For all those who are also struggling with cPTSD or other trauma and wish they had an angel by their side 🪽🐍
I'm not even sure why I shared such a personal thing. But maybe just because I know I'm not alone. We are not alone❣️
It was a quiet afternoon when Aziraphale noticed that Crowley was unusually quiet. The angel could feel the change in the air as Crowley entered the apartment without a word. He closed the door behind him, but it wasn’t the usual loud slam that Aziraphale was accustomed to. It was almost inaudible, as if he didn’t really want to be there.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale called gently, stepping out of the kitchen, and found him sinking into one of the armchairs as though he wanted to hide from everything that was troubling him. The eyes that usually sparkled with curiosity and life were empty today. Aziraphale could see that Crowley was waging a fierce internal battle, a battle driven by the memories of Hell.
“Are you okay?” Aziraphale asked, his voice soft as he sat next to the armchair. “You’re… different.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow and tried to respond with a sarcastic comment, but his voice cracked when he answered, “I’m not different, Aziraphale. Just… a little tired.”
Aziraphale knew that wasn’t the whole truth. Hell, the Fall, was still a shadow in Crowley’s life, even though the demon never spoke much about it. Aziraphale knew this because he understood him. He knew that the scars from Crowley’s past still cut deep beneath his facade, especially when the demon least wanted it.
“It’s… not just tiredness, is it?” Aziraphale moved closer, gently placing his hand on Crowley’s arm. The demon flinched, as though he wasn’t truly present at that moment.
“The Fall, Aziraphale,” Crowley murmured, and the words fell heavily from his lips. But he couldn’t play it off like usual anymore. “It changes you,” he said quietly, his voice fragile. “Not just on the outside… it changes the way you think, the way you feel.”
He sat up, balling his hands into fists as if needing something to hold onto in order to get the words out. “I never wanted to fall. I thought love was unconditional. That every being—angel, animal, human—had the right to a peaceful, undamaged existence. Free from conditions. We created a new world, and I believed we were free. Free to learn, to grow, to make mistakes. But that wasn’t the case.”
He paused, visibly struggling, as though speaking the words would make them final. Finally, he whispered, “And then… one day, everything was different. Love, belonging, acceptance—all of it became conditional. But not on clear, understandable rules like ‘Be good to your heavenly family’ or ‘Don’t hurt anyone.’ No. They were arbitrary conditions I couldn’t even comprehend. Having your own opinion, asking questions, showing emotions, finding joy in things not deemed proper by above—all of that suddenly became grounds to tell me my creation was a mistake and they told me…” His voice broke, but he forced himself to continue. “They told me I was a mistake. That my existence was an error. That I didn’t have the right to this life.”
He took a deep breath, as though trying to stop, but Aziraphale’s compassionate and questioning gaze stopped him from doing so. So he continued, “It didn’t matter if my intentions were good—and believe me, all young angels start with the best intentions. But in the end, I had done something wrong. I didn’t even know what it was. But I had to have done it. Because I was punished. They told me I was bad. Worse than bad—the worst. Lower than the lowest, a disappointment, a failure. And love was taken from me. They told me I didn’t deserve to be part of what once was my home, and it was all my fault. And it wasn’t just love and the sense of belonging that was taken from me at that moment. It was… everything… my whole self. I lost myself in that existential dread. In the fear of death, triggered by the only home, the only refuge I had ever known.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, fighting the tears that threatened to gather, but the memories wouldn’t let him go. “They told me I didn’t deserve unconditional love. Not anymore. And after a while, I didn’t just believe it—I knew it. I was sure I didn’t deserve anything good anymore.”
He glanced briefly at his angel, then continued, “In the end, I couldn’t even feel like I’d ever been worthy of love. Because she told me so. Because I had no other perspective back then. This home was all I knew. My whole truth.”
Aziraphale resisted the urge to sit beside him. He could feel that Crowley needed this moment to put his burden into words.
“And eventually… eventually I started to forget things. Not because they were unimportant, but because remembering them hurt too much. The more I forgot, the less I could process. In the end, I didn’t even know why I couldn’t trust anyone. I became vigilant, reserved, and self-sufficient. You’re right, angel—I control myself and my surroundings because I never want to feel that fear again. That feeling of being devalued and cast aside just for being who I am. That feeling of not having a right to exist.”
The words hung heavily in the air, and Aziraphale could feel their weight. He knew that these memories were deeply etched into Crowley’s soul, but he also knew that he could help him recognize this pain, process it, and show him that he was enough, just as he was.
“You are enough, Crowley. Better,” Aziraphale said with a conviction that came from deep within. “And you’re not alone. I’m here. And I will help you heal this pain.”
For a long moment, everything was still. Then Crowley slowly turned to Aziraphale, and for a moment, it seemed like he might believe it, despite his past.
“Thank you, Aziraphale,” Crowley whispered after a long pause. “I… I don’t know how I can get through this without seeming weak.”
“You don’t have to pretend. Facing it makes you stronger than all the other fallen angels who simply look away and will never be truly happy. And you’re not alone,” Aziraphale said, and it was a promise. “I’m here. Always.”
For a moment, they just sat together, the silence warm and comforting. The memories of Hell were still there, lurking in the corners of Crowley’s soul, but in that moment, Aziraphale knew he could help him take another step—toward freedom, away from all the false assumptions that had kept him trapped.
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