#hell sucks and im too tired to write proper whump so take this instead

[actual-changeling]

202X, London, Soho, Aziraphale's bookshop

"I never noticed that one."

Crowley gives a non-committal hum, too caught up in the soft rhythm of Aziraphale's fingers carding through his hair, and pushes his face further into his soft stomach. His shirt has ridden up while he has been teetering on the edge between dreams and wakefulness, and Aziraphale has never been able to resist a patch of bare skin.

While he technically does not need to sleep, let alone nap, slow afternoons like these are a simple pleasure in themselves. Two cups of hot cocoa, his head in Aziraphale's lap while he reads one book or another, the comfort of knowing that they're safe and free in the bubble they have created. He fully intends to drift back off, his eyes fluttering shut once more, when an odd pressure on the side of his ribs catches his attention.

Twisting his head as far as it will go, he watches as Aziraphale traces a long, jagged scar running almost parallel to his spin, although several inches to the left of it. Crowley cannot feel the touch itself, there are no nerves left in the scar tissue, but he senses the gentle brush of his fingertips right next to it.

"What happened?"

He blinks up at his angel and sighs, adjusting himself; it is not a pretty story, yet he knows he won't regain his peace until Aziraphale gets his answer.

"Remember Edinburgh?"

"Of course, but I don't—oh."

The second Aziraphale realises what he is getting at, all air leaves his body, his hand stilling, and Crowley can practically taste the pity rolling off of him in waves.

"My lot don't send rude notes, angel, and doing that much good all at once, well, let's just say Beelzebub wasn't pleased."

In the silence that follows, he absently considers simply falling asleep and leaving Aziraphale with his more than shortened summary of the events that followed their night at the graveyard, but a sudden rustle of paper and fabric tells him said angel has other plans.

Now pressing both his palms against Crowley's back, Aziraphale quickly bends down to kiss his hair before asking, "Does it still hurt?"

"Aches in bad weather, but no, doesn't hurt. Stop fretting, angel, it's-"

"If you say 'fine', Crowley, I swear I will- "Yeah, yeah, I won't."

It is fine, but he swallows the end of his sentence, and allows him to send low pulses of ethereal energy into his cells, smoothing over as much of the old injury as he can. Admittedly, it does feel nice after all these decades of distant pain, although it is entirely unnecessary. Once Aziraphale is satisfied, he kisses the back of his head again and tugs down his shirt, wrapping his arms around him and ignoring his book to hold him instead.

"Do I want to know what caused it?"

Crowley hisses contently and buries his face in the warmth of his stomach.

"No, but I guess you wanna know anyway."

"If you don't mind."

Letting out his second defeated sigh of the day, he tilts his head just enough to speak.

"They do this thing where they break your wings and send you down a chute to, eh, fall, for however long they want. I refused to show 'em my wings at first, Beelzebub threatened to rip out my spine, left the scar."

It's an incredibly condensed version of events. In reality, there has been a lot of blood, screams, and torn skin, but Aziraphale is already clinging to him like the earth will swallow him whole, so he decides not to elaborate. There is nothing one can say in response to that kind of confession, and Aziraphale doesn't try. Instead, he finally continues the drag of nails along his scalp. Crowley hums and closes his eyes.

"Can I please nap now?"

"Of course, whatever you want." Aziraphale pauses, and then, because he simply always has to, continues.

"I love you, dearest."

"Love you too, angel."