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Aziraphale bit his lip hard, trying desperately not to cry out even as the whip opened another line across his lower back. He couldn’t cry out, couldn’t afford to show how much this hurt. It would be regarded as disobedience.
But the many-tailed whip burned, a searing pain that made his vision flicker and dim. Gouging him open, a horrible torment that seemed as if it would never end. Lash after lash, countless strikes.
Blood trickled into his mouth as he bit his lip even harder, fighting against the urge to scream. He choked it down, choked everything down.
He couldn’t scream. He couldn’t scream. He couldn’t scream.
When the torture finally stopped, he hung limp from his suspended wrists, face pressed to the whipping post. Shuddering rushed through every muscle, and he couldn’t manage even a single breath.
Gabriel strolled into his field of view, a satisfied smile on his face. He flicked the whip again, casually, and blood spattered the white marble. “Man, this thing is great for teaching lessons. Huh, Aziraphale?”
Aziraphale attempted to say yes, of course, he’d learned his lesson. But he couldn’t form the words.
“I bet you’re gonna be a lot more careful with your miracle allotment from now on.” Still smiling, Gabriel brushed the whip against Aziraphale’s upper arm. The flesh sizzled, but Aziraphale didn’t cry out. “I should have upgraded to a cursed whip ages ago. This does so much more damage.”
And it would be damage that Aziraphale couldn’t heal. Not as destructive as Hellfire, but still something that harmed angelic beings on a fundamental level.
Gabriel moved behind him and chuckled. “Man, that’s gonna scar. That’ll be a good reminder for you, huh? Except that you can’t see your back.”
Aziraphale might not be able to see his back, but he could certainly feel it. It was on fire, such agony that he could hardly stay conscious even now. And the pain in his shoulders and wrists, worsening every second that he hung from the post, legs refusing to support him…
And then a blistering wave of flame seared across his arms, another strike of the whip, and he screamed. Tried to scream, rather, and failed utterly. He had no breath left.
The lack of breath was a blessing. Gabriel wouldn’t punish him for showing weakness now.
“There, that’s more like it! You can see those scars, no problem.” Gabriel was in front of him again, a smile firmly in place as he poked Aziraphale’s torn arms, as if trying to force him to whimper. “Have you learned your lesson, Aziraphale? Will you behave?”
He simply had to reply. That was the last step. And then he could go home, to his bookshop.
“Yes,” Aziraphale whispered, words barely audible even to himself. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, the rushing blood enough to very nearly drown out everything else. And his vision was cutting out again, spots of black blotting out Gabriel’s satisfied expression. “I’ll… behave.”
“Great! Gotta practice that self control, champ.” Gabriel snapped his fingers, and the restraints vanished. Aziraphale fell, crashing to the marble floor in a heap. “Angels should never do anything self-indulgent. Our duties are more important than enjoying ourselves.”
Whistling to himself, Gabriel strolled away. The whip dragged behind him, leaving trails of red against the white floor.
For a time, Aziraphale simply laid there. His back was on fire, agony licking at the edges of his wounds with each ragged breath. He tried to stop breathing—it wasn’t strictly necessary—but the pain overwhelmed his attempts at control.
The cold, sticky wetness of blood seemed to be slowing, at least. No longer flowing freely. And yet, the instant he moved, it would tear open again. He knew it from past experience, although the whip had never been cursed before. This would likely be even worse, in many respects.
He tried to shift an arm. His vision blacked out at once, world receding until there was only the distant echo of his breaths. The urge to scream hovered around the edges of his awareness, but he seemed to lack the strength.
And besides. To scream would be disobedient. To show pain, also disobedient. He must stay in control.
Aziraphale laid on the cold floor a while longer, still unable to control himself enough to move. Moving risked far too much. But he had to get back to the shop, at least.
To bed, preferably. If he could get to bed, then he could simply lie there until his wounds healed. He must get there soon, soon. Eventually, Gabriel would come back to see if he was still here, sprawled on the cold, blood-spattered marble.
If he was…
Aziraphale did not want to think about that. Would not allow himself to think about it. He must be in control, must be strong.
He summoned all his courage, all the strength and endurance of a Principality. Made to endure pain without complaint, made to be a warrior with no weaknesses. He rather failed at that, on a day to day basis, but he must call on that aspect of himself now.
Gritting his teeth hard so he would not scream, he flicked a finger and miracled himself back to Earth.
The pain tore through him, his whole body compressed by the miracle, and he held himself as tightly together as possible. As if at attention, refusing to allow himself even a second’s relaxation of his tight control. Self-indulgence was not angelic.
He landed in bed, albeit not with his head on a pillow. Lying on his stomach, face pressed into the blanket. Trickles of liquid ran down his back and arms, wounds disturbed by the miracle.
A few tears fell, too, and Aziraphale was too weak to suppress them. But he choked back any cries, biting his lip until it bled again. He must not scream. He must not scream.
Fiery agony blazed through his injuries, the curse eating away at damaged flesh. He almost attempted to heal it, even though the healing would most likely fail. But he couldn’t. He must be obedient, and right now obedience meant enduring his torment without complaint.
He could see his left arm, just barely out of the corner of his eye. Strips of flesh hanging loose, shredded away by the whip. Torn down to the bone.
Mercifully, he passed out at the sight.
---
“Aziraphale!” Crowley banged on the door again, grinding his teeth. “Angel, let me in!”
Something had to be wrong. They were supposed to be meeting up today, had arranged it for when Crowley got back from America. And gosh, it had gotten easier to make those arrangements, to coordinate their missions.
One quick phone call, that was all it had taken. A few minutes spent just chatting, enjoying the sound of each other’s voices. And then, at the end of the call, Crowley suggested meeting at their usual spot.
Only he’d spent the last hour in St. James’s Park, glaring at increasingly irritated ducks who wanted food, and Aziraphale hadn’t shown. He hadn’t picked up the phone when Crowley called from a phone booth. And now, he wasn’t answering his door.
For a split second, Crowley had a mad impulse to hop back in the Bentley and crash through the front doors. Sweep in, rescue Aziraphale from… whatever. And sweep back out.
But that was definitely overkill. He tried the doorknob instead, jiggling it with a gentle miracle this time, and it yielded to him.
“Aziraphale?” he called again as he stepped inside, casting out his metaphysical attention. He could feel Aziraphale’s familiar presence, the warmth of it soothing him, but it was unusually…
Still? No, that wasn’t it. Aziraphale often stayed in one place reading until spiders started putting webs in his hair. This was something different, something much less mentally active. Was he asleep?
“Angel, it’s Crowley.” Moving slowly through the shop, Crowley pulled off his hat and tossed it on the counter. “Hey, I’m coming inside. You okay?”
Nothing.
Heart beating faster, Crowley stomped through the shop, checking every room downstairs. Then he ran up the spiral staircase, springing up steps two at a time, and ran flat out for Aziraphale’s bed.
There he was, limp and unmoving. At first, Crowley thought he was wearing a dark red shirt, which was weird.
But it wasn’t a shirt. It was dried blood, all over his back and arms.
A sharp, agonized cry tore from Crowley. He raced to Aziraphale’s side and flung himself down on his knees next to the bed, hyperventilating. “Angel. Aziraphale!”
There was no response. Gasping, Crowley touched his cheek with a trembling hand, stroked across the fevered skin. Gently, he slid one hand under Aziraphale’s head, turning him so his face wasn’t smashed into the blanket.
“Angel,” Crowley called again, rubbing lightly at the deep indents that the rumpled blanket had left in Aziraphale’s brow. “Aziraphale, wake up, please wake up!”
Shitshitshit, it would probably be cruel to rouse him when he was this hurt. Crowley swallowed hard, chest heaving. Don’t panic. Couldn’t afford to panic.
But holy fuck, what had happened to his best friend? Aziraphale was a disaster, eyelashes crusted with dried tears, skin feverish. And the injuries…
“Gabriel,” Crowley snarled. “That fucking wanker. It had to be Gabriel, again.”
But this was worse than the last time Gabriel had tortured Aziraphale. Or at least, the last time Crowley had cared for him in the aftermath. It might have happened during their estrangement, too.
Crowley let out a long shuddering breath, one that turned into a few breathless sobs. He wiped his eyes, drying the tears, and tried to regain control.
Last time, Aziraphale had been pretty torn up, but he was conscious when Crowley found him. Conscious and still smiling even through the agony, insisting he was fine. In other words, being a good little soldier.
This was something else. Crowley bent over his friend, gently touching the back of Aziraphale’s plump hand. The lash marks curled around his soft forearms, his skin and muscle utterly pulped. Almost disintegrating, like it had been burned away with acid.
Sudden, burning bitterness surged up Crowley’s throat, and he barely even had time to twist away so he wouldn’t puke on the bed. He retched, stomach cramping and churning. Clutching at the blanket, he hung his head and moaned.
Tears fell, splashing in the puddle of liquidy vomit, and he moaned again. Breaths ragged, he tugged at his tie, loosening it. He couldn’t get enough air.
“Oh, Aziraphale. Oh, fuck, angel, what did he do to you?” Still on his knees, Crowley rocked his weight back and dropped his head in his hands. He struggled to breathe, to calm down. To pull himself together so he could take care of Aziraphale.
Breaking down was unacceptable, especially for a demon who had been tortured plenty of times. It wasn’t anything new. He had to get himself under control, now.
Head spinning, he shoved upright and miracled a basin with water, along with cloths and bandages. Trembling, he sat on the edge of the bed and stared down at the injuries. Might not be able to heal all of this himself, not at once.
“Okay, angel,” he said, more for himself than anything. Although maybe Aziraphale could still hear him. “Gonna see what’s with your arms first. I’m really sorry if this hurts.”
He exhaled slowly, gathering his courage, then slid his hand underneath Aziraphale’s. He lifted up just a little, bending to examine the damage.
It was more than just a whipping. Something ate away at Aziraphale even now, nibbling through the damaged flesh. And not just here, in the physical realm. When Crowley cast his attention deeper, it was gnawing at Aziraphale’s True Form too.
“Hold up,” he said, the words loud in the silence of the bookshop. “Did he seriously torture you with a fucking cursed whip?”
“Y-yes.”
Crowley startled at the weak voice. He inhaled sharply, then bent down into the view of the glassy hazel eyes. “Oh gosh, angel. I didn’t realize you’d come around. Listen, I’m gonna take care of you. It’s okay.”
Aziraphale struggled to focus on him, breaths hitched and shallow. “Gabriel… wanted to…”
“It doesn’t matter what he wanted,” Crowley said in the most soothing voice he could manage while shaking with pure rage. “I’m going to patch you up.”
“He wanted… Crowley, listen to me.” A shudder went through Aziraphale, his eyes closing for a moment. “S-scars. Reminder.”
The meaning registered alongside a dull ache in Crowley’s stomach, along with echoes of pain in his own old scars and injuries. Heaven was every bit as bad as Hell. “I can leave the scars, if you want me too. I’ll do anything you want.”
“Well, it’s…” Aziraphale’s eyes closed again, and a tear rolled down his cheek. “H-Heaven’s… will. Obedient. I-I have to be… obedient.”
Bile rose in Crowley’s throat again, and he took a deep breath. The stench of blood only worsened his nausea. “Okay, Aziraphale. I’ll fix as much of the damage as I can, but I can’t do it all at once. Gonna work in stages, okay?”
Aziraphale didn’t reply this time; he seemed to be close to passing out again. Which would be a mercy, honestly.
As gently as possible, Crowley sent out a light miracle. One that would skim across all of Aziraphale’s injuries, drawing out most of the infernal energy. Wouldn’t actually heal anything, not yet, but it would stop the curse from causing more damage.
Aziraphale tensed, breaths stuttering, and then bit his lip hard. Another tear rolled down his cheek, but he didn’t cry out. He didn’t so much as whimper.
“Sorry,” Crowley said softly. “I know it hurts.”
“It’s… fine.” Sweat broke out across Aziraphale’s face, and he bit down on his lip so hard that blood trickled to the tartan blanket.
It was absolutely not in any way fine, but Crowley knew Aziraphale too well to argue with him right now. It would only make things harder on both of them.
Aziraphale flinched heavily as the miracle cleansed his back of infernal poison, but he still didn’t make a sound. Crowley stroked his hair, helpless to do much else just yet. “S’ gonna be okay, angel. I’m right here.”
Swallowing hard, Crowley dampened one of the cloths and wiped away the blood trickling across Aziraphale’s chin. He rinsed it again, then carefully sponged away sweat and tears. He was gonna have to actually try healing some of this next, and it wouldn’t be fun for either of them. Better to soothe Aziraphale a little first.
Aziraphale’s breaths calmed slightly, although his whole body still trembled. His fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach out but couldn’t with his arms so mangled.
“I’m right here, angel.” Crowley gathered his hand, bent over it, kissed it. A tear escaped, dripping to Aziraphale’s hot skin. The fever should drop eventually, once he wasn’t being eaten alive by infernal energy. “S’ gonna be okay, promise. You want me to focus on your arms first?”
“Y-yes, but…” Aziraphale’s expression wrenched with pain, and he gritted his teeth again. Like he’d almost cried out, but managed to choke it off. “Make sure… Gabriel wanted the scars, wanted me to see, that’s why…”
That’s why he’d whipped Aziraphale’s arms, not just his back. “Don’t worry, angel. I promise I’ll remember to leave the scars.”
The promise broke his heart, brought on another wave of nausea followed by a tsunami of fury. This wasn’t fucking fair. Aziraphale shouldn’t have to endure this, and shouldn’t have to be left with the scars just so that massive wanker Gabriel would be satisfied.
Crowley kissed Aziraphale’s hand again, letting his lips linger, trying to calm himself. Then he hovered one hand above Aziraphale’s arm and slowly began to knit the shredded flesh back together.
Agony flashed in Aziraphale’s hazel eyes, and then they fogged over with blank shock. His breaths went uneven, shaky, and he clenched his teeth again. But not a single noise escaped.
“It’s okay, Aziraphale,” Crowley soothed, ducking to catch his gaze. “You can cry out if you need to. Scream, even. It’s okay. You don’t have to hide your pain, not with me.”
Aziraphale gave a tiny head shake, biting his lip so hard that it bled again. Crowley’s heart broke as all of Aziraphale’s past comments bounced around inside his head. Comments about the need to be obedient, about how signs of weakness were unacceptable in an angel, about how he must always stay in control.
He wasn’t in control now, shivering, eyes glazed over, tears running down his cheeks. No matter how carefully Crowley healed the wounds, it would be agony for him. And if Aziraphale didn’t express that pain—both physical and emotional—Crowley half suspected he’d go mad.
---
Aziraphale bit his lip harder and harder, struggling to breathe through his increasingly stuffed up nose. Tears fell, persisting no matter how much he battled against them.
He was an angel. He must be obedient, not self-indulgent. He must not cry out, must not show weakness, must not admit to pain.
Crowley’s hand trembled against his, and the poor old dear looked rather ill. Aziraphale tried to focus on that. Crowley was trying so very hard to help him, as gently as possible, and he would feel terrible if Aziraphale started screaming during the extremely careful healing.
But oh, it hurt. No matter how cautious Crowley was, the pain only worsened. Shredded, charred tissue fusing back together, disintegrated bits of flesh flickering back into existence, skin painstakingly stitched together in a way that would leave the scars Gabriel expected.
A sharp jolt of agony went through Aziraphale as Crowley repaired damaged muscle, and he clenched his jaw hard. He must not scream.
“Oh, angel, I’m so fucking sorry this hurts. I wish I could make it better.” Crowley’s lip wobbled, and he smoothed Aziraphale’s hair again. “S’ gonna be okay, promise. Almost done with this arm, and then I’ll start on the next.”
It was unbearable. The pain already threatened to drive Aziraphale to the breaking point. And he still had one entire arm to go, not to mention the demolished wreck that had once been his back.
But he must be strong. He turned his attention to Crowley again, which had always served him quite well in the past. Studied the sharp outfit, the same one that Crowley had worn in the church. And here he was, rushing to the rescue once again.
“Thank… you,” Aziraphale managed before the pain nearly knocked him unconscious again. Oh, there was so much more he wanted to say. How glad he was that Crowley was here, how sorry he was that Crowley had to see him in such a condition. But further words refused to come.
“You don’t have to thank me,” Crowley said softly. “We’re friends. Besides, you’ve patched me up plenty of times. Just did my feet a few weeks ago, yeah?”
Yes, and Crowley had screamed as Aziraphale bathed his burned feet, extracted the holiness, swathed them in careful bandages. Bitterness welled in Aziraphale’s chest, a festering wound. Why was Crowley allowed to scream? Why was he allowed to show pain and weakness?
Because he was a demon, of course, corrupt and self-indulgent. Angels must hold themselves to… a higher standard. That was what Heaven always said.
The bitter jealousy remained, Aziraphale’s urge to scream building as Crowley repaired his other arm. He bit it back, clenching his teeth as hard as he could without breaking them, forcing himself to be obedient. He must not scream. He would be punished if he screamed.
It was all fracturing now, the words splintering into bits and fragments of agony. Aziraphale could hardly breathe, losing himself as Crowley mended his injuries and spoke to him. Some of the words reached him, murmured reassurances, but the vast majority were drowned out under the racing drumbeat of Aziraphale’s heart.
No, not a drumbeat. A countdown, a timer, to the point when he would explode. He struggled to hold himself together, but pieces kept flying off. Fracturing, leaving gaps in his mind, gaps that were very quickly filled with the relentless chant of can’t scream can’t scream can’t scream
Burning. So much burning. On fire with the lingering bits of the curse, sweat pouring down his body, convulsive shudders. Everything boiling over. Sanity evaporating in the relentless heat of torment.
“Aziraphale. Aziraphale!” Crowley’s voice broke through, the sudden terror registering even as Aziraphale crumbled. He looked up through the haze, trying to focus on the frantic golden eyes that now hovered just above him. “Angel, you’re driving yourself fucking mad and you’re gonna give yourself a stroke. Your corporation’s blood pressure is through the roof. You’re scaring the shit out of me.”
Oh. He didn’t want to do that.
Aziraphale tried to speak, but the injunction against making a sound seared through him again. He couldn’t open his mouth. If he opened his mouth, he would scream, and he wasn’t allowed to—
“Scream, angel. Please. I’m fucking begging you, don’t try to keep this in.” Crowley was almost sobbing, breaths quick and shivery, tears running down his cheeks. “I’ve gotta do your back now, and if I discorporate you by trying to heal you…”
Aziraphale managed to shake his head, just a little. His head roared, heart pounding so hard that each beat felt like a blow. But he couldn’t show pain.
“Listen. I know what Gabriel told you. I know all of Heaven’s manipulative bullshit. I lived with it once, remember?” Crowley bent over his hand again, kissing it so tenderly that Aziraphale lost control over a fresh wave of tears. “Trust me, angel. Trying to hold it all in, to control all the pain, to not show any weakness… that is what will break you. Please, you’re safe with me. I won’t judge you. No one else is here, only me. Trust me.”
The earnest, desperate words broke Aziraphale’s heart, even with his agony. He could trust Crowley. He did trust Crowley. Even to see his pain.
Aziraphale whimpered, tears overflowing. “It… hurts. It hurts. It hurts.”
“I know, angel.”
“It hurts!” Aziraphale sobbed, whimpered again. And then a weak cry burst out, just a little one, barely audible. “Crowley, make it stop hurting, make it stop, make it stop!”
And then he was screaming, the agony exploding from him. He clung to Crowley’s hand, crushing down on it, desperate for an anchor amid the storm. Pain, so much pain, so much cruelty! Why was Heaven like this?
“That’s it, Aziraphale. I’m gonna make it stop, I promise.” Crowley sobbed again, holding his hand tightly. “It’s okay. You cry, scream, whatever you need to do. I’ve got you.”
Aziraphale certainly cried and screamed and whatever else he needed to do. He couldn’t stop. All else receded, everything except Crowley and himself and the indescribable agony.
There were no words for it, no way for him to express it rationally. He hurt, and it wasn’t fair that he hurt, and so he screamed.
It was as if his outburst relieved the pressure. Oh, he still hurt, and hurt terribly. But even as he wailed desperately against the agony of having his back repaired, the torment that had been building up inside him eased. His mind remained fractured by pain, world splintered around him, but he was no longer completely in danger of falling apart.
When the pain diminished, he still whimpered. The pain wasn’t gone. The worst of the burning agony had ceased, yes, but different hurt bubbled up. The delight on Gabriel’s face, the cruelty of his words, the pleasure he took from Aziraphale’s suffering. Heaven’s approval of such methods. The anguish of being unable to escape.
Aziraphale wept, then, wracking sobs that shuddered through his whole body and ignited the pain in recently healed wounds. He whimpered, sobbed, cried out at his distress. It wasn’t fair. Had he really been so horrible as to deserve this?
When the anguish grew so unbearable that he thought he might crumble again, he focused on Crowley. Crowley was still speaking to him gently, washing away the blood with damp cloths. Careful, light strokes across Aziraphale’s arms and back, cleaning away the evidence of Heaven-sanctioned torture.
But not all the evidence. There, writhing around his forearms, were the raised scars that Gabriel had found so exciting, the ones meant to remind Aziraphale of his failure.
Aziraphale burst into tears again, struggling to reach out. He caught Crowley’s jacket and tugged, desperate. Crowley had been with him this whole time, nonjudgmental, kind. But Aziraphale needed even more from him now.
Without hesitation, Crowley went to him. He climbed into Aziraphale’s bed and gathered him close, holding him. Kisses rained down on his head, along with a shower of tears.
“I’m sorry,” Crowley whispered against his ear. “I’m sorry, angel. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”
Aziraphale wanted to say that he was all right, that it was fine, that he was a Principality and as such could endure anything. But that was not the truth, and the pain had stripped away his ability to lie.
So instead, he curled up in Crowley’s arms, buried his face in the solid shoulder, and released all illusions of control. He would cry, wail, whatever he must. And no matter what he did, no matter how badly he fell apart, he knew Crowley would never judge him for it.
---
One week later
“You really did do a magnificent job,” Aziraphale said, voice trembling as badly as his hands. He traced his fingers across the scars on his left arm, almost reverent, then glanced at Crowley.
Crowley looked like he was about to cry. He gave a tiny, one shouldered shrug. “Nnh. Not the, er, usual type of art I do, but it if keeps you safe…”
“It will.” Aziraphale desperately hoped to avoid ever being whipped again, but there was always the possibility. There was also the possibility that Gabriel would check at some point to be sure he hadn’t healed himself fully. “Thank you, dear boy.”
“Don’t need to thank me. I just… really wish it hadn’t hurt you so much.” Crowley swallowed hard, lip trembling as he tried to fight back his own emotions. “And I really wish you didn’t have to keep the damn scars. That’s just cruel.”
“I suspect that’s rather the point.” Aziraphale moved closer to him again, wincing a little. He was only a touch sore, his repaired wounds still sensitive even after days of mostly sleeping and recovering. “Gabriel wanted to be sure I remembered precisely what he’s allowed to do to me, even on a whim. I suspect…”
He hesitated. Aziraphale often suspected many things about Heaven, but speaking them was a different matter. Voicing doubts was as forbidden as screaming in pain.
Still, it was most likely that Gabriel had simply been having a bad day and wanted to hurt someone. Especially since Aziraphale hadn’t come anywhere close to exceeding his miracle allotment, even with tending to Crowley’s feet recently.
Crowley’s brows drew together as he glanced over. “You can tell me, y’know. Whatever you say stays with me.”
“I know,” Aziraphale replied softly. And what a gift that was, to be able to express himself freely to someone without fear that it would be twisted and used to hurt him.
When no suspicions were spoken, Crowley snapped his fingers. Mugs materialized on the bedside table, and Crowley held one out to him. “Cocoa? Could get you something else, if you’d rather.”
“No, cocoa sounds perfect.” Aziraphale took a long drink of it, focusing on the sweetness. It tasted wonderful, almost enough to raise his spirits.
Carefully, Crowley wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Anything else I can get you?”
“Not just now, thank you.” And oh, he had so, so much more that he must thank Crowley for. But how could he find the words?
Instead of searching for them just yet, Aziraphale leaned against Crowley’s trim side and drank the cocoa. The familiar taste soothed him again, bringing him back to the usual rhythms of his life. He would need to report into Gabriel again sometimes, yes, and that cast a long shadow over his life here. But still, his everyday life was full of lovely things like cocoa, soft blankets, and Crowley’s company. Appreciating them again was a lovely distraction from all that had happened.
And as Aziraphale surrendered to those familiar aspects of life, he let his mind search for the words to express how he felt. Doing so was always difficult, especially with their Opposite Sides and Heaven’s expectations of him. But he trusted Crowley, with both his pain and his joy.
“It means a great deal to me,” Aziraphale finally blurted.
Crowley turned towards him again, eyebrows raised in question. “Mm?”
“That you… made me scream.” Aziraphale winced at the look of immediate alarmed horror on Crowley’s face. “No, no. I mean… you told me that I could, that I didn’t have to hide it from you. It’s, um… rather the opposite of what Gabriel has always told me.”
Crowley’s expression softened, and he gave a little nod. “Yeah, I know. And I meant what I said. You can always talk to me about anything, angel. Or just… cry, scream, whatever you need. I won’t judge. I just want you to have somewhere… safe.”
Voice breaking, Crowley hurriedly looked away. His jaw tightened as he once again engaged in his own battle not to show pain.
Slowly, Aziraphale wrapped his scarred arms around the demon who had done so much to protect him, to care for him. He drew Crowley into a hug, held him close. “And the same goes for you, my dear. You’re safe with me, too. You don’t have to hide. You can trust me.”
Crowley let out a quiet sob, hugging him back, and Aziraphale let his own tears fall. Life was rather difficult for both of them, and perhaps always would be. But Crowley had been quite right: it was much easier to survive that pain when it could be safely expressed.