There needs to be so much more (co?)dependent whumper and whumpee content out there. Like soo much more. I need a whumpee letting whumper hurt them because they know whumper needs the stress relief! Or on the other hand: a whumpee who will always forgive whumper no matter what they do to them because they're scared no one else will love them like whumper. Whumper who NEEDS someone to control and hurt to feel in control of something in their lives and taking it out on someone they're close with. There is just so. Much. Potential.
Additional Tags: Sensory Overload, Autistic Reader-Insert, whumpster-dumpster's Whumpril 2025, Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Soft Logan | Wolverine (X-Men), No Y/N used, Gender-Neutral Reader-Insert, No Pronouns for Reader-Insert, Logan | Wolverine Has a Heart (X-Men)
Word Count: 356
Summary
Some days everything can be just a bit much for your sensitive senses
Whumpril 2025, 24th - Sensory Overload
Read on AO3
@whumpril, @lostinlovingrevery (i think u mentioned u wanted to be tagged in any lo x readers i made!)
It’s loud. Really loud.
You had decided to go outside with the students during recess today, just to sit and relax. But now everything was feeling so loud, and the sun is too bright.
This was proving to be the very opposite of relaxing and you needed to get out.
Logan and Jean were on the other side of the courtyard. The kids would be fine without you right now. You just needed to get out of here before you have a full-blown meltdown.
You stand up from the bench you were sitting on and begin to wander off away from everything. The overstimulation has you a bit dizzy and disoriented, but you make do.
You find yourself a spot in the woods on the property, settling against a large tree. It's shaded and much quieter here, the only sound being the occasional chirp of birds and the leaves rustling against each other in the wind.
Finally somewhere safe, you try and guide yourself through deep breaths. It takes a few minutes, but you manage to get your heart down to a more regular pace. Calmer now, you decide to take a bit just to wait, take the time to enjoy the nature around you.
---
You're not sure how long it's been, that you've just been sitting there, when you hear someone calling your name. You stir a bit, looking around for the source. You realize it's Logan when he shouts a second time. You call back out to him in response.
"There ya are." He says, half to himself, as he spots you. "Had the kids and Ororo worried." He sits down beside you.
"Sorry." You shrug.
"So what's got you out here, bub?"
"Just a bit too much going on..."
He huffs a bit. "Yeah, the world can be a bit much." You give a slight nod in response.
After that the two of you sit in silence for a couple minutes, before he offers to walk you back. “Come on. We can probably see if Hank has any ideas to help.” He holds his hand out, pulling you up when you take it.
⚠️Cw⚠️ / Smoking, Drinking, Gun violence, graphic gore, minor character death, non consensual touching (over clothes), manipulation/manipulative language, religious (catholic) imagery & references, internalised shame, public humiliation, possessive behaviour
2nd person Whumpee has they/them pronouns. Brief, vague mention of area between legs, no explicit reference to any biological organs.
---
Living Weapon Whumpee / Mafia Whumper.
---
You find it difficult to breathe inside the pub. Smoke congeals with the air and stains the insides of your lungs.
The stench of blood is so strong it makes your mouth taste metallic.
Whumper is speaking and everything else feels quiet.
"...Kid comes waltzin' into your house, starts touchin' on your property. Can't hardly blame nobody for gettin' a little unkind."
There's a man on the floor in front of him. He's a couple years younger than you- twenty. He's studying geology, a topic that lit up his eyes endearingly. He's on his gap year.
You'd tried to warn him off you, gentle but insistent. Whumper likes you seen and not heard.
But the charming bastard had leaned in, eyes painfully kind, and he'd told you how pretty he thought your smile was. It'd been so long since anybody'd told you that.
The kid had brushed his knuckles over your wrist, coyly hiding his concern at your reaction. His compassion had distracted you.
You hadn't seen Whumper approach.
He'd dragged the kid away from the bar, away from you, and into a more open area. God, you'd forgotten to even ask his name.
You hadn't seen Whumper approach.
You don't see him now, either. You turn your face away and stare down at your drink. But the tourist's throat keeps flapping wet gurgling noises and you can't turn away your ears.
Another shot cracks through the air. Another terrible banshee cry. You count up from one silently to distract yourself.
It doesn't work, but you pretend that it does, and that's enough sometimes.
It was enough before, when Whumper had jovially condescended to the tourist and amicably levelled his shotgun at his knee.
(You'd missed the money shot. You always strive to when you can, innate coward that you are.)
Whumper loves that gun. He's always telling you that it's;
"a gorgeous weapon second only to one".
He'd won it from the Sheriff, during a poker game he'd hosted last month. The policemen in attendance tonight eye it with just as much desire as they do Whumper; the perfect power fantasy.
"Please."
The kid's warped voice rings too loudly in your head. You falter at 37 and can't start over.
Whumper does something to him that makes him hack up air like a cat, unable to scream any longer.
"Shut up and listen real fuckin' close. Whumpee is mine. Mine to touch, mine to use."
You feel the tips of your ears burn in violent shame. Your teeth feel wobbly with how hard you're clenching them.
Whumper's silent for a beat. You don't need to be facing him to know he's looking at you. "Sometimes, they're so damn good at bein' owned I get to thinkin' they like it." His tone turns jeeringly wistful, and indignation curls your hands into fists.
People's eyes and unspoken words become embedded in your skin like shrapnel. Pieces of you, of them, sting when you think you've found reprieve.
"All I'm doin' to you is some kindly teachin'. Got to set an example, you understand."
"Did- I didn't-"
You think he may be trying to say he didn't know, but it'd be futile anyway. Whumper wants an execution. The tourist begins to catch up and abandons his words for sobs.
Whumper hums in sympathy, the sound vulgar in its sincerity. "Whumpee. C'mere."
There's white hot needle points dancing over your body as you stand. The shrapnel sinks deeper as more attention shifts to you.
You find it harder and harder to avoid looking at Whumper's barbarity. The tourist's humanity entices your own; you grow unable to pretend either don't exist.
You reach Whumper's side and look down.
The bullet had shattered the kid's kneecap fully. There's a gorge where it should be; exposing jelly-like tissue the colour of pus and flesh and viscera. Dark shades of dried blood makes it look like somebody'd rubbed dirt into the gore - you can imagine Whumper doing that, tearing at the edges of the exit wound with gritty black fingernails.
His elbow is gone too, chips of shattered bone and viscous chunks of torn muscle the only remnants of it left.
You notice that the tourist's lips are moving once more, and gratefully take the opportunity to look away from the depravity. You can't hear what he's saying. Just the feverish, incoherent ramblings of a man from whom Death will have to beg for mercy.
Whumper's voice pounds against the inside of your skull like tinnitus, trying desperately to drown out the injustice he's caused.
"Kill him. Bastard's all used up." Whumper's cigarette wobbles as he snaps the order. His perverted sense of mercy makes you squeamish.
You've met people who mark their kills. Some do it to boast. Some do it to self-flagellate.
You've never had to carve anything into your bedpost. Every one of your victims live on, feeding, parasitic within you.
But this ... this boy, convulsing and begging in a pool of his own fluid; his death will be a tumour, destruction for destruction's sake.
You're suddenly not sure that you can handle another ghost.
"No."
Whumper's eyes cut into you. You used to believe he had the Devil in them. Now you don't believe there are any Gods or Demons here at all.
"Say that again?"
He's offering you an out he knows you won't take.
You lower your head, but peer up at him through your lashes, a veiled mockery of the submission he expects. He's pushed you just far enough tonight. The several shots of sickening, unidentifiable liquids coalescing in your stomach makes you too brave.
"No, Sir."
Whumper likes you brave. He'll fill your glass and enjoy the consequences.
His hand closes around your arm, fingernails ripping skin, and he roughly handles you into position. You try to jerk away, but the weight of his shotgun reminds you of his conviction.
The tourist is crying again. You can't remember if he'd ever stopped.
Whumper's chest is firm against your back. His leg parts yours sightly and he angles your body with intent, displaying you to the rest of the pub. He rests the long barrel of his gun on your hip, slowly guiding it lower. "I ain't askin', angel."
The pub's only sparsely populated today, and some people are only watching out the corners of their eyes.
But it may as well be packed to you.
Whumper lingers behind your knee purposefully; making you think he might actually do it, before he moves on again.
You feel your heartbeat everywhere; in your throat, under your fingertips, at your temples.
You feel terror everywhere, too. You think it's circulating the room, a plague of quiet fear. Endemic to the bar and your body.
The gun stops at your inner thigh.
Whumper brushes his lips against your ear. Radiant heat from his cigarette warms your clammy neck. "You'll do as you're fucking told."
He gyrates the barrel ever so slightly, a brutish imitation of a caress. Your breath hitches. I own you.
The muzzle's pointing down, safety on. He doesn't need a lethal weapon to remind you how to behave. I own you.
If you hesitate any further, it's only for a second.
Your defiance is brittle and impulsive. Your deference is always enduring.
The bitter pill Whumper feeds you settles on your tongue and makes you think maybe you do like being owned.
"I'm sorry."
The gun's driven sharply upwards, stabbing too hard even through clothing. Your ignoble cry seems to carry. He holds you in place and it hurts.
"Louder."
"I'm sorry-"
He slips his fingers down your back pocket and pulls out your revolver. He presses it into your hand and steps behind, painful pressure lifting off your back and from between your legs.
"Show me, then."
Eyes are boring into you. Whumper's, the patrons'. You hear somebody sniffling across the pub. You have the feeling there are more.
Under different circumstances you'd sneer at the pity, but the room's just seen Whumper what, assault you? Debauch you?
You're pretty damn pitiable right about now.
The tourist's lips are still fluttering. You lower yourself down on one knee to hear him better.
"...forgive thy... holy father ... mercy on me."
You glance at his neck in case you've missed anything. No cross.
You place your hand over his darting eyes, and your gun over his forehead. His mouth stops moving, and then he does too.
For one bleak moment you hope, much for the tourist's benefit and quite contrarily to your own, that there is a next life. You hope that Whumper will burn in infernal fire; searing with a fury rivalled only by the flames awaiting you.
There's more friction generated by the bullet than you'd like. Smoke from the barrel rises up, up.
Whumper's derisive words feel distant, but his fingertips gently carding through your hair seem to scald. "Wasn't so hard, was it?"
“It’s ok whumpee” Whumper whispered. Blood coded his fingers were Whumpee sat. Discarded over to the side was used medical thread, anesthesia, and a butterfly needle. “You said this wasn’t going to hurt, why is it hurting!” Whumpee said agitatedly tears poring out their eyes.
“Whumpee…I’m trying my best to not make this painful… I even got a butterfly needle for you. Please I just need to finished this stitch.”
A nervous expression came on to whumpee determined to makes the experience better for his Whumper. “I’ll be good, i promise not to move!” Sitting straight as he could, he dared not to move a inch.
“Good boy” Whumper whisper, Moving a new peice of thread to whumpees open ankle.
***
“All done you see how fast it went.” Whumper breathing a sigh of relief pulls off his gloves. Picking up a limp whumpee.
“Where are we going” Whempee asked, not paying attention to Whumper’s stiffening moments.
“Hehehe..you have to be disciplined for almost ruining your stitches, I know you know I don’t take misbehavior lightly.” Whumper tightening the grip on whumpee’s body, preventing a chance to escape.
“What please..I..wait…I stopped moving I didn’t even cry that much. I’m sorry, I..I didn’t mean to. I promise I’ll be better forgive me!”
“I’ll shorten your punishment to a few hours…that’s all I’ll do”
History proved that there would always be a selection of humans interested in the occult. Every so often, they actually gathered up enough knowledge that Heaven took notice and it became Aziraphale’s problem. Late in the 14th century is one of those times and Crowley is nowhere to be found to be called on for the Arrangement.
Warnings for non-graphic violence/implied torture. Hurt/Comfort.
Read on Ao3
- - - -
History proved that there would always be a selection of humans interested in the occult. Oftentimes they knew too little for this to mean anything. Perhaps they’d gather together in the dark and chant some nonsensical incantation and end the night no worse for wear. Sometimes they actually knew just enough to cause some trouble, for themselves or others. These were the individuals who would actually manage to summon a demon. If they were fortunate, they would get someone like Crowley and find themselves the victim of an elaborate prank. If not, they would barter away their soul for something foolish and ultimately meaningless in the face of what they’d given up. And very, very rarely, they gathered up enough knowledge that Heaven took notice and it became Aziraphale’s problem.
Heaven wasn’t terribly concerned with these humans dooming themselves. What they were worried about was the image problem it created. Someone with actual control of the occult could gain a following, either for themself or the demon they’d brought into their service. It just didn’t do to have false gods raised up completely unchecked, not when those so-called gods had hellish power behind them. As Heaven’s main agent on Earth, it came down to Aziraphale to do something about it. He rather disliked such assignments. They required quite a bit more direct interference than he preferred and could get messy fast. If he could have, he likely would have tried to make use of the Arrangement he and Crowley had struck up. Unfortunately, he’d seen neither hide nor hair of the demon in some time.
“Never around when your help would actually be convenient to me,” Aziraphale muttered into his tankard of ale.
In the handful of centuries since he’d finally agreed to Crowley’s proposition, the Arrangement seemed to have most often served to get the demon out of the cold and damp. As the weather was currently both, he was no doubt somewhere far afield, soaking up the sun, the lazy serpent. Meanwhile Aziraphale was left to clean up what was, really, Hell’s mess in the first place. His joints ached and backside was sore from what felt an eternity on horseback.
But no matter! The road of righteousness was rarely easy and now at least he had a warm meal in his stomach. Better yet, he could walk the rest of the way from the inn and be back before supper. With that thought in mind, he gathered the last drops of hare stew onto his finger and licked it off with a satisfied hum.
“Another serving, Father?” the inkeep asked, ladle in hand.
Aziraphale tugged at his vestments self consciously. “No, no. I’m afraid I must be off to minister to a member of the flock who has strayed. I shan’t be long, though, so keep the pot warm for me if you would, my good man.”
“Of course. You stay safe out there. There are some unsavory folks about.”
“You have no idea,” Aziraphale murmured.
“What was that?”
“I said that’s the idea. To stay safe.” Aziraphale offered a fluttering smile. “Right, ah, off I go.”
Before he went, Aziraphale left a blessing upon the inn. He knew food was scarce and that he was getting special treatment because of his supposed status. He’d make sure the innkeeper had a prosperous year and that his larder remained well stocked. If this meant Aziraphale was ensured another hearty meal upon his return and, shall we say, miraculously pleasant quarters, surely that hardly qualified as a sin.
The weather outside was more miserable than he recalled. Mud sucked at his every step. It was almost enough to get him back on his horse but the poor beast needed a rest in the stable as much as he needed time away from it. Instead, he did his best to think warm, dry thoughts as he continued down the road.
At the edge of a dark wood, there was a small footpath. It was nearly invisible through the undergrowth but it stunk of demonic energies. Not the pleasant musky, smokiness that lingered about Crowley either. It was all brimstone and bad life choices. There was no doubt the demon summoning fool was at the end of it. Aziraphale took a bracing breath and waved his hand to clear the way forward. It wouldn’t do to trip on brambles and bring attention to himself.
The path wound further than Aziraphale expected. What little sun there had been on that grey and dismal day was all but blotted out by the canopy above. He couldn’t help but shiver. The air was increasingly oppressive. He’d known he was walking into something bad, to have been called in at all, but this… Most places held at least a trace of love from those who lived there. This land was completely devoid of it.
The forest cleared away around a small, unassuming wood frame cottage. It could have at least had the good grace to look wicked. It was almost charming. Or would have been, if the area around it wasn’t entirely devoid of life. No plants grew at its base, not a single creeping tendril of ivy or blade of grass. Neither crawling ant nor soaring raven were about, either. In their place was a deafening silence that made Aziraphale almost long for a weapon in his hand.
“Stop being ridiculous. You are a Principality. Guardian of the Eastern Gate. This is but some human who has gotten their hands on power that doesn’t belong to them.”
Aziraphale squared his shoulders. He marched across the barren land to the cottage and, after a bracing breath, wrapped his fingers around the iron door handle. The door gave without resistance. The instant he crossed the threshold, the eerie silence was broken by something much worse. A scream tore up from somewhere beneath his feet and Aziraphale realized a number of things at once. First, that while the door hadn’t been locked, it had been magically protected and he’d just as good as rung the alarm bell. Second, that there must have been another level beneath the one on which he stood, which was empty. Third, and most importantly, he recognized that voice.
“Crowley!”
There was no response, only that raw scream. Aziraphale had the dizzying feeling that the cry was coming from the bowels of Hell itself. Fear flooded his veins, air emptied from his lungs, and his rapidly beating heart flew up into his throat. The world shifted on its axis. Aziraphale was forced to throw out an arm and steady himself against the timber door frame so that he didn’t fall. He closed his eyes and focused inward to force his corporation back under his control. Now was not the time for panic. He needed to search the room with a clear head. There had to be something he wasn’t seeing.
The single room cottage was much on the inside as it was on the outside- disconcertingly normal. There was a well used hearth with a table and chair arranged to one side and a bed to the other. Here and there were other ordinary signs of life. A discarded cloak hung off the chair and a bowl held lingering traces of porridge.
Still there was that horrid cry. Aziraphale overturned the table, the bed, anything that might be used to hide whatever hatch or door might lead him downward. When his frantic search yielded no results, he kicked a large wooden chest in frustration.
“It didn’t move,” Aziraphale mumbled as he blinked down at the chest. It was a sturdily made thing, no doubt, but he was an angel. A rather peeved angel, at that. It should have budged. “What are you hiding?”
He flipped open the lid. There wasn’t clothing, blankets, or other belongings inside. There wasn’t anything. He palmed the bottom and found a hidden latch. It opened to reveal a ladder down to a cavernous space below. He wasn’t eager to climb down into Heaven only knew what and leave himself exposed but Crowley’s drifting voice had been reduced to a pitiable moan. This wasn’t the time to dawdle. Rather than take the ladder, Aziraphale stepped up onto the edge of the chest and dropped right down.
The feeling of evil that had lingered about the cottage was nearly suffocating there. He had to shake off a wave of nausea that rolled through his gut. He’d managed to keep his feet after the fall, despite the unpleasant jolt it sent up his legs, but the world seemed to swim around him and he wasn’t sure he could stay standing long that way.
“What have we here? You have the look of a priest but if you set off my wards, you must be something much more interesting than a meddlesome local.”
Aziraphale’s eyes jumped instinctually to the source of the voice. There, waiting for him in the shadows of the dank cellar, was a figure obscured by a heavy black cloak and lit by candlelight. Aziraphale forced his eyes away and on to the person beyond who actually interested him.
“Crowley!”
The demon’s crimson curls were a vision of Eden all those years ago but he was a long way from paradise. Crowley lay prone. His wings were extended, his black clothes in tatters, and his pale skin battered and bruised. His wings had been impaled, leaving him pinned like a butterfly for display. His eyes were opened wide and gold from edge to edge, but there was no sign he’d heard Aziraphale. He didn’t seem cognizant of anything. His pulse fluttered wildly in his neck and his chest rose and fell sporadically as he drew in pained, wheezing breaths.
Some sort of glyph glowed from beneath him. Aziraphale had a hunch about what it was but there would be no telling or counteracting it without closer inspection. He moved to rush over to Crowley only to be stopped when the cloaked figure stepped in his path.
“Are you listening to me?”
Aziraphale blinked. The human had indeed been talking that whole time, he realized. “No,” he said plainly, “I’m not. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d ask that you would release him immediately.”
The hood was thrown back to reveal a well groomed man with silver hair and a neatly trimmed beard. “Do you know who I am?” he asked, thumping an open palm against his chest. “I, Oswald, have had the very spawn of Hell at my feet for-”
“I’m sorry, did I mistakenly give the impression that I cared? I said, release him. Now.”
Aziraphale let Heavenly authority lace through his words. It was enough that the human, Oswald, started to step out of the way. He shook his head and sputtered. “How dare you! You have no right to command me to do anything, least of all release this demon. I bought him with my soul. Not that it matters. With him, I’ll be immortal and will never have to pay that price. But he is mine, regardless.”
“Who? Who made this deal with you?” Aziraphale demanded.
He couldn’t imagine it was Crowley himself. The demon wasn’t the sort to bargain away his own freedom for one human’s soul or for anything, for that matter. Which could only mean one of his cohorts had sold him out because Aziraphale was sure the human wasn’t lying, not with the demonic sigils that glowed from the manacles around Crowley’s wrists and ankles.
Oswald seemed far more pleased with this line of discussion. He strode forward, face split by a too wide smile. “You’re no human. I already know that. From your empty heroics, I would guess… one of the Heavenly host? If so, I would think you’d recognize the works of Satan. He was impressed with the number of his underlings I’ve tricked into my service over the decades and decided to reward me.”
Aziraphale laughed. He couldn’t help it. He was more willing to believe Crowley had gotten himself into this mess than he was to believe Lucifer would lower himself to making a deal with some nobody like this.
His obvious mirth over that claim was not well received. Oswald bent low and slammed a palm against Crowley’s chest. The glyph below him instantly began glowing brighter and Crowley arched his back violently as the energy from it tore through him. He strained against the manacles that held him down and wounds were reopened against the infernal metal. A cry ripped from his throat, identical to the one Aziraphale had heard when he’d entered the cottage. Aziraphale’s vision narrowed to the ooze of blood from pale, ragged flesh. He thought he might be sick.
“You can feel it, can’t you?” Oswald asked, his voice lilting and wild. “All this power and it’s mine whenever I want it.”
Aziraphale could feel it. A gateway to Hell had been opened and filled the air with the rancid smell of brimstone. It was the same sort of thing Aziraphale might do if he needed to contact Heaven without going all the way back Upstairs, except the energies had been reversed. Perverted. It shouldn’t have hurt Crowley, if he’d been properly prepared for it. Instead, he’d been made into some sort of conduit to amplify the power that was being forced up into the mortal realm and it was tearing him apart.
Without thinking, Aziraphale grabbed one of the candlesticks that loomed tall in the corners of the room. The fire at top flared and melted the candle in an instant. The wax that poured over the iron was ignited by the heat of his fury. It wasn’t his old sword, but it would do. “Release him,” he ordered in a booming voice.
“Why do you care? If you are an angel, what is the life of a demon to you?”
“He is-” Aziraphale’s gaze flickered back over Crowley’s thin, straining form. “He is still a living being and I will not see him tormented.” He widened his stance and tightened his grip on his makeshift weapon. “I will not ask again. Release him.”
Oswald laughed and spit at the angel’s feet. “I’m not afraid, not with this power at my command.”
Aziraphale advanced. Candlelight was drowned by holy light when he unfurled his own wings. He pulled the full breadth of it back into himself to spare Crowley any more pain. “I said release him. You may yet be spared your folly but not if you continue down this path.”
“I don’t care what you are. I told you, you cannot command me.”
Oswald charged the angel in front of him. Aziraphale moved smoothly aside and so avoided a fist that had the power to crash into the stone wall. He was not afraid. He’d fought the Fallen when humans had been no more than a Divine thought. He could as easily snuff out this human’s life as he could one of the candles around them but he still hoped to avoid that path.
However, Oswald continued to fight with the singular bullheaded surety of a human with a taste of power. Only, that power wasn’t his. It was there alright but not truly for him. He never had and never would have the strength to grasp it. He charged about like a beast, snarling with growing frustration. The only damage he’d managed was to his own lair. Every punch was dodged. Wisps of ill handled magic were dispelled. He threw a chunk of rubble at Aziraphale and the angel simply sliced it in two. His desperation drove him to the glyph he’d carved and foolishly activated. The moment he laid his bloodied hands on it to try to draw out even more power, it was proven once more that evil held the seeds of its own destruction. His fragile human form burst at the seams when he attempted to harness so much infernal energy. Aziraphale closed his eyes as Oswald was reduced to dust with a scream and the soul within was pulled right through the gate that he’d opened.
Once Oswald was well and truly gone, the glyph deactivated once more. The makeshift weapon in Aziraphale’s hands became a simple candlestick again and was tossed aside. He dropped to his knees next to Crowley. When he reached toward him, Crowley’s eyes flashed open and he fought to curl in on himself. Aziraphale bit his lip to stop from whimpering at the sight. There was the Arrangement to consider. Yes, the Arrangement. That was why he needed to free Crowley from this predicament.
“It’s me. It’s Aziraphale. I’m not going to hurt you, so try to relax, dear boy,” he soothed, pressing a hand against the wiry muscle of one straining arm. “I’m here and I’ll get you out of this. I swear it.”
Surprisingly, Crowley did relax. He still looked insensible to the world but he stopped struggling with his bonds. Which left Aziraphale to carry through with his promise. Far easier said, as it happened, than done. The manacles were designed to suppress demonic power, not angelic, but removing them wouldn’t be pretty for either of them.
He grabbed hold of the closest one. His hands instantly singed but he kept his grip tight. “This is going to hurt,” he warned, not knowing if Crowley even heard him. “I’m so sorry, but there’s no other way.”
The holy power needed to break it was enough to scorch Crowley in turn. He hissed and attempted to jerk away again as the first manacle melted into nothing. Aziraphale bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. He wanted to give more assurances but he knew that the best thing to do at this point would be to finish freeing Crowley. He moved on to the other wrist, to one ankle, and then the next. Crowley let out a pitiful sigh of relief and curled in on himself as much as he was able.
Aziraphale wished that was the worst of it. There were still the wings to consider. They’d been stabbed through by mundane wooden stakes. It was pointless cruelty. The other bonds would have been more than enough to hold Crowley. Aziraphale could think of no other reason for it than vanity- glossy, black feathered proof that a demon had been laid low by human hands. Perhaps it was foolish to use another miracle on them, but Aziraphale couldn’t bear the thought of wrenching them free. With a snap, both stakes vanished and the damage they’d inflicted was undone. Another and the damage he’d done to remove the manacles was also healed.
Crowley squeezed his eyes shut and moaned. His wings fluttered and were curled protectively around him. Aziraphale swallowed against a surge of feeling. He ran his fingers over the graceful curve of one wing and carefully straightened a few errant feathers. “Come now, put those away for me so I can get you out of here.”
He tucked his own away again, as though a display would help. Crowley answered with another weak rustle of his wings and then groaned in pain. Aziraphale flinched sympathetically. He stood back up and started to pace at the foot of the ladder.
“He’s my enemy, technically,” he said to himself in a shrill whisper. “I’ve already gone through the trouble of getting rid of his captor and unshackling him. I can’t really be asked more by the Arrangement. No doubt whoever in Hell set him up will be around to check out their handiwork. Which is to say nothing of what Heaven will think if they find out all I’ve done.” Further argument was stopped by another pitiable moan. Aziraphale twisted his ring and then winced. His hands still held infernal burns that he wouldn’t be able to heal himself. Such a minor thing, compared to everything Crowley had been through. “Oh, bugger it.”
Aziraphale delicately slid one arm under Crowley’s wings to cradle the demon’s shoulders and then slid the other under a knobby pair of knees. He needed to act with care to avoid the glyph. It was awkward with Crowley’s wings still extended but Aziraphale managed to lift him regardless.
“Right.” He felt like he was going to be ill. He looked down at Crowley’s wan face. “You’re- you’re my prisoner now. I’m taking you for questioning to make sure you haven’t tempted any other humans. So I’ll just be taking you back with me and getting you healed up.”
He shifted Crowley’s wire thin frame in his arms and tried not to think too closely about how it felt to hold his dearest adversary. A snap of his fingers and the both of them appeared in Aziraphale’s room in the inn. Crowley’s wings flared wide and knocked a small painting of St. Anthony from the walls with a clatter.
“Who’s up there!”
Aziraphale glanced quickly at Crowley and decided it was safer to leave him alone for a moment than to risk discovery. He clambered around wings, splayed limbs, and got out just in time to greet the innkeeper.
“It’s just me,” he said. “Nothing at all to worry about.”
The innkeeper raised one bushy eyebrow. “Didn’t see you come back.” He raked an appraising eye over Aziraphale. “What’s all that then?”
Aziraphale looked down and realized he had Crowley’s blood on him. He ran his hands self consciously over his blackened vestments. “Oh, er, fell in the mud. Quite a mess. That’s why I slipped back in quietly. Very embarrassing.”
The innkeeper hummed skeptically but it wasn’t like he could offer any other explanation for how Aziraphale had magically appeared in his room without seeming to have gone through the front door. Aziraphale could practically see when his poor human mind smoothed over the whole situation.
“Well, supper will be in about an hour,” the man said.
“Yes, thank you. I’ll just be back in my room now. Goodbye.”
Aziraphale slipped back through his door with what he hoped was enough speed to mask the interior. He miracled his vestments clean. Yet another miracle was spent to ensure no further noises would escape the room. He heaved out a heavy sigh and then returned to the bedside where he’d left Crowley. The demon didn’t seem to have improved in the slightest. He was out cold, his wings and various overlong limbs still left akimbo. Aziraphale had the sudden impression of Crowley fallen, fresh out of Heaven. It wasn’t a pleasant thought.
Well, he might not have been able to do anything for Crowley then, but he could now. Along with fresh clothes for Crowley, he miracled up a large bowl of warm water and clean, soft cloth. As gently as he was able, he cleaned away blood, new and old. He couldn’t help but wonder how long Crowley had been imprisoned there. Long enough to leave evidence of experimentation in the form of myriad cuts and bruises.
Aziraphale proceeded carefully. He gently dabbed black blood away from pale flesh. He frowned every time a new incision was uncovered and pulled away quickly whenever Crowley winced or groaned. And it was far too often for both. By the time it was all cleaned and mended, Aziraphale felt exhausted.
He ran a weary hand over his face and sighed. “And here I was complaining you weren’t around to settle this mess. Oh, Crowley.”
Crowley’s lips moved but Aziraphale couldn’t hear what he’d said, if anything. Aziraphale pushed wearily back to his feet and leaned closer. “What was that?”
“Said…” Crowley smacked his dry, gummy mouth. “S’what ‘m here for. Make messessss.”
Aziraphale let out a weak chuckle. “That you are.” A cup of mulled wine materialized in one hand and the other hand he slid behind Crowley’s head to lift him up. Once Crowley was in a position to drink, Aziraphale pressed the cup to his lips. “Here, this should help.”
After he’d swallowed down a few mouthfuls, Crowley cracked open one eye. “Where-?”
“Oh, an inn, not far from where you were,” Aziraphale supplied as he sank back into his seat. “I have a room.”
“Where I… where was I?”
“You don’t remember?”
Crowley shook his head and then winced. Aziraphale’s heart did something he tried not to examine. He had done all he could to heal Crowley but the worst of the injuries weren’t something he could heal. That would take time and Crowley recovering enough to do the rest himself.
“Don’t really remember much,” the demon said.
“I don’t know all the details. I was sent to deal with a human with far too much interest in the occult. He’d managed to summon you or you had been-” Would it help or hurt Crowley to know what Aziraphale suspected of his fellow demons? He was so fragile at the moment, Aziraphale wasn’t sure it was worth the risk. “Well, at any rate, you were being used to syphon demonic energy until he fell to his own folly. I expect you’ll be feeling the after effects of that for a while.”
“Explains why I feel like Hell. Literally,” Crowley replied in a tight voice.
He tried to sit up but immediately fell back with a cry. His eyes were squeezed shut as his body became a collection of angles- all taut muscles and hard locked joints- as he fought through the worst of the pain. When it subsided again, he sank into the bed. His chest rose and fell with deep, erratic breaths. Eventually he opened his eyes once more and stared up at the ceiling.
“Probably should have made it easier on both of us and discorporated me,” he said between strained breaths.
Aziraphale stood so suddenly that his chair fell with a clatter behind him. “Don’t. Don’t you dare say such things.”
Crowley’s eyes looked suddenly clearer than they had all day. He fixed Aziraphale with a gaze sharp enough to cut. “Why?”
“You’re challenging me deciding not to kill you?”
“Eh, not kill, really. Just discorporate. Would have been unpleasant, sure, but not like my current situation is a day at the baths. Satan I miss regular baths. When do you think humans around here will get back to that?” Crowley waved his hand weakly. “Whatever, not the point. Point is, it’d probably have been easier for both of us. For you, certainly. I am your enemy, technically, after all.”
Aziraphale felt heat bloom in his cheeks and spread quickly up to his ears. “You heard that, did you?” He tried to find an easy answer, thought about sniping back that he should have discorporated the fiend, but he couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to actively do harm to Crowley. He bought some time by righting the chair he’d knocked over and took a seat once more. “Be that as it may, I am an angel. I do not take killing- or discorporating for that matter- lightly,” he sputtered.
“Not even as a mercy?” Crowley croaked, sounding every bit as miserable as he looked.
“Oh, now you’re just being dramatic. You’re doing much better already and getting better by the moment.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who was wrung out to Hell and back. Literally, more or less.”
Aziraphale pursed his lips. He’d done everything he could but there were limitations to his abilities. Crowley’s ankles and wrists were still branded by burns, the ghost of those infernal manacles. And that was just what could be seen on the outside.
“Time will be the best medicine in this case, I think, but is there anything more I can do? Anything at all. You only have to ask.”
“I’m fine actually. You’re right. Just being dramatic.” A smattering of embarrassed red colored Crowley’s cheeks, no doubt due to his wounded pride. “Been through way worse and survived. This is nothing compared to Falling, let me tell you.”
It wasn’t often that Crowley mentioned his Fall. Generally it only came up in moments like this, offhand when he was too drunk or hurt or tired to care. It made guilt squirm hot and uneasy in Aziraphale’s gut. He knew of course he wasn’t directly responsible for whatever Crowley had gone through but they had been on opposite sides. Were still.
“I could help you get to sleep. At least then you might be unconscious through the worst of it.”
Crowley scratched his chin absently. “I do like sleep. Can’t remember the last time I got a chance, actually.”
“It shouldn’t be a problem to nudge you along. You may want to put your wings away first.”
“Right.” Crowley looked at the state of his wings with a frown. “Just gave them a good grooming and now look at them.”
“I could- that is, if you thought it would help- I could help you with that again when you’re feeling up to it.”
Crowley tried and failed again to sit up. Aziraphale offered a hand and was surprised when it was accepted without protest. Crowley plucked out a loose feather and threw it aside. After rolling his shoulders, he folded his wings in then away from human view.
He shook his head. “Thanks for the offer angel, but I’ve seen the state of your wings. Don’t think what you would do to mine would actually qualify as help.”
“Hush, you.” Aziraphale pursed his lips and rolled his eyes. “You were right, I should have just discorporated you.”
Crowley smiled wide enough to show his too sharp canines. He wriggled stiffly back into bed, flinching and cursing as he went. Once he was settled he said, “Guess you better get to it and knock me out. I smell warm food and I’m sure you’ll be wanting some.” He rolled his head away so Aziraphale could only just see the quick flutter of his lashes around the sharp cut of his cheek. “Then if you want to help with my wings I guess you could. You know, since you clearly need the practice.”
Aziraphale sniffed. “I might be persuaded.”
He reached out a hand and cupped Crowley’s face. There wasn’t, strictly speaking, any need to do so in order to put him to sleep but he’d always found that it comforted humans so it would surely help a fussy demon as well. Crowely’s face was particularly warm to the touch. Aziraphale wondered if it was some lingering effect of what he’d been through but he didn’t have long to worry over it because Crowley suddenly snatched his wrist. He blinked and hoped his pulse wasn’t racing as obviously through his wrist as it was in his chest.
Crowley released him. “I, uh, not that I’m worried about nightmares or anything like that but, I mean, I’d probably sleep better without them, right? So, you know, for resting purposes, do you think you could just put me down cold?”
Aziraphale’s eyebrows raised. “Of course but I could also make sure you have good dreams, if you’d rather.”
Crowley’s eyes flicked over and then quickly back away. “No. Nah. Just nothing. Nothing’s best.”
Aziraphale pressed his palm against Crowley’s hot, scarlet tinged cheek again. “Whatever you’d like, my dear.”
Crowley looked at him one last time before those golden eyes of his were hidden beneath miraculously leaden lids. Aziraphale let his hand linger for some time before he remembered himself. Crowley was his enemy, not someone whose cheek he should be cupping and certainly not someone for whom he should lay extra protections around the room. He pocketed the black feather Crowley had thrown aside and did it anyway.
