Chapter Text
There was a box in Crowley’s flat that hadn’t been there when he had gone to sleep approximately eight days ago. It was a very large shipping box with no discernible markings and the only thing that the shipping sticker said was his name and address. He really hoped it wasn’t the food he had gotten shipped from France with one of those fancy human companies. If it was, it would have expired by now. Weren’t the delivery people supposed to knock on the door and not just break into his apartment? Bloody rude.
The demon frowned, staring harder at the box as if he would magically develop X-ray vision and be able to catch a glimpse of the contents inside. No such thing happened, to his disappointment. With a sigh, he sauntered to the kitchen to get a knife to pry open the crate. A good sniff revealed that it didn’t smell like rotten food at all. It smelled a bit…clean. No, not clean. Sharp? Holy.
Though any lesser demon would have run, the scent only further piqued Crowley’s curiosity. Self-preservation was slightly overrated to someone who had lived over 6,000 years and only been discorporated once. With no small amount of effort, and feeling oddly like a child on Christmas morning, he opened his package and peered inside.
A pair of blue eyes met his own. Crowley just stared, uncomprehending. There was an angel in the box. At first glance, the blond didn’t look like an angel. If not for the giant, trussed up, snowy white wings, (and white robe that reeked of Heaven) Crowley would have marked them human at a first glance.
They had a soft appearance that felt at odds with the faded bruises that littered all visible skin. They didn’t glow with holy light. In fact, they just seemed…defeated. Defeated and terrified , Crowley realized as he watched a tremor run through the angel’s body. Their eyes were firmly fixed on Crowley’s knife. He immediately tucked it behind his back. He shouldn’t have felt guilty, but he did.
It took him a moment longer to find his voice, and when he finally did, all he could muster was, “What the fuck? Why are you in a box? How long have you been here?” He wondered if this was some sort of prank from one of the other demons. A classic angel-in-the-box joke, except that it wasn’t funny at all and would never be. Who would be pranking him though?
A shuffling noise redrew his attention back to the angel, who seemed to grasp a piece of paper in his hands (Crowley noted his wrists were also tied) and silently thrust it towards Crowley. The redhead took it gingerly. In neat dark purple script, he could clearly read,
To: The Original Temper, the Serpent of Eden, Crawly.
If you are reading this, you have received our gift. Please enjoy (the former) principality Aziraphale to your liking. Consider this all to be a sign of forgiveness for what you did in the garden. We are sure you and Aziraphale will get along fantastically. You were both in Eden, after all.
Do whatever you want with him— feel free to torture, maim, rape, and/or kill (destroy) him. He is yours to own and use. If you happen to discorporate him, we will return him to your possession in 2-5 business days.
Best,
The Archangels
Following that was what appeared to be an official stamp from Heaven. Crowley touched it just to see. It burned his fingertips. The real deal.
His stomach twisted violently.
Heaven had sent him an angel with the expectation that he would severely hurt them. That was wrong . Wrong was an understatement. Evil was a better word.
He looked at the angel, Aziraphale. They had been in Eden together. Aziraphale had covered him with his wing during the rain. “You gave away your sword,” he said absently, because how could he forget that? “Did they do this because they found out you gave away your sword? That was 6,000 years ago!”
Aziraphale did not respond, though something like hurt crossed his expression.
Surely the punishment of being caught wasn’t this? The demon furrowed his brows, staring at the letter again. He hadn’t seen Aziraphale again after Eden. He had assumed that the principality had been assigned somewhere in Heaven. He had seemed like a good and genuine angel. What had happened to lead up to this point?
Crowley would have time to ponder it later. At the moment, he still had a tied-up angel in a box that he now “owned.” Something told him that if he rejected this so-called gift, Heaven would not be very pleased with him or Aziraphale.
“Alright, let’s get you out of there,” he sighed, then in a mutter, added, “And then we can both drink quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol. I know I need it. You probably need it too, honestly.”
Of course, once he helped Aziraphale up, the angel bolted.
Crowley did not blame Aziraphale for running. He would never trust an angel, much less one that he had just been given to, with a knife, so it made sense that the reverse would go for Aziraphale. The only reason why he even gave chase (well, jogged awkwardly after) was because he knew that his flat was a bloody physically impossible, disorganized, labyrinthian, nightmare. Part of that was because he miracled up new rooms whenever he felt like it (and then he would forget that he miracled up that room, and so on).
Surprisingly, he caught up to Aziraphale fairly easily. The angel hadn’t gone very far and was trying the locked handle of the plant room. He didn’t react as Crowley approached, but the moment he put his hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, the blond started and turned, flattening himself against the door. He looked one second away from a panic attack.
“Aziraphale,” Crowley said gently, “I’m not going to hurt you.” He didn’t think that it mattered. Aziraphale was a spooked deer right now and Crowley was a wolf with slavering jaws. He shouldn’t have taken the knife out without making it abundantly clear what he was planning. “I’m just going to cut the ties off your wings and wrists, I promise.”
And Aziraphale crumpled to the ground. His shoulders shook— he was crying. Crowley took a step back. Was he supposed to…was he supposed to comfort the angel? He didn’t think that his reassurance would be welcome. He retreated another step, wondering if he should give him some time alone.
“Uh, Aziraphale…” he stammered. The blond was doing something odd with his wings. Perhaps the ties hurt? Crowley wavered awkwardly, before finally shuffling forward and quickly and neatly slicing through the ropes.
“Sorry. I would’ve miracled those away, but wings are pretty sensitive. Dunno if demonic energy would…well, ruin your wings or something. I’ll-“ he snapped as he rambled, freeing the angel’s wrists. He didn’t even know what he was saying, he was just running his stupid mouth. The angel was still kneeling at his feet.
“Yeah. Yeah. So, um…Can you…can you get up?”
Aziraphale immediately got to his feet. He swiped a hand over his teary face and sniffled, not meeting Crowley’s eyes. He fiddled under Crowley’s gaze, rubbing his rope-burned wrists, shuffling his feet, wings twitching like he wanted to stretch them but was scared to. Everything about this was so fucked up. The demon knew to keep his distance at this point, and he did so, taking a few solid steps back to give the blond space to breathe.
“I’m sorry I upset you,” he said. He hoped it sounded sincere, because he really was. “Are you injured?” Aziraphale shook his head.
“Your wings are fine, right?” Aziraphale nodded.
Crowley bit the inside of his cheek until he nearly tasted blood. “You can put them away if you want to,” he suggested. Light eyes flashed up to him, then darted back to the ground just as quickly. Aziraphale’s wings disappeared without further ado.
Crowley needed a drink so badly. He pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaled deeply, and then turned on his heel to head back to the dining room. “His” angel followed him without hesitation, feet quiet on the linoleum floor.
Aziraphale had lost track of time.
He just knew that he had been sitting in an uncomfortably cramped dark crate and that it must have been some amount of time that he was in there, because the bruises that had been delivered as a parting gift were beginning to hurt less and less. He didn’t know why the demon was taking so long. Was it some sort of test? He wanted to call out, but he knew that was too risky. Uriel especially had taught him the importance of being quiet, being seen and not heard. And Sandalphon had spoken in length about how crying out was a sign of weakness and meant that he couldn’t take his punishment like a real angel. He tried, but it was so hard at times.
He tried not to think about what he had done to lead up to this exact moment in time. He knew he had messed up, but hadn’t known just how bad it had been until Gabriel had read the letter that he was penning aloud to him. They were sending him to the Serpent of Eden.
Aziraphale had met the demon once. In Eden. He had seemed nice then. Apparently, things had changed, because the blond had heard horrible things about him. He’d heard about how Crawly had been seen at the Ark, picking up children only to drown them in the floodwaters and how he had been the one who tried to lead Yeshua astray. He’d been involved in both of the World Wars and had collected thousands and thousands of souls for hell.
The archangels had been warning him for years that if he wasn’t good, they would send him away to Crawly, who was vicious, cruel, and terrible and would make their punishments look like a field of daisies. And no matter how hard Aziraphale cried or begged, the demon wouldn’t stop and would show no mercy, not like the archangels did, because he was incapable of showing mercy. They’d informed him it was something absent from a demon’s nature.
The crack of wood planks drew him from his thoughts. He was being freed. He briefly cursed his corporation and all its human assets as his heart began to pound in his chest and he suddenly felt short of breath. The demon, Crawly, was holding a knife. God, he hoped it would be over soon. He prayed that Crawly would inexplicably have the mercy to swiftly kill him and not draw it out by playing with his prey.
It was impossible to read the demon’s expression with the dark glasses that obstructed his eyes. He looked about the same, long wavy, red hair and black clothing. Some stupid part of Aziraphale hoped that Crawly wouldn’t hurt him. He remembered Eden, the way that soft golden gaze had studied him, the beaming smile. The logical part of him knew that there was a greater chance of an archangel falling than Crawly simply not hurting him.
“What the fuck? Why are you in a box? How long have you been here?”
Aziraphale winced. He had already stirred the redhead’s ire. He was quick to give the letter to Crawly, who read it, then stated, “You gave away your sword.”
Shame was a familiar feeling. It flooded Aziraphale’s body at the reminder. He wished he had never told Crawly. He had already been punished for it by the archangels. Sandalphon had personally made sure that he knew the severity of his actions. The last thing he wanted was for Crawly to taunt him about this too. The demon had seemed pleasantly surprised in Eden, but that could have been nothing but mockery that Aziraphale had been too idiotic to pick up on.
“Did they do this because they found out you gave away your sword?” The principality hoped that question was rhetorical because he had no intention of answering. It seemed to be as Crawly continued, “That was 6,000 years ago!”
He wondered if Crawly was reading the letter again to make sure it was all real before he “damaged the merchandise” (Gabriel’s terminology). That must have been it, because after a second read-through, he folded up the letter, pocketed it, and sighed. “Let’s get you out of there,” followed by some mumbled words that Aziraphale didn’t quite catch.
The demon grabbed him by the elbow, helping him to his feet and keeping him steady as he stepped out of the crate. Then he drew his knife. Aziraphale felt faint.
“I’ll get your wings first, if that’s alright. I’m sure they’re very uncomfortable like that.”
Aziraphale was stupid, but he wasn’t stupid enough to let someone with a knife anywhere near his wings, let alone his new demon master. He backed away warily, then throwing all caution to the wind, he bolted. “Hey, wait!” he heard Crawly shout, but Aziraphale was sure he was dead anyway, so what did it matter if he tried to run?
The demon’s lair was so empty and sparse. There was nowhere to hide. He turned a corner and ended up in a room with a giant, horrible statue of a demon killing an angel. He pivoted on his feet, more sure of his fate now than ever and took off down the hall. There was a door at the end of the hallway. He reached it just as Crawly appeared at the other end. He frantically tried the handle.
He couldn’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears and the thud of his heart. The door wasn’t opening. Frustrated and scared tears sprung to his eyes as he jiggled the knob over and over to no avail. A hand landed on his shoulder and he whipped around, flattening himself against the door. Crawly blocked his way. The knife wasn’t visible, but the angel knew it was around somewhere. The demon’s mouth was moving but Aziraphale couldn’t hear.
Crawly reached for him again. He flinched back, but there was nowhere to go. The redhead withdrew again, and though his body language read calm, there was an underlying jerkiness to his movements that Aziraphale had come to understand was suppressed rage.
All he had done was prolong the inevitable and incite the wrath of the demon. All he had done was shown why he wasn’t worth keeping— disobedient, feather-brained, melodramatic, hard-headed, cowardly,— and why even Heaven didn’t want him.
The blond sank to the floor with a sob, desperately wondering how he would be able to convince his master not to cut his wings off or mangle them beyond repair. Maybe if he just submitted now, it wouldn’t be so bad. He was representing Heaven (or the worst part of Heaven) and should conduct himself like an angel, taking his punishment with grace. Crawly could do whatever he wanted to him and maybe directly before the moment of Aziraphale’s death, She would smile down on the former guardian and be proud of her most worthless angel and how he had grown.
Tears stung his eyes and distorted his vision. His legs were quaking too much for him to rise, so he instead slipped onto his elbows and knees. Aziraphale kept his gaze low, water splashing both onto the ropes that wrapped around his wrists and the cold, hard floor.
With all the bravery he could muster, he stretched his bound wings as much as possible to give Crawly adequate access to them.
Crawly simply cut the ties on his wings. “Sorry. I would’ve miracled those away, but wings are pretty sensitive. Dunno if demonic energy would…well, ruin your wings or something. I’ll-” he snapped his fingers and with a hiss, the ropes that bound Aziraphale’s wrists fell to the ground. “Yeah. Yeah. Can you get up?”
Aziraphale stood, instinctively wiping away a few tears. He knew he shouldn’t have as soon as he did. He had only been asked to stand, nothing more. Anxiety made him fiddle, something that any of the archangels would have snapped at him for. Instead, Crawly just sighed and stepped away.
“I’m sorry I upset you. Are you injured?” Aziraphale risked a glance at the demon. His expression was inscrutable but his tone was soft.
Aziraphale quickly shook his head.
“Your wings are fine, right?”
Aziraphale nodded.
“You can put them away if you want to,” Crawly said. Was this a trick? He tucked his wings away. Crawly’s hand moved and Aziraphale flinched expecting to get hit. The demon did not seem to notice, too busy pinching the bridge of his nose. He turned and walked away. Was Aziraphale supposed to follow? He hesitantly did, which seemed to be the right thing to do.
“Just sit anywhere,” Crawly said. He appeared to be searching for something, so Aziraphale simply sat in a chair. Crawly continued to talk to himself, or maybe to Aziraphale. The angel was sure he wasn’t supposed to respond, considering he hadn’t been given permission to speak.
The demon put two drinks in front of Aziraphale.
“Go on, try it.”
So, Aziraphale did.
“Just sit anywhere,” Crowley directed and his body did that thing where his arms sorta flailed because he was at a complete loss. He pointedly did not look at Aziraphale as he navigated the kitchen. “Tea? Coffee?” he asked. Unsurprisingly there was no reply. He grabbed coffee for himself, then a bottle of whiskey, because today was one of those days. He didn’t even have tea. The closest he has was a hot cocoa powder thingy. Whatever, it would do.
“Do you eat?” Crowley wasn’t even sure why he was inquiring. He wasn’t looking at Aziraphale, so he wouldn’t know the answer. He assumed it was a no. “I don’t eat very often. Though humans have really made their food so much more palatable than it used to be. Not to say that the roasted dormice back in Rome weren’t fine dining. I mean, I am a snake.”
As he talked, he made their beverages. “But these days you can just get food ordered right to your door, and it’s full of salt and fat and grease and all the things that taste just right to the humans. It’s grown on me a bit, honestly.” He placed a mug of cocoa in front of the blond, coffee in front of himself, and two whiskey glasses. “Not the real greasy stuff, but I can understand the appeal of pizza, y’know?”
Judging by Aziraphale’s blank look, he did not know. Crowley sighed to himself. He had been saving the scotch for a special occasion. He figured this counted. He poured himself a generous amount and knocked it back. With any luck, a few drinks would chill the angel out, loosen him up a bit. Then they could talk and he would realize that Crowley wasn’t intent on murdering him or something.
“This is yours,” he told the blond, pushing a glass towards him. Aziraphale stared at the offering, frowning ever-so-slightly. “Go on, try it,” Crowley coaxed. The principality immediately picked up the drink and emptied it. As he gulped it down, his expression twisted with disgust and the demon couldn’t help but let out a bark of laughter. Immediately the emotion left Aziraphale’s face as if it had never been there.
“Didn’t like it? That’s alright. Perhaps the cocoa? Might be a bit sweet for you, though.”
Aziraphale liked hot cocoa. Crowley could tell. He took a large gulp first, bracing himself. He looked shocked, then absolutely delighted. His next taste was a small sip, as if he was trying to preserve his drink. Then he wiggled , just a little thing, but the demon immediately turned away so the blond wouldn’t see the grin that stretched across his face.
It was very undemonic, but he wanted to see those eyes light up again.
With that thought, he indulged in a second glass of scotch. He poured some for Aziraphale as well out of courtesy. To his surprise, the angel downed it without hesitation.
The silence was awkward and the spirits had loosened his already loose tongue so Crowley began to talk. He talked about anything and everything. He griped about the demons in hell and how nobody ever got his name right and how awful paperwork was and how humanity was rather silly at times. Aziraphale didn’t say anything at all.
It was only when he was halfway through his own shot and he went to refill the angel’s for the third time, did he think that maybe this wasn’t the best idea.
Aziraphale had initially expressed dislike, yet was continuing to drink it. In fact, he had the third glass without complaint, despite the fact that there was a distinct bleariness to his gaze. He was drunk, which Crowley supposed had been the plan, but now he felt slightly guilty. And sad. And ignorant, because he now realized that the most likely reason that the blond had accepted his drinks was because he was scared of what might happen to him if he didn’t.
With a sigh, he snapped his fingers and sobered himself up. That had been the least rewarding drink of his life.
Aziraphale was staring down his empty mug of hot cocoa forlornly. Did the angel even have access to miracles if he wanted to sober up? Did he know what sobering up was? Probably not.
Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t perform a miracle on an angel. He thought back to the extensive amount of movies and shows he had watched and concluded that the human aftermath of consuming alcohol was a bath and then bed. Then they woke up in the morning mostly okay.
Yeah. Okay. So he was doing this.
He drank three glasses of it because Crowley— not Crawly, he had learned— told him to.
Now, Aziraphale found himself feeling rather poorly. He didn’t exactly know what the cause had been. Perhaps it was his corporation’s reaction to the gross matter that he had consumed. One drink had been very…difficult to explain. It had burned his throat and belly and left a taste in his mouth that he did not enjoy.
The other had been sweet, almost too sweet, and smooth. It had left him feeling warm in a way that he hadn’t felt for ages.
He wondered what he would have to do to get more of it, then immediately chastised himself for being greedy and gluttonous. Already his body felt heavy and slow and here he was, thinking of getting more to further damage his corporation? It was not how a soldier of God should react, nor should a soldier of God like gross matter. Why hadn’t he even attempted to feign disgust, or tried to rebel for even a second?
He had given in so quickly to the temptations put before him and he now suspected that Crowley intended to corrupt him. He needed to remain vigilant and strong, because the moment that his spirit weakened and he lowered his guard, he was sure he would receive a knife in the gut. Demons were like that, cruel and manipulative, and Crowley would laugh in Aziraphale’s face and gloat as he did it. And Aziraphale would take it, because that was what he was to do; the demon owned him and there was nothing he could do about it.
He was just grateful that he hadn’t been punished for his earlier transgression. It seemed that he had made the right choice when he had decided to surrender. It had pleased Crowley enough to free him completely and he had been permitted to hide his wings.
“Let’s go, angel.”
Aziraphale’s steps were wobbly and uneven as he followed Crowley. He stopped short in the doorway.
“It’s a bathtub,” the demon said. Aziraphale stared at the dark, water-filled tub and felt fear bubble up in his throat. He had spoken too soon. He was an idiot to think he could avoid a punishment. Crowley was still talking. “You gotta um…take off your robes. Or they’ll get wet. I can get you new clothes.”
Feeling faint, the angel stripped off his robe as ordered. Golden eyes swiftly raked over his form before the demon flushed red and looked away. He waved towards the bathtub and Aziraphale forced his legs to cooperate, kneeling on the rug by the side of the tub. He could see his reflection in the water. Was it better to try to hold his breath before? His corporation had grown a little too used to breathing, even in Heaven. It always made these times worse.
Crowley cleared his throat, drawing Aziraphale’s attention. His master seemed confused. “You sit in it,” he drawled. “And, er, bathe.”
Aziraphale blinked, suddenly confused himself. Crowley sighed a little. “Just get in, first.”
So, Aziraphale got in and sat. The water was warm. Despite this he was uncomfortable. The other continued, “You take this— it’s called a sponge— and you rub it against this soap bar and then you run the sponge on your skin. Makes you clean. Well, it makes humans clean.” Crowley wrinkled his nose. “You already smell like holiness.”
Aziraphale wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be an insult. He tried not to take it as one. He took the sponge from the water, rubbed it against the bar, and began to furiously scrape it against his skin. It hurt, which made sense. It was supposed to be a punishment, after all.
“No, no!” Crowley exclaimed, grabbing Aziraphale’s hand. He stilled immediately wondering how he had already messed up so quickly. “Not so hard. You’ll hurt yourself. Here, let me—” Crowley began massaging the sponge in circles over his forearms, moving with practiced ease. It was firm but gentle, and against the odds, Aziraphale almost found himself leaning into the touch. Almost.
For a few minutes, the only sound was the lap of water against the side of the bathtub and the scratch of the sponge as it traveled over his chest and belly. “I can get your back. If you’re okay with it. And hair?”
Aziraphale had a feeling that Crowley was speaking to fill the silence, not because he was actually asking. “Not even scotch can make you talk, huh? Makes me wonder…” Whatever the demon was wondering, he never finished his sentence. He was probably looking at the mess of flogging scars on the angel’s back. Or maybe he was preparing to grab Aziraphale and shove him under the water and hold him there.
“Is the water too cold?” He was shivering but for all the wrong reasons. He knew it was coming. Clearly, there had to be a reason for all this buildup. Crowley was taunting him. Fear and anticipation made him feel more coherent than he had felt since the drinks. He still couldn’t decide if he wanted to hold his breath.
“Gonna get your hair now, angel. You might wanna close your eyes.”
Crowley didn’t really know what had gone wrong. He had tried to be normal about the naked angel in his bathroom. The principality had an Effort, and Crowley refused to think about any potential implications behind that. He had felt like the bath was going alright, if not a little awkwardly. Aziraphale had tried to rip off his own skin with the sponge, it seemed. Now the demon was bathing the angel and he wasn’t sure he had ever done anything weirder in his life. At least the blond seemed slightly more relaxed than he had before, but that could have just as easily been the scotch.
Though, he still wasn’t talking. Could he talk? Crowley wondered. Or had Heaven done something to him to silence him permanently? At that point, it wouldn’t surprise him. He wasn’t sure anything would ever surprise him again as he passed the sponge over the raised lines that crisscrossed Aziraphale’s back. He was angry. Simply angry.
The archangels wanted to act morally superior, yet had clearly tortured Aziraphale, one of their own. Furthermore, they had tied him up and sent him in a box to Crowley with the expectation that the demon would like that. They should have Fallen for that alone.
Aziraphale had begun to tremble violently. The redhead checked the water— it still appeared to be warm. He asked about the temperature regardless, to no response. Typical. They were nearly done anyway, at least by Crowley’s standards of a “sober up bath”; he wasn’t going to attempt to wash the angel’s lower half.
“Gonna get your hair now, angel. You might wanna close your eyes.”
Which was when everything went to hell. He was washing Aziraphale’s hair— of course water would end up on the blond’s face. He did not expect, however, that this water would trigger some feral panic response in the principality.
Aziraphale’s wings erupted from his back, smacking Crowley in the face and into the bathtub. The angel leapt from the tub, sending water flying in every direction before skittering away.
The demon laid there for a moment, stunned, before he resurfaced. He sputtered and groaned. He could taste blood in the air, and a quick touch to his aching face left his fingers red. Nosebleed. He hoped that wasn’t broken. He winced and dragged himself up. He looked like he had lost a battle with a garden hose. He felt more like he had lost against a fire hose.
It was hard not to immediately feel irritated as he clambered out of the water. His clothes were wet, he was wet, and he knew he would be sore in the morning from the way he had fallen. Why had the angel freaked out? If he hadn’t wanted his hair washed, there were other ways to go about that. The demon prepared to give the blond a piece of his mind. “Aziraphale, what-“ he stopped short.
Aziraphale was huddled in the corner, quaking like a leaf in the wind. His mouth was moving. He was mouthing something? No, he was whispering, just so quietly that Crowley had to strain himself to make out the words. It took him a moment to comprehend and when he did, his stomach sank like he had just swallowed an anchor. Then rage welled up in him— he bit his tongue as to do nothing more than simply hiss.
“Thank you for the opportunity to cleanse my spirit of sin, though I am nothing but an angel unworthy of forgiveness.” Aziraphale mumbled it over and over, like a prayer or a benediction, his eyes clenched shut.
Crowley didn’t know what to do. He stood there for what felt like an eon, listening to those frantic words. What had Heaven done to this poor angel?
The phrase had been drilled into him from the moment he had received his first punishment. After Eden. They were the only words he had permission to say without a command to speak, so he spoke them frequently and desperately in hopes of showing his contrition.
He did not know if this would work on a demon. They did not have the capacity for forgiveness, according to Michael. He had not meant to lash out, but he had and he didn’t know why. He was better than this. A new master was not an excuse to try to act out. He could not disappoint Heaven.
The archangels always had done this to him, forcing him under holy water until he choked and thrashed. Then he would heave up the water that he had swallowed in the struggle, weak and half-drowned as Gabriel regarded him with disdain. It was a necessary spiritual cleansing, especially for an angel as incompetent and sinful as Aziraphale.
Of course, this could not have been holy water. The ritual was still the same, though, surely.
“Aziraphale,” Crowley said after a long moment. He sounded displeased. Aziraphale risked opening an eye and saw the blood on the demon’s face. He slammed his eyes shut, feeling a familiar twist in his abdomen, and forced himself to keep stammering just hoping, praying, by some miracle this would not end in his discorporation.
He did not feel well.
“Aziraphale, you’re not in trouble.”
Of course, that was when Aziraphale’s stomach lurched violently. Aziraphale felt tears well up in his eyes. His throat burned from the force of his retch and his face burned with shame as Crowley exclaimed, “Holy shit!”
The angel stared at the dark puddle.
“It’s okay. It’s okay! This happens when people drink too much alcohol sometimes!” Crowley was talking but Aziraphale wasn’t really listening. His spirit had not been cleansed. The ritual had failed, likely because of him in some manner. He was impure, weak, and already on the path of corruption.
The demon snapped his fingers and all the evidence disappeared instantly. Crowley was still talking. Aziraphale stared at his master blankly, not comprehending a single word over the screaming of his mind. Another snap. He was suddenly in soft light blue trousers and a simple white shirt. He blinked out of his stupor. They were the softest clothing he had worn in his life.
“- pajamas. You sleep in them. I’ve also made you other outfits, they’ll be in your dresser. I’m not sure what you might like, but we can figure it out later. It’s been a really, really long day for both of us. You especially. I know it’s a bit early, but I figured we could retire. Not really we. You. You should go to sleep— bed, at least— to rest. We can talk about everything else when you’re doing better.”
And that was that.
Crowley led him to a bedroom, pointed him towards a very comfortable-looking bed with light grey sheets and downy pillows; then locked the door behind him. Aziraphale had been in worse cells.
Angels weren’t supposed to sleep. It was slothful. Aziraphale should have been a vigilant guardian. He should have learned from his mistakes in Eden and protected himself better than he had protected the humans. The bed , he thought to himself as he tentatively laid his head on a pillow, was another temptation that he was to overcome.
He would use this space as one for meditation and prayer, gather his wits and form a spiritual shield.
He fell asleep almost immediately.