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Aziraphale had learned a number of things about earth during his time here. About the way birds flew south for the winter, the way only some trees lost their green in winter, and the way water ate through rock.
It was fascinating, really. One trickle of water chose an arbitrary pathway, then carved its choice into the stone, and soon that was the only place water could run. The more water, the deeper the path, until it became a great riverbed, a vast canyon.
People were like that, too. Thoughts and words wore grooves into them, making it more and more likely that the next thought, the next word, would find the same exact route.
He realized, perhaps too late, that Crowley had become such a canyon, formed by the repetition of certain words, certain beliefs.
You’re safe here. He can’t come in. It’s safe in the bookshop. Nothing can hurt you here.
It had seemed wise at the time. Perhaps it was wise at the time. But now, his beloved demon was trapped in the valley they had carved together, and it was time for them to start the long hike out.
Crowley didn’t like to leave the bookshop. With patience and love, Aziraphale managed to chaperone him to the apartment, for some looping rides in the Bentley. Later, to the park, the Ritz. He managed better and better every time, letting go of Aziraphale’s hand, arguing less and less whenever Aziraphale suggested an outing.
Still, he refused to go out alone. He needed his angel, needed the protection of Aziraphale’s presence. And while Aziraphale would have been happy to keep Crowley by his side all the time until the end of time, he knew that it was stifling Crowley. The demon, who had previously been so independent, who had cherished his time alone, was chafing under his own fears.
It was time, he felt, for a gentle push. They had practiced, they had discussed, they had waited. There was nothing more to be done to lay any more of a foundation. Crowley needed to start running his river down a new stone.
***
“Crowley, darling, do you think you could run an errand for me today?”
Crowley looked up from the plant he was coaching. “Where will you be?”
“I need to stay at the shop, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale sounded as apologetic as he could while still keeping the request casual. “There’s a very important collector coming to see me about a sale, but I need some paperwork dropped off at my attorney’s office.”
“Since when do you have an attorney?”
Crowley always was one for changing the subject.
“She handles everything I can’t, or don’t wish to, address with miracles. This is a historic building I own, and between the insurance and the taxes and the maintenance obligations, it’s simply prudent to retain one.”
Crowley looked suspicious. “Can’t you just mail them? Or miracle them over?”
“Unfortunately, these require a personal courier.”
“Get one of those bike boys to do it, then.” Crowley turned back to his plant as if the conversation was Definitively Over.
“Crowley, dearest, couldn’t you please take care of it for me? I don’t trust anyone else with these.”
Crowley sighed and rolled his eyes. He reminded Aziraphale of young Warlock in his petulant teen years. “What if I don’t want to go?”
Aziraphale knew he was treading on thin ice now, but was willing to risk a cold plunge for this. “I’d be rather disappointed, and somewhat curious about the reason why.”
Crowley narrowed his eyes at him. Aziraphale knew that Crowley’s pride, combined with his desire to please Aziraphale, was usually strong enough to override whatever hesitations would have held him back. He tried not to use this too much, and he never felt good about doing it, but nothing else had worked when it came to coaxing Crowley out of the bookshop on his own.
“If you’re going to be like that about it, then sure, I guess.”
Aziraphale ignored the tone and beamed at Crowley. “Thank you ever so much,” he said.
He made no mention of the fact that this would be Crowley’s first outing without Aziraphale. Treating this as inconsequential, he thought, would help reduce the anxiety. Of course, if Crowley mentioned it, he’d be more than willing to talk through it. But he’d let Crowley make that choice.
***
It wasn’t like Crowley didn’t know exactly what Aziraphale was doing, giving him those puppy dog eyes and a completely made up errand. But what was he going to say? ‘No, I won’t do what you’re asking, because I’m too useless and scared to leave the house by myself, please keep taking care of me until you realize just how pathetic I am?’
No, the only option was to say yes, so he had grabbed his sunglasses and a file folder he strongly suspected hadn’t existed until that morning and headed out the door.
London was the same as it always was, grey and bustling. Crowley kept his head down and blended in with the crowd. He reached out with his senses, casting about for any other presence, and was relieved to note that there were no angels or demons nearby. Nothing but a bunch of humans going about their business.
He felt a bit better.
Aziraphale always chided him when he got up to demonic mischief, so he took the opportunity to make some trouble without getting into trouble himself. He rolled down the windows of a double-parked car and scattered some birdseed on the front seat. He watched a man grab a taxi out from under a mother and daughter and cursed him with terrible gas for the rest of the day. And, for old time’s sake, he blew up a handful of parking meters.
It wasn’t so bad, being out here without Aziraphale. Perhaps the angel, in his meddling ways, was right. Not that Crowley would ever admit it out loud.
Then he saw a young man, dressed in the fashion of the day, a green army jacket and a ratty beanie. In his ears were gigantic silver rings, stretching the earlobe far beyond its natural shape.
Crowley felt a phantom pain in his wings and his whole body seemed to cringe away from the man. He leaned against a damp brick building. The sidewalk below his feet felt suddenly unreliable.
How did he do that did he do that to himself why why why would he do that to himself
White-hot piercing pain, his wing shot through, the sound of metal forcing its way between bones
No one would do that to themselves did they get him is he one of theirs what did they do to him
A cold, hard floor, impassive angels with their hands on him, Gabriel’s voice
“I want this to happen… so it’s going to.”
Crowley was shaking, arms wrapped around himself. He could barely muster the presence of mind to conceal himself from passersby. Not like he needed humans fussing over him while he fell apart on the street.
Shut up shut up stop screaming he said to keep your mouth shut can’t you do anything right
Apologies spilling from his lips, the confusing respite of Gabriel’s tenderness
“Sometimes… pleasing me will hurt. And sometimes, you won’t be able to help it.”
Crowley pressed his face against the rough stone of the building. Gabriel isn’t here, he told himself, but the words felt hollow outside of the bookshop.
He wanted to go home, back to the place where Gabriel couldn’t be, where he knew, where he had been able to convince himself, that he was safe.
He lifted his hand, about to snap his fingers and return himself immediately to the bookshop. But the motion reminded him of the folder still tucked under his arm.
You can do this. Part of him was afraid that if he gave up now, he’d never be able to leave again.
Instead of taking himself back home, he made himself visible again, just another being moving through the London streets, and he headed on toward the address Aziraphale had given him.
It was a tall building, with a marble lobby and a bank of elevators. Crowley punched in the floor - seventeen - and stepped in. No one else joined him, which he appreciated. Humans always acted so strange in these things. He used to find that funny, but today he had no patience for toying with nervous interview-goers.
The elevator stopped at the seventeenth floor and Crowley headed for Suite 173, Law Offices of Bethany & Oswell. He was almost done with this stupid errand. It irritated him how thrilled he was, how much he was looking forward to seeing the pride on Aziraphale’s face when he returned. Crowley thought he might stop by a bakery on the way home, just to prove that he had managed more than an immediate zip there and back.
There it was, Suite 173. He pulled open the door and was met with a modern office, all decorated in white and chrome and glass. A receptionist sat behind a massive desk, her stockinged legs visible through the clear glass, a thin silver computer on the otherwise empty surface.
“Can I help you?”
Crowley did not hear her.
***
Another day, another walk through Heaven’s sterile hallways, another snap of Gabriel’s fingers to fog the glass.
But something was different in Gabriel’s office today. Crowley couldn’t tell what it was. Not with the collar dulling his powers, muting all otherworldly sensation. He didn’t bother trying to figure it out. No sense expending the energy. Wasn’t his business anyway.
Crowley started to take his standard place, kneeling beside the archangel’s chair, when Gabriel’s command stopped him.
“Undress.”
That was unusual. Usually Gabriel just snapped his fingers to take Crowley’s clothing off. A cloud of anxiety formed in Crowley’s mind. Any change from the standard routine typically meant Gabriel had some new torment he meant to inflict.
But it didn’t matter, really. As Crowley had learned, whatever Gabriel wanted to happen was going to happen. Worrying or guessing about it beforehand made no difference.
Crowley stiffly began to unbutton his shirt, the fine motion unfamiliar to his fingers after so long. Unsure what to do with it, he folded it neatly and set it on the floor. It took a moment of courage-gathering before he slid his pants off, laying them on top of his shirt.
“Kneel.”
Crowley took his position, then, and heard Gabriel settle into the desk chair.
“I want to talk with you today about something called initiative,” Gabriel said.
Tension wrapped around Crowley’s shoulders. He hated these lectures Gabriel liked to give, and they came more frequently these days. The archangel certainly liked to hear himself talk. It was just another form of torture, the condescension, the casual cruelty, the lies Gabriel spoke with maddening certainty.
“When I tell you to do something, you do it, but you never seem to do it willingly,” Gabriel said. “I see hesitation. I see delay. I see a bare-minimum effort.”
Loathing and confusion bubbled up Crowley’s spine. What the fuck was he supposed to do, whistle and grin? Hadn’t he threaded the blessed chains through his own wings? What more did Gabriel want? But he told himself to be quiet, and listen. It was best to know what Gabriel wanted. To give it to him. To avoid argument, even here in his own mind.
“I’d like to see more enthusiasm on your part, slave. It’s not enough to just obey, not if you’re going to be a little brat about it.”
Crowley gritted his teeth, knowing better than to argue. He felt like this sometimes, filled to bursting with seething hatred that had nowhere to go. There was no choice but to shove it down, choke on it, because to release it would condemn him. It was quieter, these days, fading more each time he denied it, but it stayed somewhere in him, like a tight ball of bitterness that he could not rid himself of. All the layers of submission and brokenness that had grown around it could muffle it, but never managed to truly suffocate it.
“Do you understand?”
Whatever vitriol he might have spoken in a different time, before he’d lost all right to it, died on his tongue. All that came out was “Yes, Master.”
“Good.” Gabriel leaned back in his chair. “Now clear off my desk. Set things on the floor if you need to.”
Crowley stood, knowing by now that commands out here in the offices generally required (and therefore allowed) it. He moved to the desk, all sleek glass and chrome, which held some neat stacks of papers and two crystal sculptures which Crowley had always assumed were mementos of some angelic achievement.
Trying to project ‘enthusiasm’ in his movements, he reached for one of the stacks of papers. But as soon as he made contact with the desk, a flash of pain shot through him. He yanked his hand back, scattering the papers, and stuck his finger in his mouth, trying to soothe it.
Gabriel laughed.
“I had my whole desk blessed,” he said, like he was just sharing a bit of news he’d forgotten to mention earlier. “Had to call in a few favors, since we don’t usually bless things like that. I told them it was to keep my demon slave from rifling through sensitive paperwork.”
He sure sounded pleased with himself over the lie. Crowley sometimes struggled with Gabriel’s hypocrisy, but it seemed best not to question it. He knew the workings of Heaven, didn’t he? Crowley had fallen, he was no authority on goodness.
He’d been given an order, and he told himself to focus on it. Trembling, Crowley reached for the papers again, smoothing them back together, gasping back a cry every time he made contact with the desk. It didn’t take long to clear the desk, but by the time he was done, tears pricked at his eyes and his hands felt like they had been plunged into the deepest pits of Hell’s brimstone.
“Now bend over the desk.”
Some small part of Crowley’s mind screamed at him to run, to struggle, to leap at Gabriel and rip his fucking throat out. He beat it down. He wished this part of him would just shrivel up and die already, because he was tired of wrestling it into submission for his own survival.
As gingerly as he dared, Crowley bent himself over the desk, touching it only with his palms, keeping the rest of his body hovering above the blessed surface. His muscles ached with the position, but he knew the alternative was much worse.
Crowley heard Gabriel rise from his chair, heard the taunt of the archangel’s zipper, and then Gabriel was behind him, one hand on Crowley’s back. He pressed down, forcing Crowley’s body against the desk, and Crowley couldn’t help but push himself up and back, away from the pain.
And there was Gabriel’s cock, hard, against him. Crowley, trapped between the desk and Gabriel’s body, had no choice but to press into it.
“That’s it,” Gabriel said, sounding satisfied. “There you go.”
Gabriel thrust forward, shoving Crowley’s hips and thighs into the desk. Crowley jerked back, taking Gabriel deeper into himself in exchange for some relief for his burning skin.
Crowley would have felt humiliated if he wasn’t so overcome with agony and the desperate scramble away from the desk. Gabriel forced him into a rhythm, pinning his body and driving into him in such a way that all he could do was fuck back into Gabriel.
“See,” Gabriel cooed, “I knew you had it in you. There’s that enthusiasm I was talking about. A demon slut like you, you know better than to just lie there and take it. No more making me do all the work.”
Crowley cried, his tears sizzling against the desk. So this is what Gabriel would demand from now on. No longer content to just rape Crowley, he wanted Crowley to do it to himself, to act like he wanted it, to be the ‘demon whore’ Gabriel always said he was. It was bad enough when Crowley just had to endure, but this, he knew, would break him.
And he knew he’d do it, too. He knew that faced with the threat of the desk, he’d do whatever Gabriel wanted. Visions swam in his tear-filled eyes of his future as an active participant in his own degradation and he wished for the thousandth time that he could just die, that this horrible desk could dissolve him like his tears, melt him away.
Gabriel wrapped his arms around Crowley and lifted him from the desk, holding him against his broad chest. Crowley exhaled in relief, then heard Gabriel growl a warning in his ear: “Don’t stop.”
So he didn’t, he continued to rock his hips, to give Gabriel what he demanded, until his shaking legs refused to cooperate and he fell limp in Gabriel’s arms. The archangel abruptly let go and Crowley fell hard onto the desk, howling with the impact and the renewed burn.
As if Crowley didn’t already have enough evidence that Gabriel was a sadist to rival the likes of Hell’s worst, that seemed to put him over the edge, and soon he was done, tossing Crowley to the floor in a heap as he cleaned himself up.
“Put your clothes on.”
Crowley crawled toward his clothing, trying to ignore the way his hands protested any weight on them. But when he started to pull on his shirt, the fabric against his ravaged skin was too rough, too much. He froze, gathering his breath, but it was too long of a pause, and Gabriel was on him, a hand around his throat, and he was being yanked up and thrown over the desk, on his back this time, searing scorching blistering, and he was screaming screaming screaming, and Gabriel was grinding the heel of his hand into Crowley’s open mouth, and saying something about enthusiasm, about initiative, about obedience, about the role of a slave, and all Crowley could do was bite down on the hand between his teeth, and -
***
- and he was in the Bentley, he was folded over the steering wheel, the leather of it in his mouth, he was biting down on it and his face was hot and wet and his fists were beating against his legs and - and - and he was in the Bentley?
Crowley sat up and took a ragged breath. He was in his car, which was parked outside the bookshop. Aziraphale’s file folder was on the passenger seat next to him. Fuck. Fuckup. Failure.
So close. He was so close. Surely he had frightened that poor receptionist, the way he had disappeared in a panic.
He should go back, wipe her memory, hand in the forms, and make it all better. He should be strong. He should do what he set out to do.
He should.
But he couldn’t.
Crowley collapsed against the steering wheel, closed his eyes, and succumbed to the shame, the frustration, the loneliness. He didn’t even bother concealing himself. It was only the Bentley’s sense of propriety that kept anyone walking by from noticing what they would have assumed was a man sobbing desolately in his car.
***
Perhaps it had been a bad plan, Aziraphale thought, pacing around the shop. Crowley should have been back by now, even with time allowed for him to go slowly and take several breaks. Aziraphale had chosen an attorney’s office close to a number of familiar spots in case Crowley needed to catch his breath.
He had promised himself he wouldn’t do this, wouldn’t overstep by showing up to save the day. Not unless Crowley asked. He would let Crowley have this victory. He wouldn’t act as if Crowley needed to be coddled through it.
But it had been too long. Aziraphale reached out into the world, sensing for Crowley. He was startled to find him just outside the bookshop, sitting in the Bentley.
For a second Aziraphale thought that Crowley was playing a joke, waiting him out, teasing him by staying gone long enough to worry him.
Then he noticed the feelings surrounding Crowley’s presence. Fear. Guilt. Grief. Isolation. No, this was not a joke.
Aziraphale rushed to him, miracling himself into the passenger seat of the Bentley. He was vaguely aware of some papers crumpling underneath him.
Crowley would normally have jumped at the sudden intrusion, then shouted at him for using a miracle anywhere near the Bentley. But it seemed the demon was too wrung out for any of that. Instead he just slumped into Aziraphale, crying.
“I’m s-s-sorry, angel,” he sobbed.
“No, no, it’s alright, it’s alright,” Aziraphale said, running his hands through Crowley’s hair. “It’s not your fault. I pushed you too hard, too soon. It’s me who should be sorry. I asked too much, it wasn’t fair.”
“I tried, I tried,” Crowley whimpered. “Can’t help it, couldn’t help it.”
Crowley was shuddering in Aziraphale’s lap, clinging to his clothing with sweaty hands.
“You did so well, love,” Aziraphale said. It didn’t seem as though Crowley could hear him, but when he got like this, Aziraphale just kept talking until he came back from wherever he went. “I’m so proud of you. So so pleased.”
“Pleasing...hurts…” Crowley stammered, burying his head in his arms as if to hide.
That frightened Aziraphale. “Darling, are you hurt? What’s happened?” He tried to sit Crowley up and look at him, but the demon’s body was too tense to unwind him from the ball he’d curled up in. “Crowley, please.”
Crowley tensed even harder at that, but otherwise didn’t respond. Aziraphale hated to use miracles on Crowley, to rob him of his agency that way, to use any kind of angelic power on Crowley’s body. But he’d already made enough mistakes today, he might as well. He took them both into the bed, holding Crowley against him, cuddling him up under the blankets.
Crowley burrowed into the pillows, pulling the covers over his head. “Can’t...can’t…’m sorry…”
Aziraphale wanted to tell Crowley that he was safe now, in the bookshop, but didn’t want to undo all the work they’d tried to do today, even if it hadn’t come to completion.
“Of course you can, love, we just need to go slow. I’m here, I’m here.”
Aziraphale ran a hand down Crowley’s back in what he hoped was a calming motion. Crowley shrieked at the sensation, and somewhere downstairs Aziraphale heard what sounded like glass shattering.
Clearly something had gone very, very wrong.
“Crowley, what can I do to help?”
“Can’t help, can’t help it,” Crowley shouted into the mattress, pounding at it with his fists.
“Okay,” Aziraphale said, feeling helpless. He didn’t reach out to Crowley again, just sat next to him, willing his presence to be enough. He wanted to know what had happened. He wanted to find and destroy what dark place Crowley had fallen into on his errand. He wanted to fix things.
No one here was getting what they wanted.
“I love you, Crowley,” he said, after a while. Crowley had relaxed a bit, and at those words, he reached an arm out, groping for Aziraphale. When Aziraphale took his hand, Crowley turned it over, resting the back of his hand in Aziraphale’s. When Aziraphale tried curling his thumb around to stroke Crowley’s palm, he felt the demon flinch.
“I love you, Crowley,” he said again, cradling Crowley’s hand in his, avoiding any touch that Crowley himself didn’t initiate.
Aziraphale might never know what terrible memory Crowley had been trapped in, what triggers he’d encountered on that ill-fated errand. He might never puzzle out why certain words or touches suddenly sent Crowley cowering away. Or maybe, someday, Crowley would show him, and they’d face that part of the story together.
For now, all Aziraphale could do was tend to this new stream, this tiny trickle they were guiding into a new place. The riverbed Gabriel had etched into Crowley’s mind would run dry, and they would have clearer waters to wade in, shallow at first, then deeper, truer, than anything that had come before.