Hurt Aziraphale - Tumblr Posts
White Walls and Dead Air
They were dying. They were dying and there was nothing Aziraphale could do to stop it. He had his orders, and he couldn’t interfere. He was the protector of humanity, the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, and all he could do was watch as they dropped like flies. He was touching them, mostly. No one else would. No one else could. He was smoothing his bare hands over their fevered and blackened skin. They would wheeze and cough and stretch out for him as he walked away to the next body, pride crushed long ago by hours of agony, but it was somehow even harder to leave the thousands of people he had yet to reach than it was to walk away.
He thinks this must be what starving feels like. To call out for something so desperately with every fiber of your being, something to end the pain. He hasn’t stopped praying in days. Begging. He thinks he’s dying with them--he feels it in his chest, seeping into his lungs with every breath of the rancid air. Flies buzz over the bodies, like vultures, and rats hold back in the corners of rooms and alleys, and Aziraphale can’t interfere. He can’t.
He doesn’t understand. No one told him why and he doesn’t understand.
It’s after the fourth day that he decides he hates God. He’s too tired to hold it back. Too miserable. Too busy dying. He knows he’ll go back on it later. He knows that he’ll repent later, and he’ll mean it, he thinks, once he gains some perspective, but there is nothing that could stop this bone-deep agony from churning and rising into something ugly. He’s not supposed to feel this way. He’s an angel, he really shouldn’t be thinking these things. Blind obedience is what they were created for. It’s in this moment that he can admit to a flaw in the Almighty’s design. If she wanted soldiers, she shouldn’t have given them the capacity to love.
It’s on the seventh day, and isn’t that ironic, that his saving grace appears. Crowley. Through the haze of sick and death and flies, Crowley emerges--Aziraphale can do nothing but watch after his eyes catch on Crowley’s form, purposeful and sure--walks to him through the maze of bodies, takes his arm and tugs him away. “Crowley, stop, please, let me go,” he’s protesting, but it’s weak. He’s not even trying, just letting himself go. He’s the protector of humanity. The Guardian of the Eastern Gate. He could destroy Crowley if he wanted. As much as they bicker about who will win in the end they both know hell will lose. God doesn’t say much, not anymore, but She did say this. Hell will lose. Aziraphale was built for that inevitable battle. He could tear Crowley apart. He doesn’t. He doesn’t do anything. In the end, even his protests die out in favor of silence and he just lets himself be pulled.
A part of him, a part of him that he hates, is glad to leave. He wishes he continued to argue. Wishes he didn’t want to leave with Crowley. Wishes he was a better angel, or maybe a worse one, depending on your perspective. He’s never thought in terms of perspective before. He doesn’t think he likes it.
He doesn’t know how long they’ve been walking. It feels endless. Crowley is walking quickly, or he wants to, but every once in a while he’ll glance at Aziraphale and adjust his pace to the dragging of his feet. Aziraphale is so tired, and so, so full of hate. He’s starting to understand why Crowley sleeps so much. Is this what it’s like to be a demon? To be so full of bitterness?
It’s slow going. The streets are cramped and filthy, and weaving in and out takes time, despite the lack of people. They’re all inside. Hiding. Every once in a while they pass a cart stacked with bodies and Aziraphale doesn’t even have it in him to be horrified, doesn’t feel anything at all anymore. The sky is a beautiful blue, and there’s crying coming from an alley to their left, a woman, and Aziraphale isn’t going to check on her. He doesn’t even think he’s dying anymore. He thinks that maybe he’s finished, a wandering wraith, and Crowley has come to take him to hell for his sins. Except that heaven and hell are only for humans, and nothing is supposed to happen to angels and demons when they die. Maybe this is all he gets. This nothing. He wouldn’t be surprised if God didn’t want him anymore after this; if she just let him go, let him slip between the cracks.
It’s only after the streets have started to open up, only after the dirt turns to grass and things have stopped dying that Crowley lets them slow. He pulls Aziraphale up a grassy hill and sits him down under an apple tree. Aziraphale can’t help but laugh when he sees the apples. The laughter is rattling around his insides, bouncing off of his walls and coming out hollow, the way a voice sounds when it has nothing to echo off of. He’s changed his mind. This must be what a proper angel is supposed to feel like. He’s always hated the emptiness of heaven--the pristine white walls and the dead air--and he knows he’s never been quite right to think so, but now. Now look at him.
He’s still laughing the nothing laugh of an empty chapel and Crowley is looking at him like he’s the most terrifying thing he could have imagined, but the horrible irony of the Original Tempter taking him to an apple tree in this moment is cracking him open to reveal all of his cobwebs and there’s no stopping it. His wings burst out of the aether without his permission, powerful white sails that envelop his quaking corporation. His feathers are messy and dry, he didn’t think to groom them until it didn’t seem to matter anymore, and are so unkept that some feathers are starting to come loose in protest.
It’s like this, hunched over in sprawling laughter, that he feels the first touch. It’s tentative, shy, but undeniable. A hand on one of his primaries, straightening and smoothing it. His laughter dies at the touch, slowly sliding away to remind him of the exhaustion that’s been hounding him for days. His wings droop and open to reveal Crowley sitting parallel to Aziraphale, kneeling on the ground in front of him as if he would have waited patiently for Aziraphale to pull back the protective cover of his white feathers for centuries. His crimson hair is long, cascading down his back and over his shoulders in gentle waves, and his sharp features are softened by something flickering in his eyes, lending him a tenderness that Aziraphale hasn’t seen since Mesopotamia.
Crowley gets like this, sometimes. Lets his sharp edges fall away. Lets his defenses down for Aziraphale. He’s usually drunk. If he’s not drunk, he’s hurt. Or Aziraphale is. He’s… sweet like this. Peaceful. Aziraphale has caught him with children before, playing. The mothers would let him, smile at him, and slip children into his arms with ease and trust. It would make a throbbing pain go off in Aziraphale’s chest to see him like that and he’d have to look away. He’d then spend however long he could spare pretending he wasn’t stealing glances.
Crowley reaches forward, slowly, like Aziraphale is something wild that might run at the snap of a twig underfoot. His fingers are soft as he cards his them gently through Aziraphale’s hair, and his hands are warm, and there is something so knowing in this action that Aziraphale feels like he might shed his skin and slip into Crowley’s to get closer to it. He leans into the touch, a cat in the sun, and his eyes fall closed for a long moment before blinking open heavily. He doesn’t look up again--doesn’t need to when he has the touch to ground him in whatever this warmth is--instead his tired gaze stays on the grass and he lets himself feel: the rough texture of the thick blades beneath his fingers, the cool night air, so sweet after the miasmic haze of rot, Crowley’s hand on his cheek. Aziraphale lets his wings spread out around him, open and vulnerable and impossible to lift, he wonders how he ever managed to lift them at all, and he’s slumping forward into Crowley before he can stop himself.
Crowley moves forward to catch him with natural fluidity, like it’s easy, like he doesn’t even have to think, pushing up with his knees so that Aziraphale’s head is resting against his chest. Crowley’s arms wrap around him, one around his shoulders, another holding the back of his head carefully. Aziraphale wonders if anyone has ever been so very careful with him. He doesn’t know how long they stay there, but at some point he’s closed his eyes again and by the time he opens them the blue of the sky is streaked through with oranges and pinks and Crowley has wrapped his own sable wings around them both loosely in a protective shelter to block out the breeze, chilled by the sun’s impending disappearance over the horizon.
Aziraphale shifts against him, and when Crowley speaks Aziraphale can feel the soft rumble in his chest, “What can I do? What do you want from me?”
Aziraphale pulls himself up to press his eyes into Crowley’s neck, “Nothing.” There’s a long pause as neither of them move, “Stay.” His next word is a whisper, tentative and reaching, “Please.”
Crowley moves backwards, and for an awful second Aziraphale thinks he’s pulling back so that he can leave, but the catch in his breath is soothed by Crowley’s hand running down the length of his back, stopping to hold over the small of it, “Okay. Okay, angel. I’ll stay.”
Aziraphale lets out his breath in a gust of relief, and when Crowley continues to move he lets himself be maneuvered until he’s lying flat, cheek to the earth. He’s stretched out and pliant in the slightly damp grass and the soft sensations of the night are lulling the aching in his bones to a quiet hum. He thinks he should be surprised when he feels Crowley's fingers sink into his feathers but he’s really, really not. It makes sense that he’s there, that he saw the grime and the disorder to his feathers and he decided to make it right. He’s always been caring in a way Aziraphale has never managed. In an easy way, like giving these things to Aziraphale is nothing more than an extension of himself, like breathing.
Aziraphale can’t help but wonder what he did to deserve this from him. It feels like all he does is take from Crowley. He’s worried that there isn’t enough left of him to give after he’s exhausted so much of himself on heaven, on humanity, on all of the ways he’s tried to help and has come up wanting.
Crowley is working on his feathers properly now. He’s miracled up a damp cloth and is wiping each one clean of grime meticulously, pulling out any loose feathers and down he comes across along the way and dropping them into a forming pile at Aziraphale’s hip. It’s silent as he works. There are crickets, and frogs somewhere, but no one is crying, and no one is choking on their own life force, eyes wide and begging wordlessly for him to help. He’s so tired of helping. No. He’s not tired of helping. He’s tired of comforting. He knows he could stomach it all if he was helping, but he’s not, and he hasn’t in so very long, and what is even the point of him anymore?
Silent tears are slipping from his eyes and dripping into the grass and he’s shaking with grief and when did this happen? When did his emptiness start to feel like knives to his insides? Crowley makes a broken sound when he sees Aziraphale’s tears. Moves one of his steady hands to the center of his back and presses him down with it, just slightly, lending him comfort through the weight of it, tethering him. Crowley must decide this isn’t enough because he leans over his prone form and rests along his back, sliding the hand between his shoulder blades up to brush away the tears he can reach. Aziraphale can feel his breath on the back of his neck, cool and dry, and lets himself get lost in the sensation of the warm blanket of Crowley’s body. It’s sealing him up, whatever this is, patching his cracks and stoppering the holes that have been letting in water to drown him, and Aziraphale holds himself back from letting a low whine escape his throat before he can seem even more desperate than he already is.
After some time Crowley levers himself up again to continue, eventually tugging at Aziraphale’s shoulder, signaling for him to flip over and give him access to the underside of his wings. Aziraphale obeys ponderously, and it’s strange to feel the cold night air on his damp clothes, his skin still itching with indentations from the coarse grass. Crowley sets to work on the other side, and Aziraphale watches the pile of his discarded feathers grow.
His wings had been a constant discomfort, although he wasn’t aware of it, and having them groomed is akin to how he imagines Crowley feels after taking his hair down after a long day and shaking it out. Aziraphale hasn't seen this end-of-the-day routine often, but when he has the chance he always watches with fondness as Crowley runs his fingernails over his scalp and closes his eyes in pleasure at the freedom. It’s such a simple comfort. A loose relief.
Crowley touches his shoulder again, his fingers are cold now after being exposed to the chill of the air for so long, and Aziraphale rolls over onto his stomach, bringing his arms up to cushion his head. Crowley works the oil from the gland at the base of his wings, coating his palms, and sets to work on the second round.
He takes his time, laying each feather flat as he coats it with fresh oil. It’s another hour before he finishes, the sunset has brightened and faded, leaving new stars in its wake, but he never wavers. Crowley has taken care of him like this twice before, after both the flood and the crucifixion. Actually, they took care of each other after the flood: curled together in the corner of one of the few unoccupied roofs left to stand on. They were soaked by then, and it took a steady stream of miracles from them both to keep from being swept away by the current, but neither of them could leave. They didn’t discuss it, simply sat together in the perpetually rising rapids and listened. They took turns mourning, falling apart and putting each other back together as they watched the world die. It took days. The animals went first, then the humans. The last to go were the birds, but the two didn’t stick around to watch them drop from the sky in exhaustion. They didn’t mention it, would never mention it, would never let the horror of those days rise up from the secret places they buried them in.
The crucifixion was three days of agony. The Son of God gave up his spirit, taking his light, the light of the Almighty, with him into death, and for three long days and nights there was nothing but a devastation so complete the humans were left groping their way across the earth, helpless and lost. It pressed in and ate at them, a despair so profound children didn’t stop crying until the sun finally rose on that third day. Aziraphale was shaking with it, anguished and breaking apart. He was created to serve, to be in the presence of God, and her absence… he had never felt anything so horrible in all of his existence. Crowley held him through it, whispered to him, touched him, reminded him again and again, “I’m here, angel, I’ve got you. You’re not alone.” And he wasn’t. He clung to Crowley like a life raft in a storm, and for the first time comprehended what it would be like to fall. He couldn’t… he wouldn’t.
Never again.
By the time Crowley finishes Aziraphale hasn’t been able to focus on anything but his touch for a long while and his wings are sleek and perfectly ordered in the moonlight. When his touch finally leaves Aziraphale misses him, but he makes no sound, simply flips back onto his stomach and raises his wing in invitation. They’d done this before. Crowley knows what he is asking. Aziraphale is breathless with anticipation, with longing, with hope, his heart beating double time at his small offering.
Crowley doesn’t hesitate, but crawls forward and wedges himself against Aziraphale’s side. He’s freezing, Aziraphale feels horrible that he didn’t notice before and shifts so that he’s lying on his side. He should have known, should have realized. Demons run cold--so deep under the earth, so far from the light--and Crowley has nothing to replace that glow, nothing but skin and bones. He pulls Crowley closer against him and wraps him up in his warm arms. If nothing else he can provide Crowley with this comfort.
Crowley reaches out slowly in return. He attaches himself to Aziraphale in increments: first coiling his arm around Aziraphale’s side, keeping the other furled tightly between their chests, then sliding a leg between Aziraphale’s knees. Aziraphale hugs him tight. No one has ever been so very aware of him. Of his corners and cracks. Aziraphale tries not to think this way, tries not to think about Crowley at all when he can help it. About the reverent way Crowley treats him. The way he steals glances and touches. The way his eyelashes cast shadows on his sharp cheeks and he leans towards Aziraphale like a plant in the sun.
The more he thinks about it the more he aches with the loss of him, and if Aziraphale lets himself feel the way his insides tear to pieces whenever Crowley leaves without saying goodbye he’ll never stop. So he doesn’t, even though the warm glow of being close is stealing his breath away and setting off a minefield’s worth of explosions in his head, he doesn’t think about it. He screws his face up tight and pulls Crowley’s shivering body closer and lets his wings thrum with the memory of his touch and he does not think about it.
He just doesn’t know what goodness is supposed to look like if it isn’t white walls and dead air. He hates it, he hates it with everything in him, and he thinks it makes him horrible, but the reality of his twisted existence is that he doesn’t know if he could stand without the crutch of heaven’s vague orders. So he pulls Crowley closer and tucks his head under his chin, letting his lips hover over the crown of Crowley’s head, don’t touch, careful not to touch, and he doesn’t think about any of it.
Crowley will be gone in the morning. He always is. Aziraphale can’t bear to think about that either. He thinks that if he feels Crowley slip out of his arms he might give himself up to it with wild abandon. Drag him back down. Beg him to stay, stay next to him forever, they’ll never have to untangle their limbs and no one will ever have to go, but he can't. He can’t make himself. Not after all this time. Instead, he lets himself drift off to the soft whir of the tender warmth in his chest, and he pretends that tomorrow he’ll wake with the sunrise, and everything will sparkle in the new light, and it will all be okay. Like this, Crowley curled close to his chest under a blanket of constellations, letting himself believe is as easy as falling asleep.