Archive of Our Own

For the tenth time in as many minutes, Crowley picked up the ivory-colored card to examine the imposing sigil on the front and the flowery script written on the back.

“I still don’t understand how this qualifies as a ‘team-building exercise’.”

Aziraphale sighed miserably into his mug of cold tea. “It’s meant to facilitate bonding among the Host. Atone for past misdeeds, clear the air, inspire compassion. As well as remind us to be mindful of the suffering of mortal beings.”

Crowley clicked his tongue. “Right. What’s it really about, then?”

“Score-settling, mostly,” Aziraphale admitted. “Allowing some of the Archangels with more…violent predilections…to blow off steam. And I suppose just reminding all the lower-level angels what management is capable of.”

“How often do they do this?” Crowley asked, resolving on the spot that no matter what the answer was, he would not flinch.

Looking back into his tea, Aziraphale sighed again. “Well, it’s a rotating schedule among the various ranks, but it works out to every hundred years, since the beginning of the world.”

Crowley didn’t flinch. Every hundred years. Sixty times, Aziraphale had been through this already. Sixty times, Aziraphale had received a card like this, or its pre-industrial equivalent. and gone the same shade of pale.

There was the faint sound of Aziraphale’s signet ring vibrating against the kitchen table. His hand was shaking. Crowley laid his own over it and squeezed.

“Well,” he said. “No matter. You don’t work for them anymore. We pitch this note into the bin and move on with our lives.”

“It’s not that simple,” Aziraphale said, which was exactly what Crowley both knew and dreaded was coming.

“Why not?”

“If an angel refuses to participate,” Aziraphale explained, “that angel is essentially renouncing his or her position as a member of the Host. To do so is to be seen as renouncing one’s angelic status. Not just in the eyes of management, but the eyes of, you know...”

“Ah.” Crowley picked up the card again and scowled at the amethyst-and-silver sigil. “So management is still sore that you haven’t fallen.”

“Indubitably, but I don’t think that’s the main reason they got in touch.”

Crowley stroked Aziraphale’s knuckles and waited.

“As I said, past grievances are often a factor. The exercise itself is…well, painful, yes, but not all that bad-“

“How bad?” Crowley interrupted.

Aziraphale hesitated a moment. “Thirty lashes,” he said finally. “Twenty across the back, and then…then five on each wing.”

There was a beat of silence in which Crowley felt the skin on his back crawl. He’d heard worse- he’d always heard worse, in his line of work- but just the thought of something like that happening to Aziraphale set his teeth on edge.

“It’s not that bad,” the angel repeated. “But the emotional component…well. During the exercise-“

Torture, Crowley mentally substituted but did not say. If Aziraphale needed to hide behind Heaven’s euphemisms for now, Crowley would let him.

“-the rest of the Host may comment. Offer encouragement to the subject or, well, or do the opposite. It rather depends on how well-liked one is, whether that experience is particularly unpleasant or not. And I don’t have any reason to believe I have many remaining allies up there.” He paused, then, in a small voice, added, “I never really did to begin with, to be honest. Too much time spent down here, not enough rubbing elbows upstairs.”

“Got it. So in addition to getting the skin flayed off your back to keep you in line- I’m sorry, to inspire compassion,” Crowley said acidly, “the whole Host gets to chime in about what a shit they find you. That about the size of it?”

“There’s…mitigating factors,” Aziraphale said, because he was the type of person who still used words like ‘mitigating’ when he was half out of his mind with dread. How Crowley loved him. And how he hated this. “Depending on who’s dispensing the actual punishment, it can be better.”

Or worse, was the unsaid end of that sentence.

“Who’ll be doing it?”

“I don’t know.” Aziraphale studied the backs of his hands. “Last time it was Michael. She has the strongest arm of them all, but she makes it quick. Some of the others, Gabriel and Sandalphon…they prefer to take their time.”

Crowley swore elaborately and drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Alright. So do you want to switch now?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Switch bodies, angel. With me. Send me up there in your place.”

It took a moment for Aziraphale to realize the demon was serious.

“Crowley, I would never ask you for such a thing.”

“I know. ’S’why I brought it up. It’s tomorrow, right? We should switch soon, give me a little time to get used to walking with your legs. I bruised your shin something awful on the stairs last time-“

“Under no circumstances are we doing that.” Aziraphale snatched the card up and tucked it into the pocket of his waistcoat, as if by keeping the notice out of Crowley’s grasp he could protect the demon from its contents.

“C’mon, I’ve been through worse. I can take it.”

“Even if I was fine with that aspect of it, which I emphatically am not,” Aziraphale countered, “now isn’t the time to risk our little ruse being found out. Not when everything’s been going so well.”

His voice shook a bit on that last part, and the look of roguish defiance on Crowley’s face immediately melted into gentle concern.

“Hey.” Crowley pulled his chair close enough to Aziraphale’s to put an arm around the angel’s shoulders. “It has been going well, hasn’t it?”

“Better than I ever dreamed,” Aziraphale said, and meant it. The past few years of being free of the threat of Armageddon, and free to be friends (and, increasingly, more than friends) with Crowley, had been such bliss that Aziraphale had completely forgotten about this approaching centennial tradition.

“They don’t get to take that from us. If I can’t think of a way to get you out of this-“

“That’s not your responsibility.”

“-then at the very least, we handle it together. Alright?”

Aziraphale looked up into Crowley’s lovely amber eyes and thought of all the times this remarkable creature had saved him. Whether it was from mortal danger or simply his own loneliness, Crowley had always been there to breeze in and swiftly banish it from Aziraphale’s life, often without asking anything in return.

“You’re my best friend,” he said, and then smiled, because saying it so baldly was still a reliable way to make the demon blush.

“You too,” Crowley said, then bounced to his feet. “Let’s go out, shall we? Don’t tell me you don’t want breakfast anymore just cause of a little bad news.”

——

Crowley couldn’t help but wonder if he was losing his touch in his retirement.

Back in the old days, thirty-six hours was enough time for him to come up with schemes so fiendishly clever that even he occasionally lost track of the details. Yesterday morning, when they’d found that blasted card on the bookshop floor, he’d been certain that by the time they ascended the escalator to Heaven he would have a plan in place to get the both of them off scot-free. Any minute now, he’d thought as he watched Aziraphale over the rim of his wineglass or walked beside him through the streets. Brilliant idea, right on schedule. All we have to do is…

The idea never came, and now they were on their way to Heaven with nothing but a growing sense of anxiety deep in their bones.

“They may not let you in with me,” Aziraphale said quietly. “In fact, they probably won’t.”

“They will,” Crowley said through a mouthful of clenched teeth.

“Please don’t hurt anyone.” So tense, his angel sounded. All that self-doubt and misplaced guilt and sheer bloody terror of Heaven’s upper management weaving themselves through his posture and his voice. Seeing it was like falling back asleep into a nightmare one had just clawed one’s way out of. “It won’t help, and it…it will be worse for me, if you do. I just want to get this over with.”

“Alright,” Crowley promised. “Hands off, angel, I swear. But I’m not letting you go through this alone.”

“It’s nothing I’m not accustomed to,” Aziraphale said for about the hundredth time since the note had arrived. Every time he said it it only made Crowley want to shake him and remind him he shouldn’t have had to get accustomed to it.

When they at last reached Heaven’s halls, they found the place deserted. Their footsteps echoed in the polished space, Crowley standing out against the gleaming tiles like a bloodstain, yet no one approached them as they wandered deeper inside. Aziraphale seemed to know where they were going, leading them down several branching hallways until Crowley was hopelessly lost, then stopped when they reached two double-doors, blonde wood inlaid with white gold. He opened them without knocking and led the both of them inside.

The space was massive, vaulted ceilings that climbed almost beyond Crowley’s range of vision. All the better for sounds to echo and reverberate, and as they entered the room he got the impression that some cacophony had only just been silenced.

At one end of the room was a marble platform. At the other end was the entire Heavenly Host.

There were too many of them to actually see. A human eye would burst into jelly on the first attempt. Crowley’s supernatural senses were better equipped to handle it, but could only register them as a single presence made of ten million facets, rather than as individuals. If he squinted he could pick out faces; his peripheral vision only gave him silver light and thousands of eyes, all aligned in the same direction.

“Well, thank God for that,” he called out to this rather imposing mass. “I hate being the first ones to arrive at a party.”

“Aziraphale,” came a voice from the platform. Both of them turned to look.

The Archangel Michael was in the process of helping another angel down the short steps, letting herself be used as a crutch as they hobbled toward the crowd. As they came closer, more angels began to break off from the group, coming forward to embrace the injured one, murmur words of encouragement, brush their sweaty golden curls away from their forehead. As they were helped back into the fold Crowley saw the marks, wide gashes that dripped blood onto the angel’s robes and feathers. The wounds on the back, from the angel’s earthly corporation, bled the expected red, but the rivulets running off the wings were gold, the telltale sign of injury to the celestial form. He saw Aziraphale notice it at the same time, and squeezed his hand.

Gabriel was on the platform as well. He was in the process of coiling up a long whip, white leather shot through with silver filaments. When he finished he hung it on a hook on the wall, and as he did so the air around the platform shimmered and the spatters of blood and discarded feathers disappeared, leaving the whole setup in pristine condition once again.

Michael, who had been the one to greet Aziraphale, now walked toward them, eyes grave.

“I’m glad you came here on your own accord. Some of the others thought you might need more persuasion, but I was confident your good sense would prevail.”

Gabriel laughed. “Michael’s too polite to say it, but she means me when she says ‘some of the others’. I’ll admit it, I really thought you’d be too much of a coward to come back here.”

“You’d do well to remember who you’re talking to,” Aziraphale warned, at the same time Crowley snapped, “You watch your mouth, prat.”

Every set of eyes in the room save Aziraphale’s snapped their focus onto Crowley.

“Well, hey there, little guy,” Gabriel sneered. “Aziraphale, it’s fine that you brought your emotional support reptile with you, but we expect you to keep it under control.”

“What.” Crowley took a step toward the platform, hands curling into fists, and Michael stepped in his way.

“That’s enough, Gabriel,” she snapped, never taking her eyes off Crowley. “We’re all going to be civil here. Aren’t we?”

A demon’s lifespan is a long time to get used to emotionally-fraught silences, and Crowley was able to determine a few crucial things during this one.

The first was that the Archangels were clearly still afraid of him and Aziraphale. Any aggression on their parts, especially from Crowley, was going to be interpreted in the most hostile way possible and potentially lead to violence escalating beyond their ability to control.

The second was that there was a gap in what management knew and what the common angels had been told. He could hear it in Gabriel’s bravado and in Michael’s frostiness, a desire to save face in spite of what they considered a serious threat.

The third was that, whatever they had been told, the Host hated the two of them. Crowley could feel that thrumming through the air like a bass note.

None of it was exactly good news, but he would rather know it now than be surprised by it later.

“We’re not here to make trouble,” Aziraphale said, putting a steadying hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “I’m still one of God’s angels, however estranged from Heaven, and I’m here to observe tradition, as I have done every century since the creation of the world. That’s all.”

“We appreciate your cooperation,” Michael said evenly. “And it’s fine that you brought your…companion with you. Although we do ask that he behave respectfully if he’s going to stay and watch.”

“Ask him yourself then, why don’t you,” Crowley muttered. Aziraphale shot him a pleading look, and Crowley pulled his face into what was meant to be a friendly grin but, judging by Michael’s reaction, came across more of a rictus than he intended. “I mean, absolutely, no talking during your little ritual torture session, very important to preserve the dignity of the thing. Got it.”

Michael glared but said nothing more to Crowley. “As it happens,” she said to Aziraphale, “we’ve almost reached your place in the sequence. Principality Asuriel is next, then you.”

Aziraphale nodded. Crowley scowled, but kept his mouth shut.

Alphabetical order. How original.

They watched in silence as Asuriel was called forth from the crowd. She was a tall, aristocratically-featured angel with short chestnut hair, and ascended the marble steps with her head held high and her bearing steady. Gabriel directed her toward the end of the platform with a polite nod, then addressed the crowd.

“Do we have a volunteer?”

A moment of silence, and then a hand went up. “I volunteer,” a shorter, fair-haired angel called.

Gabriel beckoned the angel forward, then turned to Asuriel.

“The angel Zephkiel has volunteered to assist in your atonement. Do you consent?”

“I do,” Asuriel replied, her face betraying no emotion.

“Very well. Raise your arms, please.”

Asuriel obeyed, and Crowley watched as Gabriel guided her underneath a metal arch at the front of the platform. A pair of shackles hung down from the arch, and as Asuriel’s wrists were fastened into them Crowley saw the binding sigils etched into the metal.

“Kind of gives the lie to the whole ‘voluntary’ aspect of this, doesn’t it?” he whispered to Aziraphale.

“They’re necessary,” Aziraphale whispered back. “To prevent reflexive miracles.”

Crowley said nothing in response to that. He watched as Asuriel was shackled in place and guided to her knees, facing the crowd. Like all the other angels Crowley could see, she wore a loose white robe that left most of her back exposed and made room for her wings. Zephkiel took up position behind her, and Gabriel put the whip in his hand.

“You may begin when you’re ready.”

Zephkiel swung the whip, and the crack it made as it came down across Asuriel’s back was shockingly loud.

“One!” Asuriel called out. Her voice was strident, dignified.

It remained so all the way up to ten.

At the eleventh stroke, Zephkiel was finally unable to avoid hitting a spot he’d already hit before. As the skin shredded under the whip and blood seeped forth, Asuriel jolted against her restraints and screamed. It was a quick sound, cut off almost as quickly as it began, and then she managed to choke out, “Eleven,” through gritted teeth.

Zephkiel lowered the whip and went to her side, kneeling down to speak to her. Crowley couldn’t hear what was said, but it appeared to be words of encouragement. There was some whispering from the crowd as it went on. When Zephkiel went back and picked up the whip once more, individual voices began to call out.

“You’re doing great, Asuriel!”

“Asuriel, we love you!”

“Halfway there now, you’ve got this!”

The shouts went on, prompting Asuriel to smile through the pain and thank the Host for their support. When the beating moved on to her wings she started to cry, and the crowd applauded her tears while Zephkiel took a moment to comfort her. Michael and Gabriel looked on, fairly beaming with pride and parental affection.

It was the most perverse thing Crowley had ever seen.

Say what you wanted about Hell’s training program, or its quarterly performance reviews. Say what you wanted about Dis or the Lake of Fire or the Wood of Suicides. At least they let you admit that was torture. At least they didn’t tell you they loved you the whole time it was happening and expect you to thank them for the pain.

Sixty times, Crowley reminded himself. Sixty times he’s been here, forced to take part in this charade and call it love.

Well, Aziraphale had been right about one thing. In comparison to this grotesquerie, the lashes seemed almost reasonable.

After an agonizing series of stops and starts, Asuriel took the final blow across her left wing and sobbed, “Thirty!” Zephkiel immediately dropped the whip and hurried to her, unfastening her from the shackles and helping her down the stairs. As they descended more angels surged forward from the crowd, congratulating Asuriel on her bravery. Two began tending to her wounds, the air growing sharp with the smell of salve. Gabriel picked up the whip and hung it back on its hook, and with a shimmer the platform was clean once more.

“Aziraphale,” he said with a smirk. “You’re up.”

This was met with some milling from the Host. Crowley could feel the collective mood changing, a sort of breathy anticipation. His stomach sank.

It rather depends on how well-liked one is… Aziraphale’s voice echoed in his mind.

He turned to tell Aziraphale that they weren’t doing this, that he just needed a little more time and he would figure a way out, but Aziraphale was already giving Crowley’s hand a final squeeze and stepping away from him, toward the platform.

After all those years spent so close to one another, yet unable to touch, Crowley had gotten very good at reading Aziraphale’s body language from across a room. Everything in Aziraphale’s posture, from his hands clasped behind his back to the rigid way he held his head up, indicated an iron-willed refusal to give up his dignity unless it was pried from him strand by strand. He was trying so hard to be brave, and the swiftness with which he drew this aspect over him made Crowley certain it wasn’t for the demon’s benefit. This was how Aziraphale always faced this atrocity, and it was the way he would be doing it were Crowley not here.

It made Crowley’s heart swell with love for him, but there were other things he was noticing that threatened to steep it in bile once again.

The way Gabriel’s eyes narrowed as Aziraphale stepped closer, that fake corporate mask slipping for just a second to reveal something much more bestial. As soon as Aziraphale ascended the steps, Gabriel seized his arm above the elbow and steered him toward the end of the platform. From a distance it might have looked like he was steadying him, but Crowley could see the way Aziraphale’s sleeve bunched under the pressure of Gabriel’s fingers, and the slight asymmetry in his gait as he was pulled off balance.

When he was in position, Aziraphale raised his arms to be shackled. Gabriel didn’t move, and after a few seconds of awkward silence Aziraphale looked back at him over his shoulder.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Gabriel said, loud enough for everyone to hear.

A low rumble of laughter began to echo through the room.

“Forgetting…oh. Yes,” Aziraphale said. To Crowley his voice sounded unnaturally high and quavery, as if he were waking from a dream. “Just a moment.”

He blinked, and his wings erupted from his back, as snowy-white and lustrous as any of the Archangel’s. Better, probably, because those wankers didn’t have Crowley around to help them groom.

Aziraphale turned back into position, only to stop when Gabriel gave an exaggerated sigh.

“Your clothes, Aziraphale,” he said. “It wouldn’t exactly be fair to everyone else if we let you keep all those layers on, would it?”

Murmurs of agreement from the crowd. Aziraphale’s cheeks turned pink.

“Oh. Quite right. Sorry.” His wings vanished and he raised his right hand. “Let me just-“

“No,” Michael interrupted. Both angels on the platform turned to her, Aziraphale with hope, Gabriel with suspicion. “You won’t use the power our Creator gave you to cover for your mistake. You’ll remove the clothes you’re wearing by hand, until we decide you’re appropriately dressed.”

Gabriel’s face split into a grin. “Excellent point, Michael,” he said. “Go on, Aziraphale. Do as you’re told.”

At this last, his eyes flicked over to Crowley. So quickly it was almost unnoticeable, but it hit Crowley like the slap in the face he knew it was meant to be.

Bastards. All of you.

Spine still ramrod-straight, Aziraphale began to disrobe, starting with his jacket. He folded it as neatly as he could and then removed his tie and set it on top. Someone gave a loud, fake yawn as he began to undo the buttons on his waistcoat, and another laugh rippled through the crowd.

“Come on, sunshine, don’t make a show out of it,” Gabriel said. His face wore carefully-crafted boredom, except for his eyes. Those were glittering. Crowley could see it, just like he could see the way Aziraphale’s fingers shook as he undid his cufflinks.

“No one’s interested in a striptease, Aziraphale,” someone called out as Aziraphale yanked his shirt off his shoulders. That earned a sharp glare from Michael and a chorus of repressed sniggering.

“Enough,” she said, when Aziraphale stood bare-chested in front of all of them. “That will be sufficient. You can present your wings again.”

“Little bit more than sufficient, from the look of him,” someone muttered. Crowley bit his tongue and scanned the room for the culprit, but the eyes surrounding them had all faded back into one homogenous mass.

Worse than the comment, though, was the way Aziraphale did not seem to have even heard it. He only let his wings back out and turned to face the crowd again, expression as blank as a porcelain doll’s.

You’re worth more than every last one of them combined, angel. You have to know that. Please know that.

Gabriel was stepping forward, whip in hand.

“Alright. Now that there’s no more delays…” As he looked out over the crowd, his smirk returned. “Do we have a volunteer?”

The silence that followed the question was one of the loudest that Crowley had ever heard.

This is all part of it for them, he thought. Just another way of making it that much worse. Of making him feel even more alone.

The Host stared up at Aziraphale, and not a one of them made a sound. None of them would volunteer to help Aziraphale bear this punishment, and Crowley knew that when the time came and one of the Archangels took up the whip, there would be no shouts of encouragement, no reassurances of love, no arms for his angel to collapse into when it was all over.

Crowley wondered if anyone would try to stop him if he stormed the platform, swept Aziraphale off his feet and got them both out of here. Perhaps they were expecting him to do it. Perhaps Aziraphale was. The thought that even in this moment, as he stood with his head held so high, that he might be waiting for Crowley to protect him once again, growing more confused as the seconds stretched past and no help came…

Was that what he wanted?

And if it wasn’t, would he forgive Crowley for doing it anyway? Even if it meant he might Fall?

He couldn’t really be expecting Crowley to just stand by and watch this, could he?

Gabriel was flexing the whip between his hands, all his teeth showing as he smiled. “No volunteers,” he said. “In that case, as Archangel and Aziraphale’s former commander, it will fall to me to administer the ritual. Aziraphale, do you-“

“Wait.”

Once again all eyes fell upon Crowley, but Aziraphale’s were the only ones he noticed. They were wide and startled and gravely concerned, but was that a touch of relief Crowley could see in there as well?

“I’ll do it,” Crowley said. “If you consent to it, Aziraphale. I’ll help you with this…atonement.”

He couldn’t quite keep the sarcasm out of the last word, but for Aziraphale’s sake he tried. The Archangels were looking at each other, as if each was reluctant to speak first.

“It doesn’t work like that,” Gabriel finally said, hands tightening on the whip.

“Why not?” Crowley countered sweetly. Oh, but they hated that question up here. Much more fun to ask it now, when he couldn’t be punished for it anymore.

“The ritual is meant to be administered by one’s peers, to promote unity,” Michael cut in. “It’s not…recreational.”

Several furtive giggles greeted this, and Aziraphale flashed her a look of genuine anger that made Crowley’s heart twist.

“Well, when you really think about it,” Aziraphale said.

This preamble caused Gabriel to whirl on him, eyes blazing, and Crowley took a step forward. He would do whatever it took, he decided, to make sure that whoever held the whip, it wouldn’t be Gabriel. He would settle for Michael or one of the others, if he had to, but Gabriel was clearly looking forward to it too much for Crowley not to spoil it for him.

“When you think about it,” Aziraphale continued. “Crowley is really the only peer I have. Considering our unique statuses as independent contractors, as it were.” He fixed Michael and Gabriel with a steely glare, and Crowley fell in love with him all over again.

More hesitation from the Archangels, during which some milling began to develop in the crowd. Crowley wondered if they were restless enough for him to start a full-blown disturbance and make cover for them to slip away- he wouldn’t be breaking his promise to Aziraphale if the Host started fighting each other- but before he could flesh out that plan any further, Michael nodded.

“The demon may help you complete the ritual,” she said. “You’ve wasted enough of our time as it is. Demon, you may approach.”

“Aren’t you going to ask him if he consents to it?” Crowley pointed out. “Seems to be part of the process, from what I could see.”

A muscle in Michael’s cheek twitched. “Aziraphale, do you consent to the demon assisting you with the ritual?”

Crowley looked up at the angel on the platform. Those blue eyes looked so sad, but yes, relieved as well.

“Yes.”

Those eyes stayed locked on Crowley’s glasses as he approached the platform. Even as Michael roughly yanked Aziraphale into position and secured his wrists in the shackles, still he craned his neck to look at Crowley until his view was completely blocked by his wings.

Up on the platform, Gabriel shoved the whip into Crowley’s chest. “I’m assuming you know how to use one of these,” he said.

“Sure do,” Crowley said with an acid smile. “Practically the first thing they teach us hellspawn. Since, y’know, torture’s supposed to be our thing.”

Ignoring this, Gabriel pointed at Aziraphale’s outstretched form. “Twenty on the back, five on each wing. He counts them out, but we decide the official number. If you try to get away with love taps, I’ll make you start all over.”

You try to make me do anything, and I’ll love tap that stupid look right off your skull, Crowley thought. All he said out loud was a terse, “Got it.” The whip felt greasy in his hands.

“You may begin whenever you’re ready.”

Gabriel withdrew, and Crowley planted his feet and stared at the pale expanse of Aziraphale’s back. The skin there looked soft, pink and healthy, nearly translucent where it gave way to his wings. Crowley could only imagine how sensitive it must be. He thought of how dearly he would like to put his lips to it, to watch it prickle and flush from his attentions, to hear what satisfied sounds Aziraphale might make if Crowley touched him just right.

He realized how badly he did not want to do this, and understood there was no way he could back out now. Already he could see some of that horrible rigidity in Aziraphale’s spine ebbing away. This experience was going to be in no way pleasant, but he trusted Crowley to spare him whatever pain and humiliation he could.

Oh, my angel.

For better or worse, Crowley did know how to use a whip. He also knew what being hit by one felt like. He resolved to make it quick, to try to space it out so he didn’t worry the same spot too much, to be careful about the tip wrapping, always had to watch out for that. The first stroke would be the hardest, and after that he could set a rhythm and this would be over soon-

“Get on with it!” someone yelled. Murmurs of agreement from the crowd followed.

“Fuck you all,” Crowley muttered under his breath. He raised the whip and brought it down, the crack as it made contact something he felt in the back of his teeth.

A pink streak appeared across Aziraphale’s back, right between his wings. This streak quickly turned red, but did not widen, did not begin to drip. Crowley had hit him, but had not broken the skin.

“One,” Aziraphale said, voice steady.

Crowley looked toward the Archangels to make sure they had acknowledged the strike. Michael gave a stiff nod, but Gabriel didn’t move. He was standing with his arms folded, avid concentration deadening his eyes to hard chips of stone.

“Keep going,” he said, voice sickeningly soft. An intimate, pillow-talk sort of voice.

Forcing down bile, Crowley turned back to Aziraphale and raised the whip again.

Crack!

“Two,” Aziraphale gasped. The muscles of his back and arms twitched, hidden beneath that soft skin and comfortable padding but still strong. It occurred to Crowley how unfair it was, that this should be his first opportunity to admire Aziraphale’s naked torso. He’d had a selection of very lovely evenings planned to that end, before this had come up. He tried not to let it rankle him in the moment. Anger might translate into him swinging harder without thinking.

He drew his arm back for the third strike, and just as he was setting his arm in motion, someone in the crowd shouted, “Traitor!”

The sudden noise made Crowley’s control slip, and when the whip came down this time it did so with more speed than he intended. The sound it made across Aziraphale’s flesh was higher-pitched, as was the accompanying count from the angel.

Crowley whirled around again to look at the Archangels, who were all looks of varying degrees of satisfaction.

“Unity?” Crowley asked bitterly. “That’s part of it, then? Shouting insults?”

“It’s an opportunity to air grievances, among other things,” Gabriel said smugly. “If the Host has strong feelings about Aziraphale’s past behavior, then now’s the time for them to express that.”

“And you lot are all about free expression, aren’t you?” Crowley snarled. He turned his back on them before anyone could reply. He didn’t want to hear whatever excuse they came up with. He just wanted this over with.

The shouts grew bolder as Crowley applied the next few strikes. He heard traitor again, and freak and demon-lover and weakling. Even if the words didn’t surprise Crowley, the enthusiasm with which they were hollered did. There was a joyousness to their shouts that matched the exuberance with which they’d called out love and support for the previous victim.

It’s not about atonement, Crowley thought, taking as long a break as he dared under the pretext of resting his arm, but really just trying to keep his anger tamped down. It’s not about unity, or even about the pain. It’s just because gathering in a crowd of people exactly like you and yelling at the top of your lungs feels good. It’s as spiritually meaningful as a football riot.

On the seventh blow he could not avoid hitting a spot that hadn’t been hit already, and this time a streak of crimson yawned open on Aziraphale’s back and began to run down. Aziraphale’s gave a short scream that he quickly bit down on, twisting it around in his mouth and spitting it out as “Seven!” His shoulders hitched up and down, and Crowley dropped the whip and hurried to his side.

“Hey,” he said, kneeling down to whisper in Aziraphale’s ear. “You’re doing fine, angel, we’ll be out of here in no time.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, eyes shimmering as he looked up into the demon’s face. “Don’t worry about me. Just please…don’t listen to what they’re saying.”

“Never mind. Just hang in there.” Crowley reached out and then hesitated, not wanting to put his hand anywhere that would cause pain. He settled for awkwardly squeezing Aziraphale’s upper arm, then rose to his full height again. In front of them, the Host was a needy, rippling mass of eyes and feathers.

“What’s wrong, demon?” someone from the crowd yelled. “Scared of a little blood?”

“Nah, I think he’s just embarrassed that we’re watching,” someone else commented. “This is basically foreplay for his kind, isn’t it?”

“Don’t listen,” Aziraphale murmured, eyes rolling up to meet Crowley’s glasses again. Crowley thought about taking them off, knowing eye contact would make the angel feel better, but he couldn’t stomach the idea of everyone in this room seeing the full effect this was having on him. Knowing what his eyes looked like when something hurt.

Instead he gave a stiff nod and took up position again.

On the eighth blow he tried to be careful, tried to hit one of the less damaged spots while still avoiding the wings. It resulted in a bad swing, and when the whip came down only the first inch or so of the lash made contact. No doubt it still stung, judging by the way Aziraphale keened and rocked against his restraints, and so it came as a complete surprise to Crowley when Gabriel called out, “That one doesn’t count.”

“The fuck it doesn’t,” Crowley said, baring his teeth as even as he knew he would lose this argument.

Gabriel, arms folded, set his jaw and stared Crowley down. “It. Doesn’t. Count.”

“And watch your language,” Michael added. “We won’t ask you again.”

“Didn’t sound much like asking this time,” Crowley grumbled. He turned back to Aziraphale, wishing the angel could see the apology on his face. “Here we go again. Number eight.”

It was hard, so hard, not to put a little extra force into the next blow, just to show them. Good theatre practically demanded it, but Crowley figured in this moment Aziraphale would favor his own skin over histrionics.

“Eight,” Aziraphale gritted out. His voice had taken on a throaty tone that Crowley didn’t care for, one that remained as he called out the ninth strike.

A whoop of triumph erupted from the crowd. “Look at that, Daniel! Tears! I told you he wouldn’t last until number ten!”

This set off a fresh bout of laughing, the gleefully sadistic sound found on playgrounds the world over. Crowley dropped the whip and marched back over to Aziraphale, moving around to look him in the face and block his view of the crowd.

“C’mon, angel. Let me get you out of here. It can’t be worth all this, can it?”

Aziraphale looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed, spots of pink burning in his cheeks. His chest hitched as little hiccuping sobs fought their way free.

“I’m sorry, Crowley,” he said. “If you want to stop…Gabriel will- will finish things. I should n-never have asked you to-“

“You didn’t ask me for a bloody thing,” Crowley whispered. “And this is not your fault. How can you not see that?”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale repeated miserably.

Behind him, the Archangels were casting pointed, impatient looks. Crowley ran an agitated hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up at all sorts of angles. “Is it always like this?”

Stupid question. Of course it was. Crowley had been able to tell that straight off. He was just desperate for something to say, some way to delay the inevitable moment when he picked up the whip again.

Aziraphale shook his head, tears running down his cheeks.

“No. Not always like this.”

Crowley grimaced. He should have known that. This time was special, this time he got to be humiliated in front of his best friend as well as the entire Heavenly Host.

“Right. Well-“

“You’re here,” Aziraphale continued, in a soft, small voice that pierced through to Crowley’s heart. “And you’ll be- be with me, afterward. Won’t you? It isn’t s-so bad if I- if I know you’ll be there…”

Great. The absolute last crowd Crowley wanted to cry in front of, and here he was ready to break into a thousand sobbing pieces if someone tapped him with a fingertip.

“Course I’ll be there, angel,” he choked out. His eyes itched, but he refused to move his glasses to wipe at them. “‘M’not going anywhere. And I’ll…I’ll get you through this. We’ll get through this. Okay?”

The look on Aziraphale’s face was heart-achingly familiar. It was the same one he used when Crowley brought him chocolates, or miracled a stain off his jacket.

Gabriel cleared his throat, and held up his arm to tap at a watch that Crowley was ninety percent sure he hadn’t been wearing when they’d gotten here.

“No more breaks,” Gabriel snapped. “Any other angel would be done by now. He’s been coddled enough.”

“The demon hasn’t got it in him,” someone from the crowd suggested. “He’s even softer than Aziraphale.”

“Either that, or he’s too weak to lift the whip anymore,” someone else added. “He doesn’t look like much of a fighter. It’s a wonder Hell kept him around.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s got his perks. You don’t dress like that if you’re not advertising something.” That earned a fair amount of elbowing and snickering.

Ah, yes, Crowley thought. Always room for a little holier-than-thou posturing to go with your schoolyard bullying tactics. Like the peanut butter and chocolate of public humiliation, aren’t they?

As he stalked back into position, Crowley couldn’t help but put a little extra sway into his walk. It was the effect of knowing all those eyes were on him, provocateur’s instincts buried so deep it would have taken dynamite to get them out. Predictably, the knowing mutters increased, and when Crowley spun back around he got the sense that most of the attention remained on him, rather than Aziraphale.

People had been looking at Crowley for a long time. They’d said all sorts of things about him, some of them even true. He’d gotten used to that early on.

This time, when he let the whip fall, he exaggerated his swing as much as he dared, let a small grunt of exertion escape his throat. Just to see what would happen.

“Come on, serpent, you can do better than that!”

Crowley didn’t look back at the Archangels, just waited for Aziraphale to gasp out “Ten”, before raising his arm again.

“Don’t be shy, put those hips into it!”

Yes, Crowley thought, a small flame of triumph beginning to flicker in his chest. Look at me. I’m the demon, I’m the real abomination here. I’m the one that deserves to be humiliated. Talk to me.

After the eleventh blow, Aziraphale was weeping steadily, and some of the crowd began to take notice again. Taking in a deep breath and letting it out as a slow hiss, Crowley slipped his glasses off and tucked them into his pocket.

It had the same effect as the first glimpse of a stripper’s tits at a stag party. The crowd’s tone grew rougher, more jagged, the pretext of civilized obedience wearing thin. Crowley had seen it thousands of times. A group was always easier to manipulate than a single person.

“Demon filth,” someone spat.

“Can he even blink? Does he have eyelids?”

“Wonder what other snake parts he has.”

The lash rose and fell, Aziraphale’s voice gritted out the numbers, and the crowd began to get rowdy. Crowley paused to wipe the sweat off his forehead and fired off a quick wink, his head turned so the Archangels wouldn’t see it.

“He is enjoying this! Look at him!”

He delivered the remaining blows to Aziraphale’s back while the crowd called him monster and animal, frequently looking back up at the Host but taking care not to make actual eye contact with any of them. The situation was rapidly becoming unstable, and Crowley knew that a lingering glance at the wrong moment could cause violence to burst forth. He didn’t want to provoke them into attacking him; he just wanted them to leave Aziraphale alone.

Would it be the worst thing, though, if they realized how bad they really are? a soft voice purred in the back of his mind. A good riot can shake some things loose. Change some hearts and minds that need changing.

No. That was Hell’s influence talking. It would not help Aziraphale, and that was the only reason Crowley was even here.

They were almost done. It was time to move on to Aziraphale’s wings.

They were drooping, now, the feathers spattered with stray drops of red, but still beautiful. Crowley thought of his own wings, safely hidden on the infernal plane. He thought of how in all of his time in Hell no one had dared to touch them, no one had even tried, and he had thought that that was supposed to be part of his punishment. He had missed the camaraderie of grooming, had been so delighted to have rediscovered it with Aziraphale, and it had never even occurred to him to think why he had been the first to suggest it…

When Crowley looked back at his own hand, he realized that in his distress he had started to spread scales. The were creeping out from under his sleeve to wrap around his wrist, and he guessed from the tingling sensation on his neck that they were starting to grow out from under his collar as well.

“Oh, that’s disgusting,” someone yelled. “It’s like some kind of pox.”

“He’s probably got them all over.”

Crowley let them speculate in that direction without acknowledging it. He was steeling himself. This wasn’t just Aziraphale’s corporation he would be hurting now. It was him.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley whispered, so quietly he wasn’t sure Aziraphale would be able to hear him. He didn’t dare say it louder. Now was no time to lose the crowd.

Crowley took a deep breath, forced all his anger into a tight little ball in the center of his chest, and brought the whip down on Aziraphale’s right wing.

Aziraphale howled as the feathers and flesh immediately gave way to bleeding, gold this time instead of red. His wing twitched violently, the breeze from it strong enough to tease the ends of Crowley’s hair. A few whoops of approval rang out, but they were drowned out by the members of the Host still loudly commenting on Crowley.

“Hey, Crowley, is it true your wings burned off when you fell?”

“They did! I saw it! They burst into flames, and then they got eaten away by sulfur.”

“Show us! Show us!”

Now the Host began to take it up as a chant, demanding to see Crowley’s blackened wings, twenty-million avid eyes boring into the demon and demanding more pain. Crowley delivered the fifth blow to Aziraphale’s wing and looked out at them, eyes blazing, fangs growing long, hating every one of them and yet still compelled to give them what they wanted…

“Enough.”

A hand wrapped around his upper arm. Crowley turned, snarling, into the face of the Archangel Michael. Her eyes seethed with cold fury as she snatched the whip from his hand.

“Step back. We’re finishing this,” she ordered.

If it had been Gabriel, Crowley would have fought, but it was clear from the tension in Michael’s voice that she knew very well the volatile situation they were dealing with. Crowley had no sooner let the whip slip from his grasp than she turned smartly about, raised the whip, and laid five lashes against Aziraphale’s left wing, all in the same spot and within seconds of each other.

Even if he’d been given time to count, Aziraphale wouldn’t have been able to. He couldn’t even scream, only make an airless, whining sound before collapsing, shaking, against the chains.

“You’re done,” Michael snapped at Crowley. “Get him out of here.”

The shackles abruptly came undone, sending Aziraphale spilling to the ground. Crowley braced for jeers from the crowd, but they seemed distracted now, talking among themselves, befuddled murmurs piling on top of each other as they tried to pick up the beat of where they had been.

As he reached Aziraphale’s crumpled form, Crowley forgot about the Host entirely. His angel was trembling, wings and trousers stained with blood, trying to push himself back up from his knees. Crowley offered a hand, and he grasped it as if he were drowning.

“C’mon,” Crowley said. “This party’s rubbish. I told you we should have just gone to The Savoy again.”

For one horrible moment, Aziraphale’s eyes blinked up at him with no recognition, just a haze of pain. Then something cleared, and the grip on Crowley’s hand grew stronger.

“You’re right, of course,” Aziraphale said, hauling himself to his feet with Crowley’s help. “You always are.”

“He’s not supposed to leave!” Gabriel spluttered, looking between them and Michael indignantly. “He has to stay for the entire thing. Everyone has to-“

“Gabriel,” Michael said through gritted teeth. “Would you please just shut up?”

Tension thick as London fog settled over the room. Crowley looped his arm around Aziraphale’s waist and smiled.

“Times are changing, Mike,” he said. “And I’m sure the big boss would forgive you if Aziraphale’s invitation to this thing got lost in the mail next century. Everyone makes mistakes, after all.”

No one said a word as Crowley guided Aziraphale out the double doors.

It took a few minutes for Crowley to marshal his strength to miracle them both gone. While he waited, the doors opened again, and he clutched Aziraphale close and braced himself for a parting shot from Gabriel or worse.

Aziraphale clothes were flung outside in a heap, jacket balled up, tie, shirt and waistcoat hopelessly rumpled.

“Wankers,” Crowley muttered. He scooped up the clothes in his free arm, snapped his fingers, and took his leave of Heaven, hoping it would be the last time.

——

There was one awful moment, when the air around them changed but failed to resolve into the familiar atmosphere of the bookshop, that Aziraphale thought they would not be permitted to leave Heaven. That he had been played exactly for the fool they had always thought he was, and that he had led Crowley into a trap.

Then he looked up, took in the less familiar but still comforting sights of Crowley’s flat, and relaxed a little bit. They had left Heaven safely behind once more.

Until next time, an unwelcome voice piped up in his head. He shuddered, jostling Crowley as he did.

“Hey,” Crowley whispered, arm tightening around Aziraphale’s waist. “’S’alright, angel. It’s over.”

They were huddled together on the cool stone, Aziraphale’s head resting on Crowley’s shoulder. The air in the flat was cold, and he felt the skin on his bare chest prickle into goosebumps. His back, however, fairly throbbed with heat, and was beginning to itch as the blood dried. His wings hung down like a ruined bridal train, smearing gold over the floor and Crowley’s clothes.

“I’m making a mess,” he protested, trying in vain to get his legs under him to stand. It wasn’t so much the physical exhaustion as a complete refusal on his body’s part to relinquish his grip on Crowley; it was as if he were convinced the world around him would simply cave in if he let go.

“Don’t worry about it.” Crowley’s voice was harsh. Looking into his face, Aziraphale saw the demon was pale and shaking faintly. “Better here than your shop. I’m not the one who insists on doing his cleaning the human way.”

It was a little reassuring to hear that Crowley still had the energy to tease him, but Aziraphale could tell he was deeply disturbed by what had just happened. As well he should be. Aziraphale had taken the lashing, but Crowley had been the one who ended up being flayed, subjected to the hatred of the entire Host. At least the ways they tended to mock Aziraphale- his frivolousness, the softness of his form- were things he had a relative measure of control over. Mocking Crowley’s eyes, his scales, demanding to see his wings- it must have reminded him of Falling all over again.

“Angel?” Crowley shook him gently, tone growing sharp with concern. “What’s wrong? Is it your wings?”

“My…oh.” Aziraphale looked down at himself. He had quite forgotten his injuries in the moment, but now realized that he was rather dizzy. “Actually, I don’t feel so well.”

“Right, here we go.” Cinching his arm around Aziraphale’s waist, Crowley helped them both stagger up and steered Aziraphale toward the bedroom. “Let’s get you patched up.”

“Crowley, your sheets,” Aziraphale protested, even as he collapsed prone across the vast, dark expanse of Crowley’s bed.

“Never mind my sheets, you ridiculous thing,” Crowley said. He snatched a pillow for Aziraphale’s head and set about easing him into the center of the bed, letting his wings splay out on either side of him. “Better?”

“Much,” Aziraphale said, then surprised himself by bursting into tears.

“Shit,” he heard Crowley mutter, before a tentative hand settled on the back of his neck. “Hey, it’s alright. It’s going to be fine. Just let me try a quick miracle here…”

“It won’t work.” Aziraphale shifted his head on the black satin pillowcase to look up at Crowley with one eye. The look on his face was so heartbreakingly concerned that Aziraphale had to choke back a fresh wave of sobs. “The cuts- the whip they use- miracles won’t heal them. Takes time. Time to think about- about what they mean-“

“Oh, bollocks to what they mean,” Crowley snarled. “That was torture back there, Aziraphale. Surely you realize that now, if you didn’t before.”

“Of course I do,” Aziraphale cried. “And I- I dragged you into it, without a thought for what you were risking. Oh, Crowley, I’m so sorry-“

“Stop.” It was maddening, not being able to look Crowley fully in the eye, but his wings were on fire now and every shift of movement made them worse. “Don’t you fucking dare apologize to me, angel, not after that. If I have to listen to you take the blame for their actions right now, I’m going to be sick. So just don’t.”

Not knowing what to do other than apologize, Aziraphale shut his mouth. He was trembling, exacerbating the pain, and he screwed his eyes shut and tried to still himself. He heard Crowley curse softly again.

“Angel,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have shouted. I don’t- I’m a little rattled here too, yeah? Let’s just…right. Miracles won’t work. Okay. Um…”

His first instinct was to insist that Crowley not bother. That he leave Aziraphale here to wallow in self-pity, counting the minutes as the pain ran its natural course. He stopped himself, not for his own sake, but for Crowley’s. The demon was upset, and when upset, he wanted to do something. If fussing over Aziraphale’s injuries would help him calm down, then Aziraphale could have the patience to let him.

Swallowing down the tears, Aziraphale tried to speak normally. “Your flat…you keep it up to human standards for the most part, yes?”

“Er, yeah, but I don’t see how-“

“Most human homes these days have a first-aid kit in the bathroom,” Aziraphale explained. “I think you’ll find yours does as well. If you’re truly committed to keeping up appearances. Under the sink, perhaps.”

A beat of silence, and then a soft laugh, and, even more miraculously, a brush of lips against his temple.

“You’re brilliant, you know that? Hang on, I’ll be back in two shakes.”

While Crowley was out of the room, Aziraphale pressed his face into the pillow that smelled of the demon’s cologne and tried to pull himself together. The shaking and the dizziness were only getting worse, and he felt it would not be long before he was babbling again, saying things that would hurt Crowley more than he’d already endured. He had already done so much for Aziraphale, had always been there for him, sauntering in and saving him while Aziraphale just drifted through life, a soft, empty-headed coward…

“Here.” Crowley’s voice at his back again, the slight shift in the mattress as he settled next to him. “Human first-aid kit, just like you said. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

At the first brush of wet cloth against his back Aziraphale flinched, but Crowley was so careful, dabbing between the wounds with the lightest of touches, that soon he was able to close his eyes and surrender to it. Normally, the recovery period from these sessions was humiliating. He would allow himself to be cleaned and tended to by the healers, many of whom had been berating him only moments before and weren’t inclined to speak gently to him afterwards. He could never bear to stay in Heaven for very long following the exercise, so he would return home, wings cinched painfully back to the metaphysical plane, hobbling like an old man and wincing every time his clothes brushed the cuts on his back. He’d have to close the shop until they healed, lest they tear open again while he was arranging shelves or serving a customer. Alone, things weren’t much better. He couldn’t reach the cuts to do much more than the most perfunctory of cleaning, and would simply have to wait while they itched and scabbed and tore open again, thinking all the while that if he weren’t such a poor excuse for an angel, he would have friends among the Host who could help him with this.

Of course, he never considered calling on Crowley for help, although he knew now that the demon would have given it the moment he was asked. He would have been over in a heartbeat, fraternization or no, soothing Aziraphale’s pain and chasing away his loneliness the same way he always had.

“Oh, angel, I’m sorry, I know it hurts.”

With a start, Aziraphale realized he had started weeping again. He shook his head, twisting around to look up at Crowley as best he could. “It’s not that, my dear. I’m just…so angry.”

“Yeah?” Crowley’s voice was guarded, and Aziraphale realized with a horrid plunge in his stomach that he was afraid Aziraphale was angry at him.

“Not with you,” Aziraphale hurriedly assured him. “With Heaven, but…mostly with myself, if I’m being perfectly honest. I know you said you didn’t want to hear me apologize again, but I’m having trouble thinking of anything besides how sorry I am.”

“I insisted on going with you,” Crowley pointed out. “You didn’t drag me into anything. And if I’d had my way, you wouldn’t even have been the one to go at all, so if anything you’re the one who took on more than you had to.”

“But that’s just it,” Aziraphale said. “You’re always doing things like that, you’re always giving things to me, giving of yourself. How can I not feel like the most selfish, idiotic creature in the universe, for keeping you at arm’s length for so long?”

Crowley’s hand, blessedly cool, lit on the back of Aziraphale’s neck again. “I won’t say you weren’t a bit of an idiot, some of the time,” he said dryly. “But…I like doing things for you, Aziraphale. I don’t do these things because I feel like I have to, or because I want something in return from you. I do them because…because it just feels right, to do them. Or wrong, I guess- demon, I know- but whether it’s capital-R right or not, I don’t really care. I just want to take care of you. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, really, since we met.”

Even a few short years ago, Aziraphale knew, such a confession would have been unthinkable. But they were not adversaries anymore, and Crowley deserved to know that Aziraphale knew that too.

“Oh, Crowley.” Propping himself on one elbow, trying his best not to wince, Aziraphale rose up to put his hand on the demon’s cheek. “I feel the same for you, you must know that. And I…I want to make you feel the way you make me feel. Like I’m loved, like I deserve to be loved. Won’t you please tell me how I can do that?”

Crowley’s eyes were wide, melting pools of mellow-gold. “Lie down, angel. Let me…let me care for you.”

Sighing, Aziraphale let himself be eased back onto his belly. Crowley’s touch was sure, strong and confident as he massaged the muscles in Aziraphale’s arms to help them relax. His wounds still stung, but that infuriating itching was gone now that they had been cleaned, and the waves of love he felt emanating from Crowley at his side soothed his blood and made the pain feel less important. He was protected, safe in the care of the being who loved him most.

“There you go,” Crowley breathed. “Just like that, just relax.”

A sharp, antiseptic smell cut through the air. Aziraphale felt cold and then stinging in his wings, the feathers twitching of their own volition. He bit back a whimper as Crowley made soothing little noises, trying to hold still.

“It’s alright, I’ve got you. Just something for these cuts. Should be feeling better in a few seconds.”

He was right. As the sting faded it was soon replaced by a soothing tingle, the reassuring smell of herbs growing stronger. Aziraphale’s wings slumped gratefully, spreading out until the tips hung off the edges of the bed. He felt Crowley shuffling around, then the deeply satisfying sensation of his left wing being preened, the feathers smoothed and straightened one by one.

“Oh, thank you,” he sighed, nuzzling his face against the pillow. “That feels wonderful, darling.”

“Good,” Crowley said. “You deserve it, you know. So strong, so good, my beautiful angel.”

Aziraphale made a halfhearted sound of demureness, but it was hard to focus on modesty when every touch of Crowley’s hands and every word from his lips was steeping him deeper into this sense of love. This did feel right. It felt like Crowley’s clever fingers weren’t just straightening his feathers but setting the very world right, assembling reality molecule by molecule until everything was exactly as it should be.

“Gonna put the salve on your back now,” Crowley said, after he finished Aziraphale’s other wing. “It’ll sting again, but just for a moment.”

This time Aziraphale barely felt the sting at all. He was drifting, borne upwards on a cloud of soft sensation. The only thing of any real weight was Crowley, his voice, the fall of his breathing, the smell of his cologne still clinging to the sheets. Wanting to feel even closer to him, Aziraphale pressed his face against the pillow, chasing the demon’s scent. His hand, inert at his side until now, crept outward until it found Crowley’s knee, and grabbed on. The warmth of his flesh even through his clothes both soothed and heightened Aziraphale’s senses. He thought if he concentrated he could feel the blood rushing beneath Crowley’s skin, the minute electrical bursts of nerve endings as they responded to his touch.

“More,” Aziraphale whispered, only half aware of what he was saying. “Want to touch you more.”

There was another shift, the mattress dipping as Crowley strove to twist himself into a position that wouldn’t touch Aziraphale’s wings. He ended up sprawled crossways on the head of the bed, legs dangling over the side, but his dear face was a scant few inches from Aziraphale’s own.

“Aziraphale,” he said, eyes somber. “When I said I didn’t want anything in return. I did mean it. You don’t…don’t have to…”

Closing the space between them, Aziraphale kissed Crowley softly on the lips. They were dry and soft and twitched ever-so-slightly when Aziraphale first made contact, but then they fell very still.

When Aziraphale pulled away, Crowley was looking at him like he was seeing something truly stunning. The birth of a star, perhaps, or the first delicate green tendril of a plant pushing up through the earth.

“I don’t have to,” Aziraphale agreed. “But…I want to. If you do as well, that is. Do you…want to?”

And there it was. Aziraphale’s turn to ask, to bare his soul and risk rejection. Crowley had been doing it for so long that he made it look easy, but as Aziraphale’s heart pounded he realized how vulnerable one was in this moment.

“Angel,” Crowley sighed. “Of course I do.”

The trepidation in Aziraphale’s chest dissolved, leaving only a sweet, aching tenderness behind. They kissed slowly, learning each other’s tastes, both of them reluctant to be the first to pull away. Aziraphale was faintly aware of an ache developing in his neck from having to turn his head, still flat on his stomach as he was. He tugged at the collar of Crowley’s shirt to pull the demon closer. His fingers slipped into the open v, his knuckles brushing against the sparse bristle of hair there, and they both shivered. He became suddenly aware of how close Crowley was, how warm, and how much of him there was that Aziraphale had never touched. He longed to patiently remove the layers Crowley wore, to catalogue each inch of bare skin, to note each spot that elicited similar shivers, or gasps, or moans. He tried to push himself up onto his elbows and was rewarded with a fresh rake of pain down his back for his efforts.

“Oh, blast,” he grunted. “Perhaps I could miracle up some bandages. Maybe then I could-“

“You’ll do no such thing,” Crowley said. “You need to take it easy.”

Crowley’s tone was firm, but Aziraphale felt a sort of give there all the same. It was a subtlety that only six millennia of listening to Crowley speak would teach one to recognize. A sort of playfulness, an invitation, a but-what-if? just beneath the surface. A tempter’s voice.

Aziraphale let his lips form the beginning of a pout. Nothing he couldn’t walk back, if he needed to. Just enough to accentuate his bottom lip, a trick that worked if the sudden movement of Crowley’s eyes was anything to go by.

“I suppose you’re right,” he said. “Such a shame. We’ve waited so long, after all.”

“Yesss.” Crowley’s eyes narrowed. The corner of his mouth crooked upward. “Quite a pity, that.”

“Doubtless there are humans who would know how to work around this predicament,” Aziraphale said, letting his injured wings flap weakly for effect. “But of course I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“No.” Crowley shifted on the bed, legs rubbing together. “Wouldn’t expect you to. You being so pure and innocent and all.”

“Indeed.” The heat was back, but it had traveled from the cuts on Aziraphale’s back to the knot of nerves between his legs. His Effort, trapped between the mattress and his belly, gave an interested twitch. “I’m quite naive. I don’t think I would even know- know the words for what one might suggest…”

Crowley’s pupils were thin slits now. He did not look at all innocent. He looked like a demon, and yet Aziraphale had never felt more safe and secure as he leaned forward for another kiss.

“Want me to make you come?”

The words were spoken so closely that Aziraphale felt the flick of Crowley’s tongue against his lips. His hips jolted, his Effort suddenly throbbing against his stomach. He nodded.

“Please. Oh, Crowley, please.”

Crowley groaned and bit back with a harder kiss, teeth behind his lips, fingers curling into Aziraphale’s hair. Aziraphale reached out to clutch at him again, but Crowley was already moving, sitting up to straddle Aziraphale’s legs. He leaned down to press light kisses to Aziraphale’s neck, his jawline, anywhere he could reach. He moved gracefully, careful not to touch his wings or the cuts on his back.

“Trust me?” Crowley asked. Again, that vulnerability, that acknowledged possibility that the answer might be no. What a brave soul Aziraphale had fallen in love with.

“Yes, darling. Always.”

Then Crowley’s hands were on him again, and his lips, so achingly sweet. Aziraphale felt his hips being lifted, Crowley reaching around to undo his trousers.

“This alright?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale pleaded. He was submerged in love, drowning in it. Crowley’s touch was patient, unfailingly steady, pulling Aziraphale’s layers away until he was fully naked on the bed. That comforting touch moved on to his legs, soothing the muscles in his thighs, fingertips daring to brush against the swell of his buttocks before shrinking back.

“Can I?”

Aziraphale looked up over his shoulder. He could see the desire on Crowley’s face and in the taut lines of his body, but that steadfastness remained. His demon, so strong and so practiced in his restraint, even when it looked to be causing him physical pain.

“Anything,” Aziraphale said. He pushed himself up on one elbow so that he could twist around for another kiss. “I trust you completely, dearest.”

Groaning, Crowley kissed him fiercely and then guided him back down, kissing a slow path down his back, only the gentlest of touches at the tender spots between the whip marks. When he reached the small of Aziraphale’s back those kisses became more urgent, sucking at the flesh in a way that would surely redden the skin, teeth scraping just slightly. Aziraphale moaned, both from the sensations and from the thought of Crowley marking him this way, claiming him.

The kisses trailed lower, a low growl escaping Crowley’s throat as he nipped at the curve of his arse before soothing the spot with his lips. The heat between Aziraphale’s legs was growing unbearable, leaving him curling his toes and clenching his fingers in the sheets, trying to find the courage to beg for something he couldn’t name.

“Crowley.” It was all he could manage to say. “Oh, Crowley, please.”

He felt Crowley’s hands spread him open, tried to relax, but still wasn’t prepared for the sensation of Crowley’s tongue sliding over his perineum before moving up to circle his hole. He clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a cry, squirming deeper into the bed, simultaneously overwhelmed and desperate for more.

“Angel,” Crowley breathed, sounding utterly wrecked. “Is it alright? Are you…”

“Don’t stop,” Aziraphale begged. “Please, please don’t stop.”

That was all the encouragement Crowley needed to dive in in earnest, laving his tongue over the tight ring of muscle until it began to relax enough for the tip to push inside. Aziraphale keened, snarling his fingers in his own hair, self-consciousness forgotten. His prick was aching, so hot and heavy with need he felt it might burst. He became aware that he was rocking his hips, shamelessly chasing whatever friction he could. Crowley growled again, the vibration thrumming into Aziraphale’s core and making him nearly sob with pleasure.

It was so good, but he needed more, just a little more friction and pressure to tip him over into utter bliss. He shifted, meaning to get a hand under him to touch himself, but before he could he felt Crowley’s arm snake around his middle and his hand wrap around his shaft.

Aziraphale buried his face in the pillow and wailed, lost as he thoughtlessly pumped his hips forward. Crowley’s palm was almost as slick and hot as his tongue, circling him and squeezing with just the right amount of pressure, as sure and steady as every other touch from him had been.

“That’sss it,” Crowley hissed. “Fuck my hand, there’s a good angel.” He went back to work with his tongue, opening Aziraphale up more and pushing deeper. Aziraphale was caught between the two electric points of pleasure, thrusting into one only to be pulled back into the other, inescapable, overwhelming and perfect, he was there-

He might have screamed Crowley’s name, or he might have only heard it in his head, his existence pinpointed on the one word that meant love and desire and ecstasy, all at the same time. He felt himself clenching around Crowley’s tongue, felt his climax soaking Crowley’s fingers.

“I love you,” he sobbed. “Oh, Crowley, I love you so much.”

He heard a strangled moan, something that may have started as his name but faltered. Twisting around, Aziraphale saw Crowley over him, one hand braced on the bed to hold himself up, the other frantically working at his belt. He watched as Crowley yanked his trousers open and off his hips, his Effort red and straining to get free.

“Yes,” Aziraphale moaned. “Take your pleasure, darling, please.”

He was unable to tear his gaze off Crowley as the demon took himself in hand. He was so lovely, face flushed, eyes wild. His breath stuttered as he pumped himself, a needy whine that started in the back of his throat and turned into a sob of pleasure as he rubbed the head against Aziraphale’s hole. Aziraphale gasped, wondering if Crowley meant to push inside him, but Crowley only gave himself a few more firm strokes and then he was painting white streaks over Aziraphale’s arse and the backs of his thighs. Crowley growled deep in his chest, low and desperate, and Aziraphale lay beneath him and shivered with delight. There was the evidence of his lover’s pleasure, the satisfaction of knowing that Crowley had joined him in bliss, and there was that delicious sensation again of being claimed. He belonged to Crowley, was Crowley’s to tend to and use and pamper as he saw fit. The proof was all over him.

“Fuck,” Crowley was gasping. “That was…fuck…”

“Mm,” Aziraphale agreed. He wriggled his hips, settling deeper into the mattress. “Lie down here with me, darling.”

“Just a minute,” Crowley said. “Gotta clean you up first.”

“Later.” Aziraphale looked up at him, feeling a blush suffuse his cheeks. “That is, if you don’t mind. I’d like to…to leave it as it, for at least a little while.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Really? We go from pure as the driven snow to you wearing my come, just like that?”

Aziraphale’s blush deepened, and Crowley started to grin.

“You tease. You’ve thought about this before, haven’t you?”

“Good luck proving it,” Aziraphale answered, managing to sound prim despite his thoroughly debauched state. “And this is an awfully chatty version of pillow talk, don’t you think?”

Scoffing in mock offense, Crowley stretched out on his side and snuggled as close as Aziraphale’s wing would allow. He found Aziraphale’s hand, laced their fingers together, drifted close enough on the pillow so their foreheads could touch.

“I see I’m going to have my hands full with you,” he said, eyes sparking wickedly.

“You just might,” Aziraphale said. He waited for a wave of guilt to follow, but it didn’t come. He felt like he was floating again, like the two of them were cradled in a massive hand. “I do actually have a favor to ask of you, my dear.”

“Anything.”

“As soon as I’ve healed up.” Aziraphale reached up and traced his finger along Crowley’s cheekbone. “I’d like it to be my turn.”

He licked his lips, imagining all the ways he might touch Crowley, all the secrets about the demon’s body he could learn when he had him naked and begging. From the way Crowley’s eyes widened and his lips parted in a silent gasp, he guessed some similar pictures were running through his head as well.

“You’ve got it, angel. On one condition.”

“Name it.”

“I know that if they call you back again next century, you’ll have to go or risk Falling.”

Aziraphale’s face fell. He didn’t like the sound of where this was going.

“Yes. That’s the way it is.”

“Right. So, I’ve been thinking about how to handle that, and obviously it might be a bit uncomfortable at first, but I think we ought to-“

“Crowley,” Aziraphale interrupted. “I know that Heaven and I are…estranged, and honestly, I don’t care what management thinks of me anymore. Of us. But I can’t renounce…Her. I love you, and maybe someday I won’t need Her anymore, but I’m not ready-“

Crowley’s brows knit together. “What on earth are you talking about? I know you won’t renounce Her. Angel, you don’t think the very fact that you and I are here, together, despite everything, isn’t at the very least a tacit endorsement from dear old Mum?”

Stunned, Aziraphale wondered. He had, he realized, been waiting for a sign, some official notice that the Almighty acknowledged their relationship and approved.

As if the mere existence of this strange, baffling, beautiful demon wasn’t all the evidence he ever needed.

“Then what are you getting at, my love? If you’re not asking me to Fall so that we can avoid the ritual?”

Crowley snorted. “Dramatic, much? I was going to say, let’s smuggle in some earplugs next time. Miracle them to filter out the crowd noise, just like they do for musicians. I know for a damn well fact that those dunderheads won’t think to check for that sort of thing.”

For a moment all Aziraphale could do was goggle at him, and then they were both laughing, clutching each other as closely as they could. The movement jarred Aziraphale’s wings a bit, but he didn’t care. Whatever pain he had to face, he had more than enough love to make up for it.

“You drive a hard bargain, serpent,” he said, kissing Crowley on the tip of his nose. “But I believe we have a deal.”