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St Andrew’s Scourge
“Angel! Oy, open up. Lunch, remember?”
The door to the bookshop remained resolutely and inconsiderately closed and the blinds down. Hissing with impatience which was rapidly coiling into worry, for it was unheard of for Aziraphale to miss a lunch date, Crowley clicked the door open and entered the shop. Immediately, he knew there was something very definitely not right here. The rug which lay on the floor beneath the oculus had been pulled back to reveal the summoning circle beneath and there was a definite tang of ozone in the air, sharp and acrid to his snake senses. Even more disturbing was the strong sense of divine power which emanated from the area. Aziraphale was nowhere to be seen but, when Crowley super-carefully edged round the circumference of the circle, he discovered Aziraphale’s clothes neatly folded on his desk chair. He examined the items: they were definitely the clothes he usually wore, down to his tartan bow tie and underwear. Crowley rolled his eyes and despite the anxiety, his lips quirked in momentary amusement at the idea that the prim and proper angel had suddenly taken up nudism.
Replacing the clothes in a neat pile (and ignoring a demonic urge to dump them in an untidy heap), he stood at the edge of the circle, noting the heat haze shimmer of energy rippling round it.
“Still active then,” he observed to himself as a means of informing the Heavenly influences that he was a demon and not afraid of their magic circles, thank you. He jammed his hands into his too-tight jeans and worried his bottom lip. There was only one reason the circle would be activated and that was an urgent summons from Heaven.
Crowley’s heart went cold at the thought and a whole army of what-ifs began marching through his mind: what if his angel had been returned to Heaven for good, his present tour of duty abruptly ended; what if Heaven had found out about the Arrangement; what if their clandestine meetings and fraternising had been discovered; what if Heaven had discovered Aziraphale had given Crowley holy water and, most gut-wrenching of all, what if Aziraphale had been obliterated?
Before his terrified brain could process any of these ideas, there was a deep thrumming hum like walking under an electricity pylon but a hundred times stronger and the portal opened. As wave upon wave of celestial power hit him, Crowley found himself driven to his knees. He rocked back and forth, groaning and writhing on the floor, willing the pain to lessen. But even in extremis, he knew he would endure much worse if he could discover his missing angel’s whereabouts.
After what seemed like an eternity, the portal clicked off like someone flicking a switch and Crowley found he could open his eyes. Aziraphale was lying naked in a foetal position in the middle of the now disconnected circle.
“Angel?” he called, dithering on the edge, desperate to dive in and damn the consequences. But he recalled the last time he had felt Heaven’s divinity directed against himself, the last time he had been burned by God’s wrath, and his courage faltered. The portal might have been deactivated but the energy had not yet dissipated completely. “Angel, please! You have to wake up. Please. For me!”
There was no response but Crowley could see that Aziraphale’s aura was weak and there were brutal welts across his back: Aziraphale had been flogged. He had to do something and quickly. He stood up, wrapped Aziraphale’s satin scarf round his hands and dashed into the circle. His clothes smouldered and his hair singed but he grabbed the unresponsive form and practically dragged him clear.
“Aziraphale,” he whispered desperately, kneeling by his precious love and miracling a sheet to cover his modesty. “Angel? Come on.”
Although he didn’t know the extent of his friend’s injuries, he lifted him into a bridal lift and stomped up the stairs, Aziraphale’s head lolling against his shoulder. Kicking open the door to the angel’s bedroom, he paused a moment to survey the room. Oak bookshelves lined two walls but the bed was clear and looked like it was at least in semi-regular use judging by the abandoned mug of cocoa, crumpled sheets and carefully bookmarked first edition lying on the bedside table.
Thee was a pained moan muffled against his chest and Aziraphale’s eyes rolled open. “Crowley...”
“In the demonic flesh.” Before he could stop himself he kissed the angel’s forehead, blushing at his own daring. He quickly laid him on the bed, positioning him on his front and fussing with pillows to cover his blunder. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself, surprised when his voice came out steady and soothing like it knew what it was doing. “Relax now, angel. It’s gonna be okay. I’ve got you.”
“Always safe with you,” Aziraphale whispered and his hand found Crowley’s and squeezed it.
“Then stay with me now, okay? Need to see the damage - deep breaths for me, angel.” So saying, he folded the sheet he had covered him with to the waist. Aziraphale hissed and gritted his teeth, refusing to cry out and worry his friend despite the fresh bloom of pain. Crowley perched next to him.
“See? Like ripping off a plaster,” he teased to cover the shock of seeing the full extent of the damage. The entire smooth expanse of the angel’s back was a livid mass of bloody raised welts, some whipcord thin, others deep where they sliced into flesh and muscle, still oozing blood.
“It’s, it’s not as bad as it looks. Be tickety-boo in no time,” the angel murmured, patting Crowley’s knee.
Crowley rolled his eyes. “Always said it – you’re a Hell of an awful liar, Aziraphale.” Almost of their own accord, his hands came to rest on the angel’s upper arms away from the damage, rubbing soothingly. “Can you heal yourself?”
A shake of the blond head and Aziraphale’s eyes had closed in exhaustion. “Part of the punishment – no divine healing allowed.”
“Sadists.” He stared again at the terrible injuries, imagining dire and dreadful revenge on all the beings who had hurt his angel. “Just as well you have a dashing demon to tend you then.”
Drawing together his power, he spread his hands over the first welt across Aziraphale’s shoulder and focused his will. Energy thrummed from his fingers and he felt like his brain was going to explode with the pressure but the welt refused to heal. He dug deeper, summoning up every reserve of strength he possessed but it was useless.
“It won’t work, dear. Please don’t deplete your strength for nothing.”
Crowley sprang to his feet, scrubbing his hands through his hair in tormented frustration. “Fuck! I can’t let you be in pain like this, angel. Tearing me apart!”
“Hush now.” Aziraphale licked his parched lips. “Might I suggest human intervention? I believe their medical expertise has advanced quite pleasingly in the last century.” His voice wavered, trailing off into a whimper of pain. It was like a bucket of ice cold water in the face to Crowley who pulled himself together with a snap. He could fall apart later; right now his only concern was his angel.
He materialised into being a first aid kit, flannels, a number of soft fluffy towels, various medicaments and a bowl of water. Perching again next to his friend, he ran his fingers through his sweaty hair. “Here. Can you take these analgesics? Opiate-based – see, like poppy juice.”
He slithered his arm under Aziraphale’s chest, lifting him enough for the other to be able to take the pills and swallow then with a few sips of water. Then he laid him back down, stroking his cheek tenderly while the painkillers took effect. After some minutes, Aziraphale’s shoulders untensed and he was able to open his eyes. He offered Crowley a timid smile.
“That feels nice,” he said simply, all his barriers down.
Crowley nodded, his gaze drifting away at the intimacy that was suddenly too much for him. He turned back to the medical paraphernalia. “Now the painkiller’s kicking in, I’ll clean the wounds.”
First he clicked his fingers, arranging the towels underneath the angel without having to move him. Once that was done, he soaked a flannel in warm water from the bowl which had miraculously stayed at the right temperature and tentatively cleaned the first stripe which cut diagonally across his upper back. The stripe wasn’t that deep but the whole area was tender and already swelling with angry purple bruises.
Seeking to divert the angel’s attention, Crowley asked, “So, a summons from Heaven, eh? What petty crime have you committed this time? Drinking Earl Grey tea with milk not lemon, putting the jam on the scone before the cream, dunking biscuits?”
“A-actually a little more serious.” Aziraphale gasped as Crowley moved onto the second stripe which was deeper. “Disciplinary action – stays on my celestial record for 200 hundred years, Gabriel took delight in informing me.”
Crowley rolled his eyes but forbore quite magnificently from commenting on Heavenly bureaucracy. “Can you tell me about it, angel?” he asked as he wrung out the flannel. As the angel talked, he continued his ministrations, tending each vicious stripe in turn, soaking away the congealed blood and daubing on a layer of antiseptic cream which also alleviated the bruising.
“I was found out,” Aziraphale explained after taking a few sips of water that the demon offered him. Crowley waited, moving on to the next cut and offering a listening silence. “I saved a young woman from terminal cancer. Direct miraculous intervention is prohibited, of course.”
“The Prime Directive. Ngk, bold stuff, angel.”
“I, I couldn’t let her suffer, Crowley.”
“Always knew that big bleeding heart of yours would get you into trouble Upstairs. I’m proud of you, angel. So they flogged you?”
“Saint Andrew’s Scourge it’s called.”
“Heard of that. Thought my side invented it. The whipping post’s shaped like an X like Saint Andrew’s cross.”
“Quite. I believe the flogger has bone fragments.” The memory the words evoked tore a real cry from the angel and he arched off the bed. Crowley stopped at once, pressing him back down by the shoulders before he caused any further damage and then gripping both his hands until he slumped exhausted onto the pillows. He bathed his forehead and cheeks with fresh water. “Doing really well, angel, I know it hurts like the devil – as it were.”
“Not sure about that.” He gave a shaky laugh and continued. “You see, I refused to repent. I told them I’d do it again in a heartbeat – they don’t know that I’ve been attending St Jude’s Hospital for ninety years miracling cures and saving patients.”
Crowley grinned broadly. “That’s where you go on Tuesdays.”
“Indeed. Had I confessed and repented, I would have avoided the Scourge altogether, you see. I would have been given only a management instruction.”
The demon snorted. “You’ve got enough of those to paper a room.”
His back felt like it was on fire, even with the painkillers, and it was all he could do to hold back the tears. “Since I refused to ‘access God’s Grace through repentance’ and ‘follow the paths of righteousness,’ I was Scourged as atonement for my sins.”
“Bastards! You stood up to the hypocritical ass-wipes, Aziraphale, just like you did with the flaming sword and Sodom and Gomorrah. How’s it feel giving the finger to arch-wanker Gabriel?”
There was a pause. Crowley could practically see the cogs going round as the angel adjusted himself to a brave new world and took that first hesitant step towards an acknowledgement that would take another twenty years to process fully. “Rather good, I have to admit,” he whispered.
“Last cut for now, angel. Still bleeding too. Deep breaths.” The gash was on his lower back just above the folded sheet and had ripped into the rolls of flesh mercilessly where it was still oozing blood. Trying to ignore his friend’s helpless whimpers, the demon folded a sterile dressing and held it in place, applying steady pressure until the bleeding stopped. Then, he bathed the gash as gently as he could and applied butterfly strips to encourage the torn flesh to knit.
Crowley knew Aziraphale had had enough for now. He drew the folded sheet up and over the rest of his back to act like a cooling pad, willing it to remain at just the right temperature to provide relief. Giving the angel some time to calm himself from both the emotional and physical anguish, he stroked his arms and shoulders, delighting in the silky soft skin there above the hideous injuries.
There was a pattern of pretty freckles which he remembered first seeing in Mesopotamia above the low neckline of the white robe he’d been wearing. He had wanted desperately to kiss and taste them with his tongue back then. Now the temptation was too much and he gently brushed his lips over them, immediately cursing himself when he felt Aziraphale flinch. He leapt to his feet, slopping water on the sheets but Aziraphale tugged him back down. His face was very pale and there were tear tracks down his cheeks but his eyes were tender if a little diffident. “I liked it,” he said ingenuously.
“’Kay, angel,” he answered, bemused but happy. He let his hands return to his shoulders, skimming the soft skin, soothing and gentling. They were quiet for a while together, Aziraphale half-dozing from the discomfort and shock but comforted by his demon’s closeness. As for the demon, it was pain and ecstasy combined: he hated seeing his angel hurting and every drawn-in breath and sharp wince had him cringing. He’d rather endure the torments of Hell’s ninth circle than see his angel suffer but, at the same time, he got to sit with his angel and touch him and he revelled in the depth of trust the other being was exhibiting. After a time, he drew away with a quick squeeze to his hand.
“How’s it feeling?”
“Tight and aching but the painkiller’s working, thank Heaven.” He sounded exhausted.
Crowley brushed his cheek, shifting apprehensively. “Angel? These stripes, they continue below the waist. Gonna have to clean them too.”
Immediately Aziraphale turned his face away but not before Crowley saw the furious blush. “I, I think you may be right, dear.”
For six thousand years, Aziraphale had worn his clothes like a shield and indeed for the last two thousand years if not more, he had barely exposed so much as an inch of flesh except his hands and face. The fact that he was willing to allow Crowley to break into that intimacy was a precious thing and made the demon all the more fiercely protective.
“If you’re a big brave Principality,” he teased, trying to cover with a joke, “I’ll buy you a box of strawberry and raspberry tarts from that patisserie you like.”
The angel huffed a cautious laugh. “Maison Bertaux, dear, and I’d prefer their mixed fruit cheesecake. Scrumptious.”
“Done. Relax now, angel.” He folded back the sheet and had to forcefully stop himself from wincing at the four cruel stripes digging into the pale lovely flesh of his hips and buttocks. Two of the stripes were close together on his left buttock, another on his right but the final one sliced lower across his thigh and between his legs. Crowley felt his fingers curling in disgust, a raging thirst for revenge boiling to the surface in a way that he had never experienced before. He was a creature of Hell and right now he wanted to visit every torture ever devised down there upon the angels who had sadistically punished his love.
Aziraphale shifted nervously and the demon pulled his thoughts back to the job at hand. Once he’d cleaned the first three stripes, he turned his attention to that last welt. He hesitated, wringing out the flannel a few times before he spoke and trying to sound assured and confident.
“The whip’s caught you … lower down. Open your legs for me, angel.” He felt his friend shudder but he opened his legs, exposing himself. Discreetly he parted the cheeks further, feeling the way Aziraphale’s thighs cringed and tensed, and examined the stripe: thankfully the delicate area had only caught the tail end of the lash and the skin was not broken but it looked raw and sore. Crowley gritted his teeth and applied the cooling cream generously, sliding his fingers to coat the inner thighs where the skin was silky smooth and feather-soft. He drew the sheet across the whole of his back. Then he stroked his shoulders again, returning to that comforting touch which now seemed so familiar and right.
“Aziraphale,” he murmured some minutes later, hating himself for distressing his angel more but knowing he had to. “Need to check your front now. See if they’ve hurt you there.”
“I’m alright.” The words came from the depths of his folded arms. “They, they didn’t mark my front.”
The moment stretched. “Need to know you’re alright, angel. Let me see.”
“No-one’s ever seen… Then in Heaven, I was …”
“Tell me. It’s okay, you’re safe now with me.”
“They, they stripped me naked.”
There was a broken sob and then Crowley was slithering next to him, lifting the angel and drawing them to lie side by side. He rocked him slightly, crooning promises and adoration while the other gulped in deep breaths.
“You stood up to them, you stood up for Good. Those sanctimonious bastards are no better – worse – than my lot. At least Hell is supposed to be Evil.” As a demon, his words were blasphemy but right now he didn’t care. He brushed the tears away from his cheek with a rather shaky hand. “Don’t give them the power back now, Aziraphale.”
“So exposed, Crowley. I think, the humiliation was worse than the beating.” He buried his face against Crowley’s chest in shame and all the other could do was hold him even tighter.
“They wanted you to feel vulnerable and exposed – don’t give them that satisfaction. Look at me, angel. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of. This is your body. Need you to let me look now, okay?”
Aziraphale nodded his consent.
“Nothing to hide, not from me. Never from me.” Keeping up the reassurance, Crowley moved the sheet back. He let his eyes travel the full length of his body, tugging his hands into his when he tried to cover himself. Oh, but he was beautiful. Even trembling with fear and shame, he was beautiful – his angel, so milk and honey, plush and delectable.
“There. All over. See, just me.” He drew the cover back into place, ensuring it was doing its job of cooling the welts and then gathered the angel close so he was taking most of his weight, careful to put no pressure on his tender back. After a while, Aziraphale wriggled to press his head against his chest and closed his eyes, once again trusting the demon with his wellbeing while he slept.
Through the long evening and the watches of the night, the demon guarded the sleep of his angel, delighting in their closeness. He couldn’t touch his back for fear of hurting him but he allowed himself to tangle his fingers in his downy-soft hair and rub up and down his arms. And if, during the night, he pressed tender kisses against his cheek, there was no-one around to know that a demon had grown soft.
It was nearly dawn, with the sun just peaking through the open curtains when Aziraphale stirred, stretching and wincing.
“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Crowley teased to deflect Aziraphale’s attention from the fact his arm had been snaked across his bare waist. “Feeling better?”
“Much.” He wriggled his shoulders experimentally, taking an internal audit. “I’m nearly healed, I think.”
“Think so. Just as well we heal quickly.” Crowley pulled away, suddenly business-like and bluff, aware that their intimacy had crossed so many lines in their careful, non-fraternising relationship. “I’ll make you some tea and toast then I’ll apply some more cream.” He rolled off the bed rather untidily, righted himself and undulated casually out of the room to show that he was cool and hadn’t been snuggling a naked angel.
In the kitchenette, glaring at the trembling kettle to boil even though it wasn’t switched on and arranging toast and Aziraphale’s angel mug on a tray, Crowley had the opportunity to have a stern word with himself. Yesterday, confronted with an angel who was in pain, he had let his guard down, he had allowed all those undemonlike feelings to come erupting to the surface but it had to stop. Key moments from their ‘relationship’ went spinning through his head: Oh, he’s not my friend; if they knew I’d been fraternizing; you go too fast for me, Crowley. The demon found he had to blink back the traitorous tears. Aziraphale did not want him, they were enemies – friends at a stretch and that frankly only by default – he was only setting himself up for another broken heart if he didn’t pull himself together. He was a demon, for Hell’s sake, better off without all that mushy stuff anyway.
Affecting a casualness that seemed woefully inadequate even to him, Crowley returned to the bedroom and placed the tray on the bedside table, deliberately knocking Aziraphale’s book to the floor as any demon worth his sulphur would do. He sat himself in a chair rather than on the bed and put his sunglasses back in place. Immediately he felt better, more centred, more him. He most definitely didn’t watch as the angel struggled into a half-sitting position and hitched the sheet up under his arms to drink the tea and eat the toast.
“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, darting nervous glances at his friend’s suddenly closed face as he took a bite of the toast. “Jolly nice.”
“Once I’ve applied another layer of cream,” Crowley announced, scrunching down in the chair and swinging his foot, “I should probably get out of your hair.”
There was an awkward silence. Finally Aziraphale spoke, “You’ve, you’ve been very patient and – ”
“Don’t say ‘nice’,” Crowley snapped with more heat than was necessary.
“Kind then. I’m sure I’ve kept you from your temptations long enough.”
“Yeah well, those speed cameras won’t materialise themselves.” With a reluctance that was all too clear, when Aziraphale had finished his toast, Crowley perched on the very edge of the bed. “Lie on your front again, angel.”
As he applied the cream again, Crowley’s careful barriers slipped a little as the healing welts reminded him of the original damage but he could feel Aziraphale flinch from his touch now and could practically feel the waves of uncertainty roll off him. Now that he was fully conscious and not disorientated through pain, Crowley thought, he probably found his touch repellent.
“You, you can stop there,” Aziraphale broke through his preoccupation, holding onto the folded sheet to prevent the demon from going lower than his waist.
“Suit yourself.” Crowley finished the last welt and simply rested his hands, reluctant despite his best efforts to cover the angel and bring their intimacy to an end.
“Crowley …?”
“What now?”
“What’s wrong?” The angel sounded unsure and worried all at the same time.
“Your back looked like mincemeat, Aziraphale,” he retorted, distancing himself further by using the angel’s name. “What could be wrong?”
“It’s just, well, yesterday …” He trailed off.
“’S nothing, angel.” Before he could expose himself, Crowley tugged the sheet up and plonked himself back down in his chair away from the temptations of Aziraphale’s flesh.
He prayed to all the dukes of Hell that Aziraphale would let the matter drop and withdraw into himself as he often did when their interactions became too personal so he was unprepared when the angel sat up decisively, hitching the sheet high up to his chest. “I’m afraid that won’t do, dear. You kissed me.”
“Did not.” The lie came automatically.
Aziraphale allowed a tiny smile although his eyes were still uncertain and shy. “You kissed the freckles on my back. And last night – ”
Crowley found that he was angry. Cranking up the righteous indignation, he tore his glasses off and glared at the angel. “Oh, no, Aziraphale! I’m not playing your petty little game - not this time. I go too fast, remember?”
Tentatively, Aziraphale let the sheet go to pool at his waist. It was a peculiarly sweet and vulnerable movement and Crowley had to swallow hard. It felt like he was frozen to the spot as Aziraphale tugged his hand into his, stroking the palm with his thumb before reaching out with his free hand to snag the back of Crowley’s neck. He drew him forward until they were resting forehead to forehead. Crowley emitted a needy whine and then they were kissing.
Kissing. The world did not end, God’s wrath did not strike, and they were kissing, a demon and an angel. Aziraphale tilted his head, soft lips brushing his as light as angel feathers. The caress was timid, a little awkward and diffident at first, but gaining in confidence. Aziraphale cupped his demon’s cheek and nipped at his bottom lip, asking permission. Crowley sighed, tingles of pleasure arcing through his body at the hesitant touch and he opened his mouth, welcoming Aziraphale’s tongue with his own.
Finally, however, he broke away with obvious reluctance. The angel released a hurt little sound at the loss of contact and he squeezed his hand. “Angel, listen.”
The angel’s eyes were blown wide and he was panting heavily. “ Must I? Your mouth has other talents than talking.”
Crowley rolled his eyes; for Aziraphale that was the equivalent of extremely explicit dirty talk. He cradled his cheek. “I mean it. Aziraphale.” The demon took a deep breath , arranging his thoughts which was in no way helped by the radiant picture before him of a semi-naked angel with kiss-swollen lips and the sheet slipping to reveal far too much plush skin. “If we do this, there’s no turning back – not for me. I can walk away now, go back to the way it was, pretend that kiss never happened and pine for another couple of centuries.”
“Is that what you want?”
Crowley kissed him almost roughly in answer. “Or we can carry on. But if we carry on, angel, I’ll want … you know. You do … know?”
“I know.” He blushed adorably.
“I won’t be able to stop and even now the cat’s well out of the bag.” As was his wont when things got personal, Crowley launched off on a tangent, wittering on about cats and bags and why the cat was in the bag in the first place unless it was a comfy, warm bag. Aziraphale skimmed a finger down his chest not incidentally brushing a nipple to make him shut up.
“It should be me convincing you,” Crowley continued, “you’re the sensible one here.”
Aziraphale’s gaze snapped away and then back again with renewed resolution. “Perhaps my experience in Heaven has taught me that I can stand up to them - if I need to and for the right reasons. Like this.”
Something in Crowley’s chest clenched tighter at the words. Yesterday he had almost lost his angel and Heaven knew how long they had together on Earth before the Apocalypse; all he knew was they couldn’t waste another chance. “If I go too fast again?” he asked, lightening the mood as he encouraged the angel to lie back, mindful of his tender back. He clicked his fingers to remove his own clothes and wriggled under the sheet next to him.
“Perhaps,” Aziraphale gasped as Crowley’s hand found his nipple, “you could slow down – just a little bit?”
“I can do that. And later, I’ll buy you cheesecake.”