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It always came back to this.
Crowley couldn’t exactly have stated how long it had been since the last time, but it had been a while. It certainly felt like it had been a while, yet he’d learnt over the years that when it came to this, his definition of age didn’t quite align with that of the rest of the world.
Nothing else could ever quite substitute it - not alcohol, not drugs, not sex. Those sort of vices were the ones humans loved, especially when the moral justifications were so easy, and the only thing they brought was pleasure, and maybe it was this exact reasoning that kept Crowley from connecting to it. All those things were secondary, not original creations in the same way pain was.
Pain was something She had created for Eden, to contain within the apple Crowley had tempted Eve to eat. Maybe in that sense it was fitting, that the one sin he was undeniably and irrefutably responsible for was the consequence he kept seeking. By that logic, this shouldn’t be a surprise, and to Crowley, it wasn’t.
His corporation wouldn’t scar anyway, he justified to himself, watching the neat tear of flesh in the moments before blood began to trickle out.
The pain was the point, he consoled himself when the next day was characterised by wincing at the slightest arm movements.
He had this under control.
***
It always came back to this.
Aziraphale supposed it was inevitable, really. Suffering was a gift She had bestowed upon humanity, and was as necessary as pleasure, therefore it was only right that he ensured its presence.
It was a familiar cycle. Bleed until he had nothing left to give and stare at his work with enough horror and shame that it carried him through months of sobriety, until he was far enough removed that he forgot why he ever stopped. Then allow himself to glorify and romanticise the vice until relapse wasn’t only inevitable, it was anticipated.
The shame itself would persist, only shifting in where it was directed. His body was either marred or decorated, depending on which perspective was dominant. The blood would be either pretty or horrifying.
He sometimes thought that conflict was tearing him apart, and there was something delightful about that irony.
***
Crowley found a certain comfort in the process. In the glints of silver tarnished by oxygen, and the crimson coating pale flesh, shining in the sunlight before it started to coagulate. In the familiar separation of flesh and the moments where the blood was yet to fall, where all that could be seen was raw damage.
There was something comforting about the searing pain that remained for days after, about the sensations when he moved the wrong way. Sure, that comfort was only temporary, yet when it burrowed into his brain so deep that nothing else mattered, it became such an inescapable and persistent presence that that fact hardly seemed important. Everything was saturated with an intrinsic hurt that in those moments, he couldn’t remember what it was like to not.
It was the one consistent presence, echoing back longer than Crowley could remember. The sting of Falling had never truly left, and that familiarity had carved its way into his identity.
***
Aziraphale found a certain comfort in the routine. In the sharp, meticulous timings, almost as organised as prayer, feeling almost as holy as if it were. Bringing him closer to Her, even in the most perverted forms of worship.
There was something about the sanctity that was irreplicable, something thrumming through his veins with an itch to escape. There was a reason flagellents were common amongst all cultures, as though there was something sacred in bleeding in her name.
Every single time he would throw away months, sometimes even years, just to return to that blissful sense that this was right.
***
“You really can't keep doing this, Crowley.” The chastise itself was gentle, gentler probably than the demon deserved. Aziraphale's hands were soft, moving with care as he wrapped the bandages around his forearms - really, it was more a deterrent than woundcare, for he knew Crowley daren't touch anything the angel had placed with such care.
“I'll stop when you stop.”
The statement itself wasn't accusatory, yet Aziraphale stilled for a moment, almost imperceptibly.
“I'm afraid I don't know what you mean,” he responded calmly, a near perfect denial.
It would've worked if Crowley couldn't see the slight tremble in his hands as he resumed work.
***
Instinctually, Aziraphale's breath hitched as he felt the subtle warmth of a miracle flicker over his arm. He glanced over at Crowley, an accusatory flicker in his gaze as the demon fluidly continued his subtle motion around Aziraphale to speak with another patron. Crowley pointedly ignored Aziraphale's gaze, an easy smile on his face as he spoke. It was only a couple minutes later when the conversation finally ceased that Aziraphale was able to grab Crowley's arm and pull him away, distinctly ignoring the demon's own flinch.
“What was that?” Aziraphale whispered with a certain tone of urgency.
Crowley shrugged, moving to grab a small flute of wine. “Want one?” Aziraphale shook his head. “You were bleeding through your sleeve,” the demon hissed into his ear. “I presume that wasn't the look you were going for?”
“Ah,” was all Aziraphale could think to say.
“Don't say I never do anything for you,” Crowley replied, detaching his arm from Aziraphale's, before continuing his path around the room.
***
“I thought you were clean?”
Crowley shrugged, struggling to articulate a response.
“So did I,” he eventually settled on, trying not to flinch away from the sting of the antiseptic.
“What happened?”
Crowley gave a wry smile. “Angel, the day you can answer that question, I'll try my best to respond.”
Aziraphale hummed, but didn't bother to press the point.
***
“You relapsed?”
The again went unsaid.
“Yeah,” was the only reply Aziraphale bothered to give.
“You could've told me.”
Aziraphale turned to look at the demon with something almost akin to regret. “Oh Crowley,” he said. “Don't act as if you'd have done anything differently.”
Crowley poured another glass of wine, and didn't try to argue.
***
It always came down to this. The cycle of pain and hypocrisy and shared scars.
It wasn't really okay, but it was familiar, and in the dark, those two things could almost be mistaken for the same.