Chapter Specific Warnings: Aftermath of Violence and Torture, Severe Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Panic Attacks
May be triggering in regards to mental health.
...If you're interesting in listening to a song while reading, I recommend "Timshel" by Mumford and Sons. That's what helped me write this.
Days pass.
Slowly with his coaxing, her skin begins to regrow. Her organs begin to mend and right themselves. Her bones fit together like a jigsaw puzzle and unify into a solid shape again. Her body begins to reshape into something recognizable.
Of all her body, her head is all but untouched. They wanted her cognizant. They wanted her able to talk. But…
More days pass.
She does not stir.
Until she does, three weeks after his retrieval of her.
A whimper is the first sign of life, and before long she's squirming. He goes to her side to calm her movement, to prevent her from further injury.
The moment his fingers touch her skin, she jerks away and shrinks into the blankets with a whimper.
"Crowley, my love," he murmurs. "Please stop—"
Her eyes shoot open, wide with terror. "Nooo," she moans at the sight of him. "Stop it Alastair, stop it. I know he's not here. Don't bother pretending—"
"It's me," he replies. "Crowley, it is me. Not Alastair." She flinches at his words, but he presses on. "I'll prove it. Ask me anything. Your favorite color is dark blue, like the night sky. Your favorite time of day is twilight so you can watch the stars appear. You like earl grey tea with two sugars and lemon. You love the Harry Potter books and claim to be a Slytherin, though I always tell you that you're more a Gryffindor. You have good in you like I always say and you're worth Falling and I love you."
She stares and stares but slowly the hysteric fear drains from her eyes and recognition takes its place. "Angel…" she slurs before collapsing back into the comforter, having passed out. As Aziraphale tends to and checks her injuries, tears slip down his pale cheeks.
She is all but shattered, but they had not broken her.
Adam returns shortly thereafter and heals what he can, but not even his vast Antichrist powers can restore her grace nor her wings.
"I'm sorry I can't do more," he tells his angelic godfather in a hushed tone.
"No, my boy," Aziraphale pats his shoulder. "You've done all you could. That's all I can ask for. Thank you."
The Antichrist nods grimly and hesitates. "Would it…would it be alright if I drop by again sometime soon? To visit you both?"
"Of course!" Aziraphale replies quietly with a small smile. "You're welcome anytime. You and those friends of yours."
"I might bring Them with me. If nothing else, they'll probably send cards or letters with me if nothing else. Same for Anathema and Newt. I'll ask them all though."
The angel nods wearily. "Thank you, m'boy. For all your help."
"Anytime," the Antichrist replies. He means it.
Some hours later, Aziraphale is reading by her bedside, or trying to. He can't really focus on the Latin on the page.
Crowley shifts under the blankets and his attention is upon her instantly. After a moment, her eyes open, clear and aware to his relief.
"Zira…" she croaks.
He smiles. "Hello, my dear."
The demon stares at him in awe and reaches out a weak hand for him, which he grasps quickly, stroking her pale skin comfortingly. "Angel, how did you…how are…" she swallows. "Explain."
He does.
"How much damage was done, Zira?" she asks softly. "After a while I…I lost track and withdrew into my mind. It's, well. I'm still a bit…foggy now."
The angel wets his lips. "My dear…You were…I can't—" He closes his eyes and shakes his head, unable to find the words. "I healed you as best as I could, and Adam stopped by earlier to help. But…" His voice breaks.
"Zira," she looks to him in confused concern. "What? Tell me, please."
"They…they cut off your wings, Crowley," he whispers.
Her face drops into horrified devastation, made worse as she feels the scar of their absence. He pulls her into his arms as she crumples. Both are in tears as she buries her face in his chest, sobbing. After a time, he ends up in bed with her, holding her as she clutches to him.
There they remain, clinging to each other, mourning for the pain and loss she felt.
Much later, she eventually inquires how he rescued her, how he found her, how he got her out. He explains as best as he can, avoiding mentions of how frantic and reckless he was, how much he disregarded his safety and wellbeing to look for her, but she sees it.
"You shouldn't have neglected yourself so, angel," she murmurs to him. "I can see the new paleness in your face, the sleepless nights under your eyes, the lack of care for your body in the edge of your ribs that I can see."
He shrugs. "I couldn't live with myself if anything were to happen to you because I wasted my time."
The thought makes her tremble as she tightens her arms about him. "If something like this ever happens again—you have to promise me, swear to me that you won't neglect yourself so. I can't possibly expect to give up looking for me, but…don't kill yourself doing so. Life without you would only lead to suicide. I only ask that…if I ever vanish again, if you can't find any leads…don't cling to hope that I'm alive. Move on. Try to live without me."
His expression is pained. "I…Crowley, my dear…I cannot…"
"You must," she insists. "I want your oath. A blood oath."
After a long moment of pained consideration, he nods. "Only if you agree to the same."
She does, but she never expects to be held to it.
For many days, she remains in their bed, unwilling to face the world beyond their bedroom. Azirphale is loath to leave her for anything, whether it be to fetch food or tea or books or blankets.
One night, she wakes him sometime near three. After he shakes off the haze of sleep and places his glasses upon his face, he takes in her pale features, the trembling of her body, the tears down her face.
"Zira—sorry—" she gasps, breathing quick and uncontrolled.
He hesitates. "Contact, good or bad?" he asks and she jerks her head in a rough nod, so he wraps his arms about her carefully—firmly, enough so she knows he's there—but not enough to make her feel trapped. The last time she'd had a panic attack, contact was bad and she'd crawled away to lean against the headboard, several feet away from him, needing the space. This time, she craved the comfort touch brought.
"—didn't want to—wake—you but—" Crowley gets out inbetween sobbing gasps, "Can't—need—breathing—"
The angel rubs his hands up and down her back and arms slowly. "Breathe, dear. Breathe. Just breathe—with me, yes? Nice and slow." For several long minutes, they focus on the deep breaths, interrupted by the soft hiccups in the aftermath of her sobs. "Just like that, Crowley, yes. I'm here, I'm with you—you're not alone."
Her hand clenches in the fabric of her shirt over her chest. "Zira, I c-can't—my heart, it's—"
"I know," he murmurs. "I know it hurts. You're not dying, I promise, my dear. You're not dying and you're not crazy. Everything will be alright. Keep breathing."
She presses her sweaty forehead to his shoulder. "Sorry, didn't want to—to wake you up, but—"
Aziraphale presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head. "It's alright, you know I don't mind. I'd rather you not deal with this alone. Did you have another dream?"
Slowly, her breathing has begun to relax and deepen, her shaking beginning to steady. "I-I did, yes," she agrees softly.
It's the sixth time that she's had to wake him because she was suffering a panic attack. The first time had been terrifying for both, but they had slowly learned what helped best. She hates to bother him, afraid to irritate him, afraid of judgment, afraid that he'll eventually snap and tell her to get over it. Aziraphale, however, does none of these things. Instead, he does his best to help her calm down and offer comfort.
It isn't easy, but they manage.
After half an hour, she presses a gentle kiss to his cheek. "I think I can go back to sleep now, angel," she admits.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he offers, as he always does.
Crowley thinks of the dream—the memories of Alastair cutting away at her wings, plucking feathers, mutilating organs—and shakes her head, shaking away the thoughts. "No, not tonight. Just, just hold me, please."
"Of course." They lay down again in bed, wrapped up in each other, and return to sleep. This time, it's dreamless.
Time can't heal this wound, but it does scab over and scar. It's no longer fresh, though she still feels her wings' absence constantly.
They recover, cling to each other, and slowly heal the hidden scars caused by their separation.
It takes time for their life to return to something even vaguely similar to 'normal'.
They are visited by Adam and his friends and Anathema and Newt, the closest things to friends that they have. It's heartwarming, to see them again after so long, all so concerned for Crowley, who actually greets them fondly, if tiredly. Their visitors bring with them desserts and cooked dinners and cards and flowers. It's a lovely, unexpected gesture, and it actually brings a smile to the demon's lips.
Crowley slowly begins to smile regularly, to emerge from the bedroom more than once a week, to dress and later leave the building. Despite her trauma, she never flinches from Aziraphale. In fact, she seems to reach out to him more, seeking contact and comfort even more, not that the angel minds at all.
He's reluctant to participate in more…amorous activities, but she promises she's alright and that she will tell him if that changes. It doesn't and their activities, if anything, seem to make Crowley more herself, more assured that life is returning to normal, more secure that she really has been saved and that this isn't a dream.
Somehow, they move on, scarred, but alive and living. Which are, of course, two very different things. They manage both.
They're walking to their duck pond one day when they stop at a tea shop on the way to grab some warm beverages, as while it's not very cold out, the biting wind makes it chilly.
While it doesn't both Aziraphale much, Crowley loathes the cold and has bundled up carefully with a lavishly warm coat. Still, she shivers whenever a strong gust manages to pierce her coat.
When he suggests stopping to grab some tea to go, he knows it will help her keep warm and how much she'll appreciate it. They order and wait patiently in the nearly empty shop at a table for their tea. When the woman brings their teas, Crowley accepts both styrofoam cups with a polite murmur of thanks. The woman smiles and winks. "Have a nice day with your handsome young man, dearie!"
Both Zira and the demon flush pink as they chuckle to themselves.
"Ready to go?" He asks with a smile.
"To walk with my handsome young man?" She laughs quietly. "Of course."
They walk, with her hand tucked into his elbow neatly, brushing against each other as they go.
When they reach their bench, she sits closer than usual, using him to help block the wind and to steal body heat. He grins and wraps an arm about her to help.
Neither speak for quite a while, enjoying the fresh air and familiar sights of the park. Her eyes catch the joggers and couples and parents and children filling the park, until she sees a young twenty-something couple playing with a toddler nearby.
"Do you ever wonder what it'd be like?" She asks softly.
"Hmm?" He breaths into her hair, a wordless question.
Crowley explains softly, "Being human. Having a mortal life like that. Childhood, adolescence, adulthood, marriage, children, death? All of that?"
The angel considers it. "Not often. There's little point, really, in wondering what it'd be like for us, but…sometimes I wonder what humanity is like, yes. How it feels to not know how long you have left with your loved ones, not knowing what your purpose is…"
"Or having the will to choose your purpose," she replies softly, regretfully. "What it must be like… We could do anything we wanted. Go to university, get real jobs, travel how one should—experience life as it was meant to be lived. We could do anything—anything at all."
She pauses as the toddler laughs loudly, joyously, and the parent smile on, blissful and proud and content with their silly little pointless lives. "We could even have a family," she murmurs softly.
He grabs her hand and intertwines their fingers comfortingly. "Do you…do you want a family? Or children, my dear?"
She hesitates, unsure; the idea is a completely foreign concept to her. "I think…I would like to have the choice." The fallen angel cannot imagine being a mother at all—children. Good God. How…terrifying. That was discounting the fact that any children of theirs would be nephilim—abominations, according to Heaven, dangerous, to be destroyed upon creation. Forbidden…But…her words are true. The choice, the option, the freedom…would be appreciated.
She sighs thoughtfully. "Have you ever…ah, considered…becoming human?"
He stills and adjusts his glasses thoughtfully. "I…not really. Perhaps we miss out on some things but…they do too. And were we not as we are, I'd…well. Who knows if we'd ever know each other as humans. This life has given me six thousand years and I've spent so many of them with you. I can't regret that, my dear."
Crowley glances up at him, startled, and smiles. "I agree." She pauses and laughs. "God, when did we become such saps?"
His laugh warms her more than any tea ever could.
Slowly, Crowley returns to her old self, but Aziraphale can see the still-bleeding wounds and not-quite-scars, no matter how hard she works to hide them from him.
There are nights she cannot sleep at all, for fear of dreaming. When she actually manages to sleep, he often wakes to find her curled up in a protective ball, trembling—or screaming in her sleep—or sobbing out in agony and terror. Too often does this happen.
Most of her days are spent with him in the bookshop, no longer out tempting or seducing or anything of the kind. Instead, she settles near the counter, near him, with some novel to distract her while he either reorganizes, repairs books, cleans, or scares off customers. He often looks up from his work to check on her. Usually, she is engrossed in her novel, or busy writing, or using the computer, or listening to some music—but there are times when he finds her pale and staring into space, mind wandering back to Hell. The angel can usually pull her from those dark thoughts with a gentle hand on the shoulder, which makes her shiver as she shakes off the unwelcome, lingering ghosts.
It isn't much that he can do for her, but he tries.
He knows there are some wounds that can only heal with time, but also that there are some beyond time's capacity for healing, too deep and scarred to ever return to their previous condition. He knows this, has to remind himself that he can't just fix this for her. That he can't just fix her.
But he doesn't allow her to drift into those dark memories often, keeps her company to distract her and keep her focused on happier thoughts—whether that means getting her assistance to scare off persistent customers, dining at the Ritz, feeding the ducks, singing Queen, or more carnal distractions.
Aziraphale does what he can, not that he minds much. He enjoys the increase of time spent with his dear beloved, and slowly…slowly, he finds that the ghosts are weakening their hold on her, though he isn't sure if they will ever be properly exorcised.
He does know, however, that Crowley is stronger than them.
Notes:
In regards to the panic attack contained in this chapter, I really hope it wasn't triggering to anyone. I have severe depression and anxiety, and have suffered countless panic attacks. My roommate also suffers from anxiety and panic attacks. This chapter reflects my personal experiences with them, so it may or may not hold true for others.
Should you, dear reader, ever find yourself helping someone during a panic attack, my advice is thus: be patient, be kind, remind them to breathe, don't be offended if they don't want to be touched, ask how you can help (hugging, walking, relocating, turning on/off lights, getting blankets, offering water or tea, etc). Each person and each panic attack is somewhat different, and no two people react the same.
Again, this was written with my personal experiences in mind, so if you have any thoughts or questions, they're welcome.
And if you ever, ever want to talk, I'm here. I promise.