So, this is basically the first fic I've ever written that isn't all fluff and happiness with perhaps a little angst here and there. I never meant to write it, but it just wouldn't leave me, and I just hope it turned out okay.

I'm sure this trope has been used before, but anyway. Two cakes rule, right?

But please heed the warnings and look after yourselves! This is emotionally dark, implied rape and flashbacks even though they're not descriptive. It'll all turn out fine and we have a happy ending, STILL, the feelings afterwards are there and even though I'm sure there are a lot of fics that go much deeper into the darkness of traumata and self-esteem issues that come with it, please, if you feel uncomfortable with these themes in any way, don't read it. You know best what's good for you and health always comes first.

Okay. Thoughts would be appreciated :)

Oh, almost forgot. I case we have fellow fans here - there are Hamilton references. Just because. Yeah. Don't ask.

~oOo~oOo~oOo~

Chapter One: Guilt

Crowley had imagined this so much it felt more like a memory. Countless sleepless nights, countless waking days, countless restless hours spent in the guilty land of longing and desire. He'd dreamed about this, had painted pictures on the inside of his closed eyelids, whole worlds he kept creating in his mind (and erasing them afterwards. Afterwards. When the shame hit him. The disgust. The emptiness.) All the times, all the ways he had imagined it.

But it had never been like this. It had certainly never been anything like this.

For one, they had been alone. They had been free. They had been happy.

They had done it because they wanted to. They both wanted to. His angel had wanted-

This was different.

It was all wrong.

There had been no eyes, in his dreams, no hateful violet eyes watching them. No voices snickering at them in the dark corners of the room. The air hadn't smelled of sulfur and brimstone. The bed hadn't been illuminated as if they were displayed on a stage, their act a show to entertain those watching from the shadows.

Crowley trembled. The cool silk sheets under him felt wrong, despite the familiarity of home (there had been sheets beneath them when it happened too, grey sheets, a mocking fusion of them both, the ridiculous caricature of their union).

He scrambled off the bed, tumbled blindly out of the bedroom (How had he come to be there in the first place? Habit? He felt like he wouldn't be able to as much as look at that room without throwing up ever again.)
He bumped into something on his way to nowhere, anywhere, he didn't know, didn't care. He heard the clashing of breaking terracotta, felt the stinging pain where his head had hit something solid and registered like a burst of lightning through the mist clouding his brain that he must have knocked over one of the flowerpots that hung from his ceiling. All he could feel after that realisation was the regret that it hadn't knocked him out instead, granting him a headache and a fleeting moment of peace.

There was no peace, of course. Not for him, as he found himself crouched into one of the nearest corners. He wanted to hide, but the dark was no comfort. Still, he didn't move, he didn't dare switch on the lights, couldn't stand the feeling of being seen. He still felt watched. His mind knew there was no one there (no one, no angels, no demons, no Aziraphale, no Aziraphale...), but his body didn't care for reason, didn't listen, didn't stop folding itself together to something small, inconspicuous, invisible.

He wanted to be invisible. He wanted to vanish. He just wanted it to stop.

He wanted it all to stop.

The eyes he could still feel on him, leaving him no place to escape, nowhere to hide.

The smell that wouldn't leave his nostrils, still too familiar even though it had been millennia since he had been allowed to replace the stink with the fresh air of Eden.

The sounds. Oh, the sounds. There was malicious laughter, snickering, encouraging cheers in the back of his mind that made him nauseous with their vileness. But they were just background noises. None of it mattered. None of them mattered. They could all go to hell (or heaven - he wasn't so sure what was worse anymore) and rot there. Despite all the suspicions he'd had, every of his worst ideas that had been confirmed when the world didn't end, he hadn't thought them capable of something like this. Not even Gabriel. He hadn't thought himself capable of something like this.

How could he allow himself to just do what they wanted? Why hadn't he fought back? (He knew the question was ridiculous. He wouldn't have stood a chance against the delegation of archangels and high ranked demons, not even with Aziraphale by his side, but he should have done something...anything...anything but what he had done.) Why had he allowed himself to lose control like that? Why? Why?

He wanted it to stop. He didn't want to hear them anymore. He didn't want to hear him anymore.

He would have slept, usually. Would have drowned himself in unconsciousness for the next decade, century, millennium.

He couldn't. Not this time.

He wouldn't find peace, not even there (nowhere to escape, nowhere to hide). He would have to ask Aziraphale to give him a dreamless rest. But he couldn't. He couldn't. Never again. He wouldn't speak to him, ever again.

Aziraphale.

Aziraphale.

He saw him, when he closed his eyes. He heard him. Heard the cries, the begs, the tears in his sore voice.

Crowley pressed his hands over his ears, but it didn't help.

Please. Please, don't. Don't do this. Crowley. Crowley, please...

~oOo~oOo~oOo~

Aziraphale opened his eyes and blinked into the dazzling white light that greeted him. He needed a moment to process where he was, sat up on unused blue tartan sheets he recognized as his own.

He was in his flat above the bookshop. Not unusual.

In the bed. Bit more unusual.

And everything hurt. Now, that was unusual.

His muscles ached, especially his-

Oh.

Oh.

The memory hit him suddenly. Dirty rooms and greasy floors, corridors bathed in darkness where the flickering neon lights didn't reach, the buzzing of flies in the air, blinking white teeth beneath violet eyes, sparkling at them in amused satisfaction. Aziraphale shivered and quickly looked around, as if he expected to find pairs of eyes still looking at him out of a corner, white and black wings, their owners lined up along the wall. But of course, the room was empty. Aziraphale took a deep breath to steady himself (Even though he didn't need oxygen to keep his vessel alive per se, he'd found over the millennia he'd spent on earth that unnecessary breath was quite useful to calm the furious beating of a likewise unnecessary heart). The air leaving his lungs was unnaturally loud in the silence that lay over the room like a blanket. It should have been comforting that no one was there, shouldn't it? After what he and Crowley-

Crowley!

Where was Crowley?

Aziraphale let his hand glide over the cotton fabric of his duvet as if to find the shape of a demonic body underneath, only to shake his head at himself the second his fingers grazed nothing but the obvious cool emptiness of an unoccupied mattress. What a ridiculous notion. Of course Crowley wasn't here. Bold to assume he was even in the bookshop, let alone here.

"Crowley?" Oh, heavens, his throat hurt.

Aziraphale listened, waited for a familiar voice to break the pressing sound of silence.

Nothing. As expected. Was it disappointment or relief he felt? Aziraphale shuddered at the thought. No, no, no. He wouldn't allow this to happen. He wouldn't let this cloud his judgement, wouldn't let it influence his feeling. He knew what he felt for Crowley. Crowley was comfort and laughter and warmth and home. Crowley was love. He wouldn't let them change that. He wouldn't let them win.

Of course it was disappointment, Aziraphale told himself as he stood up a little too hastily, his knees weaker and legs more wobbly after the sudden motion than he had anticipated. Blimey, his back hurt. As did his backside. But no. None of that. No thought about that. Not now. Not ever. He snapped his fingers, thinking the ache away.

That doesn't make it undone, whispered a nasty voice in his head. He knew that voice. It was the same voice that had told him the war was inevitable, the same voice that told him to lose the gut. Aziraphale told it to shut it, thank you very much.

He hurried down the spiral staircase that led to the backroom of his shop, a new surge of something unpleasant he wasn't quite able to place washing over him, tightening his chest. The couch was empty, apart from the familiar Crowley-butt-shaped dent in the cushion that the demon had left there over centuries of slouching in the same spot.

Panic. The feeling was panic. He'd been remarkably calm when he awoke, but now, with every moment that passed, every second that went by without seeing Crowley, Aziraphale could feel the nearing wave of panic that threatened to drown him in its dark depths. He wanted to see Crowley. He needed to see Crowley.

The flat in Mayfair was the most likely of destinations. Aziraphale lifted his hand, ready to let his fingers snap, too impatient to cross the distance the human way - and hesitated.

Would Crowley want to see him, though?

This dreadful thing had been something that was done to both of them. Gabriel had wanted to use it to tear them apart, to drive a wedge between them. He just hadn't made his calculation with the fact of Aziraphale's undying love and desire for the demon he wanted to scare him away from. No touch from Crowley, however vile and horrible the context, could ever have been undesirable to Aziraphale...

But Crowley. He hadn't thought about Crowley. What if- What if it had been far worse for him? Being forced to be with him in a way he didn't want to?

Aziraphale released a heaving breath as the realisation hit him. He had taken it all too lightly, had reacted too calmly because he hadn't truly been hurt, no matter what he'd wanted their kidnappers so believe. Oh, he'd given them quite a performance, for sure, but it had all been for show. But Crowley...

Aziraphale's eyes began to sting when a picture crystallised out of his memory, Crowley, his face twisted in pain, looking at him wide-eyed after it was all over, staring at him in shock before quickly turning around and fleeing down a corridor. Aziraphale had thought it part of the demon's act by then, part of their attempt to make Gabriel and Beelzebub believe that they had achieved their purpose. But what if- what if it hadn't- what if-

No. He refused to believe that. Not before he'd seen it with his own eyes.

Aziraphale wiped the dampness out of his face with the back of his determined hand. He had to see Crowley. Even if- if any of those dreadful thoughts had a spark of truth to them. He had to find out, had to see if Crowley was alright.

He blinked a few times, settling himself.

Then he snapped.

~oOo~oOo~oOo~

He knew he was a vile creature. He was depraved by nature, doomed to serve the purpose of lust and sin.

So no, Crowley certainly wasn't a stranger to those feelings. Hunger, desire, want. He had been designed to inflame them. This body he'd been given, temptation incarnate. Yet, he'd only ever experienced them himself for one other being, one single creature, the one and only he could never have. (He'd been asking himself before if maybe this was his real punishment. The dread of belonging nowhere, too immortal for humanity, too caring for Hell, too doubtful for Heaven, too spoiled for Aziraphale. The torture of unrequited love, wherever he went.)

He was no stranger to longing, either. He'd been pining for so long he could have filled a whole damn forest! Millennia of waiting, wanting, loving from afar (for that was just what it was, he knew it, denying had just seemed ridiculous at some point), worshipping the only heavenly creature he'd ever believed to deserve such devotion. He'd controlled himself, had held it all back, locked the emotion up in a box, sealed it with as many chains as his willpower could muster. It was for his own sake as much as for Aziraphale's, for what else could he have done? Rip his heart out of his chest, kneel in front of the angel, presenting it to him - scarred, bleeding thing that it was? Wait for Aziraphale to heal it or destroy it for good?

That was what it would have come down to, sooner or later (rather sooner than later, obviously), and he had exhibited a quite extraordinary amount of restraint over the years, if Crowley could say so himself. Maybe it had been too much. Maybe something had to snap inside of him at some point, maybe-

No! Those were excuses! Nothing but poor, pathetic attempts to justify his own weakness when it had been more crucial than ever to stay strong. It didn't matter that he'd wanted this for thousands of years. It didn't matter that he'd fought against this urge for centuries. It didn't matter that it had been on the verge of overpowering him countless times before. He hadn't let it. He'd never let it. Until now.

Everything that should matter was Aziraphale. His angel, his wonderful, pure, perfect angel, his best friend (the object of all his dreams and wishes and desires...), this being that was kindness and innocence made flesh, served to him on a silver plate to devour.

This was the moment to withstand. This was the moment to prove himself.

And he'd let him down. He'd given into his desires and had hurt his angel in turn. Unforgivable. (He'd always been unforgivable, his whole nature was threaded together in way to make his very fibres spell out Damnation, Unworthiness, Depravity - but this, this was too much. He didn't want Aziraphale to forgive him. He would never forgive himself.)

The tears, the begging, the whimpers.

He hadn't stopped. He couldn't have stopped. (They wouldn't have let him. His treacherous body wouldn't have let him.)

You're gonna take him, Gabriel had said, mouth twisted in a cruel grin. You're not allowed to stop until it's...finished. I'm sure you get it, great original tempter and everything. His eyes sparkled in satisfaction at Crowley's devastated expression.

They had known how to do it. They had thought it through. They had known how to drag them out in the light, how to strike, where to hit. They had known nothing they could have done to Crowley would have been as horrible for the demon as forcing him to be the one that did it to Aziraphale.

Crowley. Crowley, please.

He couldn't escape the angel's voice, sitting there in the dark corner of his flat. Would he ever be able to forget the sounds he'd made? Would he ever find sleep again? Peace? Silence?

Don't. Crowley. Don't listen to them. Please. I'm begging you.

I'm sorry, angel. (Was it a memory? Or had he said it out loud to the surrounding nowhere and nothing?)

Don't! Stop. Please. Please, stop.

Sobs. Tears. The disgusting sound of sweat-slicked skin against skin. Voices in the background, muffled as his brain tried to cut them off, forget where he was, what he was doing.

Don't close your eyes. You're gonna see them when you close your eyes, gonna see him. Writhing beneath you, struggling to get away, pinned in place by your own hands.

I'm so sorry, angel. Aziraphale. Forgive me. (Don't. You shouldn't. I don't deserve it.)

It had been fast. He'd tried to make it quick, don't torture his angel longer than necessary (don't torture himself). Gabriel had instructed him to be rough. (Could he have been anything but? Once his carefully preserved self-control was shattered? Yes. He wanted to tell himself that he could. Always. For Aziraphale. He could, he could, he would have been. Gentle. Caring. Loving. All the nice and un-demonic things he had imagined in his dreams. Had the circumstances been different. He had to believe it. He wouldn't survive the alternative.)

Aziraphale had been lying there, afterwards. Just lying there, sullied like the grey sheets. How could Crowley ever look at his face again? (How could he not? How was he supposed to outlive eternity without gentle hands, soft smiles, blue eyes and kind words? Without old-fashioned well-worn waistcoats and useless ridiculous reading glasses and bookshops and dinners? Without the smell of dusty books, printed pages and cocoa? Without warmth and kindness and home?)

It was all gone. He'd lost everything, everything that mattered.

Angel. Angel, I- I'm so sorry. I'm- I'm sorry. Please... Angel? Aziraphale?

He'd reached out to- what? Soothe? Comfort? See if the angel was ok? (Of course he was not! He'd practically been raped. By the one being he thought to be his friend. Of course he was not ok. Of course he was not.)

He should have expected his touch wouldn't be welcome. He should have known. (Had it ever been, though? They'd never really touched before. A fleeting brush of fingers when they handed each other a bottle of wine. Their shoulders touching lightly when they sat on the bus after Tadfield. Quick kisses on the cheek when it was still a custom of greeting, Crowley's face tingling for decades afterwards...)

Still, it was a shock when Aziraphale flinched away from his hand, making his heart clench painfully in his chest. The terror in the angel's voice had been even worse. The difference between a sharp pointed knife and a blunt one, the sting slow, blade rusty, leaving a wound with frayed edges.

DON'T TOUCH ME!

Crowley's hand had stilled immediately, hanging in mid-air, a moment of silence before the storm, the quite in the eye of the hurricane. There was more snickering in the background, to be sure, but he didn't hear any of it. He didn't hear anything but the blood rushing in his ears, the silence as his own heartbeat stopped for a moment.

And then the moment was over. His hand snapped back and he clutched it protectively against his chest, felt his vision go blurry as tears began to sting in his eyes, hot and unwanted. He wouldn't let them see. Not Aziraphale and certainly not them. They wouldn't get the satisfaction to witness the demon Crowley breaking at last. Aziraphale wouldn't have to be the one picking him up and putting the pieces back together. Not again. Not anymore.

The last thing he remembered was the rustle of his wings when he swirled around (Wings? When had he manifested his wings?), his head twirling from the sudden turn, (the exhaustion, the sorrow, the pain, the shame, everything), how he tried to flee down one of the corridors, cursing the tears that began to crawl mercilessly down his cheeks.

Something hit him from behind. He fell. Fell... (He had fallen before, hadn't he? Fallen from Grace, fallen in love, he just couldn't seem to stop falling, could he?)

All the rest was darkness.