A/N: this entry carries a TW for: suicidal ideation, suicide attempt, self harm
A storm was gathering over Dartmoor. Anyone with any sense was indoors, and the moor-dwellers were generally among that type; they knew too well the dangers of being caught out in bad weather, when even the most wizened among them could become lost and wrong-footed in haze or fog and end up in a bog featherbed, never to wake again. Even the ponies had sought shelter, sensing something unnatural about this particular storm.
Only Crowley stalked the blasted heath, the wind that whipped the heather raking its vicious fingers through his hair. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold, clothing tattered and torn by both weather and disregard. He'd retreated to the moor some time ago from London —he no longer knew how long, what was the point of time, anyway?— when the city and its people and its untidy Whickber street bookshop had become unbearable. Crowley had thought it might be a good place to hide, to think, to gather himself, to figure out how to go on. He had been correct about all but the last.
Dartmoor's isolation had given Crowley plenty of space and quiet to examine his thoughts, his feelings, his life. The moor was beautiful, he thought even now, as the wind lashed the first stinging drops against his face: it kept not secrets, told no lies, and offered its bounty without pretention. Heather, gorse, scrub trees, and even the ancient oaks of Wistman's Wood simply were: they required no acknowledgement, and did not care if outsiders could not see their beauty. Lichen and moor grass endured in defiance of and in partnership with the weather, and the adders that curled up in the refuge of tors knew only peace and safe haven.
It was beautiful, but to him, Crowley had finally concluded, there was no point. No point to his thoughts, his feelings, his life. Could you even call it a life, at this point? There was nothing left to do, no orders to carry out. No wars left to fight: he was an exile from everywhere he might've ever considered fighting for. There was no one left to care about, or to care about him, if anyone ever had. Nothing left to create, nothing to destroy, but the one thing over which he had control.
Crowley halted next to the destination of his intent. Sunk into the ground was a ring of rough-cut stones, surrounding what looked at first like a pool of water. But it was more than that: an ancient well, its origins vanished in prehistory. More recently, it had been adopted by one of the moor's early churches, and to this day, the local priest stopped by regularly to bless it. A deep, endless, pit of Holy Water. As Crowley stared down at the water, its surface rippling in the drizzle, he thought how fitting it was that it appeared so innocuous. A suitably banal end.
He looked up at the sky, and sighed. With a faint rustle, Crowley freed his wings, allowing their black-feathered mass to spread out behind him. It was always a relief, and he figured he might as well enjoy a last few unrestricted breaths. Long fingers reached up to curl around the thin silver scarf, and pulled it from his throat. Crowley dropped it to the ground beside the well. He didn't expect that anyone would ever come looking for him, much less track him here, but if they did it would at least answer their questions. The demon folded his wings tightly against his back, and without hesitation, stepped into the well.
Crowley plunged into the water, exhaling forcibly as it closed over his head. To his astonishment, he was not instantly obliterated. Had time stopped? Was this a delayed reaction, due to making the choice himself? In the few split seconds it took for these questions to race through his brain, he realized both that he was not dying, and why. He may have been a demon who had jumped into a pit of Holy Water, but he had been forgiven.
The despair that had brought Crowley to this place turned to rage, and he kicked upwards with all his might. One tremendous gasp later, he clawed his way out of the well, dirt and moss forcing themselves beneath his nails as he grappled with the earth to regain his feet. In all his contemplation on the moor, he had avoided asking questions, throwing them out into the Universe, making his turmoil known. But as he lunged to his feet the demon could hold himself back no longer, and threw back his head and arms with a deranged laugh.
"Fine!" Crowley howled to the Heavens, "Fine, explain it to me, Angel! How am I supposed to live?"
But before he could await an answer, Crowley began to realize that the Holy Water was having another effect, if possible even more unexpected than the first. His wings, black and ragged since the Fall, were transforming. From the roots at his back they flushed first grey, then white along the skin beneath them, then up each quill, shaft, and barb, until each vane began to blush white. Crowley let out a wordless, strangled scream, whipping his wings about as though he might shake the color from them.
A nearby tor beckoned, and Crowley dashed to it. He beat his wings against its stones, mindless of the sickening cracks and pain that accompanied them, until by dint of shattered bones he could draw every bit of his wings to the front of his body. His fingers ripped through the snowy plumage, viciously plucking the feathers until his fingers were raw and bleeding. Until his fingers' blood mixed with that of his wings, until the ground was thick with soiled plumes, until not a single feather was left on the ruined limbs that had once granted him flight. Until he was sobbing in rage and despair and pain the manic fear of being alive, trembling on the ground in the rain that had how become a soaking deluge.
Somewhere in Heaven, Aziraphale was weeping. When the Supreme Archangel wept, it was a Holy Rain, and it came down on Crowley like the Flood. It soaked him to the skin, and began to mend his hurts. The bones beneath the battered flesh of his wings slowly knitted together, causing his back to arch with both pain and the realization of what was happening.
"No!" Crowley screeched, one hand clawing at the sky as his body contorted with the healing. Then feathers began to sprout, carpeting his renewed wings with plumage thick and lush, white and shining, and in the rain they reflected a many-hued, nebulaic sheen. "AZIRAPHALE!" Crowley screamed. The weight of the wings against his weakened body nearly toppled him over backwards, and with a violent contortion, Crowley flung himself forward. Overbalancing, he landed on his forearms, skidding on the saturated ground.
"Aziraphale," Crowley repeated to the Earth, in a cracked voice his time, shoulders shaking as the new wings sheltered him from the angel's tears. The demon's tears were Holy now too, but did not burn as they rolled down his face.