

“Oh. Oh, my dear. What in the Almighty’s name has happened to you?”

Crowley pushed up from where his head lay to look at Aziraphale. He watched as his friend’s face morphed, shifting between emotions too quickly for him to catch. Hesitant, gentle fingers traced the marks, from his waist to the bottom of Crowley’s shoulder blades. The Angel’s voice was low, but it shook with thunder. 

“Who did this to you?”

Chapter Text

Hesitant, gentle fingers traced the marks, from his waist to Crowley’s shoulder blades. The Angel’s voice was low, but it shook with thunder. 

“Who did this to you?” 

The anger in his Angel’s words took Crowley by surprise. He swallowed, teeth clenched to ride out another spasm of fiery pain. 

“‘S nothing, Angel. Just have to-” Crowley pinched his eyes shut. He breathed out harshly before continuing. “Let it pass.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flashed, narrowing a fraction. But he held his tongue. His hand dropped Crowley’s shirt and came to rest on his hip, a gentle grounding. As the Demon’s face contorted once more in pain, the Angel returned to murmuring small words of encouragement, focused intently on the unnecessary, but quite reassuring, rise and fall of Crowley’s chest.

Rain began to tap incessantly on the bookshop windows, drowning Soho in a chilled deluge. Aziraphale counted the drops as he counted Crowley’s shuddering, gasping breaths. Though the storm outside began to whip and whirl with new strength, it seemed that the Demon’s pain had started to dissipate. Aziraphale watched Crowley blink slowly, coming back to himself. His yellow, serpentine stare was muted in the storm’s gray lighting. The Angel traced the etched lines of discomfort that covered Crowley’s face with his eyes, and resisted the urge to smooth those lines with the pad of his thumb. 

“Crowley…” Aziraphale whispered searchingly.  

Crowley held up a hand, halting his friend's next words. 

The familiar ache of a new scar pulsated along his spine. It morphed with the pain from his injured leg and ribs, though feeling much deeper of a wound than the superficial corporeal ones. His head was heavy and awkward, and Crowley sagged wearily. As he listed to the side, his energy spent, Aziraphale delicately gripped his shoulders to keep him upright. 

Crowley swiveled his eyes and found Aziraphale’s face. The Angel was watching him with a perturbed frown.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale tried again in a voice barely above a whisper. 

The Demon sighed, knowing there would be no chance of moving without his friend’s help. Not with his leg in the state it was in. He had no strength, no wells of power within him, to heal himself.

“Can you…?”

Recognition sparked in the Angel’s eyes. 

“Let’s get you up, dear boy. Here, hold on to me.”

Aziraphale pulled his legs in and pushed up to a kneeling position, his grip on Crowley’s shoulders firm. He slowly pulled the two to standing, one hand moving to support the Demon’s elbow the other wrapping around his waist to keep him close. Once on their feet, Aziraphale set his jaw. There was something swirling in his gaze, but he said nothing, just slowly began to pull the pair towards the back room. Neither one spoke. 

Crowley dizzily watched the familiar setting of the bookshop pass by. He was panting with exertion, his limbs like rubber, shards of glass slicing with each step of his left leg. But his physical distress was second only to the whirlwind that ensnared his heart. As if from the instant the Angel had seen his back, his friend could hardly stand to look at him. Like Aziraphale was avoiding looking at him directly. 

Crowley had never believed his scars to be altogether that terrible; but now, unable to even catch Aziraphale’s eye, he began to reconsider. 

The Angel brought them into the back room and then to the side of the couch. Gingerly, Aziraphale set Crowley down, acutely aware of the pain in his friend’s leg, ribs, and back. He repositioned a few cushions and stood back. 

“Thanks, Angel,” Crowley offered, wincing as he settled back. With half-lidded eyes, Crowley watched Aziraphale. He waited uncertainly next to the sofa, hands clasped in front of him, as if deep in some internal debate. A few seconds passed and the Angel seemed to come to a decision. He shirked his jacket, sat slowly on the very edge of the sofa, and pushed his sleeves up. 

With great care, Aziraphale hovered a hand over Crowley’s chest and then his leg, small tendrils of white light shining from his palm. The Demon felt the sting of a miracle knitting his broken bones together. His injuries from the car pulsated weakly, transforming into a dull ache, and then disappeared altogether. 

All that was left was the essence-deep pain of his new scar. 

Crowley blinked, turning his face away from where Aziraphale sat so that his expression remained hidden. He’d never wished for a pair of his glasses more. 

Still, the tense silence stretched between them. Aziraphale’s hand remained in the air above his leg, hovering, frozen. The new scar was like a constant pressure digging into Crowley’s back, the reminder of it making him feel ashamed and disgusting, tainted, as if he were somehow sullying the Angel’s space. He gripped the edge of the sofa, his knuckles white. 

Countless times Crowley had lain on his own bed, writhing in pain and cursing anyone listening for giving him these marks. Each loathsome line seemingly stripped him of another ounce of his worth. He hated them; but above all, he hated himself. He hated the way they revealed exactly who he felt he was underneath. There was nothing right or good about him anymore, his scars were the shackles he wore in a prison of his own making, betraying the darkness underneath. In all that time, all those years, Crowley had never felt so alone as he did now. 

Aziraphale’s hand on his thigh made Crowley jump, yanking him from his thoughts. He turned to find the Angel looking intently at him. His face was harsh, as if cut from stone, and his eyes held all the fire in the universe. 

Power seemed to crackle in the air around them. It took everything within Crowley not to jerk away from the touch—it was all he’d ever wanted and yet what he’d felt too unworthy to ever receive. 

“Those aren’t from the car today, are they?”

Crowley squirmed beneath the intensity of Aziraphale’s gaze. He’d never seen that color burning in his friend’s eyes before, and the fury in his words was foreign and terrifying. 

“Angel, I-”

“Crowley. Please.” Aziraphale let out a shaky breath. He looked pleadingly at Crowley. “Don’t lie to me. Not now. Please, tell me who—or what—did this to you.”

The Demon found he could no longer meet the Angel’s eyes. 

“I don’t know,” he spat, with more force than was strictly necessary. 

Aziraphale let out what could only be described as a growl in reply. Crowley’s brows shot up in surprise and he tightened his grip on the couch. 

“I’m not lying to you, Angel. I don’t.”

Suddenly, Aziraphale was on his feet, pacing with hands clutched behind him. The absence of his hand on Crowley’s thigh was a cold void. 

“What-” Crowley swallowed, fighting a wave of exhaustion. “What would you like me to say?”

He saw Azirapahle stiffen. After so many years spent beside one another, the Angel knew when Crowley was telling him the truth. Aziraphale didn’t like not knowing, any more than Crowley did, and this particular terrifying unknown sent a chill down his spine. He found he didn’t know what to say.

At the pointed silence, Crowley sighed heavily. 

“Thank you,” the Demon offered after a moment. “For the help.”

Aziraphale shook his head, a choked sound escaping his lips.

“Please don’t, Crowley.”

“Angel, I-”

“No!” Aziraphale yelled sharply, whirling. His face was terrible and beautiful, celestial ire and tempestuous rage shadows upon his pale features. Crowley was too stunned to speak.

“No. Don’t-don’t thank me, Crowley. What have I truly done? When you needed me the most, when I could have helped-” Aziraphale threw his hands in the air with a disgusted noise. “I-I did nothing! I did nothing because I didn’t know you were in pain! Why would you keep this from me?”

Crowley dropped his head back on the sofa and shut his eyes. He’d never heard the Angel like this. He hated that he was the cause of it. Something tightened in his chest, right near his heart, and it made it hard to breathe.

“You sound angry, Angel.”

“I am angry!” Aziraphale shouted. He tugged at his vest and let out an exasperated sigh. Wringing his hands, his eyes traced Crowley’s slumped form, picking out the discomfort in the lines around his eyes, the fatigue on him like a colossal weight. 

“I am quite angry, Crowley,” he went on, voice quivering. “And I don’t like feeling this way.”

Crowley opened his eyes to see Aziraphale staring at him. His friend’s face was mercurial and intense, too many things bottled up and stored inside his gaze. He blinked, raising his head to meet Aziraphale’s eyes.  

“I-I’m sorry,” he whispered, his throat tight. “I am sorry, Angel.”

With a deep sigh, Aziraphale deflated. He could hear the weariness in the demon’s voice, see it tugging at his eyelids. All his righteous fury dissolved as quickly as it had come on. He took a step towards Crowley and then hesitated, hand outstretched as if trying to touch him.

“Just…rest now,” Aziraphale offered, gaze fixed on the Demon. His fear and worry were choking him. After a moment, Aziraphale dropped his hand.

Turning to leave, the softest whisper of “Angel” had Aziraphale pausing at the door. Troubled eyes found Crowley’s yellowed ones. 

“I won’t be far, Crowley. I promise.”

At that, he saw Crowley give him a small nod. The answer was apparently what Crowley needed to relinquish his last hold on consciousness and slip into painless oblivion.

The Angel watched Crowley settle wearily into sleep, listening as the rain hit the windows of his bookshop and hoping against all hope that everything was going to be just fine. 

Chapter Text

When Crowley awoke, he was startled to realize that he was no longer on the sofa. Warm blankets were tucked around him, soft pillows propped him on his right side, and a fire burned in the fireplace in the corner. He wasn’t certain when he’d been moved to the bed in Aziraphale’s room, he had no memory of it. 

Crowley scrubbed a hand down his face. He could see soft light filtering through the window shades as the sounds of Soho settled into their morning routine. If it were any other day, any other circumstances, he might have enjoyed waking up here.

Shutting his eyes again, Crowley briefly considered falling back asleep. The gritty feeling of exhaustion still clung to his bones, settled in his throat, pressed into his eyelids. He wondered how long he’d been asleep, knowing it wasn’t long enough. And he was quite comfortable beneath the heavy blankets. He could just float off, he was warm, he was safe…

Aziraphale. 

The thought of his Angel had Crowley’s eyes slamming back open. He strained, not hearing the discernible rustling of pages or soft murmurs of him talking nearby. There was a visceral need to have him close, to find some certainty of his presence. It propelled the Demon with a desperate need to ensure that he was, in fact, not alone. 

Planting his left hand on the bed, Crowley attempted to push himself up. He immediately winced as the movement pulled at his sore back and he collapsed back onto the bed with a groan. 

“Don’t think you should be moving much yet, my dear.”

Aziraphale’s voice from the doorway startled Crowley. His relief was suffocating, crashing over him not in a gentle lapping but in massive waves. His eyes skated across the room, content now that his Angel was near and that he was fine. And yet. Though Crowley was hardly impressive to look at himself in his current state, the Angel’s obvious dishevelment made the Demon frown. Aziraphale’s clothes looked rumpled, ink stained his fingertips, and weary lines carved deeply into his face. 

Crowley swallowed thickly. 

“How long?” He rasped out. 

“Four days,” Aziraphale responded quickly. He fidgeted with his light-colored jacket.

“Ah.” Crowley once again tried to push himself to a seated position. He got halfway up before he felt the Angel’s hands on his arms, helping steady him.

“Didn’t realize it’d be that long,” Crowley mumbled. 

Now upright, the Demon blinked the drowsiness from his eyes. He glanced Aziraphale’s way. His friend was watching him intently, perched on the side of the bed, and Crowley realized suddenly that he still hadn’t let go of him. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Angel.” The softness in his voice made color rise in Aziraphale’s cheeks. Aziraphale dropped his hands quickly, turning to readjust the pillows on the bed. 

“Oh, yes. Yes, of course.” 

The Demon narrowed his eyes. There was something peculiar in the tone of his Angel’s voice, something taut and troubled. 

“Aziraphale.”

“Hmm?” Light eyes betrayed an inner turmoil. 

“I’m fine, Angel. I am,” Crowley reassured. “I’m just a bit tired. That’ll last a few more days then I’ll be…well, that’ll be that. It’s a predictable routine.”

Aziraphale looked unconvinced. He searched Crowley’s expression. 

“Oh, oh I see. Right. Routine, of course.” His words tasted bitter and made Crowley recoil a fraction. Before he could respond, more words came nervously spilling out of Aziraphale. “Care for a drink? I’ve been keeping a bottle in reserve for a special occasion, but this will do fine I think. You know, I’ll just grab you a glass, it’s not any trouble, really. I should say I need one myself. Been a long couple days and-”

“Angel, you’re rambling,” Crowley interjected softly. 

“Am I? I-oh, gosh, suppose I am. How silly of me.” 

Aziraphale moved to get to his feet. Crowley’s fingers on his jacket sleeve stopped him halfway up. 

“What’s wrong, Aziraphale?”

The Angel paused, sinking wearily back down to the bed. He was quiet and avoiding Crowley’s eyes.

“Angel, this is your worried-preoccupied look. Suit wrinkly, ink on your fingers, hair disheveled…why, I haven’t seen you this tired in decades. Plus, your voice gave it away. Could hear it right off. So just tell me?”

After a moment, Aziraphale glanced Crowely’s way. His gaze was sharp, mercurial, shifting and serious in the firelight.

“I-”

He grit his teeth. 

“I-”

The Angel shut his eyes against the painful swelling in his chest. He glanced over at Crowley with an unreadable expression.

”I couldn’t get you to wake up,” Aziraphale said in a quiet rush. His chest heaving with the exertion, he looked away quickly.

“I tried everything. But you wouldn’t open your eyes. I was convinced you were going to discorporate right there in front of me, Crowley.” His voice was small and tormented. “I tore through every book in this shop twice over and I couldn’t find anything to help you. Nothing to explain the marks or your pain or your exhaustion. Didn’t want to risk another miracle, just in case…I just had to sit here, not knowing what was wrong or what could fix it, and had to hope you wouldn’t leave me.”

The Angel wrapped his hand around Crowley’s fingers on his sleeve. They felt warm, their touch electric, and he gave them a slight squeeze. 

“I was angry for the first day. Or two. Just beside myself knowing you’d kept this from me, and that I have absolutely no clue what it even is, let alone who did it. Then, yesterday, all that just disappeared and I was only left with my worry. And it’s such a heavy thing, I didn’t realize it before. When you can’t do anything else and you can’t help and it’s just your mind running round and round…” Aziraphale blinked. He gave a slight shake of his head and then stared at Crowley.

“I’m just…well, I’m very glad to see your eyes open, my dear.”

Crowley couldn’t speak past the lump in his throat. That was usually his job, the worrier. He couldn’t help it. Came with the territory of having someone he…cared about, a friend, a companion. It was just the two of them and Crowley had spent thousands of years ensuring that it stayed the two of them. Protecting his Angel was as natural for him as breathing was for humans. An unspoken and sacred promise he’d made to himself.

Aziraphale wasn’t supposed to worry. Crowley was good at taking care of himself, of weathering the harsher things so his Angel could enjoy the finer ones. He was a Demon, after all. He could put up with the bad—the bad was just the terms and conditions of the job. Not so for Aziraphale. He was supposed to read his books, drink his tea, listen to his music, enjoy drinks at the Ritz, and indulge in every morsel of delicious food humans could prepare. That was his Angel’s job. 

It felt odd to have this usual steady rhythm disrupted, a changing of roles. Crowley hated the worry line residing between Aziraphale’s eyebrows, how his secret had unraveled the practically perfect routine they’d established in the years since Armagedon’t. He’d never intended for his Angel to worry about him. 

It was different. It made Crowley’s skin feel hot and his chest a bit too small to hold all his emotions inside. Aziraphale was good—true goodness, not that righteousness spouted and purported by his angelic superiors. To be on the receiving end of that goodness, so openly and easily and steadily, had a peculiar feeling welling up inside of Crowley. Four days of worrying and fretting and pacing. He could just about picture Aziraphale tearing through the bookshop, looking for answers that weren’t there, ignoring all else besides him and his discomfort. It was overwhelming, these ruminations and revelations, and they made Crowley’s head spin.

After a minute, the Demon found his voice. 

“Can you get me that drink now, Angel?”

The small room was silent save the dying fire’s crackling. Both Aziraphale and Crowley sipped their drinks, absorbed by their own thoughts. 

Crowley knew he should say something; he felt it was his turn, in a manner of speaking. Aziraphale had opened up and revealed more in the last several minutes than either of them had in most of the conversations they’d ever shared. But he was hesitant, nervous. Where to begin? What to say? He was torn between meeting Aziraphale’s honesty with a healthy dose of his own and wanting to save his Angel from the pain that truth might cause. 

As for Aziraphale, who was obviously eagerly awaiting some sort of explanation, he had his mind on the “who” of the matter. Or the “what”, better yet. From the brief look he’d gotten earlier, his initial thought was it had to be some punishment from Hell. A “We see what you’re doing and don’t condone it and are punishing you accordingly” sort of thing. He didn’t know what Crowley was punished for, and what that had to do with the car accident today. But Aziraphale wasn’t entirely convinced they were behind it. Because those scars…the glimpse he’d gotten…well, the closest thing Aziraphale had seen to them were…lashes. He winced at the mental image. Heaven did enjoy a good, reformative flogging. Did that make them Heaven-sent?

“So.”

Aziraphale started, sloshing some of his drink onto the floor. He turned from where he’d been standing near the fireplace towards the bed. Crowley was looking into his half-filled glass, lips pursed, indecision dripping in his expression. 

The Demon took another heavy sip of the amber liquid. He loved the burn of it coursing down his throat; it made reality a bit sharper and his aches a bit softer. 

“So,” Aziraphale replied. 

Raising his eyes, Crowley looked sadly at the Angel. In the back of his mind, he was relieved to note that his friend’s appearance had returned to its usual pristine, tartan perfection. The bow tie, vest, and shirt were as polished as ever, his hair soft, his eyes bright. 

“I think I might owe you a few answers, Aziraphale.”

Crowley watched him place his still filled glass atop the narrow mantle above the fireplace. He took a handful of hesitant steps closer to the bed, but paused some feet away. Unsure whether or not space was needed for a discussion such as this. 

“A few, Crowley. Yes, I should say so.” 

Mustering the courage, liquid or otherwise, the Demon forced himself to meet Aziraphale’s pensive gaze.

“Anything specific you’d like to know first?”

Crowley’s question surprised Aziraphale. He clasped his hands in front of him. 

“Well. Maybe, I suppose, one could start with why.”

“Why what?”

“Why you chose to hide them from me.”

The Demon’s heart was racing and he would really much rather be anywhere else—well, mostly anywhere—than right where he was. Centuries of avoided conversation—now, a revealing of a carefully stashed secret. Crowley searched through his mind for any believable obfuscation or explanation; none could be found. Not that he would, could, have given them to Aziraphale in good conscience (if he even had one of those).

“You make it sound so simple,” Crowley deflected. “I don’t know much myself and I just…” He trailed off, excuse dying on his tongue. The soft, almost tender, hue to his Angel’s eyes brought him up short.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why…why won’t you tell me now, Crowley?” Aziraphale whispered. 

“I-I can’t, Angel.” The demon floundered. “It’s just-” Crowley gave a heavy sigh. “I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t know if I can,” he finished lamely, pointedly staring at the blanket in his lap and nowhere near Aziraphale. 

“I’ve seen my fair share of marks, Crowley. I’ve seen them on me, seen them on you. Ones inflicted by mortal weaponry and magic alike, ones created by blessed or cursed things. I have never seen scars like that.”

The Angel’s voice wept with concern, plucking at something in Crowley’s chest like a musician’s fingers on guitar strings. 

Shame swallowed him whole. Shame for his wretched ugliness that felt so out of place amongst the Angel’s beautiful things, shame for lying to his only friend for so many years, shame for his weakness and inability to hide behind his masks. 

Crowley hesitated to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. The goodness he’d find swirling within them, grayish and blueish and even golden at times depending on the lighting, would be his undoing. The final stone cast down to leave him open, exposed, vulnerable. 

He bristled as he felt Aziraphale take a seat next to him on the bed, so near it made Crowley want to cry. The hand on his arm was tentative. They so rarely touched one another, at least not this intentionally. 

“You worry me, dear boy. We…we’re all we’ve got and-” The Angel cleared his throat. “What I mean is, if there’s something wrong, we can figure it out together, can’t we? Like we always do. If someone or something is hurting you, Crowley, I…” A long pause. “I’ve fought my fair share of battles. I can be useful. I can help. Why won’t you let me help you?”

The last bit came in a gentle murmur and hurt just as much as the brands upon his skin. Crowley blinked away the threatening mistiness in his eyes. He was so damned tired of it all—of the secrets and the pain and the loneliness and the fear. 

Cowering in the face of inevitability, the walls must come crumbling down, mustn't they? The easiest place to start, it would seem, was the truth. If he could do it.

With a shaky breath, Crowley turned towards Aziraphale. His yellow eyes were dulled with fatigue, his expression tormented. 

“Without realizing it, Angel, that’s the ticket. Spot on. But instead of you helping me, it’s when…when I help you.” 

The Angel’s brows knit in confusion and he gave a small shake of his head. 

“I don’t understand-”

“The scars, Angel,” Crowley muttered. In his mind’s eye, he saw their ruinous patchwork along his back. “Marks. Brands. Call them what you like. Don’t know how many, I’ve lost count over the years. They show up-” The Demon dropped his gaze again to his lap, self-loathing coloring his cheeks. 

The hand on his arm tightened imperceptibly. I’m here, Aziraphale’s movement seemed to say. 

“They show up after I’ve saved you, Angel.” Crowley’s voice wavered with concealed emotion. “Started up after we made our Arrangement. Don’t know who it is or where they come from.” 

The Demon waved a hand half-heartedly towards his back. His voice shook and he wondered why he felt so ashamed. 

“I just know that if I help you, or save your life, sometime later I get another.”

Aziraphale was very still.

“And you’ve…you’ve tried to-” 

The Angel made a gesture of pulling upwards with his hand, causing Crowley to growl in exasperation.

“Course I have, Angel! Tried every miracle I could muster, tried all manner of occult paraphernalia and spells and have even thrown the damn modern medicinal book at it. They just… stay.”

Heat crackled in Crowley’s voice and Aziraphale looked positively chastised. Of course he had. The way he spoke of them was spiteful, abhorrent. Neither one of them could say they were truly the perfect Angel or Demon, but Aziraphale had never known Crowley to speak with such disgusted diffidence about himself. Every word held chords of self-loathing.

Aziraphale dropped his eyes to Crowley’s hands. The glass in them shook.

“Every time you saved me, then?”

His question made Crowley wince.

“Every one, Angel.”

“But why-why did you-Crowley why on Earth would you do such a thing? Knowing what would happen…” Aziraphale raised a hand to his mouth. The mental image horrified him. Since the Arrangement…how many times they’d helped one another…it was overwhelming to consider.

The Demon shook his head solemnly. 

“You know how much I enjoy saving you, Angel. Just the small price I pay for my good deeds.”

Aziraphale paled at those words and looked away. 

“You should have told me, Crowley,” he offered quietly. 

Sucking in a breath between his teeth, Crowley hated knowing he was probably right. He shifted against the pillows, trying to find a more comfortable position.

“I never wanted you to find out. Never. It wouldn’t have changed anything, and it still doesn’t, Aziraphale.”

Neither one said anything for several moments, the crackle of the dying fire the only sound filling the room. 

“Are you-” 

Aziraphale’s voice broke and he discretely wiped at his eyes. Clearing his throat, he tried again. 

“Are you in any pain, my dear?”

The Angel’s words were like cracked glass; impossibly fragile, one final blow would shatter him completely.

“No,” Crowley said softly. “No pain. Just a bit sore and tired. But I am okay.” 

He saw Aziraphale nod at this. Downing the rest of his drink, Crowley settled deeper beneath the blankets.

For the first time in ages, it felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. His secret was out there, brought into the light at last, hopefully less damaging than his worst fears had anticipated. Though his Angel still look preoccupied, he’d stayed-

“Show me.”

Crowley frowned, glancing sharply up at Aziraphale. 

“‘Scuse me?”

“I’d like to see, please. If you’ll allow me.”

Aziraphale’s eyes, now boring into his own, were determined.

Crowley’s immediate reaction was to deny his request. He hated looking at them himself, let alone let anyone else see them. But this was…this was different. There was something changed in the air of the bookshop, something charged perhaps. Something new. 

He gave the slightest inclination of his head. Yes. Though he couldn’t say it. Aziraphale’s lower lip trembled as he nodded in understanding.

Eyes glistening with unshed tears, Crowley swallowed his fear and sat forward. Slowly, painfully, he peeled his shirt off and tossed it away. The air in the room was warm but Crowley found himself shivering.

Without looking at Aziraphale, the Demon stiffly placed his arms by his sides and twisted his hands in the blankets. He was rigid, muscles coiled, waiting. As Aziraphale got to his feet and walked behind him, Crowley held his breath.

The gasp was expected but still it made Crowley wince. He felt the bed shift as the Angel sat down. He shut his eyes and told himself this wasn’t the end of all things. That Aziraphale seeing him, haunted by this new stained and sullied exterior, wouldn’t change anything between them. That his Angel might still believe he would be worthy of saving despite the marks he now bore. 

“I-I didn’t realize…” Aziraphale whispered, his fingers never actually touching Crowley’s back. They ghosted just above the marred skin, tracing the crimson and ink stain lines with a shocked, horrified silence.

“Oh. God. There’s so many.”

Chapter Text

“I-I didn’t realize…” Aziraphale whispered, his fingers never actually touching Crowley’s back. They ghosted just above the marred skin, tracing the crimson and ink stain lines with a shocked, horrified silence. “Oh. God. There’s so many.”

Crowley flinched, but said nothing. 

Of course he knew there were. So many, he’d lost count. So many, the pain all bled together. And everything, every time, all of it for his Angel.

After several minutes of what could only be described as terrifyingly honest and embarrassingly open for Crowley, Aziraphale cleared his throat. He was wringing his hands together, but his mind was sharp for the first time in days. 

“Crowley.”

The Demon clenched his jaw, fighting to suppress the slight tremors that had begun to overtake him. He hated the softness in the Angel’s voice. Behind him, the bed shifted and creaked, and Aziraphale came back into his line of sight. Crowley quickly dropped his gaze to his lap.

Aziraphale sat gingerly, as if fearing that a single touch would unravel Crowley completely. He had never seen his friend so troubled, so…tortured. He swallowed and pressed on, finding that pillar of strength within him, dusty with cobwebs and neglect, and tapped into it for the second time in a decade. There was the familiar taste of power, the electric zing of his potential igniting. He was a force to be reckoned with, a guardian of Eden’s gate, and Aziraphale was ready to reckon with the force seated next to him. He would fix, he would protect, he would guard—as it had always been his design to do. 

“Crowley, look at me.”

“Angel-”

“Look at me.”

Yellow eyes rose and met the Angel’s intense ones. 

“They’re all…the scars…they…”

Aziraphale shook his head slightly. He looked at Crowley, somewhere between pleading and surprised reverence.

“They’re because of me. And I can’t ever forgive myself. My dear, what you’ve done, what’s happened-what you’ve endured on my account-”

“Don’t start, Angel,” Crowley tried. 

“I’m sorry.” Aziraphale was as tormented as if he had laid the scars down himself. “I’m so sorry, Crowley.”

His eyes shone and his voice caught in his throat. But it was not a weak despair; it was a resolute solicitude, a brandishing of a shield. Emotions flickered like thousands of candles in Aziraphale’s bright eyes—but it was his emotions that made him stronger. 

“Stop it, Angel. Don’t look at me like…that.” Crowley tried for a flippant retort, waving his hand weakly towards Aziraphale’s expression. 

“Like what?” Came the low, amused challenge. 

“Like that!” Crowley growled. “All soft and angelic and sanctimoniously protective and…” 

At Aziraphale’s raised eyebrow, Crowley huffed in annoyance. 

“It was my choice, Angel. It was my choice, every time. Every single time,” he said, quite hotly. “And I’d do it again. I’ll always do it because I’m selfish, and being here without you is so boring, and-and I’ve grown accustomed to your company, is all, so don’t go blowing things out of proportion. It was for selfish, self-centered, self-serving reasons.”

Aziraphale’s lips twitched in response. He gave Crowley a knowing smile. 

“I see. If you say so, my dear.”

“I do say so,” Crowley replied testily, rolling his eyes. 

Abruptly, Aziraphale sobered, holding Crowley’s gaze fiercely.

“I am sorry, dear boy. If I would have known I never would have-” He stopped himself. “Well, I would have tried to help. But maybe…you’ll allow me to help now?”

Crowley frowned. 

“How d'ya mean?”

The Angel had a spark in his eye, a new star burning hot, intensity quivering in his brow. 

“I’ve decided that it is only right that I should find a way to sort this whole thing out. And I have a theory.”

Crowley looked skeptically at Aziraphale. 

“A theory?”

“Well, we must start somewhere, my dear.”

The Angel shifted towards the foot of the bed and selected a blanket. He turned and tossed it around Crowley’s shoulders, knowing the Demon preferred to be warm. The Demon’s slight shivering stopped beneath the added layer. 

“I’ve been thinking-”

“-dangerous pastime, Angel-”

“-and I’ve decided that determining the source may assist in finding a resolution,” Aziraphale continued, despite the grumbled interruption. “Now. You said you don’t know where they come from? You’re not certain if they are messages from…Above or Below?” 

Aziraphale punctuated the A and the B in the words with small pointing gestures. 

“Probably Hell,” Crowley said with a shrug. “Pissed enough demons off over the centuries, it’s one of my specialties. Could be a grudge of some kind or another.”

“Yes, yes, I see…”

“And your theory then?”

“Well.” Aziraphale scooted closer to Crowley, resting a hand lightly on the Demon’s blanket-covered leg.

“My first thought upon seeing your scars was that they seemed similar in appearance to an angelic punishment I’ve witnessed.”

Crowley stiffened.

“And if it were something in Hell, why would they punish you here? Torturing is in the job description, and they seem to be more…hands-on in that department.”

Aziraphale’s hesitant assumptions gave voice to the doubts that had dug themselves into the deepest parts of Crowley’s mind. 

“The method of it all, dear boy, has me thinking this can’t be demonically sourced.”

Crowley’s eyes were wide and he searched Aziraphale’s face. In a small voice, he uttered the question he’d hardly ever allowed himself to consider. Doing so broke something inside of him he didn’t know was still there. 

“So you think this could be…from Heaven, then?”

“I think that may be why your efforts were fruitless, Crowley. If it came from Up There, I don’t know if your power could have made any difference. At least that’s the way I understand these sorts of things. And…” Aziraphale removed his hand from Crowley’s leg and smoothed at his pants. “I could…I could feel it. When I was looking at the scars. Not without a shred of doubt, of course, but I’m almost certain. I could feel the remnants of the power. It felt…well, it felt similar to mine.”

Azirapahle stopped his fidgeting and glanced down curiously at his palms. 

“May I…?” The Angel looked back up at Crowley. “You said you’ve tried to heal them, and I don’t know if it’ll make much difference, but if they came from a power like mine, then maybe I could do something.”

“Do something like…?”

“I’m not sure, but I could try to take some of the pain away, or attempt to guard against future ones, or fix your-”

“Fix what, Angel?” Crowley interrupted, his words hard.

There was a flashing of an emotion within him, an inkblot staining his heart, that made him feel like his scars were what broke him, like his Angel saw them as ugly things to remedy and hide. Intoxicating, isolating shame. In the face of that acrid scorn, the Demon lashed out with forked tongue. 

“Fix what? The scars? Because they’re-they’re unsightly? Because they’re vile? Because you can’t stand to look at them? Because I hate them?”

Aziraphale reeled backwards as if he’d been slapped, mouth open in shock. 

“Oh, my dear. No, that’s not-they’re just…scars, Crowley.”

The Demon was silent, a storm cloud that threatened ruinous lightning and terrible thunder 

“You…hate them?”

Aziraphale’s query made Crowley chuckle darkly. 

“How can you not? They’re vile, grotesque, as black as the deepest pits of Hell and as red as the hottest of Satan’s flames. They’re so…they’re so…demonic.”

He spit the word out, sounding much too loud in the quiet room, voice dripping with disgust. Aziraphale could only stare. His voice had abandoned him, his mind racing everywhere but never landing. 

Crowley lowered his eyes to his hands. They were clenched and rigid, as if he could keep himself from falling apart by just holding on tightly enough.

“I know what I am, alright?” He bit out cruelly. “I know that these scars are probably Her way of reminding me of my place. Reminding me what exactly I should be. I’m a Demon and saving an Angel is not befitting one who has fallen, because Satan forbid there’s any damned gray area in this whole fucking cosmic ineffable plan!”

Crowley’s anger turned the air around the two hot, prickling and crackling like the fire that had long since gone out in the fireplace. His hands twisted and wrung themselves in his lap and his eyes were burning. Aziraphale blinked, his face a sad, open book. 

“Oh. Oh, Crowley.”

There was heartbreak in the way the Angel whispered his name, like the quiet prayer of a grieving soul. Slowly, Aziraphale reached a hand out and settled it atop Crowley’s own.

“How could I hate any part of you?”

He rubbed a thumb lightly over the back of Crowley’s hand, feeling the coolness of his pale skin. More than anything, he wished he could give his friend the answer to the ‘why?’ that had tormented him so. But would knowing that change anything?

Aziraphale used his other hand to raise Crowley’s chin, forcing the Demon to meet his gaze. The yellows of his eyes swirled, anger and fear and despair crashing like waves in a stormy sea. 

“Crowley. If anything is to come of this ordeal, let it be that you know this with certainty: I could never hate you. Nor any part of you. I have not ever entertained the thought, not from the beginning, not from our time together here on Earth, not from Armageddon, not now.” 

The Angel swallowed thickly, eyes the color of a clear morning sky. 

“And we are far more than just the labels we came here with, my dear. We have made something for ourselves in the undefined shades of gray, becoming not better or worse, but more real. The truest forms of ourselves.”

A single tear shone as it collected like dew at the corner of Azirphale’s eye, falling off his cheek to land on the blanket between them.

“We are friends, Crowley. But we are even more than that, are we not? You have a special spot in my bookshop, and you know how to make my tea, and you meet me for walks in the park, and you go to dinner with me when I’ve found a new restaurant to try. Hate you? I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. You’ve shown me I need not stumble through this unending existence, I could live it, all of it, instead. You helped me fall in love with this world. I…I could never hate you.”

The last part came out as a gentle exhale of the soul, a whisper clad in layers of emotion. 

“These-they don’t change anything?” Crowley choked out, feeling exposed and raw. 

“You’re beautiful, Crowley. Nothing could ever change that for me.”

There was a delicious rose color spreading across the Angel’s cheekbones at the honest admission. The words made Crowley’s heart stutter in his chest. He averted his gaze, unwilling and unable to meet the Angel’s. 

“I don’t know what you think will happen, Aziraphale. But you’re more than welcome to try.”

Aziraphale blinked, taken aback by the abrupt change in topic, but said nothing. It was easier to avoid the sincerity of the last several minutes than it was to acknowledge them outright. He’d recognize that tremble of fear in Crowley’s voice anywhere.

For the second time, Aziraphale got to his feet and sat behind Crowley on the bed. He settled with one leg tucked beneath him, his knee pressed lightly against Crowley. With great care, the Angel shifted the blanket from atop his friend’s shoulders, pulling it down to pool about Crowley’s waist. 

There was no gasp or intake of breath this time, for which the Demon was grateful. And there was the glaring absence of his earlier shame, the burn of his embarrassment. His Angel’s nearness set him at peace. 

A sudden hand on his back made Crowley jump. Aziraphale’s thumb brushed against the fresh scar, eliciting a small hiss from the Demon. The finger immediately moved. 

“Sorry, sorry. I won’t go near that one.”

Aziraphale was quiet for several moments and Crowley found himself drifting, eyes drooping shut despite his best efforts. The Angel’s touch felt gentle on his skin. It was almost relaxing, the heat that lingered where Aziraphale’s hand traveled, he could just about get lost in it…

And then something in the air shifted.

It was no longer just the sensation of Aziraphale’s hand on his lower back, the softness of the blanket, the early sun filtering through the window. Everything grew sharp, the room all at once suffocating and choking with an electric power. 

Crowley gasped and he arched upwards. His entire back blazed with a new warmth, not painfully like in the past, but in a pleasant sort of way. It was like the first rays of sunlight touching the Earth once the night was done, coaxing a resurgence of life with outstretched fingers. 

The sensation was overwhelming. Crowley twisted his hands into the blankets, knocking his empty glass onto the floor with a loud crack. Whatever it was felt bright, and…good. It felt like Aziraphale. Angel. His Angel. 

Crowley clutched at his chest, at the heat that had taken residence there, clawing at his skin as if he could wrench free the emotion raging within. Everything, everywhere, felt like his Angel.

Behind him, Aziraphale’s eyes were blown wide, his hands trembling. He watched as the patchwork of scars, old and new, flickered to life beneath his palms and begin to glow. 

The deep red and black of the scars seemed to well up like blood from a wound and then dissolve into the air, fading effortlessly from existence.

A bright light enveloped the room, emanating from the pair. It expanded to fill every corner, a dazzling supernova, and then collapsed in on itself, falling back and hiding away inside the now changed scars on Crowley’s skin.

What was left behind were rivulets, streams and brooks of gold, beautiful amber lines adorning the Demon’s back. His skin was like fire beneath the Angel’s fingers but he dare not move them.

And then it was quiet. There was a vacuum of silence, a stifling stillness. 

The air still held the lasting embers of raw energy and power, but the gentleness, the familiar ink and old paper and brewed tea of the bookshop, was returning. 

Crowley came back to himself not slowly, but all at once. From a weightless singular feeling to the crushing reminder of reality. His body felt shaky and boneless, his mind shrouded in a fog, his pain…gone? He struggled to open his eyes. There remained that peculiar feeling welled up and poised inside of him, he couldn’t place it. It felt like it was too much to hold within him, hardly contained by his corporeal form. Crowley shut his eyes, feeling faint and feverish and…changed. 

“Angel…”

Darkness tinged his vision and he pitched forward, no energy left to remain upright. Aziraphale jumped after him, hands soft but strong on his arms. 

“Crowley?” 

The Angel pulled Crowley back to lean against his chest. That familiar cherry wine hair was plastered against the Demon’s forehead, his profound yellow eyes half-lidded and unfocused. 

“Crowley, are you alright?”

Aziraphale searched his friend’s face worriedly. After several nerve wracking moments, Crowley’s gaze focused and he found his Angel’s eyes. 

“What happened?” He rasped out. 

Aziraphale sighed in relief and sagged back against the headboard. He gently held Crowley to him, as close as possible. 

“I…I don’t actually know, my dear.” Aziraphale swallowed. “It was just supposed to be a regular miracle, of sorts, a standard healing, but then…” 

He searched for the words, watching Crowley’s face through it all.

“Then it changed, Crowley. The minute it left me and the light touched your skin. I’ve never seen anything like it.” His voice was humbled, awed. “It was so powerful, so-so-” 

The Angel shook his head. He didn’t quite know what to say. Absentmindedly, he began to run his fingers through Crowley’s hair to hide the way they were shaking. 

“They don’t hurt,” Crowley mumbled, his eyes slipping shut.

“Good. That’s good. But, Crowley. Your scars, they-”

Aziraphale floundered, all language failing utterly short. How to tell his friend that the scars on his back now shimmered like sunlight on water, a sunset setting fall leaves ablaze, warm and golden and glittering? He hardly comprehended what had happened himself. 

“They’re…different now. They changed.”

Crowley’s brow furrowed. His mind tried to focus on the words being spoken above him but they skittered away from his grasp. With a shiver, he burrowed further into the Angel’s arms, face pressing into Aziraphale’s chest. 

“I really don’t know what that was, my dear. But if it eased your pain, it was worth it.”

Time, which had felt suspended and frozen around the pair, seemed to restart. Aziraphale became aware of how tired he felt, the tangled mess of the blanket beneath them, the faint ticking of a clock. Everything had been moving so fast and now it all slowed. 

Just as he had those agonizingly long days ago, Aziraphale watched the very human rise and fall of Crowley’s chest. He counted each one out of habit.

With a sigh, he settled back into the pillows and found a comfortable position. Who knew how long they would be like this. The world, the galaxy, the universe could wait. Aziraphale had no intention of moving before it was strictly necessary.

It was enough, the Angel mused, that Crowley was there with him and breathing and alive…more than enough. Real beneath his fingertips. Free of pain. Beautiful in every meaning of the word. Worthy of all the stars and sunrises and rainstorms and planets that he had created. 

Aziraphale’s mind slipped back to the miracle, to the fantastical glow and ferocity of the power. 

Had he just believed hard enough?

Had he just refused to consider that there was no discernible answer, so he pulled one miraculously out of thin air? 

Aziraphale shook his head uncertainly. It was as if the energy within him and the energy within Crowley had connected, something inside them flaring to life and heightening the miracle. 

At that, a thought sparked and fizzed in his mind like a firework.

The feeling he’d had as his hand had brushed over Crowley’s scars was the strongest one he harbored; it was as much a part of him as his wings, his bookshop, his affinity for the tastiest of human delicacies. 

Love. 

The very depths of his soul whispered the truth that he’d clutched foolishly within him. It was a word neither of them had ever before uttered, for fear of what door might be opened at the sound, of what uncharted and unknown future it promised. He’d hardly ever let himself think it consciously. 

Love. Or at least, the emotion they shared for one another. Their connection. Their partnership. Their-

Aziraphale couldn’t think of another term for it. It spelt love in every language he knew and existed in every second spent beside Crowley. 

Could it be so simple? Aziraphale hardly dared to think it. 

But it was true that the mind and the heart played integral parts in the harnessing of such ethereal power. His imagination, his belief, in a way, was what was tested each time he grasped at the ivory well of his energy. It would stand to reason that the strength of his emotions could tip the scales. 

Love, as the poets and writers and believers sang, was a many splendid thing, the stuff of dreams, an ever fixed mark. Did this not capture the stardust and wonder and sweet nectar of hope within him? His unwillingness to go on without Crowley, his stubborn refusal to be parted from him? The way Aziraphale was who he felt he should be when he was by his side? 

It was a desperate hope, a desperate wish. Love. Love.

The hand in Crowley’s hair stilled. He brushed a thumb delicately across the resting Demon’s brow. Foolish, so it was, but maybe just foolish enough to have made all the difference in the world.

Aziraphale watched as Crowley’s lips moved and he bent closer to hear. 

“What was that dear boy? I didn’t quite catch it.”

Crowley forced his eyes open and stared up at Aziraphale. His expression was vulnerable, his voice a hoarse whisper. It was as if every thought that had blossomed and fallen within Aziraphale’s mind had been spoken aloud, each one known intimately by the Demon he held tightly to him. It was jarring to be so known when they’d spent so long hiding. 

With a gentle smile, so genuine it surprised the Angel, Crowley repeated his words. 

“Thank you.”

Aziraphale searched the vibrant yellow of Crowley’s eyes before they slipped shut again, his throat tight. 

“Always, my dear.”

Was it fifty? More than one hundred? He hadn’t had the time to count the scars on Crowley’s back and had hardly dared to consider the true number. He wasn’t aware it had been that many times. How close had he come to danger, to death, to discorporation and he was none the wiser? How much violence had been nudged off course in order to save him? And each one, each instance, another lash upon Crowley’s back. For centuries they had been scorched crimson and soot along his skin, cruel and painful. Now they lay golden and warm and radiant. A true reflection of the goodness that remained within the fallen Angel. 

With tears in his eyes, Aziraphale rested his hand atop Crowley’s head as the Demon settled into a relaxed slumber. There were birds beginning to sing outside the bookshop window and the rising sun promised the first day without rain in weeks. For the moment, with Crowley held in his arms, Aziraphale felt like maybe the days in front of them might finally look different than the ones they’d left behind. And maybe they would finally admit what they truly meant to one another. 

Maybe. 

After all, life was a wonderful jumble, assortment, and portrait of maybes. 

And both a Demon and an Angel had decided that their lives were—and the shared existence they’d built for themselves was—worth living. 

They had a whole future worth of lovely maybes to sort out.

Together.