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aziraphales-library · 2 months

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hi, love y’all’s blog and all your hard work so dearly. i think I’ve read every crowley whump fic you’ve shared here, i love that trope but its much harder to find personally. im wondering if you have any more crowley whump oneshots, thank you so much

Hello! I'm glad you've been enjoying our #crowley whump tag! There are hundreds on the ao3 tag, too! Here are some more to add to our collection. Mind the tags and warnings, folks!...

Hot Pursuit by Anonymous (M)

While on a walk in the South Downs, Crowley is attacked by Hellhounds. Will Aziraphale be able to save him?

help me in my weakness. i'm falling out of grace by Bentley26 (T)

Prompt fill for Febuwhump Day 2: solitary confinement The War in Heaven was over. Lucifer and his rebellious angels had lost. Raphael was gathered up with the rest and thrown into a dark, featureless cell. He simply had to wait until they came back for him; then he could explain everything. They would come back for him... right? (Takes place right after the War, but before Crowley's actual Fall.)

Supplemental Summoning by ImagineThat0327 (T)

Somebody summons Crowley, believing him to be the demon that burned down the abbey belonging to the Order of Chattering Nuns eleven years ago. Crowley tries to make his case that he is, in fact, not the same demon as before, (damn you, Hastur!) but his summoner is having none of it. They are determined to make Crowley suffer a death just as dreadful as the ones the nuns suffered so long ago. Can Aziraphale come save Crowley in time? Or will Crowley burn, just like the abbey did so long ago? Whumptober prompt #9: Mistaken Identity

A Flat Circle by cassieoh_draws, EdosianOrchids901 (M)

Hell is full of rumors about demons vanishing and coming back haunted by whatever happened to them. Crowley isn’t convinced, but his opinion quickly changes when he’s summoned for the first time. Will Aziraphale rescue him?

You’re My Saving Grace by Bazzpop (T)

Pain seared through Crowley’s shoulder, pulsing sickeningly in time with the frantic beat of his unnecessary heart. That damn cowardly squire hadn’t even asked him for a proper duel, just snuck up behind him while he was making camp and lobbed a great bloody sword at his head. For Christ’s sake, he wasn’t even in any type of armor and didn’t have a sword on him, how was that supposed to be fair? — Crowley gets attacked with a blessed weapon, Aziraphale hears news of this and rushes to his aid.

may love thrive in hiding by Melime (M)

Only a few years after being given the Holy Water by Aziraphale, Crowley is faced with a threat he hadn't expected. He's summoned by a human wishing to gain eternal life, and that man won't take no for an answer. Meanwhile, Aziraphale overhears a conversation at an occult bookshop that makes him worry for Crowley. By the time Aziraphale finds him, Crowley is severely injured and may beyond hope for healing, but his love won't allow Aziraphale to stop trying. Can Aziraphale find a way to save him, or is he too late?

- Mod D

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley whump #hurt crowley #mind the tags #mod d

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outoftimewriting · 10 months

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we've gone through raphael, lucifer, and now baraquiel for names to pre-fall/angel crowley, BUT WHAT IF, what if the J in his "middle name" that "doesn't stand for anything" actually stands for his angel name as an indication of Something™

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thescholarlystrumpet · 6 months

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Inspired by the Angst Battle on @goodomensafterdark and specifically by @vavoom-sorted-art (this gorgeous story)

A little bittersweet aftercare between Demon and Angel:

Wounds Unseen

Rated T

They were home. Hell was far behind them.

Well, beneath them. Far, far beneath.

But it wouldn’t leave his skin.

Crowley had showered and bathed multiple times since leaving. Aziraphale had run the very first bath, in fact. Water slightly tepid and scented with soothing oils. The Angel had murmured soft, gentle nonsense as he slowly rinsed the soot away. He had changed out the water for fresh, keeping the room itself humid as a greenhouse, and washed Crowley’s hair by hand.

When the demon rose from the bath, he’d been enfolded in a towel that may as well have been made of clouds. Aziraphale taking pains to dry him with the same careful but thorough efficiency.

They’d lay down together afterward on the rarely used bed above the bookshop. Two well worn bodies made of human flesh and star stuff in equal measure. Skin to skin beneath a quilt the Angel must have had for decades. Perhaps a century or more.

Crowley could barely speak, his hands curled into fists, into claws he could not yet unfurl. He knew he was clean and pink and shining from his Angel’s attentions. He knew the body beside his was radiating love. But the taste in his mouth was still ash and brimstone.

CONTINUE ON AO3

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aceofwhump · 10 months

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Do you have any Crowley whump? (in fanfics too)

Heck yeah I do!! Season 2 has got me all abuzz about Crowley whump so I've got a whole bunch of new fics to rec.

As for canon whump there's not a lot but there are angsty moments. I've got several reblogs you can look at in the good omens tag here: https://aceofwhump.tumblr.com/tagged/good%20omens

Here are some of my favorite fanfictions I've read:

Five Times Aziraphale Saves Crowley (And One Time He Fails) by Captain_Kieren

Crowley's Armageddon and Recovery by Wolfgirl4vr

Somebody to Love by McRaider

my first Good Omens fic please be gentle by taylor_tut

Suspendin' Gravity by ahyperactivehero (ahyperactiverhero)

Black Lines by Eladriel

Holy Mistakes by winterspirit13

A Burning Thing by spinninginfinityboy

I Stretch Out My Hands by sherlocktheholmes

My Life With You Means Everything, So I Won't Give Up That Easily by PositivePumpkin

Palliative Practices by VerdantVulpus

Crowleys a snake, and snakes dont sweat/are cold blooded. No way to internally regulate temperature. So maybe something about that? Overheating in the gardens or something?

Can you do a piece where Crowley is accidentally burned by the holy water Aziraphale gave him, and while it isn't enough to kill him he's hurt real bad and Aziraphale feels super guilty? I love your blog!

Hell Freezes Over by lilac341

#good omens #whump #fanfics #mod's fic recs #crowley #crowley whump #mod replies #ask

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goodomens-girlie · 2 months

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1920s Crowley is not a want it’s a need

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bowtiepastabitch · 5 months

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It is finished

6400 words, angst/whump. Content warnings for character death, suicide, a little sexual content, and shakespeare references.

'Things would probably be easier for both of them if Aziraphale didn't keep showing up on Earth, or if Crowley didn't love him so much, or if his touch didn't burn like holy water, but they try to figure out how to fix things anyway. It doesn't go as well as it maybe could.'

I'm so incredibly proud of this story, both for the amount of emotion I went through writing it and for it being my first complete piece of writing in almost five years. I hope you love it as much as I do.

Tagging everyone who was following along @queer-reader-07 @ineffableigh @robinwinged @sentientsky @ineffabildaddy @greenthena @underlined-in-spirit, thanks so much for your comments and support thus far, I love you more than I can say. I hope you don't hate me after this lmfao.

#sad_dyke writes #good omens fanfiction #good omens angst #good omens #aziracrow angst #crowley whump #aziraphale whump

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qbten-blog · 4 months

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Hiii everyone, I am looking for a good omens fic I read some time ago, but I cant seem to find it anymore.

What I can remember is that Crowley has a new neighbour, a seemingly nice girl, but turns out she is a demon hunter and has it out for Crowley. She burns incense or sage in her appartment, and I believe Aziraphale at one point visits her to ask if she could maybe burn a little less because Crowley is "allergic". Things go south from there.

Anyone happen to know this fic? :) thanks!

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #crowley whump #ineffable husbands #fanfic #good omens fanfiction

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theprophetizaiah · 5 months

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Achilles Come Down | Chapter 1: Pain As a Motive

Summary: Crowley believes Aziraphale died in the bookshop fire. Now, he's sending the armies of hell to avenge him. Based loosely on the story of Achilles and Patroclus.

Warning: None for this chapter! (Aside from some foul language)

Word count: 1.5k (this chapter)

All chapters should be available here! (I haven't written on Tumblr in many moons please forgive me)

To read on AO3, check out my work here!

Crowley burned in the hell he imagined he’d always belonged in. Ashes rained from the heavens. Burning paper engulfed his senses. Black smoke burned in his eyes. He breathed in his dead lover. Misery. Misery for the rest of eternity.

“Somebody killed my best friend!” he was somewhere between a yell and a sob. “Bastards!” Between fury and agony.

They spent the last 6,000 years toeing the line between best friends and lovers. Dining at the Ritz, feeding ducks, saving each other from mortal peril, you know, as friends do. Crowley would know him in any lifetime. From the weight of his step, the smell of his hair, the sound of his breath (it would skip and stutter when he had thought of something clever). The air around Aziraphale was always heavy, but not in the manner of suffocation. Rather, his aura was a heavy wool blanket. Warm, grounded, homey. The closest thing Crowley ever really had to a home.

Before the apocalypse, Crowley recalled their drunken ramblings. Amidst the whiffs of red wine, he remembered how he smelled. Like earl grey, oak, and bourbon: something his barber suggested. He also always smelled a bit like paper. It made the burning around Crowley all the more unbearable. Anthony J. Crowley, fallen angel and Duke of Hell, reeling over the doing of a foreigner’s god. Certainly not the one he knew, or maybe exactly the one he knew.

He laid in the flames, thinking through his new reality. This was a rare moment of clarity for the distraught demon. Who killed him: heaven or hell? Either reality had some sense to it. Heaven could, and would, excommunicate him for working with a demon. Permanent discorporation, or banishment to hell. Hell would kill him just for the sake of it. Just to say they did. Racking his brain, he realized Hell was unfortunately, his best chance of finding Aziraphale, or at least what became of him. Crowley slowly creeped up from the ashen ground. He was unsure how much time had passed, but it seemed that the flames had slowed. In mere moments, he stared between the two escalators. He chose downward. As the escalator carried him into the dank, dark corridors, his anguish gnawed at him, clawing its war from the inside out. He allows a single tear, and immediately wipes it away. Only the damned cry in hell.

Crowley had stopped fighting for hell decades ago. In the presence of his angel, he saw no reason for it. He saw no reason to fill the world with more violence. The humans were better at that anyway. After his bout in Edinborough, he was promptly tortured for the next several decades. Crowley never saw the face of Satan, but he would give it an ethereal, firm uppercut the second he had the chance. He lost faith in his leadership, in the art of mass scale temptation. He preferred the gentle temptation of his beloved. Of asking him out to breakfast, bringing him wine, planting seeds of heavenly doubt in his mind. He thought often about the Greek myth of the origin of love. They were alone together at the edge of the universe, a body of eight limbs, four eyes, and a flutter of feathers. Whoever Crowley was, it was a product of the angel. Whoever Aziraphale was, it was Crowley’s collateral. And beautifully so, their symbiosis carried on through the centuries. The demon had the fight pulled out of him the way the angel unshelved his books. Carefully and with gentle hands.

But now that he was gone, this was war. If he had nothing, he would still have Aziraphale, but if he didn’t have his angel, he had nothing. His fury craved battle, to make them hurt the same way he did. His wrath could summon the very same fire that had surrounded him in the hours prior. If his beloved really was gone, then he would destroy the heaven that took him.

Crowley barely managed his way through the crowds of demons slowly but surely trudging their way through the crowded corridors of hell. After passing the rest of the high offices he comes to the door of the one and only Beelzebub. For a moment, he questions if he should even knock, let alone open the door. He wonders if any of this is worth it in the first place. What if his Angel didn't care whatsoever about him? What if he didn’t need saving, or worse, he was already long gone? But in reality, he knew that wasn't the case. He’d be damned, more than he is already, if he let Aziraphale die knowing that he could have prevented it. Crowley gulps and burst open the door of Beelzebub's office. Demons were typically not known for their politeness. Inside, he sees Beelzebub sitting upon their throne, legs crossed fancifully, almost as if they were expecting him. Crowley's stomach turns at this realization.

“How's it going up there?” Beelzebub asks. Crowley puts on his best front and looks Beelzebub dead in the eyes and lies:

“Fantastic,” he says. “The Antichrist is mere moments from inciting the Apocalypse.”

Beelzebub smirks. “Wonderful. Great job.”

Crowley shudders ever so slightly. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for him to feel a profound discomfort. He again looks to Beelzebub, “did you capture the angel? Is he here?”

Beelzebub looks confused. “What do you mean capture the angel?”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley starts. “The other angel that has worked in my same jurisdiction for six thousand years. Did you capture him?”

Beelzebub purses their lips, seemingly scanning their memory. Alas, still confused. “No… Why would you assume that? Why would we let him in here?” They began to look vaguely suspicious of their colleague.

Crowley pulled something out of his ass. “I saw that the Bookshop was on fire,” he blurted out. “I could have only imagined that it was demonic intervention.” Beelzebub chuckled.

“It's not always hellfire,” Crowley stifles a laugh, just enough for Beelzebub to think it's genuine. Beelzebub speaks up once more. “Yeah, I don't know about the angel. We don't have ‘im here.” Crowley takes a moment and a step back. He decides to tell the best lie that he's ever told, aside from the fact that he was not madly, disgustingly in love with a forbidden fruit.

“I want that slimy bastard gone forever,” Crowley spits. “I want that fussy dumbarse to not be anywhere near God's green Earth.”

“Well, I know that much… What are you suggesting?”

Crowley laughs disingenuously, but trying desperately to seem genuine. “I think we need to raid heaven.”

Beelzebub looks puzzled. “But why do we need to raid the heavens if we have already conquered the Earth, Crowley?” they said. “Why would we postpone destroying Earth to fight this war first?”

“That’s exactly it… they’ll never see it coming,” Crowley says. “We can start with the archangels: Gabriel, Michael, Uriel… There will be no one left to lead their army in such short order. Then we let the Earth burn, and winning their holy war will be easier than dropping the antichrist at the convent.”

His voice grows raspy. Crowley takes a deep breath. “It'll let them know once and for all that their God means nothing.” Crowley sits down in front of Beelzebub. They seem a bit more intrigued. Crowley describes a plot more ambitious than any of his plans to date: to invade the heavens. To crusade his lover’s workplace by summoning a demonic army, comprised of hundreds of damned souls. He plans to force them through the Gates of Heaven to slaughter any angels in their sight. Beelzebub loved this concept, and was almost surprised Crowley came up with it. But, he did dream up the Spanish Inquisition, after all (or so they thought).

“Honestly, why not?” Beelzebub smirks. “If we're all going to be separated for the rest of time anyway, this would be a fun way to go out. If they want us to fight this war, we ought to do it our way. Hell fights dirty.” As the flies buzzed among their crown, they grinned the way a child would when they had come up with the perfect prank. Except this wasn’t a prank. It was the end of the world. Of Crowley’s, at least.

Beelzebub grimaced. Crowley laughed. “Well, I'll go talk about it with head office, and we'll get it sorted. I want it done by the end of the day today. That sound alright?” Beelzebub nodded in excitement. Crowley seems giddy with anticipation but not in the way that you would imagine. The anxiety pulsed through his veins. He was setting into motion the divine war days earlier than was planned, all for a fussy angel he drank wine with one too many times. But at the same time, he knew this was his reality. Crowley couldn’t pretend he didn’t love him anymore. Not when he could be dead. If heaven wanted a war, they were going to get it, god dammit.

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rainbowroute · 7 months

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How long will they keep you? How long can they?

‘I could always rely on you, but where are you now?’

#I love drawing Heaven #they took his wings #most of them anyways #where’s aziraphale?#good omens #crowley #fanart #my art #crowley whump

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aziraphales-library · 5 months

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Crowley gets dragged to hell at the end of the Resurrectionists mini episode, presumably to be punished. I’m looking for fic recs around this scene. The whumpier the better.

Here are some fics for you...

High on Laudanum by LawluSupremacy_Gigi (M)

"How about... A little treat, something of a gift. A thank you, if you wish. From me. For what you did earlier." or Crowley returns after being dragged to Hell for punishment.

Finding the Words by Lalaland42 (T)

After saving a girl and consorting with an angel in Edinburgh, Crowley has hell to pay.

Crowley's Punishment by DrHurtsSoGood (T)

A series that follows the events after Crowley's punishment for saving Elsbeth's soul in Scotland 1827. Mostly lighthearted and attempting to stay in canon. I strive to reproduce their "voices" as best I can. Aziraphale and Crowley's adventures in the Victorian era. This chapter: Crowley is severely punished after his miracles in the graveyard, with a lot of comedy. This scene plays immediately at the end of the Resurrectionist Mini Episode. 11/10/1827.

Never Let Anything Intrude by EdosianOrchids901 (T)

After the incident with the Resurrectionists, Aziraphale anxiously waits in Edinburgh until Crowley returns. Crowley is injured and traumatized, and Aziraphale takes him somewhere peaceful to recover. They both dream of being able to stay together—and maybe in the future, they can have a home of their own.

Grave Danger by Paige_Turner36 (E)

Aziraphale goes down to Hell to rescue Crowley.

- Mod D

#good omens #good omens s2 #ineffable husbands #crowley whump #hurt crowley #hurt/comfort #the resurrectionists #mod d

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the-amethyst-artist · 8 months

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“We don’t talk about it, we don’t have the time. We thought love was something we weren’t meant to find. But now you’re a stranger, and I’m still July. But don’t you remember? August, honey, you were mine.” -August by Flipturn

I was overcome by the desire to draw Crowley’s eye today, not sure why! Should I draw Aziraphale’s next?

#crowley #go2 #good omens #good omens season 2 #crowley x arizaphale #azicrow #ineffable husbands #fanart #procreate #crowley angst #angst #crowley whump #whumptober 2023

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lifblogs · 8 months

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Poison

AI-less Whumptober: Day 1 Drugging | Sick | Poisoned @ailesswhumptober

Fandom: Good Omens Rating: Explicit Word Count: 2224 Summary: Michael blames Crowley for Aziraphale ruling Heaven, and they decide to poison him. In his agony, the only person Crowley can call out to is Aziraphale. WARNING: Graphic Depictions of Violence READ ON AO3

Crowley pitifully dragged himself forward, gritty cement from the alley rubbing into his skin, his clothes. He didn’t much care for the coarse scraping, but it was almost nothing compared to the Hell he was in. Was the ground shaking? The sky falling?

His wings were burning off his back. He was sure of it. Could smell them crisping, feathers that were already black somehow even more so now falling around him. Ruined.

The pain. His world was on fire, his blood coursing with hot, burning poison. He could barely see as it was, the poison reaching into the blood vessels in his eyes, which had all burst. Tears streamed from his eyes. Tears! Such a human thing.

And all the while he didn’t even know where he was trying to crawl to as his body burned.

Would he be discorporated or destroyed? If he didn’t know any better he’d think Michael had gotten him with a drop of holy water.

He could hear their words in his ears, their hatred dripping into him even without the aid of that wicked ring: So you thought you could be clever? You thought you could let Aziraphale rule without any consequences? My dear Crowley, you’ve ruined it.

It. Heaven. The world he loved so much. All because he walked out that door, all because he let Aziraphale do what he wanted. And why wouldn’t he? There was nothing left to do.

But, oh, of course this was his fault. Wasn’t everything?

His burning brain briefly wondered, Maybe I should’ve been a better kisser.

His heart ached like a fist clamped around it, something even worse than the poison. No, no, no, no, no!

Crowley tried laughing at it, but he choked, an acrid taste deep in him alighting on his withering tongue.

“MICHAEL!” he screamed.

All seemed to go black for a second, but it wasn’t a blessing (oh, a blessing). It was more like he was separated from his body and then was forced to return to it. Forced to return to the ruin brought upon him by Michael the archangel.

They’d cornered him, cursed him; Crowley, the betrayer of angels, of God. His “stupid angel” was doing it all wrong, and things needed to get back on track so they could have their war.

War. Oh, what a funny thing. Michael existed not for God, but for war.

They’d jabbed him in the neck with a gold ring, a sharp end protruding from it, and then he had collapsed, everything in his existence changing in that one moment.

This was all his fault. That was the accusation, at least.

But no matter what he’d done Aziraphale didn’t want him, didn’t want to be a them, an us. Not on Crowley’s terms. Not in any way that was safe. And now, here he lay, a fallen angel, a fallen demon, burning away into smoke.

Aziraphale. Have to get to Aziraphale.

It was all him. All about him.

“Help—” Crowley choked out, ruining smoke issuing forth from his mouth; past chapped, peeling lips. Lips that had failed.

This set him in a coughing fit that was surely supposed to be the end of him. Each inhale brought nothing but death. No air, not for him. Nothing so sweet as air.

In a way, he didn’t need it, but he was tied to this body. It was him.

For a moment he imagined Aziraphale—his attachment to his own body—and imagined it being destroyed like this.

The thought broke his heart, even as it passed into shadows and smoke.

Wait…

Was this Michael’s plan?

Was Michael going to attack Aziraphale next? Or was it just that he was the demon, he was the bad guy. Got to smite them, right? Can’t have the bad guys running amok.

Crowley forgot where he was, what he was supposed to be doing. Time passed, surely, but he was hardly aware of it. Then a thought came across to him.

Aziraphale.

Help.

Right! Right, that’s what he was supposed to be doing.

But how? How?

Just stop burning. As easy as that. Just stop.

And Crowley tried, tried to tell himself he wasn’t burning, but he was! He was!

And Heaven was too far away. And could he even get in the entrance? He’d sink into the water surely, be dragged down to Hell. Maybe the elevator. But he’d only entered it once before with Muriel. On his own he didn’t stand a chance.

Bees.

Something about bees.

Crowley rolled onto his back, panting, gagging, and tried to call out for Aziraphale.

He couldn’t breathe. Oh, Satan, he couldn’t breathe.

With enough coughing whatever was in his burning lungs came up in his mouth, and he didn’t want to even explore what that was, what it could be.

Maybe it’s—

No, no, no!

If he thought about it he’d throw up. His stomach was already dying anyway, so maybe it was just—

Hot saliva crowded Crowley’s mouth and he tried to roll onto his side, but next thing he knew he was retching and choking.

Burning. Everything was burning. Maybe hotter than the fires of Hell. Fires they’d tried to kill Aziraphale with.

No, no.

In trouble.

Aziraphale was in trouble.

Had to be. What else would be going on?

“Azira—” Crowley tried to get out before becoming a choking, gagging mess again.

Aziraphale.

How to get to him?

Maybe he can come to me.

Yes, that’s what had to happen. There was no other way.

Crowley tried to look inward, to feel what was left of himself amongst this burning, poisoned ruin. And there, he found something. Not a light, or a soul, but something. He tried to look into that something he found, to find the parts of Crowley that were Aziraphale: the memories, the emotions, even the tiny gestures.

Images flashed in his mind’s eye.

Aziraphale smiling at him. Aziraphale saying smitten, looking at him with such an intensity that Crowley hadn’t noticed at the time. Aziraphale telling him to dance. You go too fast for me, Crowley.

He did his best to project those feelings and memories outwards, to picture the whole Earth, spinning and hurtling about through space, to picture the curtain drawing back on this realm, looking behind and finding Heaven. Crowley wasn’t sure he’d be able to actually find or sense Aziraphale this way, but he did what he could. He called out to him. And then he sent his pain, a black, writhing thing that was powerful enough to encompass the whole world. Pain so brilliant and ruining that Crowley wished for a drop of holy water, wished for someone’s mercy. But there was no mercy, not in this universe, or the next, or even the one after that.

Crowley started to realize how alone he was.

He didn’t have his car with him, his plants.

Didn’t have his angel.

He was just a demon in a filthy alley, sick and poisoned into wishing for nothingness.

Aziraphale.

“Crowley?”

He had to have imagined that. The word sounded garbled as it was with poisoned, scorching blood coming out of his ears, smoking against his skin, against the ground, his hair.

He cried, and tried to scream.

Alone. He was alone.

That voice wasn’t real.

“Crowley? Oh, good Lord!”

Hands were on him, and he tried shooting upwards, to fight, to push away.

“No… Michael…” he got out.

“I’m not Michael. It’s me. Aziraphale.”

Crowley could barely see through the damage to his eyes, the blood pouring forth. He thought he could make out white hair.

“Fake,” he coughed out, and then collapsed into tender arms.

“What’s happened to you?”

Crowley couldn’t answer. There wasn’t enough left working in his body to do so. He shuddered where he lay against Aziraphale’s chest, smearing his clothes with blood and the ash of his ruined feathers.

There was a hand on his chest. Was it glowing?

It was probing around, looking for something. And all the while he heard a familiar voice fretting away.

Crowley wanted to sink into that voice, sink into the body he was held against, not be himself any longer. It was too much. It was all too much.

“Good Lord, they’ve poisoned you with sulfur.”

Ah, that made sense.

Sulfur. The irony. Yet another trapping of what made him a demon, and now it was in his blood, destroying all in its path.

“I am permitted as many miracles as I like, and I think this calls for one.”

Crowley wanted to scream at him to get on with it. He clutched at Aziraphale with shaking, swollen fingers. They were surely discolored, all kinds of black and purple.

A feeling of emptiness whooshed through him, and next thing he knew the pain began to leave. It didn’t leave slowly, but in great waves that receded from a shore. And these were waves that never crashed back down, waves of an ocean that disappeared entirely.

He could see again, could hear again. And while he didn’t need to, he could breathe again.

Crowley gasped, awash in the feeling of being okay (how am I possibly okay?).

“Oh, Aziraphale,” he cried, throwing himself against the angel, and never wanting to let go, hoping that he wouldn’t let go.

He was shaking; and crying; and he didn’t even know why when being alive was, for the moment, bearable again.

“Crowley, I felt you calling for me, and I came as soon as I could. Oh, I’m so sorry.”

Then the anger came, anger that had been simmering for weeks, waiting for a time to rise and boil, to have prey it could pounce on.

The prey was here.

Before Crowley knew it he was drawing back from Aziraphale and had to physically restrain himself from hitting him by grabbing his own wrist.

“You idiot!” he screamed in his face.

Aziraphale dropped him. He didn’t land quite on the cement, and was in fact draped across one of Aziraphale’s legs.

“What?”

“You! You’re such an idiot! Didn’t I tell you they were toxic? Why did you want to work for them? Why?”

“Not for them,” Aziraphale clarified. “They work for me.”

Crowley rose, assessed his missing feathers, his bloodied hair and clothes. He was sticky with what had previously been his fiery blood. He ran his hands through his hair, pacing back and forth like a caged animal.

Facing Aziraphale again, he cried, “If that were true this never would have happened. Michael wouldn’t have hurt me. And if they’re doing this to me, then what”—at this point he grabbed him, pulled him to his feet and slammed him against a brick wall hard enough that it cracked and dust scattered—”do you think they’re going to do to you?”

“C-Crowley, I didn’t mean— They will be dealt with.”

“Sure. And what are you going to do all-mighty Aziraphale?” he taunted. “Give them a slap on the wrist? Or why don’t you just say fuck it and erase their name from the Book of Life?”

“You know I can’t—”

“To Hell with what you can and can’t do! Look at me! Look at me!” He took in Aziraphale’s horrified gaze, and yet it still wasn’t enough. How could it be enough when this had happened, when Crowley was sure he’d never sleep just so he could avoid the nightmares? He had to clean parts of his lungs off of himself and Aziraphale was surely going to go right back to Heaven with a skip and a hop and make sure things were all tickety-boo again. “You think whatever you do will be enough? You think you can stop whatever they have planned? I’m collateral to your stupid plans, your stupid want to rule.”

“Not to rule, to fix things! To make them better.”

“Look what better did to me.”

Crowley felt a sound of disgust rise in his throat, akin to the need to spit. He shook his head, mouth set in a firm grimace, and pushed away from Aziraphale. He turned away. Betrayed. Defeated. Alone.

“Go back to Heaven, angel.”

“Crowley, I—”

Crowley whirled on him. “Leave me alone!”

Aziraphale’s eyes shone with unshed tears. And knowing him they wouldn’t fall. Yet another thing to break Crowley’s heart.

His face was set in a look of helpless distress, perhaps of guilt, but his angel couldn’t do anything so un-angelic as to apologize.

He swallowed roughly.

“But, Crowley, you’ll be all alone. You were hurt. Let’s—”

Crowley turned away from him. Somehow he clawed words out through his gritted teeth, scraping them up from the remains of his respiratory system, “If you don’t leave right now I am going to do something very, very stupid.”

What that stupid thing was, he didn’t know. Perhaps exploding on the spot.

Aziraphale’s silence settled into the spaces between his heartbeats.

Finally: “As you wish.”

And then Crowley was alone. All alone, and covered in the gore of his poisoning, of Aziraphale’s failure to fix Heaven. Of his own failure.

He sat down in the alley, and he thought perhaps a few days had passed before he had it in him to get back up again. When he did, Crowley made for the Bentley. He had to get away. Just away. And yet, nowhere would be far enough.

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