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Crowley slept for a long time after his last outburst. He did this - slept for days, weeks even, to recover from painful events. It had been his habit since long before his captivity, and so it didn’t worry Aziraphale too much, although he certainly missed Crowley during those long periods.
This time, Aziraphale busied himself with more books on trauma, reading and re-reading. In the beginning, he had been desperate for ways to help Crowley, and though that was still a primary focus, he was also looking for ways to help himself. It was not easy, living with and loving a being whose mind had been so hijacked by pain and fear, and sometimes Aziraphale felt himself grow overwhelmed with the injustice and loneliness of it all.
Crowley had been asleep for six days, Aziraphale all the while holding a studious vigil downstairs in the bookshop, when Aziraphale felt the tendrils of demonic energy that signaled Crowley’s waking. But Crowley did not appear, and his presence pulled back from Aziraphale’s.
This happened a few more times throughout the day, and Aziraphale began to suspect that Crowley had grown bored and restless, but was still unwilling to face Aziraphale. It was the case, the angel now realized, that whenever he left the bookshop during one of Crowley’s sleeping spells, he often came back to find the demon awake and puttering around somewhere in the building.
He needed time, it seemed, to return to consciousness by himself. Aziraphale felt proud of himself for puzzling out the pattern, but a bit silly for not seeing it before.
“Gone for groceries,” he wrote on a sheet of plush paper that he left on the kitchen table. “Back around 1:00.”
Knowing that his grocery shopping trip would absolutely not take two hours, but wanting to give Crowley plenty of time to settle back into the waking world, Aziraphale went for a stroll around SoHo, letting his mind wander to what he might want to purchase and cook later.
At 1:05, Aziraphale returned to the bookshop, two heavy-laden grocery bags in his arms. The bell tinkled over the door, announcing his arrival, and he immediately made his way to the kitchen to set down the groceries.
There was Crowley, dressed and awake, in the process of bullying the espresso machine. Coffee grounds littered the counter, and agitation spiked out from Crowley’s being.
“Crowley!” Aziraphale said, his smile nearly audible. “I’m so glad to see you!”
“Of course you would be,” Crowley grumbled, as if he found the statement insultingly absurd. He slammed his hand into the side of the machine before giving up on it with a nasty glare and heading back toward the bedroom.
“I went to the store this morning,” the angel chattered, largely an attempt to keep Crowley there in the kitchen, talking. “I thought I would make waffles. I have fresh berries, and whipping cream, and chocolate. Would you like some?”
“Not much one for waffles,” Crowley said. He had paused in the wide doorway that separated the kitchen from the rest of the flat, his body still half poised to leave. “I’m going downstairs.”
“Oh, do sit with me a while,” Aziraphale pleaded. “No need to eat, but I would be delighted to have your company.”
Crowley smacked the door jamb with one open palm and threw his neck back, groaning in frustration. The violent display of emotion startled Aziraphale.
“Why do you always have to say it like that?” Crowley’s question was almost a snarl, a challenge.
“Like what, dear?” Aziraphale tried to keep his voice even, free of the concern and hurt that were rising up in him.
Crowley spoke in a sneering, mocking tone. “Oh, Crowley, I would be so pleased ...I’m so proud of you, darling, I’m delighted , you’re doing such a good job , it makes me so happy …”
Aziraphale could feel his lower lip trembling. He never could stand it when Crowley got nasty with him, even when he knew it didn’t mean anything. “I don’t understand,” was all he could say.
“All this pleasing and delighting you, you know, it gets old sometimes?” Crowley stood stiffly in the doorway, his words coming out tight and clipped. “Tired of spending every waking moment going, is he pleased , is he happy , am I disappointing him?”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, “I only ever want -”
Crowley interrupted with a shout. “See there! You want, you want, you want. You want my company, you want me to try something, you want me to cheer up, you want this from me, you want me to do that.”
Crowley was ranting now, his voice getting louder and louder, speaking in half sentences. Aziraphale could only wait out the storm. Though he hated when Crowley’s anger was directed at him, he told himself it wasn’t, not really. All his books had told him so.
“Anger is a natural and common response to trauma. It reflects the survivor’s knowledge that what happened to them was not right. Understood in this light, anger can be very healing and is part of the process of restoring a self-image that may have been damaged by ongoing trauma. However, trauma-related anger can arise in situations where it seems uncalled for or inappropriate. Survivors are often unable or afraid to direct their anger at the perpetrator, and so it finds a “safer” target. This can be very distressing to both the survivor and their loved ones, who bear the brunt of the misplaced anger.”
After running through this reminder, Aziraphale took a deep breath to ground himself and listened back in to Crowley’s yelling.
“Always, always, I’m thinking, what does he want? What does he want? Make him happy! Keep him happy! What will make him happy?”
Aziraphale knew that Crowley wasn’t really talking about him, not anymore. He knew Crowley needed someone else to stand in for Gabriel, because it was still too hard to be angry at him. That had been so unsafe for so long.
And he was happy to be a “safer target,” to absorb Crowley’s anger when he needed to let it out. Still, hearing Crowley talk about him as if he were another captor, another abuser, another - well, he wouldn’t even let himself think that word - it stung. Badly.
Crowley stopped, finally, his chest heaving with exertion, staring at Aziraphale guardedly, as if preparing himself for a fight.
Aziraphale would not raise his voice. He would not argue. He would not. “Crowley, I’m so sorry I’ve made you feel that way. I can’t imagine how exhausting it must have been, always so alert to the whims and moods of another, especially one who was so cruel to you. I never meant to make you feel obligated to make me happy. What can I do to make this easier on you? How would you like things to change?”
Fury like fire rose in Crowley’s eyes, and he pointed an accusing finger at Aziraphale. “There it is, there it is! Again! What do you want, Crowley, tell me what to do, tell me what you want? I don’t know! I don’t know! All you do is ask things of me - I can’t, don’t you understand? I can’t say here, here’s a tidy little script, here’s everything that will fix me . I can’t give you what you want, so just stop asking me!”
Despite his best efforts, Aziraphale was crying. Everything felt so twisted up. It wasn’t fair. Crowley wasn’t making any sense, He’d been snapped at for inviting Crowley to join him for breakfast, now Crowley was angry that he’d, what, offered help? Asked how to do better? He just couldn’t win, not with this Crowley, this defensive, tightly-coiled victim - no, he told himself, survivor.
“Now you’re crying, I’ve made you cry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shouted.” Crowley did not sound very sorry. He didn’t sound upset, either. He sounded distant and robotic. “Don’t cry, angel.” He looked at the floor, twisting his hands.
“Don’t worry about me, dear,” Aziraphale said. “I’m just trying to understand -”
“I’ll worry about whatever I damn well wish,” Crowley said through his teeth.
“Of course, I only meant -”
“How’s that for an order, huh? Tricky little trap you’ve set, Crowley, what I want is for you to stop caring what I want. No wonder I can’t ever get it right! Not exactly setting me up for success, are you?”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, allowing some pain to creep into his voice, which gave it a warning tone. True, his patience for Crowley’s “complex trauma symptoms” was as deep as his love for the hurting demon, but he still had feelings here too, and he didn’t appreciate being interrupted and spoken to so coldly.
“Whatever,” Crowley sniffed, turning to leave with another assault on the innocent door jamb. “I’m going downstairs. If that’s okay with you.”
Then, Aziraphale heard him mutter under his breath, just loud enough.
“...Master.”
Anger flared up in Aziraphale, no longer able to stay suppressed despite his efforts. He spoke sternly, loudly. Sharply.
“No. That’s not fair.”
Crowley stopped, but didn’t turn around, keeping his back to Aziraphale.
“Crowley. I know this is difficult. But you mustn’t say such things.”
“Oh, I mustn’t?” Crowley spun to face the angel, eyes blazing.
“No.” Aziraphale held his ground. “You mustn’t. I won’t have it.”
A strangely satisfied smile spread over Crowley’s face. “You won’t have it, hmm?” He sounded predatory, almost, as if he’d caught Aziraphale in something. “Now what does that mean, I wonder?”
“It means,” Aziraphale said, feeling very out of his depth, “that it isn’t fair, and it isn’t true, and you shouldn’t say it.”
“No.” Crowley left the doorway and stalked toward Aziraphale until he was towering over him, closer enough for Aziraphale to see the tension in his jaw. “That’s not what you said. You said mustn’t . You said you won’t have it.”
“I only meant -“
“So? Prove it. Show me you won’t have it .” Crowley cocked his head like some kind of challenge.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale begged. “Please stop this.”
And then something happened. Something that had never happened before, not in six thousand years.
Crowley reached out and shoved Aziraphale, a quick violent motion, his fingers straight, just hard enough to be unmistakable for what it was.
“So make me,” Crowley hissed as he did so. “You want me to stop, make me!”
Aziraphale raised his hands slowly in the universal gesture of surrender. “Crowley,” he said, “don’t.”
“Yeah!? Have I crossed a line?” Another shove, as if punctuating his sentences. “Do it, then. Take what you want. Go ahead.”
“That’s enough, Crowley!” Aziraphale had raised his voice now, shouting through tears.
Something had escalated with Aziraphale’s shout, and the air between them felt like a ticking clock. Crowley’s eyes were narrowed, his shoulders taut. Pain and rage radiated from him.
They both said nothing for a long, tense moment, and then Crowley was putting his hands on Aziraphale for a third time, and Aziraphale was grabbing the demon, holding his upper arms, just firm enough to stop him, and there was that sadly satisfied smile again, something in Crowley’s eyes screaming I knew it, and then Crowley was collapsing, but it wasn’t into Aziraphale, he wasn’t falling toward an embrace - no, his knees were bending, he was heading for the floor, his chin ducked, his eyes down, and Aziraphale wouldn’t have it, he wouldn’t allow it, not here, not ever, not like this, he was bigger than this terrible thing that had taken hold of Crowley, their love was so much stronger, and he would win, they would win, it would not be like this.
Aziraphale held Crowley tightly, not letting him fall. Crowley felt limp in his hands, as if he’d coil to the floor like rope if Aziraphale let go.
“Oh, Crowley.”
Slowly, gingerly, Aziraphale pulled Crowley closer to him, until the demon was wrapped in his arms, held close to his chest.
Crowley did not lift his arms to embrace Aziraphale. He did not move. His head fell against the angel’s shoulder, but he did not shift it for comfort, did not nuzzle deeper in. He was just still, and in Aziraphale’s arms he felt heavy with sorrow and anger.
They stood like that, Aziraphale prepared to stay as long as it took, and then Crowley was pulling away. Aziraphale let him go. He half-turned away, pressing tightly balled fists into his eyes, and started to blindly stumble out of the kitchen.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale said. It was all that felt safe to say.
“Lemme go,” Crowley said, with a flailing wave of one arm. “Going back to bed.”
Worry struck through Aziraphale, worry that if he let Crowley go now, he might not get him back; worry that the shame and confusion of this strange scene would keep Crowley trapped in the escape of sleep for far too long.
“I really think we ought to talk,” Aziraphale said.
Crowley whirled around and slammed both hands on the back of a kitchen chair, rattling it against the floor. “Talk? About what?” He threw his arms out, gesturing at the room as if the wreckage was somehow visible. “Look what happens when we try to talk. What I’ve said - I can’t, angel.”
“Okay,” Aziraphale said. “Okay. I understand. That makes sense. You don’t need to talk. But, may I? And you can just listen.”
“Fine.” Crowley slumped, defeated, into the chair he’d just been abusing. He laid his head on the table, wrapping his arms around it.
“Would you prefer to go get in bed?”
Crowley gave an exaggerated shrug. Aziraphale decided he would stop asking things of Crowley entirely, at least for now.
“Alright. We’ll talk here.” Aziraphale pulled out a chair for himself and sat, facing Crowley’s crumpled form. “Now. I know that Gabriel -” here Aziraphale paused to swallow thickly, as if even the mere mention of the name tasted bitter in his mouth “- I know he told you, he taught you, some terrible things. False things.”
Crowley groaned from behind his arms and burrowed his face down as if he could escape the conversation by crawling into the wood of the dining room table. Aziraphale knew he absolutely hated talking about this. But they were here, now, and there was nothing else for it.
“And I know you still believe many of those things. You had to, to survive. And that’s not easy to change. I know you’re trying, Crowley, and I see how hard you’re fighting. It’s not fair, that you still have to fight. So much time surviving...him, and now you must survive the memories. It’s all so awful.”
Crowley had gone very still, and Aziraphale knew he was listening, though unwilling to admit it by sitting up and trying out some eye contact.
“I want to tell you, dear, that I am absolutely by your side through it all. Surely you know that it’s possible to endure great suffering for this love we share, because, well…” Aziraphale trailed off, his mouth having outpaced his thoughts a bit. “Of course, I don’t even presume to make the comparison, and the task before me pales in comparison to everything you’ve been through. But the fact remains that we are bonded to each other, and that means me to you just as it means you to me.”
Aziraphale tapped his chest, a motion Crowley couldn’t see, but which had become a habit during his lower moments. “We have proof, we’re marked with it. She spoke it into us.”
Another pause, this time for a few deep breaths, because what he had to say next would be much harder than reassurances of love.
“But that means, Crowley, that we have to honor it, we can’t...we won’t let him take any more away from us. He’s already done enough. All this pain, all this anger - there will always be space for it here, of course you’ll feel it, and I feel it on your behalf, it’s all so much. But we can’t hurt each other. We just can’t. It’s not worth it, love.”
The tears were falling again, and Aziraphale did nothing to resist or hide them, just kept speaking through them.
“I’m not him, Crowley. And neither are you. He’s not here. He never will be, not again.”
Now Crowley’s shoulders were shaking, and he was crying, sniffling and shivering, though he still kept his face pressed to the table, hidden behind his arms.
Aziraphale leaned across the table to lay one hand gently on Crowley’s shoulder. “We have to be in this together. Even if nothing else feels true, that can never change.”
And then Crowley moved slightly, reaching one hand out to take Aziraphale’s with the clinging grip of a drowning man.
Aziraphale stood, then, and without ever letting go of Crowley’s hand, he walked around the table to stand by the demon’s side. He knelt down, nearly eye level with Crowley, and continued speaking, since that’s what he’d promised to do.
“The other night, after...I said I was pleased with you, and you said something like “pleasing hurts,” I didn’t understand what it meant. But that’s what it felt like with him, right? That pleasing him meant pain?”
Crowley whimpered and Aziraphale realized he had, again, made the error of asking a question.
“It’s alright, you don’t need to answer. You’re right, that I’ve said a lot of things like that: being pleased, delighted, asking things of you. I thought I was helping - the books all call it praise and positive reinforcement and recommend it - but that must have felt so confusing, I see now. I’m so sorry.”
Crowley sniffed derisively at Aziraphale’s reference to the books, which was encouraging.
“I’m going to try something, and it probably seems silly, but nevertheless I will try. I won’t say such things. No more requests, no more questions. I’ll ask nothing of you and offer nothing with the hope that you’ll take it. It’ll all be yours to decide."
Crowley tilted his head to look over his forearm with one skeptical eye.
“It’ll be strange, and I’m sure I’ll slip up, but we can see how it feels. It’ll give you some space, at least. And we’ll figure it out from there.”
Crowley clearly didn’t like the plan, but he seemed too wrung out to argue. Or to do much of anything, really.
“Well, then.” Aziraphale stood, straightening his back, feeling rather awkward. “I’m going to go have a lie down in the bedroom.”
It was certainly odd, and he knew it would not be easy, shifting his language to include only declarative sentences for a while. No more Would you like some tea, dear? Or Do have a biscuit. Only I made waffles or I plan to walk in the park today.
Surely Crowley would still know what Aziraphale wanted. And obviously he’d still seek to please, as he always had, long before this terrible thing. But this was all Aziraphale could offer. He could not undo what had happened to Crowley, much as he wished that were so. He could only try, and keep trying, and ask Crowley to stay in it, to keep trying, to not give up on himself or on Aziraphale.
He went to the bedroom and lay down, wondering whether Crowley would follow, knowing that either way, it would be his own choice. Some time passed, and then Crowley slunk into the bedroom, glancing at the bed like he half-expected it to be empty. Aziraphale said nothing. No I’m glad you decided to join me , no I do so love our time together. No pressure. No being pleased.
Crowley crawled into the bed looking spent and miserable. He curled up on his side, facing away from Aziraphale, his spine tucked into the curve of the angel’s body. The anger was not gone, Aziraphale could tell, but it felt different, now - turned inward, clenched tightly rather than exploding out from him.
Aziraphale wrapped himself around Crowley, nuzzling into the demon’s sweat-damp hair, draping one arm over the demon’s body, reaching for his hand.
There was one thing he would never, could never, stop saying. And luckily, it was a simple declarative statement.
“I love you.”
***
Hours Earlier
Crowley slept, and he slept, and he would have kept sleeping, if it weren’t for the dreams. They started whenever Aziraphale wasn’t in bed with him - not that he’d ever let the angel know that. If he did, Aziraphale would insist on staying for as long as Crowley slept, and he couldn’t keep Aziraphale hostage in the bedroom for weeks while he hid from himself. So he slept for as long as he could, dozing in and out of fitful sleep until the waking world finally seemed more enticing than his bed.
These days, it took a lot to make his life seem enticing. Yes, he loved Aziraphale. And he worked hard to enjoy their time together. Sometimes things were okay. But he couldn’t shake the tension that rang through him day after day. He felt it in his darting eyes, always watching but careful not to stare. He heard it in his racing thoughts, never quieting, insisting on always staying one step ahead - ahead of what ?
Not of Aziraphale, exactly. But of Aziraphale’s wishes. His...pleasure. The presence of another, someone with their own demands, their own desires, felt always like a great whirlpool, drawing in his thoughts, his body, the entirety of his being, pulling him in, swallowing him, drowning out anything that might be him and replacing it with the Other, hollowing him out until he was nothing, nothing, nothing but a yes, Master and a body that obeyed commands beyond itself.
It wasn’t Aziraphale’s fault. But it was so evident that he wanted : wanted Crowley to be well, to see Crowley happy; wanted to soothe and comfort and heal, and it was all this wanting that was draining Crowley. Aziraphale had always been a creature of desire - food, and clothes, and pleasant company - and Crowley used to love that, used to enjoy the waves of want that bubbled forth from his angel. Now, though, it just made Crowley want to hide. For too long, he had been subsumed by the pleasure of another, and no matter how many times he told itself that it was different now, it felt all too much the same.
He reached out, feeling for Aziraphale, hoping the angel would be too distracted to notice the quiet seeking tendrils. There he was, awake and present in the bookshop. Crowley willed himself to get up, to go, to sit down with Aziraphale. To take the cup of tea he would undoubtedly offer, and sip it. And Aziraphale would be happy, happy to see Crowley, happy to serve him tea, and it would be good.
But the image - of the teacup, of Aziraphale’s expectant tone, his satisfied smile - filled Crowley with dread. He couldn’t bear the happiness, the patience, the trying, all of it so much like wanting . So he curled back up and let his eyes slide shut, knowing he was rolling the dice and the odds of an excruciating return to his worst memories were getting worse with every passing day. He’d already been awakened by a handful of nightmares, but they were blurry, flashes of fear and strange, surreal twisting visions. Crowley could handle those.
He just had to make it a few more days, he told himself. Then he’d be up to it. He’d go downstairs and meet Aziraphale’s smile with one of his own and he’d be strong enough to tamp down the anxiety that spiked whenever the angel looked at him with those hopeful eyes. He would sleep a few days, build up more energy, and the nightmares wouldn’t come, not yet, it hadn’t been long enough, he just needed to sleep, and everything would be okay.
Crowley slept.
Gabriel was there, again, he was in Crowley’s room - no, it wasn’t Crowley’s room, nothing was Crowley’s, Gabriel was simply there, in the room where Crowley was, and he snapped his fingers and Crowley was clothed, which meant they were heading into the halls of Heaven.
Crowley followed dutifully, eyes down, bare feet padding on the cold marble floors. They did not go to Gabriel’s office. They continued down a softly lit corridor and through a door into a room Crowley had never been to.
The tinkling sound of running water filled the room, and the potent scent searing the inside of Crowley’s nostrils told him it was holy.
Gabriel shut the door behind them and snapped his fingers, rendering Crowley nude. He snapped his fingers again, and Crowley’s hands were bound behind his back. Crowley wondered, a passing thought, whether the door was locked behind them, or if another angel might enter and see him like this. Gabriel didn’t seem concerned. Crowley shoved the thought from his mind.
“Look,” Gabriel said, and Crowley lifted his eyes to see a room that would have been beautiful, should have been beautiful, to anyone with eyes deserving. It was a large, round room, with dim lighting filtered through blue glass windows. White chaise lounges, all identical, were arrayed in a circle facing the center of the room where a strange fountain burbled. Flat grey pebbles filled a large basin on the floor, and in the center of the basin was a structure that looked like an empty doorway, made of dark silver metal. From the top of the frame fell a clear, endless stream of water.
“This is the Fountain of Tranquility,” Gabriel said. “Angels come here to meditate on the glories of our existence. The sound is quite calming, isn’t it?”
Crowley nodded, his throat tight. He did not find the sound calming. He found it terrifying. Because he was dirty, and disgusting, and undeserving. The fact that holy water hurt, that he could find no tranquility in this place, was proof of his wretchedness. He hated the fountain, and he hated himself, and he was nothing but a being of hatred, and it was no wonder he had ended up like this.
Gabriel walked to one wall of the room and leaned against it, looking relaxed. “Step onto the rocks, Crowley.”
Crowley lifted his foot over the stone rim of the basin and stood just inside, far enough away from the fountain to keep from getting splashed, but close enough that his eyes began to water.
“Forward.”
Crowley walked closer to the fountain, stopping when one foot hit wet stone and began to burn. He was standing less than a foot from the wall of water that fell like a curtain.
“Through.”
Terror seized Crowley then, terror like he had not known for a long while. Gabriel had commanded him to harm himself before. Gabriel had hurt him with holy water many, many times before. Yet something about this felt different.
Crowley did not want to walk through the water. He did not know what it would do. Would it destroy him? Certainly he had tried to destroy himself, but not like this. Not on Gabriel’s command. And if it didn’t? Would that be worse? Every inch of him, rushed over by the water. Bound like this, he’d have to step in with his face first, his face and his chest and the entirety of him, naked and vulnerable and destroyed and ripped open by something that was supposed to cleanse, to heal, because that’s who he was, what he was, how deeply unworthy.
All this shot through Crowley in seconds. That was all the time he had to feel, to consider, to indulge any awareness of his own desires. Because ultimately, none of it mattered. He would do it. There was nothing to consider. No balance to weigh Gabriel’s commands against. No decisions to be made. Not once Gabriel had spoken.
Crowley stepped forward, through the doorway. Nothing happened. His terror swirled with disorientation, and he trembled with it. Somewhere, Gabriel was laughing. Footsteps were coming toward him. Crowley saw a switch on the wall, registered vaguely that Gabriel had shut the water off the moment he began to walk through.
Gabriel was on the other side, smiling. Crowley stumbled toward him, falling to his knees, exhausted by the ordeal, fear and confusion and relief and gratitude overwhelming him. Gabriel pulled him into his arms and laid them down on one of the white lounges that bordered the room.
“That’s good. You’ve pleased me very much.”
Crowley shook, still unable to make sense of it all, knowing only that Gabriel was pleased, and that was enough. It was all he could ever know. His world had become a binary: is Gabriel pleased, or displeased?
Gabriel unbound Crowley’s hands with a soft snap. Crowley’s every nerve was on edge, now. To be freed like this meant he was to move, but not of his own will - where did Gabriel want him? He stayed frozen, hands still behind his back, until Gabriel took one of his wrists and guided it to his zipper. Crowley exhaled, knowing now what was expected. Gabriel pushed his head down and Crowley’s mind went silent but for his all-encompassing focus on pleasing, pleasing, pleasing Gabriel.
As he worked, hands and mouth, body curled in Gabriel’s lap, Gabriel rested one broad hand on the small of Crowley’s back, right on the sigil. Gabriel’s satisfaction pulsed through Crowley. It gave Crowley no comfort, was simply a statement: With you I am pleased. Crowley’s jaw ached, the sound and odor of the fountain made his insides crawl, the bottoms of his feet were in agony where he’d stepped in the water, he was cold and afraid and ashamed. And Gabriel was pleased.
Crowley woke, breath rapid in his chest, sheets tangled. He was wet - was it the fountain? Had he finally been shoved in the water? - no, he was damp with sweat, he was in bed, in Aziraphale’s bed, in the bookshop.
He snapped his fingers, a quick miracle to dry everything out, and tried to steady himself. Stupid, stupid, he scolded himself, sleeping long enough to let that happen. His jaw was clenched, his eyes streamed tears that would not stop. No way he could go down to Aziraphale like this now, mess that he was.
Crowley stared up at the ceiling, a sight he had memorized long ago. He didn’t want to stay in bed, but he didn’t want to leave, either. Pathetic. How many hours had he spent just like this, lying in a bed he told himself was safe but was nothing of the sort, waiting, just waiting, for something new and awful to happen?
There was no going back to sleep, but Crowley closed his eyes and let himself drift. He hadn’t thought of that room in a long while, the fountain, the chaise lounges, the mockery of “tranquility.” Memories surfaced, fading in and out, and he let them come, too drained to fight them, the room empty of any useful distractions.
They were in that room again, back at the Fountain of Tranquility. Crowley was clothed, but still the trickling sound of the water and the acrid scent set him on edge. Gabriel led him to one of the stiff white chairs.
“Sit.”
Crowley sat on the edge of the seat, his feet on the floor, his back straight. Though he was facing Gabriel, his eyes stayed glued to the fountain out of the corner of his eye, as if it might leap forward and attack him.
“Like I said,” Gabriel intoned, “angels come here to meditate on the glories of our holiness. I decided to bring you here with me today. Since you belong to Heaven now, i’s important for you to get to know this place, and your place in it.”
Crowley nodded.
Gabriel sat on the chaise next to Crowley, leaning back against it, his legs straight, his arms folded in his lap. He looked at Crowley with an eyebrow lifted, and Crowley took the same position, feeling awkward.
“Now,” Gabriel said, “of course no one could expect a thing such as you to be able to access grace or glory or holiness. But you are to meditate alongside me. Think on your role, and the lessons you have learned here.”
And with that, Gabriel rested his head against the chaise and closed his eyes.
Crowley’s eyes stayed open. Nervous energy rattled through him, but he remained perfectly still. What was this? A test? Some trick, or trap? What was he meant to be thinking about? He wondered, not for the first time, whether Gabriel could read his thoughts, whether the bondage he’d carved into Crowley’s flesh extended to his mind.
Crowley tried not to fidget. He dared a glance over to Gabriel, whose eyes were still closed, looking serene. What was he supposed to be doing? It couldn’t be as simple as lying still like this. Did Gabriel want something? Expect something? Of course he did. He always did. And it was Crowley’s job to figure out what that was, and give it to him.
But what? He felt like a lost sailor, adrift on a blank sea, fighting desperately to make sense of a garbled map. The sound of the fountain pounded in his ears. As the seconds dragged by, Crowley wished Gabriel would just get up. Look at him with cruelty in his eyes, put his hands on him, and start in on whatever he had planned.
This was the worst part, always the worst part. When Gabriel stalked him like prey, silent, anticipatory, while Crowley waited for the command, for the harm. Once it started, he had only one task: to endure. He would not die, he had no need to fight for survival. There was nothing he could do but suffer, and that, in a way, was freeing. He could not fail. He could slide into a passive state, nothing more than a body awash in pain and waiting patiently for it to end. No control. No choices to make.
Here, before that, when he had to pay attention, when there was something to do, some order to obey, when he stood on the knife’s edge of failure - that was true torture. It had to be worse, said the twisted logic of his life here - something that made him wish for holy water on his skin, for Gabriel’s fists against his face, was terrible enough to be avoided at all costs.
Crowley opened his eyes and rolled over onto his face, grinding his fists into the pillow. Stop thinking about all that, he told himself. What’s the use revisiting old memories? It’s over now. Leave it be.
But his body refused to heed the chiding. It never did. Even here, in the bookshop, more often than not Crowley still felt tight with dread, like he was back on the floor, trying to figure Gabriel’s mood from a quick glance at his shoes, the indecipherable coolness of his voice. Back in that tight dark place where figuring out what Gabriel wanted, how to please him, drove Crowley’s every movement, every thought. He felt like a tuning fork, struck hard and vibrating at the frequency of Gabriel, Gabriel, Gabriel, Master, Master, Master . Always alert, tense with anticipation, a cord pulled too-tight and ready to snap at the slightest touch.
Though he loved Aziraphale, he hated being a ringing piece of metal aligned to the whims of another, how brittle and hard it made him.
Still, he couldn’t stay here forever. In fact, he didn’t think he could stay in bed any longer, now that even wakeful dozing left him easy prey to the memories that played in his head, loud and unbidden. It seemed, based on his tentative sensing, that Aziraphale was gone from the flat, and so it was as good a time as any to try and drag himself back to life.
Crowley wandered into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. Sleepiness tugged at the edges of him, as if he was half here, half still in the dreamworld he was trying to leave. He rolled his shoulders, tried to shake if off.
Then he heard the obnoxiously cheerful tinkle of the downstairs bell. Shit . Aziraphale was home.
He couldn’t let the angel see him like this, disoriented and cranky, barely recovered from whatever he’d done to himself in his sleep. He searched the kitchen for something that might help. Espresso . He’d make some for himself and have a hot mocha waiting for Aziraphale. Perfect.
He hurried to the machine, trying to remember how it worked. Nothing came to him. It figured. Useless. It was so hard, these days, to focus on anything. He’d even forgotten to send out for dinner delivery the other day, even after Aziraphale asked, even with the written instructions left for him.
Come on, come on.
Crowley told himself that it would all be okay if he could just get some espresso made, put some caffeine into his veins before Aziraphale came upstairs, present the angel with a ready made drink to welcome him home. All the world seemed to rest on this one task.
Get it together. Calm down.
Crowley growled at the machine, fretting at the levers, whacking buttons with a growing franticness. He needed to make it work. He had to. Damp coffee grounds spilled over the counter.
Fuck! Crowley wanted to cry, wanted to run and hide. Couldn’t even get this one thing done. Footsteps on the stairs. He's coming, he’s coming.
“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s voice was nearly as chipper as the bell that had signaled his arrival. Crowley tried to bite back his frustration, to smooth down his ragged edges and be kind, be gentle, be what the angel deserved.
“It’s so good to see you!”
Good.
You.
Aziraphale’s happiness, his pleasure , hit Crowley like a crashing wave, and he felt himself crushed under it, lungs filling, face scraped against the sand, and then it all fell apart.
***
“I love you.”
Crowley was in bed, and Aziraphale was in bed with him. He had just ruined everything, smashed it all to bits, and still, here was the bed, here was Aziraphale, and here he was, Crowley, here, somehow, despite it all.
Aziraphale’s arm was draped over Crowley’s shoulder, the angel’s hand reaching for his to hold. Crowley couldn’t conceive of taking it, not with his own hands, filthy with violence. Nothing so precious or pure could touch him. That much he knew for sure; a truth burned into his flesh. He curled his fingers into a hard fist, palsied with regret.
That regret rocked through him, threatening to break him like a tiny boat against the rocks of shame and self-destruction. He saw the wreckage of other voyages, already scattered there; himself shoving Aziraphale, the bitterness in his voice, the wounded look in the angel’s eyes. Here he would crash, again and again, broken on these unforgiving shores, a helpless vessel tossed by vicious seas.
Was that all there was? Wreckage and shame and bitterness, wounds and regret and viciousness?
No. Here on the life raft of the bed, something bright, the beam of a lighthouse calling out another way. In the knotted tangle of shame and rage and grief, something else: Want .
Not Aziraphale’s. Crowley’s. Crowley wanted . Wanted the touch of his angel. Wanted forgiveness. Safety. Hope. Wanted it to be okay. Wanted Aziraphale. Wanted to take the angel’s hand. Wanted to believe that if he took that hand it would not burn, would not pull back.
He unclenched his hand and lifted it up, finding Aziraphale’s and holding it tightly. The storm raged on, but here was a lifeline, a buoy. He clung to it. He didn’t deserve it but he wanted to; and that was enough, to want, to have a fierce desire of his own, which was for Aziraphale, and for himself, and for a future where they stood together on dry land.