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The worst thing about immortality, Crowley had decided, was the utter inescapability of just about everything. Humans doing horrible things to each other? Inescapable. Humans doing horrible things to him? Also inescapable.
Especially when humans doing horrible things to him was part of his damn job, the job he’d gotten stuck with because he was an idiot who hadn’t know when to stop asking questions. God had tossed him in the rubbish bin.
And the more times he had these assignments, the more often he ended up in situations that ended with him being fucked bloody, the more he felt like he belonged in that rubbish bin.
“Come on, sweetheart, don’t be like that,” one of the men cooed, trapping him as he tried to slip towards the side door of the pub. “A pretty girl like you needs company.”
“I’m not a girl,” Crowley snapped.
“A pretty boy…”
“Not that, either.” Not that it mattered to him, really—gender was one of those weird human concepts—but the lack of precision was something that was safe to be irritated about, given that he couldn’t actually be irritated by the likelihood that he was about to be raped by every man in the pub.
The leader of this lot—Archibald, which was a really stupid name—moved in from the side. He grabbed Crowley by the hair, yanked him around, and kissed him hard. Tongue shoving into his mouth while a hand shot between his legs and palmed him through his jeans.
Crowley bit down hard on the tongue. He didn’t always fight. Today, though, he was angry enough not to care what it might cost him.
“You bastard!” Archibald yelled once he struggled free, blood running down his face. “Looks like we need to teach you some manners.”
A knife came out, and Crowley realized his mistake. He’d expected a beating. Honestly kind of felt like he deserved a beating, most of the time. Stabbing, though…
The knife slashed across his face, and he shouted in shock as it tore through his cheek. A hard punch slammed into the side of his head, and he crashed into the bar. Pain shot through his ribs, and he was too busy gasping for breath to get a hand up to shield himself from the next punch.
His head cracked against the bar, breaking his sunglasses, and ringing filled his ears. He sprawled on the floor and tried to get his hand up, desperate to protect himself at least a little. The knife slashed his palm open.
“Worthless cunt, I’ll show you.” Thick fingers knotted in Crowley’s shoulder length hair and dragged him across the floor. He cried out, tried to wriggle free, but there was no hope. And now, he was dazed enough that he couldn’t even miracle himself out of the situation if it went more wrong than he expected. “Let’s see that gorgeous body.”
This time, the knife slashed through his clothes. Hands grabbed and rearranged him, tearing fabric off in pieces until he lay on the tile floor, naked and shivering. Like how he’d been after his Fall, all his grace and worth stripped away.
Archibald dragged him up by the hair again and hurled him across a chair. He grabbed Crowley’s cock, jerked on it a few times, and swore when that didn’t seem to be accomplishing anything. He spat on Crowley’s arse, cold trickle running between his legs, and rammed inside him.
Crowley bit his lip hard, choking back a scream of pain as he tore. And then his head was yanked back, and a filthy cock shoved into his mouth, too.
He choked on it, unprepared as a rough thrust from behind slammed him into the new attacker. They pounded into him, and he struggled not to react. His assignment was to tempt these wankers into lust and related sins. He’d accomplished that already. No reason to give them more satisfaction.
They were already getting enough satisfaction. Archibald grunted with each brutal thrust, jagged fingernails poking at the torn edges of Crowley’s hole. He raked his nails down Crowley’s back, and Crowley hissed against the second bastard’s groin.
Other hands landed on him, the whole group joining in. They fondled him, hit him, spat on him, showered him with hate. Called him a whore, a slut, a worthless piece of shit that deserved to be fucked for trying to leave.
Maybe he did deserve it. He’d done plenty of bad things, over the millennia. Tempted humans, gave them the opportunity to dive headlong into Hell, and most of them had gone for it.
He shouted in pain at a particularly deep thrust, one that ground deeper and deeper into him until he swore it would pierce all the way through him. He screamed again, helpless, and they laughed. Rounds of laughter, bouncing around the pub.
When the first two finished, another pair took their place. Come ran down the insides of Crowley’s legs, trickled across his lips. He lost control over a few tears, and hated himself even more for it.
Weak, that’s what he was. Too weak to claw his way up the hierarchy in Hell until he didn’t have these assignments anymore, too weak to bully someone else into taking these jobs for him, and too weak to control his emotions.
He was still half-crying when the second pair finished. One of the men kicked him hard into the hip, knocking him off the chair. He crashed to the ground, and another sob burst out.
“Aww, poor little thing,” one of them mocked, grabbing at his cock again. “Do you need some fun too?”
No. No, he definitely didn’t want that, not even a little bit. But the more he protested, the worse it would get.
Not that his silence made it any better. Apparently pissed off by that, one of them yanked him up off the floor and threw him into the bar. He crashed against it hard enough that it knocked the wind out of him. And as he lay there, wheezing, kicks slammed into his body.
Crowley curled tighter, trying to shield himself. “Oh, not so fast,” someone said, grabbing his left arm. They yanked it back, twisted, and then laughed as something cracked and he shrieked in agony. “How many other bones should we break, d’ya think?”
A boot stomped down on the fingers of his other hand, and he lost control of the tears completely. Sobbing, he tried to huddle up, pulling his arms back against his stomach. He was losing feeling in his left hand, the wrist definitely broken and badly. His right hand blazed with agony, as much agony as his torn arsehole.
Then someone pushed him facedown on the floor and climbed across him, and his arse took priority over the other pain.
Human after human took him, each of them vicious and laughing. He’d definitely managed to damn some souls tonight, so at least there was that. He’d be able to write up a great report, one that would get him mocked and probably fucked in Hell, too.
If he’d failed at his assignment, same damn thing. There was no possible way to win.
In an odd sort of way, it was almost a relief when they pinned him on his back across a table and started trying to arouse him in earnest. Absolutely humiliating, of course, but at least the forced arousal distracted him from the pain.
The first time this had happened to him, he threw up. Now, he was kinda used to it.
Tears of shame stung his eyes, and disgust flooded him. What kind of a monster was he, that could ever get used to something like this? Could almost look forward for it, even if it was just for the pain relief?
But he surrendered to the shuddering climax with a moan of relief, head going pleasantly foggy as the flood of post-orgasm chemicals washed through his system. Numbing the pain, relaxing his taut muscles, dulling the shame.
The shame would return. But hopefully he’d go into shock first.
“See?” Archibald said, voice shaking with laughter as he toyed with Crowley’s softening cock. “I knew you wanted it, you slut. Just playing hard to get.”
They spat on him a few more times, kicked him, rained down more insults. And then a hand knotted in his hair again, dragging him along.
He cried out in pain, broken fingers and wrist bumping into the floor with each brutal jerk forward. Something in his side was broken, too, possibly several ribs. And, now that he was paying attention, he seemed to be bleeding a lot.
They hurled him down a short staircase into an alley, jeering as his body flopped and bounced down the steps and crashed into the railing. He landed on his broken wrist and shrieked, tears pouring down his cheeks. Everything spinning, he crumpled sideways and fell into a pile of rubbish.
“Right where you belong!” one of them shouted, and they all laughed.
Anguish crashed over him in a sudden, heaving gasp that turned into raw, wracking sobs. He couldn’t even bring himself to huddle up now, or to try to control the ragged crying that poured from the depths of his soul.
This was where he belonged. Broken, humiliated, used. That was life as a demon. And now, with only a few remaining embers of self-worth left, he had to do the only thing that could possibly make him even more ashamed of himself.
He focused all his remaining energy and snapped his fingers, miracling his mobile phone to himself. Then, unable to stop sobbing, he choked, “Call Aziraphale.”
---
Aziraphale had just been waffling over which book to read when the phone rang. He glanced at it, briefly considered ignoring it, and then felt rather guilty at the thought. It was most likely a customer, but it might in fact be something important.
He picked up, reluctantly. “Hello, I’m afraid the bookshop is very closed right now.”
“Angel.” The voice on the other end of the call was broken, but immediately recognizable. “I need… help. Temptation went bad, I can’t…”
Crowley began to sob, and Aziraphale’s heart broke. He closed his eyes, fixed Crowley’s location in his mind, and miracled himself there with a thought.
He appeared in a filthy alley next to a pile of rubbish. And there, among the broken bottles and kitchen scraps, was Crowley.
“Oh no,” Aziraphale breathed. He knelt beside his best friend and reached out with a trembling hand. Crowley was naked, bloody, come spattered all over his body. His sunglasses were missing. “Oh no, not again. Oh, my dear boy, not again…”
He smoothed the tangled red hair out of Crowley’s face, devastated. Crowley tried to twist away, to hide his face, and Aziraphale made a gentle shushing noise. He ran another careful stroke across the red hair, then knelt in the refuse and gently scooped Crowley up across his lap.
Crowley cried out, shuddering in pain, and then went very nearly limp against him. He sobbed, barely conscious. “Don’t deserve…”
“Shh, I know. You don’t deserve this, not at all.” Holding him gently, Aziraphale looked over his brutalized body. One wrist broken, other hand broken, several ribs cracked. Lips and mouth chafed from repeated violations. Anus badly torn up, undoubtedly from the same thing. And bruises and cuts everywhere, including a deep gash that slashed across his cheek and nose.
He also seemed to have been stabbed in the lower stomach, blood running heavily from the wound. Aziraphale laid his hand across it and healed it as gently as possible, wincing when Crowley yelped in pain. Angelic healing was awfully painful for demons, and there was no getting around it.
“Aziraphale,” Crowley choked, tears running down his cheeks. “Don’t deserve… help.”
Ah. That was what he’d meant.
“Yes, you do deserve help. I’m here, Crowley, and I’m going to help you.” For what little he could do. “How much will you let me heal you, my dear?”
“Just… breaks. And anything life threatening.” Convulsive shudders wrenched through Crowley, worsening every second. His skin was going cold. “And maybe my… fucking face.”
Aziraphale nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Crowley never let him heal most injuries, and he was relatively certain that it had nothing to do with the pain involved in healing. As far as Aziraphale could tell, Crowley thought he deserved to be in pain, deserved to suffer.
And suffer, he did. He screamed as Aziraphale mended his wounds, going increasingly ashen under all the blood and bruising, his body jerking convulsively. He seemed to have gone into shock by the end of it, or else had withdrawn into himself completely. Whether from the trauma or shame, Aziraphale couldn’t be sure.
As gently as possible, Aziraphale picked him up and took him back to the bookshop. His murmured inquiries were met with total silence. In the past, Crowley had told him to do whatever he needed to do. Hopefully, that still stood.
Blinking away more tears, Aziraphale put Crowley in a nice hot bath. There was no response to that either, other than a flinch when Aziraphale tried to collect his hair and pull it back. “I’m sorry,” Aziraphale murmured, worried. “Would you rather I didn’t touch you?”
Crowley gave a little one shouldered shrug. “Doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Bloody worthless, me.”
A few of Aziraphale’s tears escaped at the utter lack of hope in that statement. He’d met Crowley before the Fall, back when Crowley was an angel who laughed and cheered and took joy in everything.
That joy was so rare now, hardly ever apparent. And after this sort of abuse, it might be years before Crowley smiled again. Or decades, even.
It was as if each one of these assignments broke him a little more, snuffed out those flickers of lightness and optimism that had endured Hell and thousands of years of Earth. But if this kept happening, if he kept being hurt and degraded…
More than anything, Aziraphale feared what might become of his best friend if those last embers of hope were smothered.
And oh, there was so little he could do. He bathed Crowley gently, washing away the stains of this latest round of humiliation. Cleansing him as best he could, pouring all his love and care into each touch.
Crowley began to weep again, as he did so. But he didn’t flinch at Aziraphale’s touch now, didn’t even pull away. He turned into the gentle hand against his cheek, as if trying to hide himself in Aziraphale’s affection. Perhaps, in some small way, this chased away the memory of such abuse.
Everything in Aziraphale longed to go further, to shower him with love and kindness in every way possible. To take him to bed, to chase away all the other bad memories, to show him that there was gentleness in the world, not only cruelty.
But that, in itself, would be cruel. Crowley hated himself so deeply that he would agree to anything, especially if it hurt him. And Aziraphale never, ever wanted to hurt him.
Once Crowley was as clean as he could get—although still bleeding slightly from the assaults—Aziraphale helped him out of the tub, dried him, and wrapped him in a thick, warm blanket. Crowley leaned against the wall, eyes down, not reacting to anything.
“There,” Aziraphale said gently, trailing shaky fingers across Crowley’s pale cheek. “Would you like to borrow some clothes, or can you miracle something up?”
In answer, Crowley snapped his fingers and dressed himself in his usual tight black attire, along with his sunglasses. He winced, shifting his legs uncomfortably. “Sorry,” he finally said, voice hoarse. “I hate having you see me like this. Bloody disgusting, me.”
“No. No, you’re not.” Another tear slipped loose, and Aziraphale battled against the urge to hug him. “I’m sorry you’ve been hurt, Crowley.”
Crowley gave another little shrug. “That’s life as a demon. Get fucked, get tossed in the rubbish where I belong…”
He tried to saunter forward with his usual careless attitude, but this time he stumbled, whole face wrenching with what might have started as a scream, but which he choked back into a strangled noise of agony. He tried to catch himself on the wall, missed, and fell to one knee.
“Oh!” Aziraphale rushed to him and helped him back up, carefully wrapping an arm around his back. “Oh, my dear, please let me help you.”
“Why would you?” Crowley spat, trying to pull free. “Why the fuck would an angel want to help something like me?”
“Because…” Tears flooded Aziraphale’s eyes, and as much as he battled against the words, they slipped out anyway. “Because I love you.”
Crowley stared at him for a moment, then gave a harsh laugh. “Nuh. Nice of you to say it, but that’s impossible. There’s nothing about me worth loving. Unlovable, that’s what I am.”
“I love you,” Aziraphale repeated, guilt coiling in his stomach even as he said it again. Was he simply making matters worse? “I would do anything to help you.”
Crowley just shook his head again, lip trembling. “You wouldn’t if you’d seen me in there. If you’d seen me tempting them. If you’d seen me come while they raped me. It’s no wonder God cast me out, if I’m capable of that. I deserve everything that’s happened to me.”
He said it harshly, the self-loathing in his voice so intense that it made Aziraphale sick. But then the hatred on his face collapsed into something vulnerable, broken, devastated. His legs buckled, and he sagged against Aziraphale as weeping took him again.
Sick at heart, Aziraphale steered him to the bedroom and helped him lie down. This bed was rarely used, really only when Crowley was in too bad of shape to be trusted on his own. He was in far too self-destructive a mindset to be alone right now.
He didn’t protest as Aziraphale covered him with warm blankets. He simply laid there, crying, his expression so heartbroken that it was all Aziraphale could do not to break down too. His own faith in the Almighty aside—practically mandatory for an angel—right now, he rather wanted to scream at Her for abandoning Crowley to this horrible existence as a demon.
It wasn’t until Aziraphale tried to step away that Crowley moved again. He caught Aziraphale’s hand, trembling, and gave him a look full of agony. “Please…”
Nodding, Aziraphale sat down beside him. He held Crowley’s bruised hand, bent, and kissed his cheek. “Whatever you need, Crowley. Anything you need, always.”
“Dunno what I need.” The harsh anger had faded from Crowley’s voice, replaced by exhaustion. “I just… wish I could be happy again. Even if only for a little while.”
“You will be, someday.” Aziraphale couldn’t help the reassurance, even though Crowley just gave a quiet, skeptical snort. “I’ll find a way to help. I sometimes wonder if…”
He trailed off, ashamed. How dare he even consider such a thing right now? How could he even think of suggesting it?
Crowley’s expression brightened a little with curiosity, and Aziraphale’s heart ached all the more. Oh, how he adored that curiosity. “Wonder if what, angel?”
“Well…” Aziraphale swallowed hard, trembling, but his desperation to make Crowley feel even slightly less awful overrode his guilt. “I know that, well, certain things of the flesh have only ever been forced on you. I sometimes wonder if you’d… like to experience them in a less… It’s just that I’d like to make you feel good, and…”
His voice cracked, and he lost his nerve. Oh, he was simply the worst angel! The worst friend, for that matter.
But Crowley’s expression softened, and he gave something that was almost a smile. “Wot, are you offering me a pity blowjob? I gotta say, I don’t really need reassurance that I’m fuckable.”
“Not pity,” Aziraphale said quickly. “Nothing like that. I don’t even desire you.”
And now there was an actual smile on Crowley’s face, somehow. “Thanks. That makes me feel loads better.”
Aziraphale studied him for a moment, trying to decide whether that was sarcasm. He’d never been very good at interpreting sarcasm, and it was hard to tell when Crowley was speaking so quietly. “At any rate, um… if you do ever want, a, um…”
“Blowjob?” Crowley supplied, still with that gentle sort of amusement. And oh, it was a joy to hear any amusement in his voice at all.
Nervous, Aziraphale nodded. “Just, um, let me know.”
Crowley gave a quiet snort again, then nestled under the blankets. He didn’t let go of Aziraphale’s hand.
With a shaky exhale, Aziraphale smoothed his hair. Guilt still rolled through him at the offer, but it did seem to have helped a little. At the very least, it had provided Crowley with some amusement.
And if amusement was all Aziraphale could offer to the most important person in his life, so be it. He would happily offer that and anything else if it made Crowley even the tiniest bit less miserable.
---
Three months later
Crowley snapped awake with the awareness of nothing except fear. Was he still in the pub? Had he passed out during the rapes? It wouldn’t be the first time.
Or was he still just laying in the alley, with the rest of the rubbish? Where he belonged?
He opened his eyes, and instead found books. Books absolutely everywhere, along with a smattering of ridiculous angel statues. He must be in Aziraphale’s bookshop.
When he rolled over, woozy, Aziraphale smiled gently. “Hello, my dear,” he said from the chair beside the bed. “It seems you had a solid nap, about three months, and you’ve healed up nicely. At least, on a physical level. No bad dreams?”
“None.” Which was weird. He usually had loads of bad dreams. Maybe it was something about Aziraphale watching over him. “What’re you doing here?”
“Well, you are in my bookshop,” Aziraphale said with just a touchy of the bitchy tone that Crowley loved so much. Hearing it again uncoiled the knot of tension in his stomach, and he relaxed. “In truth, I’ve been catching up on my reading. I’ve had the shop closed the whole time, which was quite nice. And don’t worry about your report, I wrote it for you and sent it in.”
The shame flooded back, and Crowley ducked his head. Bad enough that Aziraphale had seen him after, let alone had to write a report on it. “Sorry. I really didn’t mean to take such a long nap.”
“Oh, please don’t fret. I’m always happy to help, however I can.”
The statement brought back an entirely different offer. Three months ago, it had seemed ridiculous, albeit sweet. Now, in the light of day with the assault months in the past…
Crowley looked to his angel, his best friend. Aziraphale was watching him closely, with a look of worry. “Did you really mean it?”
Aziraphale gave a nervous little laugh, twisting his hands together. “Which part?”
All of it. But Crowley focused on the part that had affected him the most. “That you don’t… desire me.”
Hesitation tugged at Aziraphale’s expression, and he moved to sit beside Crowley on the bed again. He offered his hand, and Crowley took it after a moment. The angel stared down at their joined hands for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts.
“I did mean it,” he finally said, meeting Crowley’s gaze through the dark glasses. “I-I’ve never really… desired anyone, in any way. Or been attracted to anyone, in any way.”
Crowley relaxed again, almost managing to smile. All that stuff also belonged in the “weird human concept” category for him. “Me neither. And seriously, that’s a huge relief. I don’t like being desired or having people find me attractive.”
“I don’t blame you.” Aziraphale bit his lip, then blurted out, “I meant it when I said I loved you, though. You’re my very dearest friend, Crowley.”
“You’re mine too, angel. My best friend.” Crowley squeezed his hand, drew a shaky breath. “And I lo—”
The words strangled off in his throat. He dropped his gaze, shivering. He didn’t deserve to love an angel. Didn’t deserve to be loved by an angel either, but at least loving was an angelic thing to do. Were demons even really capable of love?
“It’s all right, dear boy,” Aziraphale murmured, reaching to stroke his cheek. Just a gentle caress, not the slightest bit threatening. “I know. You don’t have to say it.”
Crowley smiled a little in acknowledgment, then cleared his throat. “So. About the blowjob.” He paused, enjoying the blush that came to Aziraphale’s cheeks. Had to appreciate the little things. “If it’s not about desire or attraction or whatever, it’s seriously just… wanting to make me feel good? That’s it?”
“Well, I would be deeply happily if it made you feel a bit valued, too,” Aziraphale said kindly. “I do value you, you know. You say awfully cruel things about yourself, but they aren’t true.”
That wasn’t something that Crowley could believe, not really. Aziraphale did value him—it was apparent from every single action he took, all the kindness and care—but the rest? No. Any worth Crowley once had was stripped away a long time ago.
But he stroked his thumb across Aziraphale’s hand, gazing down. “I think I’d like that,” he finally said. “I dunno if I’ll actually be able to go through with it. I might just freak out and have a panic attack.”
“Well, if you have a panic attack, we can go back to holding hands.” Aziraphale smiled, corners of his eyes crinkling. The fond expression made Crowley’s heart ache with affection. He did love this angel, more than anything. “Whatever you’re comfortable with, Crowley.”
“Same goes for you,” Crowley added quickly. Shit, he should have said this sooner. “I don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with. If you’re not into this…”
“I am ‘into it’ in the sense that I think it’s a horrible shame that you’ve been so badly hurt, and I would like to comfort you.” Aziraphale swallowed hard, searching his face. “To do something nice for you, and make you feel good.”
It would be nice to have one not-horrible memory associated with that sort of touch. And if there was anyone ever who Crowley could trust with this…
Wordless, he shifted to sit on the edge of the bed and fumbled with his trousers. Definitely couldn’t handle letting Aziraphale undress him. But this, he might be able to handle.
He’d apparently forgotten to give himself underwear when he dressed after the bath, which worked okay in this instance. He looked down at himself, at the total lack of erection, and found himself trembling.
“It’s all right,” Aziraphale said softly, squeezing his hand. “If this isn’t what you want, we can do something else. Snuggle, perhaps.”
Gosh, snuggling sounded amazing. But so did this, if he could manage not to panic. If an unwilling orgasm could feel even the slightest bit good, what would it feel like with someone who loved him? Maybe it could wash away all the shame.
“M’ nervous,” he admitted. “But I wanna try.”
“We’ll try, then.” Without letting go of his hand, Aziraphale slid off the bed and knelt in front of him. He smiled up, his own expression nervous but eager. “I’m afraid I don’t have any experience at this.”
“S’ okay. Honestly, that makes me feel loads better about it .” If Aziraphale had been experienced, it would have felt way, way too much like being touched by all those bastards who wanted to hurt him.
But when Aziraphale finally touched him, with another murmured apology for being unsure how to do it, Crowley’s breath stuttered. Aziraphale ran a light, careful stroke along his length, as if petting him. Gentle, the same way he stroked Crowley’s hair. So, so much care.
Something stirred in Crowley’s groin, a whole different sensation than he’d ever felt before. Not arousal dragged out him with violence. This was careful, considerate, as if every touch was a question. Did he want this?
Yes. Yes, he definitely wanted this.
When Aziraphale lowered his head, taking Crowley in his mouth at last, a moan slipped out. Crowley let his head tilt back, gentle pleasure flooding through him. Aziraphale bobbed his head slowly, still so careful, one hand steadying Crowley’s cock.
And oh, Satan, it felt amazing. Occasional flickers of fear rose, brief instances of something feeling too much like one of the assailants. But whenever Crowley so much as tensed, Aziraphale slowed, looked up with concern, and squeezed his hand. And then, it was okay again.
As the pleasure grew, Crowley’s mind going fuzzy with it, he slid his free hand through Aziraphale’s curls. Apparently encouraged, Aziraphale sped up. He did something with his tongue, something that made Crowley’s vision white out with delight.
And it was getting strong now, the arousal building every second. This time, he wasn’t being dragged towards his peak, desperate to reach it only so the pain would stop. This time, he half wanted it to last forever, to be eternally showered with this much tenderness. Each touch brimmed with love and care.
“Oh, angel,” Crowley moaned, rocking his hips up as Aziraphale lapped at him with as much enthusiasm as he ever showed while eating his favorite desserts. “Oh f-fuck… fuck…”
Orgasm washed over him, a long moan breaking free as he dug his fingers into Aziraphale’s hair. He shuddered through it, lost to the sudden wave of utter contentment and peace. Peace like he hadn’t felt in almost longer than he could remember.
And then, all at once, he was sobbing. Aziraphale swallowed, hand tightening on his, then carefully lifted his head and let Crowley slip from his mouth. “Crowley? I’m so sorry, did I hurt you?”
“No, it… it was… it was so good, I don’t know why I’m…” Crowley sobbed again, tugging on his hand. The emotions raged through him, incomprehensible.
“Oh, my dear boy.” Aziraphale moved to sit beside him, stroking his hair almost compulsively. “It’s all right, shh. Shhh, it’s okay.”
“Dunno what’s… wrong with me.” He twisted towards Aziraphale, hiding his face in the solid shoulder. “That was amazing, angel. It felt so damn good, I… I felt like… like I might belong…”
“It’s okay,” Aziraphale whispered, rocking him gently. “You don’t have to explain. I’m just glad I could give you even a moment’s happiness, and so glad to have you here with me.”
Tears still fell as they laid down together, as Crowley curled up in his arms. As the afterglow faded, shame returned. All those brutal thoughts, the ones that had circled him for so long. That all he deserved was suffering, that he’d deserved to be cast out and cursed to a terrible existence.
But for a brief moment, the moment when he hadn’t been able to think at all, he hadn’t felt like he was worthless, like he’d lost all value long ago. In that moment, it had been impossible to deny how much Aziraphale believed that he deserved happiness.
Crowley couldn’t believe that, not for himself. He was a demon, after all. But in Aziraphale’s arms, with his angel touching him so gently, a few embers of hope flickered into existence again. That maybe, just maybe, he belonged here instead of in the rubbish bin.